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THE 


FAMILY    SHAKSPEARE. 


Sportive  Fancy  round  liim  flew, 
Nature  led  him  by  the  hand. 
Instructed  him  in  all  she  knew. 
And  gave  him  absolute  command. 


London ; 

Printed  by  A.  Spottiswoode, 

New.  Street-  Square. 


TIIK 


FAMILY    SHAKSPEARE, 


IN    ONE    VOLUME; 

IN  WHICH 

NOTHING    IS    ADDED   TO   THE    ORIGINAL  TEXT. 

BUT    THOSE    WORDS   AND    EXPRESSIONS    ARE    OMITTED    WHICH   CANNOT 

WITH    PROPRIETY    BE    READ    ALOUD    IN    A    FAMILY. 


Kp 

o^ 


By   THOMAS   BOWDLER,   ESQ.    F.K.S.  &  S.A. 


eXEMIT  I.AnEM,    PURIMQUE    RKMgUIT 

^THEIIKUM    SBNSUM,   ATQUK    AfUAI    SIMPr.rcrS    IGKKM. 


'I'HE    NINTH    EDITION. 


LONDON: 

nn\TEl)    FOR    LONGMAN,    BROWN,    GREEN,   &    LONGMANS, 


l*ATKKNOSTFK-I?OAV 

JS47. 


TO 


THE    MEMORY 

OF 

ELIZABETH    MONTAGU, 

AUTHOR    OF 

THE   ESSAY    ON    THE    WRITINGS    AND    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPEAREj 

IN    WHICH 

THE    BRITISH    POET    IS    COMPLETEIY   VINDICATED 

FROM 

THE    MISREPRESENTATIONS    AND    CENSURES 

OP 

VOLTAIRE, 

THIS    WORK    IS    INSCRIBED, 

BY 

SINCERE    AND    RESPECTFUL 

FRIENDSHIP. 


A   2 


Sweetest  Bard  that  ever  sung. 
Nature's  Glory,  Fancy's  Child ; 
Never  sure  did  Poet's  tongue 
Warble  forth  such  wood-notes  wild. 


PREFACE 


TO 

THE    FOURTH    EDITION. 


It  lias  been  observed  by  a  learned  writer  in  a  preface  to  his  second  edition,  that  the  feel- 
ings of  an  author  at  that  time,  are  very  different  from  those  which  he  experiences,  when 
he  offers  a  new  work  at  the  tribunal  of  public  opinion.  The  truth  of  this  observation  must 
of  course  be  felt  more  strongly  in  the  present  instance,  when  a  fourth  edition  is  committed 
to  the  press.  The  reception  which  the  Family  Shakspeare  has  experienced  from  the 
Public  has  indeed  been  gratifying.  It  has  been  commended  by  all  those  who  have  ex- 
amined it,  and  censured  by  those  only  who  do  not  appear  to  have  made  any  enquiry  into 
the  merits  or  demerits  of  the  performance,  but  condemn  every  attempt  at  removing  inde- 
cency from  Shakspeare.  It  would,  indeed,  have  given  me  real  pleasure,  if  any  judicious 
and  intelligent  reader  had  perused  the  work  with  the  eye  of  rigid  criticism,  and  had 
pointed  out  any  improper  words  which  were  still  to  be  found  in  it.  All  observations  of  that 
nature  would  have  been  candidly  and  maturely  considered,  and  if  well  founded,  would 
have  been  followed  by  the  erasure  of  what  was  faulty.  On  the  other  hand,  I  cannot  but 
be  gratified,  ^t  perceiving  that  no  person  appears  to  have  detected  any  indecent  expression 
in  these  volumes :  but  this  has  not  made  me  less  solicitous  to  direct  my  own  attention  to 
that  object,  and  to  endeavour  to  render  this  work  as  unobjectionable  as  possible.  I  have, 
therefore,  in  preparing  this  Edition  for  the  press,  taken  great  pains  to  discover  and  cor- 
rect any  defects  which  might  formerly  have  escaped  my^notice.  but  they  have  appeared  in 
this  last  perusal  of  the  work  to  be  very  fewlri  number,  and  not  of  any  great  importance^ 
Such,  however,  as  I  have  been  able  to  perceive,  I  have  carefully  removed,  and  I  hope  I 
may  venture  to  assure  the  parents  and  guardians  of  youth,  that  they  may  read  the  Familt 
Shakspeare  aloud  in  the  mixed  society  of  young  persons  of  both  sexes,  sans  peur  et  saru 
reproche. 

My  next  object  was  to  observe,  whether  the  sense  and  meaning  of  the  author  were  in 
any  degree  perverted  or  impaired  by  the  erasures  which  I  had  made.  The  final  decision 
of  this  question  must  be  left  to  the  careful  and  intelligent  critic  ;  but  to  myself  it  appears, 
that  very  few  instances  will  be  found  in  which  the  reader  will  have  any  cause  to  regret 
the  loss  of  the  words  that  have  been  omitted.  The  great  objection  which  has  been  urged 
against  the  Family  Shakspeare,  and  it  has  been  urged  with  vehemence  by  those  who 
have  not  examined  the  work,  is  the  apprehension,  that,  with  the  erasure  of  the  indecent 
passages,  the  spirit  and  fire  of  the  poet  would  often  be  much  injured,  and  sometimes  be 
entirely  destroyed.  ^pThis  objection  arises  principally  from  those  persons  who  have_£ftp- 
iined  their  study  of  ShakspcaretolHe^cIoset,  and  have  not  learned,  icjtbi.  theatre^wlth 
Riov8:.iuuch  safety  it  is  possiljle  to  make  the  necessary  alterations.  J  They  have  not  learned, 
/or  they  have  forgot,  that  except  in  one,  or  at  most  in  two  instances,  the  plays  of  our  author 
I  are  never  presented  to  the  public  without  being  corrected,  and  more  or  less  cleared  of  in- 
1  decency  ; lyet  Macbeth  and  Othello,  Lear,  Hamlet,  and  As  you  Like  it,  continue  still  to  ex- 
hibit  th^uperior  genius  of  the  first  of  dramatic  poets.  The  same  may  be  said  of  his  other 
transcendent  works  ;  but  those  which  I  have  named  are  selected  as  being  five  of  the  finest 
plays  in  the  world,  the  most  frequently  acted,  the  most  universally  admired ;  but  of  which, 
tliere  is  not  one  that  can  be  read  aloud  by  a  gentleman  to  a  lady,  without  imdergoing 

some   correction.       I   have  nttPinpt^H  tnjln  for  thp  lihrfiry  what  thp   manacrpr  Anp<i  fcr  the 

^\^^^.^^^yy']^hS^)^^L^^£$J^3SiiSi~s!^o  urgcjhisj^bigction  would.C7iamin^  thp  playi*;  vith 
attention.  I  venture  to  assert,  that  in  the  far  greater  part  of  them,  they  would  find  that 
itinSot  diflScult  to  separate  the  indecent  from  the  decent  expressions  ;  and  they  would 
soon  be  convinced,  that,  by  removing  the  stains,  they  would  view  the  picture  not  only  un- 
injured, but  possessed  of  additional  beauty.  The  truth  of  this  observation  has  been 
expressed  with  such  elegance,  and  in  terms  so  honourable  to  Shakspeare,  by  a  very  supe- 
rior judge  of  poetic  composition,  that  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  inserting  the  whole 
passage. 

After  censuring  the  indecencies  of  Dryden  and  Congreve,  as  being  the  exponents  of 
licentious  principles,  the  reviewer  observes,  in  language  more  expressive  than  any  which 
I  could  have  employed,  "  that  it  has  in  general  been  found  easy  to  extirpate  the  offensive 
"  expressions  of  our  groat  poet,  without  any  injury  to  the  context,  or  any  visible  scar,  or 
•*  blank  in  the  composition.  Tliey  turn  out,  not  to  be  so  much  cankers  in  the  flowers, 
"  as  weeds  that  have  sprung  up  by  their  side  :  not  flaws  in  the  metal,  but  impurities  that 
"  have  gathered  on  its  surface,  and  that,  so  far  from  being  missed  on  tlieir  removal,  the 
"  work  generally  appears  more  natural  and  harmonious  without  them."*  I  will  not 
•  Edinburgh  Review,  Na  L\xl  p.  5S, 


VI  PREFACE    TO    THE    FOURTH   EDITION. 

weaken  the  foregoing  quotation  by  adding  any  less  forcible  language  of  my  own,  but  I 
will  endeavour  to  prove  by  examples  the  perfect  justice  of  the  observation.  It  \^  indeed 
a  difliculty,  and  a  very  great  '^'^^,  iin/^»r  yx,h\nU  T  laTwijr,  that  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to 
state  t|j^;,wonlv;  ulii(Ji  J  liiiy;^  jDjmittcd ;  but  I  think  that  I  may  adduce  oTTeTnstance,  wliich, 
without  ofll'iuling  the  eye  or  the  ear  of  modesty,  will  sufficiently  confirm  the  remarks  of 
the  judicious  reviewer,  and  prove  that  a  whole  scene  may  be  omitted,  not  only  without 
injury,  but  with  manifest  advantage  to  the  drama. 

In  the  second  scene  of  the  third  act  of  Henry  V.,  the  English  monarch,  after  taking 
Harfleur,  is  preparing  to  march  towards  Calais.  In  the  fourth  scene  of  that  act,  we  find 
the  French  king  and  his  counsellors  deliberating  on  the  means  of  intercepting  the  Eng- 
lisli  army.  These  scenes  naturally  follow  each  other  —  but  what  is  the  intermediate 
scene,  the  third  of  the  third  act  ?  It  is  a  dialogue  between  the  French  princess  and  her 
female  attendant,  of  whom  she  is  endeavouring  to  learn  the  English  language.  She 
asks  her, 

Kath.  Comment  appellez-vous  la  main  en  Anglois  9 

Alice.  La  main  9     EUe  est  appellee  de  hand. 

Kath.  De  hand.     Et  les  doigts  ? 

Alice.  Les  doigts  9     Je  pense  quils  sent  appelUe  dejingres,  ouy  defingres. 

Kath.  ComTnent  ajrjyellez-vous  les  angles  9 

Alice.  Les  angles  9  les  ajipellons  de  nails. 

I  will  not  tire  my  readers  with  a  longer  extract  from  this  uninteresting  dialogue  ;  it  is 
continued  through  more  than  twenty  questions  and  answers  of  the  very  same  nature ;  and 
as  there  is  not  a  single  word  on  any  subject  but  the  foregoing,  every  person  will  be  ready 
to  ask,  what  could  induce  Shakspeare  to  insert  so  useless  a  scene  ?  The  answer,  I  be- 
lieve, must  be,  that  it  was  written  in  compliance  with  the  bad  taste  of  the  age,  for  the 
express  purpose  of  raising  a  laugh  at  the  conclusion,  by  introducing,  through  the  me- 
dium of  imperfect  pronunciation,  the  two  most  indecent  words  in  the  French  language. 
At  the  mention  of  those  words,  the  princess  is  shocked,  as  every  virtuous  woman  would 
be,  if  she  were  either  here  or  elsewhere,  to  see  them  written,  or  hear  them  repeated.  Is  it 
possible  that  any  person  will  feel  regret  at  perceiving  that,  in  the  Family  Shakspeare, 
the  beautiful  play  of  Henry  V.  is  not  interrupted  in  a  very  interesting  part  of  the  nar- 
rative, by  so  improper  a  scene  —  by  a  scene  so  totally  unconnected  with  every  thing  which 
precedes  or  which  follows  after  it,  that  if  it  were  taken  by  itself,  no  reader  would  be  able 
to  discover  in  what  act  it  was  meant  to  be  inserted?  Let  it  not  be  said  as  an  excuse, 
that  it  introduces  to  our  acquaintance  the  princess,  who  is  afterwards  to  be  the  wife  of 
Henry.      The  excuse  is  too  trifling  to  be  admitted. 

I  may  next  observe,  that  the  scene  which  I  have  here  quoted,  is  by  no  means  a  solitary 
instance.  Examples  of  a  similar  nature  are  to  be  found  in  several  of  the  plays,  comedies  as 
well  as  tragedies.  In  most  of  these  cases,  the  objectionahle  parts  are  so  CQmplptply  ^ppon- 
nected  with  the  nlay^  that  one  mi^ht  almost  "Ge  inclined  to  suppose.,  that  Shakspeare. 
in  the  first  in'^tfltifp,  composed  one  of  Jiis  be^ii|ifn|  Hramagj  aqd  aftpr  it  was  finished, 
was'cQmuelled,  bv  the  wretched  taste  of  the  age,  to  add  sompfhingr  nf  ^  jnw  and  lilc' i- 
crous  nature.  The  passages  thus  inggrted.  have  really,  in  many  cases,  the  appearance  of 
interpolations ;  and  adopting  the  expressive  language  of  the  reviewer,  they  are  weeds 
which  have  sprung  up  by  the  side  of  the  flowers,  and  the  former  being  removed,  the  lattei^ 
appear  with  additional  beauty.  What  has  been  said  of  whole  scenes  in  some  instancesjB « 
may  be  applied  in  a  great  many,  to  speeches,  to  parts  of  speeches,  and  to  single  words. 
From  Macbeth,  the  noblest  effort  of  dramatic  genius  that  ever  was  exhibited  in  any  age 
or  in  any  language  (I  do  not  except  the  OEdipus  of  Sophocles),  very  little  has  been 
erased  ;  but  the  description  of  the  effects  of  drunkenness,  which  is  given  to  Macduff'  by 
the  porter  at  the  gate  of  the  castle,  is  of  so  gross  a  nature,  that  it  is  impossible  that  any 
person  should  be  sorry  for  its  omission.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  indecent  words 
which  are  addressed  by  Hamlet  to  Ophelia,  before  the  representation  of  the  play.  These, 
like  most  other  alterations,  were  made  without  difficulty,  but  I  confess  that  there  are  three 
plays,  which  form  exceptions  to  what  I  have  advanced  respecting  the  facility  of  the  task 
that  I  have  undertaken.  To  Measure  for  Measure,  Henry^  IV.,  and  Othello,  I  ha\e  _an- 
nexed  particular  prefaces,  statingthe  difficulties  whfch  oxisted^and  thejnetho^^ 
I  shoujd  endeavour  to  overcomethem.  In  the  first  of  the  three,  I  hope  I  have  succeeded  ; 
and  I  should  not  be  sorry  iFthe  merit  of  this  whole  work  were  to  be  decided  by  a  com- 
parison of  this  very  extraordinary  play,  in  the  original,  and  in  the  Family  Shakspeari 
Of  Falstaff*  and  Othello,  I  shall  only  say,  that  I  acknowledge  the  difficulty  of  my  taskk 
I  have  indeed  endeavoured,  as  cautiously  as  possible,  to  remove  the  objectionabl 
speeches,  without  injuring  the  characters  ;  but  wantonness  of  expression  and  action  ar 
very  closely  connected  with  Falstaff";  and  the  infuriate  passions  of  rage,  jealousy,  and 
revenge,  which  torture  the  breast  of  Othello,  are  like  "  Macbeth's  *  distempered  cause," 
incapable  of  being  completely  buckled  within  the  belt  of  rule. " 


Preface 

TO 

THE    FIRST    EDITION. 


Jf  a  presumptuous  artist  should  undertake  to  remove  a  supposed  defect  in  the  Trans- 
figuration of  Raphael,  or  in  the  Belvidere  Apollo,  and  in  making  the  attempt  should 
injure  one  of  those  invaluable  productions  of  art  and  genius,  I  should  consider  his  name 
as  deserving  never  to  be  mentioned,  or  mentioned  only  with  him  who  set  fire  to  the 
Temple  of  Diana.  ^*f>But  the  works  of  the  poet  may  be  considered  in  a  very  different 
light  from  those  of  the  painter  and  the  statuary.  Shakspeargj,  inimitable  Shakspeare.  will 
remainOie  subject  of  admiration  as  long  as  taste  and  literature  shall  exist,  and  his  writings 
will  be  han^d_^df)W"  topgsterlty  iu-their  native  beautv.  although  the  present  attempt  to 
add  to  his  fame  should  prove  entirely' abortive.  Here,  tnen,  is  the  great  difference.  Tf 
the  endeavour  to  improve  the  picture  or  the  statue  should  be  unsuccessful,  the  beauty  of 
the  original  would  be  destroyed,  and  the  injury  be  irreparable.  In  such  a  case,  let  the 
artist  refrain  from  using  the  chisel  or  the  pencil :  but  with  the  works  of  the  poet  no  such 
danger  occurs^  and  the  critic^need  not  be  afraid  of  employingjiis  pen ^~for~THe  original 
will  conriiJUjLJiiiiIDJpaiI^~arthough"liis  own  labours^ho'uldjmmedia^  to 

oblivion.  That  Shakspeare  Ts  tHe"lirs£~6r dramatic  writers  will  be  denied  by  few,  and_^ 
I  doubt  whether  it  will  be  denied  by  any  who  have  really  studied  his  works,  and  com- 
pared the  beauties  which  they  contain  with  the  very  finest  productions  either  of  our  own 
or  of  former  ages.  It  musl^  however,  be  acknowledged,  by  his  warmest  admirers,  that 
some^defeqts  <^reto  be  fQUja^:4ft.4fae>^'nTtting8--jaf -oiig-imm<irtaI  hand.  The  language  is 
not  always  faulHcssTiltlany  words  and  expressions  occur  which  are  of  so  indecent  a 
nature  as  to  render  it  highly  desirable  that  they  should  be  erased.  Of  these,  the  greater 
part  are  eyidentl^Jntrpjdui^ed^  to  gratify  the  bad  tastg^gf  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and 
the  rest  may  perhaps  be  ascribei3ToTiTs  own  unbridled  fancy.  But-jjeither  the  jisipus 
tast^  of  the  age»  pof  jhe  mostjjxilliant  eflfjisions  of-j^it,  can-a^ord  an  excuse  for.profime- 
nesg.jir.obscenit_yj  and  if  these  could  hs.  obliterated^_the  transceiideat  geiwus-of  the  p««t 
would  jiudoubtedly  shine  with  more_unclouded  Fustre.  To  banish  exeiX-thing  of  this 
natjicafrnm  the,  writtngsr'gf^SEakspeare  is  thp  nljprt  of  thp  prpspnt  iinHprtglring  My 
earnest  wish  is  to  render  his  plays  unsullied  by  any  scene,  by  any  speech,  orTTTpossible, 
by  any  word  that  can  give  pain  to  the  most  chaste,  or  offence  to  the  most  religious  of 
his  readers.  Of  the  latter  kind,  the  examples  are  by  no  means  numerous,  for  the  writings 
of  our  author  are,  for  the  most  part,  favourable  to  religion  and  morality.  There  are, 
however,  in  some  of  his  plays,  allusions  to  Scripture,  which  are  introduced  so  unneces- 
sarily, and  on  such  trifling  occasions,  and  are  expressed  with  so  much  levity,  as  to  call 
imperiously  for  their  erasement.  As  an  example  of  this  kind  I  may  quote  a  scene  in 
the  fifth  act  of  Lovers  Labour's  Lost,  in  which  an  allusion  is  made  (very  improperly)  to 
one  of  the  most  serious  and  awful  passages  in  the  New  Testament.  I  flatter  myself  that 
every  reader  of  the  Family  Shakspeare  will  be  pleased  at  perceiving  that  what  is  so 
manifestly  improper,  is  not  permitted  to  be  seen  in  it.  The  most  Sacred  Word  in  our 
language  is  omitted  in  several  instances,  in  which  it  appeared  as  a  mere  expletive  ;  and  it 
is  changed  into  the  word  Heaven,  in  a  still  greater  number,  where  the  occasion  of  using 
it  did  not  appear  sufficiently  serious  to  justify  its  employment. 
Nee  Deus  intersit  nisi  dignus  vindice  nodus. 

In  the  original  folio  of  1623,  the  same  alteration  from  the  old  quartos  is  made  in  a  great 
variety  of  places,  and  I  have  followed  the  folio. 

I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  say  of  indecency  as  I  have  said  of  profaneness,  that  the 
examples  of  it  are  not  very  numerous.  Unfortunately  the  reverse  is  the  case.  Those 
persons  whose  acquaintance  with  Shakspeare  depends  on  theatrical  representations,  in 
which  great  alterations  are  made  in  the  plays,  can  have  little  idea  of  the  frequent  recur- 
rence in  the  original  text,  of  expressions,  which,  however  they  might  be  tolerated  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  are  by  no  means  admissible  in  the  nineteenth.  Of  these  expressions 
no  example  can  in  this  place  be  given,  for  an  obvious  reason.  I  feel  it,  however,  incum- 
bent on  me  to  observe,  in  behalf  of  my  favourite  author,  that,  in  comparison  with  most 
of  the  contemporary  poets,  and  with  the  dramatists  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  plays 


Vlll  PREFACE   TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION. 

of  Shakspeare  are  remarkably  decent ;  but  it  is  not  sufficient  that  his  defects  are  trifling 
in  comparison  with  writers  who  are  highly  defective.  It  certainly  is  my  wish,  and  it  has 
been  my  study,  to  exclude  from  this  publication  whatever  is  unfit  to  be  read  aloud  by  a 
gentleman  to  a  company  of  ladies.  I  can  hardly  imagine  a  more  pleasing  occupation 
for  a  winter's  evening  in  the  country,  than  for  a  father  to  read  one  of  Shakspeare's  plays 
to  his  family  circle.  My  object  is  to  enable  him  to  do  so  without  incurring  the  danger 
of  falling  unawares  among  words  and  expressions  which  are  of  such  a  nature  as  to  raise 
a  blush  on  the  cheek  of  modesty,  or  render  it  necessary  for  the  reader  to  pause,  and  exa- 
mine the  sequel,  before  he  proceeds  further  in  the  entertainment  of  the  evening.  • 

But  though  many  erasures  have  for  this  purpose  been  made  in  the  writings  of  Shak- 
speare in  the  present  edition,  the  reader  may  be  assured  that  not  a  single  line,  nor  even 
the  half  of  a  line,  has,  in  any  one  instance,  been  added  to  the  original  text.  I  know  the 
force  of  Shakspeare,  and  the  weakness  of  my  own  pen,  too  well,  to  think  of  attempting 
the  smallest  interpolation.  In  a  few,  but  in  very  few  instances,  one  or  two  words  (at  the 
most  three)  have  been  inserted  to  connect  the  sense  of  what  follows  the  passage  that  is 
expunged  with  that  which  precedes  it.  The  few  words  which  are  thus  added,  are  con- 
necting particles,  words  of  little  moment,  and  in  no  degree  affecting  the  meaning  of  the 
author,  or  the  story  of  the  play.  A  word  that  is  less  objectionable  is  sometimes  substituted 
for  a  synonymous  word  that  is  improper. 

In  the  following  work  I  have  copied  the  text  of  the  last  Edition  of  the  late  Mr.  Stee- 
vens.  This  I  have  done  so  scrupulously,  as  seldom  to  have  allowed  myself  to  alter  either 
the  words  or  the  punctuation.  Othello's  speech,  for  example,  in  the  second  scene  of  the 
fifth  act,  will  be  found  as  it  is  in  Mr.  Steevens,  and  in  the  old  editions  of  Shakspeare,  not 
as  it  is  usually  spoken  on  the  stage.  In  a  few  instances  I  have  deviated  from  Mr.  Steevens, 
in  compliance  with  the  original  folio  of  1623.  I  do  not  presume  to  enter  into  any  critical 
disputes  as  to  certain  readings  of  "  Judean  or  Indian,"  "  Sables  or  Sable,"  or  any  thing 
of  that  nature,  respecting  which  many  persons  of  superior  abilities  have  entertained  con- 
trary opinions.  The  glossary  (but  nothing  except  the  glossary)  is  borrowed  from  the 
edition  of  1803.      It  was  compiled  by  Mr.  Harris,  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Steevens. 

My  great  objects  in  this  undertaking  are  to  remove  from  the  writings  of  Shakspeare 
some  defects  which  diminish  their  value,  and  at  the  same  time  to  present  to  the  Public 
an  edition  of  his  plays,  which  the  pai'ent,  the  guardian,  and  the  instructor  of  youth  may 
place,  without  fear,  in  the  hands  of  the  pupil ;  and  from  which  the  pupil  may  derive  in- 
struction as  well  as  pleasure;  may  improve  his  moral  principles  while  he  refines  his 
taste  ;  and,  without  incurring  the  danger  of  being  hurt  with  any  indelicacy  of  expression, 
may  learn  in  the  fate  of  Macbeth,  that  even  a  kingdom  is  dearly  purchased,  if  virtue  be 
the  price  of  the  acquisition. 

*  My  first  idea  of  the  Family  Shakspeare  arose  from  the  recollection  of  my  father's  custom  of  reading 
in  this  manner  to  his  family.  Shakspeare  (with  whom  no  person  was  better  acquainted)  was  a  frequent 
subject  of  the  evening's  entertainment  In  the  perfection  of  reading  few  men  were  equal  to  my  father ; 
and  such  was  his  good  taste,  his  delicacy,  and  his  prompt  discretion,  that  his  family  listened  with  delight 
to  Lear,  Hamlet,  and  Othello,  without  knowing  that  those  matchless  tragedies  contained  words  and  ex- 
pressions improper  to  be  pronounced ;  and  without  having  reason  to  suspect  that  any  parts  of  the  plays 
had  been  omitted  by  the  circumspect  and  judicious  reader. 

It  afterwards  occurred  to  me,  that  what  my  father  did  so  readily  and  successfully  for  his  family,  my 
inferior  abilities  might,  with  the  assistance  of  time  and  mature  consideration,  be  able  to  accomplish  for 
the  benefit  of  the  public.  I  say,  therefore,  that  if  "  The  Family  Shakspeare  "  is  entitled  to  any  merit, 
it  originates  with  my  father. 


tf 


TEMPEST. 


'  '/ 


'  ' 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Alonso,  King  of  Naples. 

Sebastian,  his  Brother. 

Prospero,  the  nghtful  Duke  of  Milan. 

Antonio,  his  brother,  the  usurping  Duke  of  Milan. 

Ferdinand,  son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 

GoNZALo,  an  honest  old  Counsellor  of  Naples. 

Adrian,         \    t     1 

Francisco,   J 

Caliban,  a  savage  and  deformed  Slave. 

Trinculo,  a  Jester. 

Stephano,  a  drunken  Butler. 

Master  of  a  Ship,  Boatswain,  and  Mariners. 

SCENE,  the  Sea,  with  a  Ship  / 


Miranda,  Daughter  to  Prospero. 

Ariel,  an  axry  Spirit. 
Iris, 


Ceres, 
Juno, 
Nymphs, 
Reapers, 


Spirits. 


Other  Spirits  attending  on  Prospero. 
afterwards  an  uninhabited  Island. 


A     BRA9B    VESSfcl., 
WHO    HAD    MO   DOOBT    SOME    NOBLK    CRKArORFS    IM     HER 
IJASH'U    ALL    TO      PIKflRH. 


TEMPEST. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE    l.  —  Ona  Ship  at  Sen. 
A  storm  with  thunder  and  lightning. 

Enter  n  Ship-master  and  a  Boatswain. 

Master.    Boatswain,  — 
Ii'i(t/s.    Hero,  master  :    what  cheer  ? 
.Master.    Good  :    Speak  to  the  mariners  :   fall  to't 
yarcly  ',  or  we  run  ourselves  aground  :  bestir,  bestir. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Mariners. 

lioats.  Heigli,  my  hearts ;  cheerly,  cheerly,  my 
hearts  ;  yare,  yare  :    Take  in  the  top-sail ;   Tend  to 

the    master's  whistle Blow  till   thou    burst  thy 

wind,  if  room  enough  ! 

Enter  Alonso,   Sebastian,   Antonio,   pERniNANn, 
GoNZALo,  and  others. 

Alon.  Good  boatswain,  have  care.  Where's  the 
master  ?      Play  the  men. 

Boats,    I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

j4nt.   Where  is  the  master,  boatswain  ? 

Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him?  You  mar  our 
labour  !  keep  your  cabins  .   you  do  assist  the  storm. 

Gon.   Nay,  good,  be  patient. 

Boats.  When  the  sea  is.  Hence !  What  care 
these  roarers  for  the  name  of  king  ?  To  cabins : 
silence  ;   trouble  us  not. 

'   R«'adily. 


I       Gon.     Good ;    yet    rememl)er   wimm    thou    Ikjm 
I  aboard. 

j       Boats.    None  that  I  more  love  than  myself.    You 

\  are  a  counsellor ;  if  you  can  command  these  ele- 

j  ments  to  silence,  and  work  the  peace  of  the  present-, 

we  will  not  hand  a  rope  more  ;   use  your  authority. 

If  you  cannot,  give  thanks  you  liave  lived  so  long, 

and    make    yourself   ready   in    your  cabin   for  the 

mischance  of  the  hour,  if  it  so  hap.  —  Cheerly,  good 

hearts.  —  Out  of  our  way,  I  say.  {Exit. 

Gon.     I    liave    great  comfort  from    this   fellow ; 

metliinks,  he  hatli  no  drowning  mark   upon  him  ! 

his    complexion    is   perfect    gallows.       Stand  fast, 

good  fate,  to  his  hanging ;    make  the  rope  of  his 

destiny  our  cable,  for  our  own  doth  little  advantage  ! 

If  he  be  not  born  to  be  hanged,  our  case  is  miser> 

able.  [E  remit. 

He-enter  Boatswain. 

Boats.  Down  witli  the  tojimast ;  yare ;  lower, 
lower  ;  bring  her  to  try  with  main  course.  [A  cry 
ttithin.]  A  plague  upon  this  howling!  they  are 
louder  than  the  weather,  or  our  office  — 

Re-enter  Skbastian,  Antonio,  and  GoNrAi.o. 

Yet  again  ?  wiiat  do  you  here?    Shall  we  give  o'er 
and  drown  ?     Have  you  a  mind  to  sink  ? 

Seb.  A  plague  o'  your  throat !  you  bawling,  blius- 
phemous,  uncharitable  dog  ! 

*  Presenl  instam 


TEMPEST 


Act  I. 


Boats.   Work  you,  then. 

Ant.  Hang,  cur,  hang  !  you  insolent  noise-maker, 
we  are  less  afraid  to  be  drowned  than  thou  art. 

Gon,  I'll  warrant  him  from  drowning ;  though 
the  ship  were  no  stronger  than  a  nut-shell. 

Boats.  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-hold ;  set  her  two 
courses  ;  off  to  sea  again,  lay  her  off. 

Enter  Mariners,  wet. 

Mar.    All  lost !  to  prayers,  to  prayers  !  all  lost ! 

\_Exeunt. 

Boats.   What,  must  our  mouths  be  cold  ? 

Gon.   The  king  and  prince  at  prayers  !  let  us  assist 
them. 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

Seb.   I  am  out  of  patience. 

Ant.    We  are  merely  3  cheated  of  our  lives  by 
drunkards.  — 
This  wide-chapped  rascal ;  — 'Would,  thou  might'st 

lie  drowning, 
The  washing  of  ten  tides  ! 

Gon.  He'll  be  hang'd  yet ; 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it. 
And  gape  at  wid'st  to  glut  him. 
{A  confused  noise  within.]      Mercy  on  us  !  —  We 
split,  we  split !  — Farewell,  my  wife  and  children  !  — 
Farewell,  brotlier ;  — We  split,  we  split,  we  split !  — 

Ant.   Let's  all  sink  with  the  king.  f  Exit. 

Seb.    Let's  take  leave  of  him.  [Exit. 

Gon.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs  of 
sea  for  an  acre  of  barren  ground  !  long  heath,  brown 
furze,  any  thing  :  The  wills  above  be  done  !  but  I 
would  fain  die  a  dry  death.  [Exit. 


SCENE    IL 


The   Island:     before   the    Cell   of 
Prospero. 


Enter  Prospero  and  Miranda. 

il/»'a.    If  by  your    art,    my  dearest   father,  you 
have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them  : 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch. 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  clieek, 
Dashes  the  fire  out.      O,  I  have  suffer'd 
W^ith  those  that  I  saw  sufl'er  !  a  brave  vessel. 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creatures  in  her, 
Dash'd  all  to  pieces.      O,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart !    Poor  souls  !   they  perish'd. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed,  and 
The  freighting  souls  within  her. 

Pro.  Be  collected ; 

No  more  amazement :   tell  your  piteous  heart. 
There's  no  harm  done. 

Miro.  O,  woe  the  day  ! 

Pro.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
'Of  thee,  my  dear  one  !   thee,  my  daughter!)  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am  ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell. 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mira.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts. 

/Vo.  'Tis  time 

3   Absolutely. 


I  should  inform  thee  further.      Lend  thy  hand, 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me.  —  So  ; 

[Lai/s  down  his  mantle. 
Lie  there  my  art.  —  Wipe  thou  thine  eyes ;    have 

comfort. 
The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touch'd 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 
I  have  with  such  provision  in  mine  art 
So  safely  order'd,  that  there  is  no  soul  — 
No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair, 
Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 
Which  thou  heard'st  cry,  which  thou  saw'st  sink. 

Sit  down  ; 
For  thou  must  now  know  further. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am  ;  but  stopp'd 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition  ; 
Concluding,  Stay,  not  yet.  — 

Pro.  The  hour's  now  come  ; 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear  ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive.      Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  into  this  cell  ? 
I  do  not  think  thou  canst ;  for  then  tliou  wast  not 
Out  4  three  years  old. 

Mira.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pro.   By  what  ?  by  any  other  house,  or  person  ? 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mira.  'Tis  far  off; 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants  :     Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once,  that  tended  me  ? 

Pro.   Thou  had'st,  and  more,  Miranda :  But 
is  it, 

That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?    What  seest  thou  else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  ? 
If  thou  remember'st  aught,  ere  thou  cam'st  here, 
How  thou  cam'st  here,  thou  may'st. 

Mira.  But  tliat  I  do  not. 

Pro.   Twelve  years  since, 
Miranda,  twelve  years  since,  thy  father  was 
Tlie  duke  of  Milan,  and  a  prince  of  power. 

Mira.    Sir,  are  not  you  my  father  ? 

Pro.   Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She  said  —  thou  wast  my  daughter ;  and  thy  father 
Was  duke  of  Milan ;  and  his  only  heir 
A  princess ;  —  no  worse  issued. 

Mira.  O,  the  heavens  ! 

What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence  ? 
Or  blessed  was't  we  did  ? 

Pro.  Both,  botli,  my  girl : 

By    foul    play,    as    thou    say'st,    were    we    heav'd 

thence  ; 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 

Mira.  O,  my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  teen  ^  that  I  have  turn'd  you  to, 
Which  is  from    my  remembrance !      Please    you, 
further. 

Pro.   My  brother,   and   thy  uncle,  call'd   Anto- 
nio, — 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me,  —  that  a  brother  sliould 
Be  so  perfidious  !  —  he  whom,  next  thyself, 
Of  all  the  world  I  lov'd,  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state  ;  as,  at  that  time. 
Through  all  the  signiories  it  was  the  first, 
And  Prospero  the  prime  duke  ;  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity,  and,  for  the  liberal  arts, 
Without  a  i)arallcl  :   tliose  being  all  my  study 


J 


Scene  II. 


TEMPEST. 


The  government  I  cast  upon  my  brother, 
And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported, 
And  wrapt  in  secret  studies.      Thy  false  uncle  — 
Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

Mira.  Sir,  most  heedfully. 

Pro.   Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits. 
How  to  deny  them  ;  whom  to  advance,  and  whom 
To  trash  "  for  over-topping  ;    new-created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine ;  I    say,  or  chang'd 

them, 
Or  else  new-form'd  tliem  :  having  both  the  key 
Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  hearts 
To  what  tune  pleas'd  his  ear ;  that  now  he  was 
The  ivy,  which  had  liid  my  princely  trunk, 
And  suck'd  my  verdure  out  on't.  —  Thou  attend'st 

not : 
I  pray  thee  mark  me. 

Mira.  O  good  sir,  I  do. 

Pro.   I   thus    neglecting  wordly  ends,  all   dedi- 
cate 
To  closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that,  wliich,  but  by  being  so  retir'd, 
O'er-priz'd  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awak'd  an  evil  nature  :  and  my  trust, 
Like  a  good  parent,  did  beget  of  liim 
A  falsehood,  in  its  contrary  as  great 
As  my  trust  was ;  wliich  had,  indeed,  no  limit, 
A  confidence  sans  bound.     He  being  thus  lorded, 
Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded. 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact,  —  like  one 
Who,  having  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it, 
INIade  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory, 
To  credit  liis  own  lie,  — ■  he  did  believe 
He  was  the  duke ;  out  of  the  substitution. 
And  executing  the  outward  face  of  royalty. 
With  all  prerogative  :  —  Hence  his  ambition 
Growing,  —  Dost  hear  ? 

Mira.  Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pro.    To  have  no  skreen  between  this  part  he 
play'd 
And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 
Absolute  Milan  :   Me,  poor  man !  —  my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough  ;  of  temporal  royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable  :  confederates 
(So  dry  he  was  for  sway)  with  the  king  of  Naples, 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage ; 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbow'd  (alas,  poor  Milan  !) 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mira.  O  the  heavens  ! 

Pro.   Mark  his  condition,  and  the  event ;   then 
tell  me. 
If  tliis  might  be  a  brotlier. 

Mir.  I  should  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother. 

Pro.  Now  the  condition. 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit ; 
Which  was,  that  he  in  lieu  o'  the  premises,  — 
Of  homage,  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute,  — 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom  ;  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honours,  on  my  brother  :     Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  pur|iose,  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan  ;  and  i'  the  dead  of  darkness, 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me,  and  thy  crying  self. 

*  Cut  away. 


Mira.  Alack,  for  pity  ! 

I,  not  rememb'ring  how  I  cried  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again,  it  is  a  hint. 
That  wrings  mine  eyes. 

Pro.  Hear  a  little  further, 

And  then  I'll  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which   now's   upon   us ;   without  the  which,  this 

story 
Were  most  impertinent. 

Mira.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us  ? 

Pro.  Well  demanded,  wench  ; 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they  durst 

not; 
(So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me)  nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business ;  but 
With  colours  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark  ; 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea ;  where  they  prepar'd 
A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat,  not  rigg'd. 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  had  quit  it :   there  they  hoist  us. 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us ;  to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again. 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 

Mira.  Alack  !   what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  ! 

Pro.  O  !  a  cherubim 

Thou   wast,    tliat  cuq   preserve  me !     Thou  didst 

smile. 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven, 
When  I  have  deck'd  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt  j 
Under  my  burden  groan'd ;  wliich  rais'd  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach  7,  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore  ? 

Pro.   By  Prondence  divine. 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 
A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 
Out  of  his  charity  (who  being  then  appointed 
Master  of  this  design),  did  give  us ;  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries, 
Wliich  since   have  steaded  much ;  so,  of  liis  gen- 
tleness. 
Knowing  I  lov'd  my  books,  he  furnish'd  me. 
From  my  own  library,  witli  volumes  that 
I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

Mira.  'Would  1  might 

But  ever  see  that  man  ! 

Pro.  Now  I  arise  :  — 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arriv'd  ;  and  here 
Have  I,  thy  schoolmaster,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princes  can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.   Heavens   thank  you  for't !     And  now  I 
pray  you,  sir, 
(For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth.  — 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  fortune. 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  :   and  by  my  prescience 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star ;  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 
Will  ever  after  droop.  —  Here  cease  more  ques- 
tions: 


^  Stubborn  resolution. 
B   2 


TEMPEST. 


Act  I 


Tlioii  art  inclin'd  to  sleep ;  'tis  a  good  dulness, 
And  give  it  way;  — I  know  thou  canst  not  choose 

[MlftAjtfDA  sleeps. 

Come  away,  servant,  come  :   I  am  ready  .nqw  : 
Approach,  my  Ariel ;  come. 

Enter  Ariel. 

Ari.   All  hail,  great  master  !    grave  sir,  hail !      I 
come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure  ;  be't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds  ;  to  thy  strong  bidding,  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality. 

PrO'  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Perform'd  to  point  8  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee  ? 

Ari.    To  every  article. 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship  ;  now  on  the  beak, 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flamed  amazement :    Sometimes,  I'd  divide. 
And  burn  in  many  places  ;  on  the  top-mast. 
The  yards,  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet,  and  join  :  Jove's  lightnings,  the  precur- 
sors 
O'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And   siglit-outrunning  were   not :    The   fire,  and 

cracks 
Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seem'd  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  tremble. 
Yea,  liis  dread  trident  shake. 

Fro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil  9 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation  :   All,  but  mariners, 
Plung'd  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel. 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me  :  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-staring,  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair,) 
Was  the  first  man  that  leap'd. 

Pro.  Wliy,  that's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.   But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  hair  perish'd  ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish. 
But  fresher  than  before ;  and,  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispers'd  them  'bout  the  isle  : 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs. 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting. 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  dispos'd. 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet  ? 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbour 

Is  the  king's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vex'd  Bermoothes  ',  there  she's  hid : 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow'd ; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  join'd  to  their  suffer'd  labour, 
I  have  left  asleep :   and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet. 
Which  I  dispers'd,  they  all  have  met  again  ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote  % 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples  ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wreck'd. 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  thy  charge 


8  The  minutest  article. 
1  Bermudas. 


9  Bustle,  tumult. 
2  Wave. 


Exactly  is  perform'd ;  but  there's  more  work  : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.    At  least  two  glasses  :   The  time  'twixt  six 
and  now, 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.   Is  tliere  more  toil  ?    Since  thou  dost  give 
me  pains. 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promised, 
Whicli  is  not  yet  perform'd  me. 

Pro.  How  now  ?  moody  ? 

What  is't  thou  canst  demand  ? 

Ari. .  My  liberty. 

Pro.   Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more. 

Ari.  I  pray  thee 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service  ; 

Told  thee  no  lies,  made  no  mistakings,  serv'd 

Without   or   grudge    or  grumblings :    thou   didst 

promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 
Ari.  No. 

Pro.   Thou  dost ;  and  think'st 
It  much,  to  tread  the  ooze  of  the  salt  deep  ; 
To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north  ; 
To  do  me  business  in  tlie  veins  o'  the  eartli. 
When  it  is  bak'd  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.   Thou  liest,  malignant  thing  !    Hast   thou 
forgot 
The  foul  witch  Sycorax,  who,  with  age  and  envy, 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?  hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 
Ari.   No,  sir. 
Pro.  Thou  hast :   where  was  she  born  ? 

speak  ;  tell  me. 
Ari.    Sir,  in  Argier.3 

Pro.  O,  was  she  so  ?  I  must. 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been. 
Which  thou  forget'st.      This  vile  witch,  Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terril)le 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Thou  know'st,  was  banish'd ;  for  one  thing  she  did, 
They  would  not  take  her  life  :    Is  not  this  true  ? 
Ari.    Ay,  sir. 

Pro.   This  blue-ey'd  hag  was  hither  brought  with 
child, 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors :    Thou,  my  slave, 
As  thou  report'st  thyself,  wast  then  her  servant : 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthly  and  abhorr'd  commands, 
Refusing  her  grand  bests  *,  she  did  confine  tlice. 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers. 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage. 
Into  a  cloven  pine ;  within  which  rift 
Imprison'd,  thou  did'st  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years ;  within  which  space  she  died, 
And  left  thee  there ;    where  thou  didst  vent  tlijT 

groans, 
As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike:  Then  was  this  island 
( Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-born,)  not  honour'd  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes  ;   Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.   Dull  thing,  I  say  so ;  he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.      Thou  best  know'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in  ;  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 


Algiers. 


*  Comnmnds. 


Scene  II. 


TEMPEST. 


Of  ever-angry  bears.     This  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo  ;  it  was  mine  art, 
When  I  arriv'd,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

jiri,  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.  If  thou  more  murmur'st,  I  will  rend  an  oak, 
And  peg  tlicc  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Tliou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 

^ri.  Pardon,  master: 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  spriting  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so  ;  and  after  two  days 

1  will  discharge  thee. 

Art.  That's  my  noble  master  ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?  say  what  ?  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pro.  Go  make  thyself  like  to  a  nymph  o'  the  sea; 
Be  subject  to  no  sight  but  mine ;  invisible 
To  every  eye-ball  else.      Go  take  tliis  shape, 
And  hither  come  in't :  hence,  with  diligence. 

lExU  Ariel. 
Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well ; 
Awake  ! 

Mira.   The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off:   Come  on, 

We'll  visit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  'tis. 

We  cannot  miss  him  :   he  does  make  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood  ;  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.     What  ho !  slave  !   Caliban, 
Thou  earth,  thou  !  speak. 

Cal.    [JVUhi7i.]     There's  wood  enough  within. 

Pro.    Come  forth,  I  say :   there's  other  business 
for  thee  : 
Come  forth,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ? 

Re-enter  Ariel  like  a  water-nymph. 
Fine  apparition  !  My  quaint  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.    [^Exit. 

Pro.   Thou  poisonous  slave,  come  forth  ! 

Enter  Caliban. 
CaU   As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brush'd 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen. 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye. 
And  blister  you  all  o'er  ! 

Pro.   For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have 

cramps. 
Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  urchins  * 
Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work. 
All  exercise  on  tliee  :   thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner. 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother. 
Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.     When  thou  earnest 

first. 
Thou  strok'dst  me,   and    mad'st    much    of  me; 

would'st  give  me 
Water  with  berries  in't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less. 
That  bum  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd  tliee, 
And  show'd  tliee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle, 

»  Fairies. 


The  fresh  springs,  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and  fer- 
tile ; 
Cursed  be  I  that  did  so  !  —  All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  liglit  on  you ! 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have. 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king :  and  here  you  sty  me 
In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  of  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness  !  I  have  us'd 

thee. 
Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care ;  and  lodg'd  thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  did'st  seek  to  violate 
The  honour  of  my  child.      Abhorred  slave  ; 
Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take. 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !  I  pitied  thee, 
Took  pains  to  make  tliee  speak,  taught  thee  c^ch  hour 
One  thing  or  other :   when  thou  didst  not,  savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  would'st  gabble  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known  :    But  thy  vile 

race. 
Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in't  which  good 

natures 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with  ;  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confin'd  into  this  rock. 
Who  hadst  deserv'd  more  than  a  prison. 

Cal.  You  taught  me  language;  and  my  profit  on  t 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse  :  the  red  plague  rid  ^  you, 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou  wert  best. 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice  ? 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I'll  rack  thee  with  old  cramps ; 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches  ;  make  thee  roar. 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 

Cal.  No,  'pray  thee  !  — 

I  must  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  power,  [Aside. 

It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave  ;  hence  ! 

\^Exit  Caliban. 

Re-enter    Ariel    invisible,    playing    and   singing,- 
FKRvivAifD following  him. 

Ariel's  Song. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Court' sied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd, 

{The  wild  waves  whist  ") 
Foot  itfeatly  here  ayid  there  ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  tlie  burden  Uar, 

Hark,  hark  ! 
Bur.   Bowgh,  wowgh.  [difpersedly. 

The  vmtch-dogs  bark  : 
Bur.    Bowgh,  wowgh.  [disperscdly. 

Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticlere 
Cry,  cock-a-Soodle-doo. 

Fer.   Where  should  this  musick  be  ?  i'  the  air,  or 
the  earth  ? 
It  sounds  no  more  :  —  and  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  the  island.      Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  musick  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters  ; 


«  Destroy. 


'  Being  stilled,  silenced. 
B  3 


TEMPEST. 


Act  I.     Scene  II. 


Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air ;  thence  I  have  foUow'd  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather ;  —  But  'tis  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sings. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  Iks; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  : 
Those  are  pearls,  that  icere  his  eyes  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  dothfadej 
J3ut  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them,  —  ding-dong,  bell. 
[Burden,  ding-dong. 

Fer.   The  ditty  does  remember  my  drown'd  fa- 
ther :  — 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes  8  :  —  I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Pro.   The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond'. 

Mira.  What  is't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

See  how  it  looks  about !   Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form  :  —  But  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.   No,  wench ;  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath 
such  senses 
As  we  have,  such  :    This  gallant  which  thou  seest, 
Was  in  the  wreck  ;  and  but  he's  something  stain'd 
With   grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st 

call  him 
A  goodly  person  :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows. 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on,  [Aside. 

As  my  soul  prompts  it :  —  Spirit,  fine  spirit !   I'll 

free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend  !  — Vouchsafe  my  prayer 
May  know,  if  you  remain  upon  this  island  ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give. 
How  I  may  bear  me  here  :   My  prime  request. 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder  ! 
If  you  be  maid,  or  no  ? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir ; 

But,  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer.  My  language ;  heavens !  — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech. 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How  !  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 

Fer.   A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples  :   He  does  hear  me ; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep  :  myself  am  Naples  ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wreck'd. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  mercy  ! 

Fer.     Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords ;  the  duke  of 
Milan, 
And  his  brave  son  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  controls  thee, 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do't :  —  At  the  first  sight 

[Adde. 
They  have  chang'd  eyes  :  —  Delicate  Ariel, 


"  Owns. 


»  Confute. 


I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  !  —  A  word,  good  sir ; 
I  fear,  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong  :  a  word. 
Mira.    Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  ?  Tliis 
Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw  ;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for  :  pity  move  my  father 
To  be  inclin'd  my  way  ! 

Fer.  O,  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I'll  make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples  ! 

Pro.  Soft,  sir ;  one  word  more.  — 

They  are  both  in  either's  powers ;  but  this  swift 

business 
I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning  [Aside. 
Make  the  prize  light.  —One  word  more  ;   I  charge 

thee. 
That  thou  attend  me  :   thou  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  tliou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island,  as  a  spy  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on't. 

Per.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mira.   There's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a 
temple : 
If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  an  house. 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  vdth't. 

p^n.  Follow  me.  —  [To  Ferd. 

Speak  not  you  for  him  ;  he's  a  traitor.  —  Come. 
I'll  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together  : 
Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink,  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots,  and  husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled  :    Follow. 

Fer.  No ; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power.  [He  draws. 

Mira.  O  dear  father. 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He's  gentle,  and  not  fearful. ' 

Pro.  What,  I  say, 

My  foot  my  tutor  !  —  Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor  ; 
Who  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  strike,  thy  con- 
science 
Is  so  possess'd  with  guilt :  come  from  thy  ward  "2 ; 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  vdth  this  stick. 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you  father  ! 

Pro.   Hence  ;  hang  not  on  my  garments. 

Mira.  Sir,  have  pity  ; 

I'll  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  :  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.    What ! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor  ?  hush  ! 
Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such  shapes  as  he, 
Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban  :  Foolish  wench  ! 
To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mira.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble ;   I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pro.  Come  on;  obey:    [To  Ferd. 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again. 
And  have  no  vigour  in  them. 

Fer.  So  they  are  : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  wliich  I  feel. 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me, 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  this  maid  :   all  corners  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

1  Frightful.  2  Guard. 


1 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


TEMPEST. 


Pro.  It  works  :  —  Come  on.  — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel !  —  Follow  me.  — 

[To  Ferd.  and  Mir. 

Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me.  [To  Ariel. 

Mira.  Be  of  comfort ; 

My  father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir, 


Than  he  appears  by  speech  ;  this  is  unwonted, 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds  :  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command- 

^^'  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.   Come,  follow :  speak  not  for  him.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  Anothei'  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter   Alonso,     Sebastian,    Antonio,    Gonzalo, 
Adrian,  Francisco,  and  others. 
Gon.  'Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry :  you  have  cause 
(So  have  we  all)  of  joy  ;  for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss  :   our  hint  of  woe 
Is  common  ;  every  day,  some  sailor's  wife. 
The  masters  of  some  merchant,  and  the  merchant. 
Have  just  our  theme  of  woe  :  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us  :  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 
^^<>^'  .  Pr'ythee,  peace! 

Seb.   He  receives  comfort  like  cold  porrido^e. 
Ant.   The  visitor  will  not  give  him  o'er  so. 
Seb.  Look,  he's  winding  up  the  watch  of  his  wit  • 
By  and  by  it  will  strike.  ' 

Gon,   Sir, 

Seb.   One  : Tell. 

Gon.     When   every  grief  is  entertain'd,   that's 
offer'd. 

Comes  to  the  entertainer 

^*-  A  dollar. 

Gon.   Dolour  comes  to  him,  indeed;  you  have 
spoken  truer  tlian  you  purposed. 

Seb.  You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant  you 
should.  ^ 

Gon.   Therefore,  my  lord,  — 
Ant.   Fie,  what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  his  tongue ' 
Alon.   I  pr'ythee,  spare. 

Gon.   Well,  I  have  done  :   But  yet 

Seb.   He  will  be  talking. 

Ant.   Which  of  them,  he,  or  Adrian,  for  a  good 
wager,  first  begins  to  crow  ? 
Seb.   The  old  cock. 
Ant.   The  cockrel. 
Seb.   Done  :  the  wager  ? 
Ani.   A  laughter. 
Seb.   A  match. 

Adr.   Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert, 

Seb.   Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Ant.   So  you've  pay'd. 

Adr.   Uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccessible, 

Seb.   Yet. 
Adr.   Yet  — 

Ant.   He  could  not  miss  it. 

Adr.   The  air  breatlies  upon  us  here  most  sweetly. 
Gon.   Here  is  every  thing  advantageous  to  life. 
Ant.   True  ;  save  means  to  live. 
Seb.   Of  that  there's  none,  or  little. 
Gon.   How  lush  3  and  lusty  the  grass  looks  '  how 
green! 

Ant.   Tlie  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 
Seb.   With  an  eye  *  of  green  in't 


3  Rank. 


<  Shade  of  colour. 


Ant.  He  misses  not  much. 
Seb.   No :  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth  totally. 
Gon.   But  the  rarity  of  it  is  (which  is  indeed 
almost  beyond  credit)  — 

Seb.   As  many  vouch'd  rarities  are. 
Gon.   That  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were, 
drenched  in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their 
freshness,  and  glosses  ;  being  rather  new  dy'd,  than 
stain'd  with  salt  water. 

Ant.   If  but  one  of  his   pockets    could   sptak, 
would  it  not  say,  he  lies  ? 

Seb.   Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his  report. 
Gon.   Methinks,  our  garments  are  now  as  fresh 
as  when  we  put  them  on  first  in  Afric,  at  the  mar- 
riage of  the  king's  fair  daughter  Claribel  to  the  king 
of  Tunis. 

Seb.  'Twas   a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  prosper 
well  in  our  return. 

Adr.   Tunis  was  never  graced  before  with  such  a 
paragon  to  their  queen. 

Gon.   Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 
Ant.   How  came  that  widow  in  ?  Widow  Dido  ! 
Seb.   What  if  he  had  said,  widower  ^neas  too  ? 
good  lord,  how  you  take  it ! 

Adr.   Widow   Dido,    said  you?   you   make  me 
study  of  that :   she  was  of  Carthage,  not  of  Tunis. 
Gon.   This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 
Adr.    Carthage? 
Gon.   I  assure  you,  Carthage. 
Ant.   His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous  harp. 
Seb.   He  hath  rais'd  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 
Ant.   What  impossible  matter  will  he  make  easy 
next? 

Seb.   I  think,  he  will  carry  this  island  home  in 
his  pocket,  and  give  it  his  soil  for  an  apple. 

Ant.  And,  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the  sea, 
bring  forth  more  islands. 
Gon.   Ay? 

Ant.   Why,  in  good  time. 

Go7i.   Sir,  we  were  talking,  that   our  garments 
seem  now  as  fresh,  as  when  we  were  at  Tunis  at  tlie 
marriage  of  your  daughter,  who  is  now  queen. 
Ant.   And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there. 
Seb.   'Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 
Ant.   O,  widow  Dido  ;  ay,  widow  Dido. 
Gon.   Is  not,  sir,  my  doublet  as  fresli  as  the  first 
day  I  wore  it  ?  I  mean,  in  a  sort. 
Ant.   That  sort  was  well  fish'd  for. 
Gon.   When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's  mar- 
riage? 
Alon.   You   cram    these   words  into   mine  cars 
against 
The  stomach  of  my  sense  :   'Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there !  for,  coming  thence, 
My  son  is  lost  ;  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too. 
Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  removed, 
B   4 


8 


TEMPEST. 


Act  II 


I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.     O  thou  mine  heir 
Of  Naples  and  of  Milan,  what  strange  fish 
Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee  ! 

Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live  ; 

I  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him. 
And  ride  upon  their  backs ;  he  trod  the  water. 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him :  his  bold  head 
'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oar'd 
Himself  with  his  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-worn  basis  bow'd. 
As  stooping  to  relieve  liim ;  I  not  doubt, 
He  came  alive  to  land. 

Alon.  No,  no,  he's  gone. 

Seb.   Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  this  great 
loss  ; 
That  would  not  bless  our  Europe  with  your  daugh- 
ter. 
But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African ; 
Where  she,  at  least,  is  banish'd  from  your  eye. 
Who  hath  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on't. 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

Seb.  You  were  kneel'd  to,  and  importun'd  other- 
wise 
By  all  of  us  ;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 
Weigh'd,  between  lothness  and  obedience,  at 
Which  end  o'  the  beam  she'd  bow.     We  have  lost 

your  son, 
I  fear,  for  ever :   Milan  and  Naples  have 
More  widows  in  them  of  this  business'  making, 
Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them :   The  fault's 
Your  own. 

Alon.   So  is  the  dearest  of  the  loss. 

Gon.  My  lord  Sebastian, 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 
And  time  to  speak  it  in  :   you  rub  the  sore. 
When  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 

Seb.  Very  well. 

Ant.   And  most  chirurgeonly. 

Gon.   It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir. 
When  you  are  cloudy. 

Seb.  Foul  weather? 

Ant.  Very  foul. 

Gon.   Had  I  a  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord,  — 

Ant.  He'd  sow  it  with  nettle-seed. 

Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

Gon.   And  were  the  king  of  it.  What  would  I 
do? 

Seb.  'Scape  being  drunk  for  want  of  wine. 

Gon.   V  the    commonwealth  I  would   by    con- 
traries 
Execute  all  things  :  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known  ;  no  use  of  service. 
Of  riches  or  of  poverty  ;  no  contracts. 
Succession  ;  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none  : 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupation  ;  all  men  idle,  all ; 
And  women  too ;  but  innocent  and  piure  :  ^ 
No  sovereignty  :  — . 

Seb.  And  yet  he  would  be  king  on't. 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth  forgets 
tlie  beginning. 

Gon.   All  things  in  common  nature  should  pro- 
duce, 
Without  sweat  or  endeavour  :   treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine. 
Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth. 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foison  »,  all  abundance, 
5  Plenty. 


To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir. 

To  excel  the  golden  age. 

Seb.  'Save  his  majesty  ! 

Ant.  Long  live  Gonzalo  \ 

Gon.  And,  do  you  mark  me,  sir  ?  — 

Alon.    Pry'thee,  no  more  :  thou  dost  talk  nothing 
to  me. 

Gon.  I  do  well  believe  your  highness ;  and  did 
it  to  minister  occasion  to  these  gentlemen,  who  are 
of  such  sensible  and  nimble  lungs,  that  they  always 
use  to  laugh  at  nothing. 

Ant.  'Twas  you  we  laugh'd  at. 

Gon.  Who,  in  this  kind  of  merry  fooling,  am 
nothing  to  you ;  so  you  may  continue,  and  laugh 
at  nothing  still. 

Ant.   What  a  blow  was  there  given  ! 

Seb.   An  it  had  not  fallen  flat-long. 

Gon.  You  are  gentlemen  of  brave  metal :  you 
would  lift  the  moon  out  of  her  sphere,  if  she  would 
continue  in  it  five  weeks  without  changing. 

Enter  Ariel  invisible,  playing  solemn  music. 

Seb.  We  would  so,  and  then  go  a  bat-fowling. 

Ant.   Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 

Gon.  No,  I  warrant  you  ;  I  vrill  not  adventure 
my  discretion  so  weakly.  Will  you  laugh  me  asleep, 
for  I  am  very  heavy  ? 

Ant.    Go  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

\^All  sleep  but  Alon.  Seb.  and  Ant. 

Alon.  What,  all  so  soon  asleep  !  I  wish  mine  eyes 
Would,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts  :    I 

find 
They  are  inclin'd  to  do  so. 

Seb.  Please  you,  sir. 

Do  not  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it : 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow  :   when  it  doth. 
It  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  We  two,  my  lord, 

Will  guard  your  person,  while  you  t^e  your  rest, 
And  watch  your  safety. 

Alon.  Thank  you  :   wondrous  heavy.  '— 

[Alonso  sleeps.     Exit  Ariel. 

Seb.   What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses  them  ! 

Ant.   It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 

Seb.  Why 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eyelids  sink  ?     I  find  not 
Myself  dispos'd  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  I ;  my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 
They  dropp'd  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.   What  might, 
Worthy     Sebastian  ?  —  O,    what     might  ?  —  No 

more :  — 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  see  it  in  thy  face, 
What  thou  should'st  be  :    the  occasion  speaks  thee ; 

and 
My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 
Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What,  art  thou  waking  ? 

Ant.   Do  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 

Seb.  I  do  ;  and  surely. 

It  is  a  sleepy  language  ;  and  thou  speak 'st 
Out  of  thy  sleep  :   What  is  it  thou  didst  say? 
This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep 
With  eyes  vride  open  ;  standing,  speaking,  moving, 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 

Ant,  Noble  Sebastian, 

Tliou  let'st  thy  fortune  sleep  —  die  rather  ;  wink's! 
Wliiles  thou  ait  waking 


Scene  I. 


TEMPEST. 


9 


Seb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly  ; 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.   I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom  :  you 
Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me  ;  wliich  to  do, 
Trebles  thee  o'er. 

Scb.  Well ;  I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.   I'll  teach  you  how  to  flow. 

Seb.  Do  so :  to  ebb, 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 

Ant.  O, 

If  you  but  knew,  how  you  the  purpose  cherish. 
Whiles  thus  you  mock  it !  how,  in  stripping  it, 
You  more  invest  it !     Ebbing  men,  indeed, 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run, 
By  their  own  fear,  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Pr'ythee,  say  on  : 

The  setting  of  thine  eye,  and  cheek,  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee  ;  and  a  birth,  indeed. 
Which  throes  thee  much  to  yield.- 

Ant.  Thus,  sir. 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this 
(Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory, 
When  he  is  earth'd,)  hath  here  almost  persuaded 
(For  he's  a  spirit  of  persuasion  only,) 
The  king  his  son's  alive  :   'tis  as  impossible 
That  he's  undrown'd  as  he  that  sleeps  here,  swims. 

Seb.   I  have  no  hope 
That  he's  undrown'd. 

Ant.  O,  out  of  that  no  hope, 

What  great  hope  have  you  !  no  hope,  that  way,  is 
Another  way  so  high  an  hope,  that  even 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 
But  doubts  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant,  with 

me. 
That  Ferdinand  is  drown'd  ? 

Seb.  He's  gone. 

Ant.  Then,  tell  me. 

Who's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  ? 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.   She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis  ;  she  that  dwells 
Ten   leagues  beyond  man's   life ;    she   that   from 

Naples 
Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  sun  were  post, 
(The  man  i'  the  moon's  too  slow)  till  new-born  chins 
Be  rough  and  razorable ;   she,  from  whom 
We  were  all  sea-swallow'd,  though  some  cast  again ; 
And,  by  that,  destin'd  to  perform  an  act, 
Whereof  what's  past  is  prologue  ;  what  to  come. 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Seb.  What  stuff'  is  this  ?  —  How  say  you  ? 

'Tis  true,  my  brother's  daughter's  queen  of  Tunis  ; 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples  ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 

Ant.  A  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,  How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  us  back  to  Naples  ?  —  Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake  !  —  Say,  this  were  death 
That  now  hath  seiz'd  them  ;  why,  they  were  no  worse 
Than  now  they  are  :   there  be,  that  can  rule  Naples 
As  well  as  he  that  sleeps ;  lords,  that  can  prate 
As  amply,  and  unnecessarily, 
As  this  Gonzalo  ;   I  myself  could  make 
A  chough  6  of  as  deep  chat.      O,  that  you  bore 
'J'lie  mind  that  I  do  !  what  a  sleep  were  this 
For  your  advancement !      Do  you  understand  me  ? 
Seb.    Methinks  1  do. 

Anl.  And  how  docs  your  content 

Tender  your  own  good  fortune  ? 

^  A  bird  of  the  jackdaw  kind. 


Seb.  I  remember, 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True ; 

And,  look,  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me  ; 
Much  feater  than  before  :  My  brother's  servants 
Were  then  my  fellows,  now  they  are  my  men. 

Seb.   But,  for  your  conscience  — 

Ant.   Ay,  sir ;  where  lies  that  ?  if  it  were  a  kybe, 
'Twould  put  me  to  my  slipper ;  but  I  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom  :  twenty  consciences. 
That  stand  'twixt  me  and  Milan,  candied  be  they, 
And  melt,  ere  they  molest !   Here  lies  your  brother, 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon. 
If  he  were  that  which  now  he's  like ;  whom  I, 
With  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches  of  it. 
Can  lay  to  bed  for  ever  :  whiles  you,  doing  thus. 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  sir  Prudence,  who 
Should  not  upbraid  oiu  course.     For  all  the  rest. 
They'll  take  suggestion,  as  a  cat  laps  milk  ; 
They'll  tell  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb.  Thy  case,  dear  friend, 

Shall  be  my  precedent ;  as  thou  got'st  Milan, 
I'll  come  by  Naples.     Draw  thy  sword  :   one  stroke 
Shall  free  thee  from  the  tribute  which  thou  pay'st ; 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together : 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like. 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 

Seb.  O,  but  one  word  ! 

\_Thei/  converse  apart* 

Music.     Re-enter  Ariel,  invisible. 
Ari.  My  master  through  his  art  foresees  the  danger 
Tliat  these,  his  friends,  are  in  ;  and  sends  me  forth, 
(For  else  his  project  dies,)  to  keep  them  living. 

iSivgs  in  GoNZALo's  ear. 

While  1/ou  here  do  snoring  lie, 
Open-ey^d  conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take  : 
If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  off  slmnber,  and  beware: 
Awake  !  awake  ! 
Ant.   Then  let  us  both  be  sudden. 
Gon.  Now,  good  angels,  preserve  tlic  king ! 

iThey  wake. 
Alon.  Why,  how  now,  ho !    awake  1     Why  are 
you  drawn  ? 
Wherefore  this  ghastly  looking  ? 

Gon.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Seb.   Wliiles  we  stood  here  securing  your  reiwsc. 
Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowing 
Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions  ;  tlid  it  not  wake  you  ? 
It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  l>ea"^  nothing. 

Ant.   O,  'twas  a  din  to  fright  a  nionster's  car ; 
To  make  an  earthquake !  sure  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

^lon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo  ? 

Gon.  Ui)on  mine  honour,  sir,  1  heard  a  humming. 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake  me  : 
I  shak'd  you,  sir,  and  cry'd :   as  mine  eyes  open'd, 
I  saw  their  weapons  drawn  :  —  there  was  a  noise. 
That's  verity  :   'Best  stand  upon  our  guard  ; 
Or  that  we  quit  tins  place  :   let's  draw  our  weapons. 
Alon.   I-rcad  oflf  this  ground  ;  and  let's  make  fur- 
ther search 
For  my  poor  son. 


10 


TEMPEST. 


Act  II.    Scene  II. 


Gon.  Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts  ! 

For  he  is,  sure,  i'  the  island. 

j4lon.  Lead  away. 

Ari.   Prosper©  my  lord  shall  know  what  I  have 

done ;  [Aside. 

So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Caliban,  with  a  burden  of  wood. 
A  noise  of  thunder  heard. 
Cal.   All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall,  and  make 

him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease  !     His  spirits  hear  me. 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.    But  they'll  nor  pinch. 
Fright  me  with  urchin  shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire. 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  fire-brand,  in  the  dark 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  them ;  but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me : 
Sometime  like  apes,  that  moe  7  and  chatter  at  me. 
And  after,  bite  me  ;  then  like  hedge-hogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  bare-foot  way,  and  mount 
Their  bristles  at  my  foot-fall ;    sometime  am  I 
All  wound  with  adders,  who,  with  cloven  tongues. 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness :  —  Lo  !  now !  lo  ! 

Enter  Trinculo. 

Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his  ;  and  to  torment  me. 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly  :    I'll  fall  flat ; 
Perchance,  he  will  not  mind  me. 

Tiin.  Here's  neither  bush  nor  shrub,  to  bear  off 
any  weather  at  all,  and  another  storm  brewing ;  I 
hear  it  sing  i'  the  wind :  yond'  same  black  cloud, 
yond'  huge  one,  looks  like  a  foul  bumbard  8  that 
would  shed  his  liquor.  If  it  should  thunder,  as  it 
did  before,  I  know  not  where  to  hide  my  head : 
yond'  same  cloud  cannot  choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls. 
What  have  we  here  ?  a  man  or  a  fish  ?  dead  or  alive  ? 
A  fish  :  he  smells  like  a  fish  ;  a  very  ancient  and  fish- 
like smell ;  a  kind  of,  not  of  the  newest,  Poor- John. 
A  strange  fish  !  Were  I  in  England  now  (as  once  I 
was,)  and  had  but  this  fish  painted,  not  a  holiday- 
fool  there  but  would  give  a  piece  of  silver :  there 
would  this  monster  make  a  man  ;  any  strange  beast 
there  makes  a  man  :  when  they  will  not  give  a  doit 
to  relieve  a  lame  beggar,  they  will  lay  out  ten  to 
see  a  dead  Indian.  Legg'd  like  a  man  !  and  his  fins 
like  arms  !  Warm,  o'  my  troth  !  I  do  now  let  loose 
my  opinion,  hold  it  no  longer  ;  this  is  no  fish,  but  an 
islander,  that  hath  lately  suffered  by  a  thunderbolt. 
[ Thunder.]  Alas  !  the  storm  is  come  again  :  my  best 
way  is  to  creep  under  his  gaberdine  9 ;  there  is  no 
other  shelter  hereabout :  Misery  acquaints  a  man 
with  strange  bedfellows.  I  will  here  shroud,  till 
the  dregs  of  the  storm  be  past. 

Enter  Stephano,  singing  ;  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

Ste.   /  shall  no  more  to  sea,  to  sea, 
Here  shall  I  die  a-shore  ;  — 

This    is  a  very  scurvy  tune   to   sing   at  a  man's 

funeral : 
Well  here's  my  comfort.  [^DrinkS' 

The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 
The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 

'  Make  mouths. 

"  A  black  jack  of  leather  to  hold  beer. 

5  The  frock  of  a  peasant 


Lov'd  Mall,  Meg,  and  Marian,  and  Margeryy 
But  none  of  us  car  d  for  Kate  : 
For  she  had  a  tongue  loilh  a  tang, 
Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  Go  hang  : 
Then  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  Iter  go  hang. 

This  is  a  scurvy  tune  too  :   But  here's  my  comfort. 

[Drinks. 

Cal.   Do  not  torment  me  :   O  ! 

Ste.  What's  the  matter  ?  Have  we  devils  here  ? 
Do  you  put  tricks  upon  us  with  savages,  and  men 
of  Inde  ?  '  Ha  !  I  have  not  scap'd  drowning,  to  be 
afeard  now  of  your  four  legs ;  for  it  hath  been  said. 
As  proper  a  man  as  ever  went  on  four  legs,  cannot 
make  him  give  ground :  and  it  shall  be  said  so  again, 
while  Stephano  breathes  at  nostrils. 

Cal.   The  spirit  torments  me  :    O  ! 

Ste.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle,  with  four 
legs ;  who  hath  got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague  :  Where 
the  devil  should  he  learn  our  language  ?  I  will  give 
him  some  relief,  if  it  be  but  for  that :  If  I  can  re- 
cover him,  and  keep  him  tame,  and  get  to  Naples 
with  him,  he's  a  present  for  any  emperor  that  ever 
trod  on  neat's  leather. 

Cal.   Do  not  torment  me,  pr'ythee ; 
I'll  bring  my  wood  home  faster. 

Ste.  He's  in  his  fit  now ;  and  does  not  talk  after 
the  wisest.  He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle  :  if  he  have 
never  drunk  wine  afore,  it  will  go  near  to  remove 
his  fit :  If  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame,  I 
will  not  take  too  much  for  him :  he  shall  pay  for 
him  that  hath  him,  and  that  soundly. 

Cal.   Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt ;  thou  wilt 
Anon,  I  know  it  by  thy  trembling : 
Now  Prosper  works  upon  thee. 

Ste.  Come  on  your  ways ;  open  your  mouth ; 
here  is  that  which  will  give  language  to  you,  cat ; 
open  your  mouth  :  this  will  shake  your  shaking,  I 
can  tell  you,  and  that  soundly :  you  cannot  tell 
who's  your  friend :   open  your  chaps  again. 

Trin.  I  should  know  that  voice  :  It  should  be  — 
But  he  is  drowned ;  and  these  are  devils  :  O  !  de- 
fend me  !  — 

Ste.  Four  legs,  and  two  voices ;  a  most  delicate 
monster  !  If  all  the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  recover 
him,  I  vrill  help  his  ague :  Come,  I  will  pour  some 
in  thy  other  mouth. 

Trin.    Stephano  !  — 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me  ?  Mercy  ! 
mercy !  This  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster !  I  will 
leave  him  ;   I  have  no  long  spoon. 

Trin.  Stephano  !  —  if  thou  beest  Stephano,  touch 
me,  and  speak  to  me ;  for  I  am  Trinculo ;  —  be  not 
afeard,  —  thy  good  friend  Trinculo. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth ;  I'll  puil 
thee  by  the  lesser  legs :  if  any  be  Trinculo's  legs, 
these  are  they.  Thou  art  very  Trinculo,  indeed  I 
How  cam'st  thou  to  be  the  siege-  of  this  moon-calf? 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thunder- 
stroke :  —  But  art  thou  not  drowned,  Stephano  ? 
I  hope  now,  thou  art  not  drowned.  Is  the  storm 
overblown  ?  I  hid  me  under  the  dead  moon-calf's 
gaberdine,  for  fear  of  ttie  storm  :  And  art  thou 
living,  Stephano?  O  Stephano,  two  Neapolitans 
'scap'd ! 

Ste.  Pr'ythee,  do  not  turn  me  about  j  my  stomach 
is  not  constant. 

Cal.   These   be   fine   things,  an  if  they  be  not 
sprites. 

«  StooL 


Act  III.    Scene  I. 


TEMPEST. 


II 


That's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor : 
I  will  kneel  to  him. 

Ste.  How  did'st  thou  scape  ?  How  cam'st  thou 
hither  ?  swear  by  this  bottle,  how  thou  cam'st  hither. 
I  escaped  upon  a  butt  of  sack,  which  the  sailors 
heaved  overboard,  by  this  bottle  !  which  I  made  of 
the  bark  of  a  tree,  with  mine  own  hands,  since  I  was 
cast  ashore. 

CcU.   I'll  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy 
True  subject ;  for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Ste.   Here  ;  swear  then  how  thou  escap'dst. 

Trin.  Swam  a-shore,  man,  like  a  duck  ;  I  can 
swim  like  a  duck,  I'll  be  sworn. 

Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book  :  Though  thou  canst 
swim  like  a  duck,  thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

Trin.    O  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this  ? 

Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man  ;  my  cellar  is  in  a  rock 
by  the  sea-side,  where  my  wine  is  hid.  How  now, 
moon-calf?  how  does  thine  ague? 

Cal.   Hast  thou  not  dropped  from  heaven  ? 

Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee  :  I  was 
the  man  in  the  moon,  when  time  was. 

Cal.  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore  thee ; 
My  mistress  showed  me  thee,  thy  dog  and  bush. 

Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that ;  kiss  the  book  :  I  will 
furnish  it  anon  with  new  contents :   swear. 

Trin.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shallow 
monster :  — I  afeard  of  him  ? — a  very  weak  monster : 
—  The  man  i'  the  moon  ?  —  a  most  poor  credulous 
monster :  —  Well  drawn,  monster,  in  good  sooth. 

Cal.  I'll  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the  island  : 
I'll  kiss  thy  foot :    I'll  swear  myself  thy  subject. 

Ste.    Come  on,  then  ;  down  and  swear. 

Trin.  I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this  puppy- 
headed  monster  :  A  most  scurvy  monster  !  I  could 
find  in  my  heart  to  beat  liim,  — 

Ste.   Come,  kiss. 


Trin.  —  but  that  the  poor  monster's  in  drink. 
An  abominable  monster ! 

Cat.   I'll  show  thee  tlie  best  springs ;   I'll  pluck 
thee  berries ; 
I'll  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  tlie  tyrant  that  I  serve  ! 
I'll  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee. 
Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trin.  A  most  ridiculous  monster !  to  make  a 
wonder  of  a  poor  drunkard. 

Cal.  I  pr'ythee,  let  me  bring  thee  where  crabs  grow ; 
And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts ; 
Shew  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet ;  I'll  bring  thee 
To  clust'ring  filberds,  and  sometimes  I'll  get  thee 
Young  sea-mells  3  from  the  rock  :  Wilt  thou  go  with 
me? 

Ste.  I  pr'ythee  now  lead  the  way,  without  any 
more  talking.  —  Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  com- 
pany else  being  drowned,  we  will  inherit  here.  — 
Here  ;  bear  my  bottle.  Fellow  Trinculo,  we'll  fill 
him  by  and  by  again. 

Cal.  Farewell,  master  i  farewell,  farewell. 

\Si7igs  drunkenly. 

Trin.   A  howling  monster ;  a  drunken  monster. 

Cal.   No  more  dams  Vll  make  for  fish  ; 
Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring. 

Nor  scrape  trenchering,  nor  wash  dish  { 
'Ban  'Ban,  Ca — Caliban 
Has  a  new  muster  —  Get  a  new  man. 

Freedom,   hey-day !   hey-day,  freedom !    freedom, 
hey-day,  freedom ! 
Ste.   O  brave  monster !  lead  the  way. 

\^Exeunl. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  Before  Prospero's  Cell. 

Enter  Ferdinand,  bearing  a  log. 

Fcr.   There  be  some  sports  are  painful ;  but  their 

labour 
Delight  in  them  sets  off:   some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone  ;  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.     This  my  mean  task  would  be 
As  heavy  to  me,  as  'tis  odious  ;  but 
The  mistress,  which  I  serve,  quickens  wh'at's  dead. 
And  makes  my  labours  pleasures :    O,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's  crabbed  ; 
And  he's  composed  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
\J\wn  a  sore  injunction  :   My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work ;   and  says,  such 

baseness 
Had  ne'er  like  Executor.     I  forget : 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my  labours ; 
Most  busy-less,  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  Miranda  ;  and  Prospero  at  a  distarice. 

Mir  a.  Alas,  now  !  pray  you 

Work  not  so  hard  :    I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  arc  enjoin'd  to  pile ! 


Pray  set  it  down,  and  rest  you  :  when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you :    My  father 
Is  hard  at  study  ;  pray  now  rest  yourself; 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  O  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set,  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mira.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  wliile :   Pray,  give  me  that ; 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature  : 

I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo. 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  mc 

As  well  as  it  does  you  :  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it. 
And  yours  against. 

Pro.  Poor  worm  !  tliou  art  infected  ; 

This  visitation  shows  it. 

Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.  No,  noble  mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with 
me, 
When  you  vtc  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 

3  Seagulls. 


12 


TEMPEST. 


Act  III. 


(Chiefly,  tliat  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Mira.  Miranda  :  —  O  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  best  *  to  say  so  ! 

Fer,  Admir'd  Miranda ! 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration ;  worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world  !   Full  many  a  lady 
I  liave  ey'd  with  best  regard ;  and  many  a  time 
Tlie  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  lik'd  several  women  ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  (juarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  ow'd  *, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :    But  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex  ;  no  woman's  face  remember. 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own  ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father  :   how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skill-less  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you  j 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of :  but  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
Therein  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king ; 
(I  would,  not  so  !)  and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery,  than  I  would  suflfer 
The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth.  —  Hear  my  soul 

speak ;  — 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and,  for  your  sake. 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mira.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer,   O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this 
sound. 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event. 
If  1  speak  true  !  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me,  to  mischief !   I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 

Mira.  I  am  a  fool. 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pro.  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections  !  Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them  ! 

Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mira.     At  mine    unworthiness,    that  dare   not 
offer 
What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take. 
What  I  shall  die  to  want :   but  this  is  trifling  ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.   Hence,  bashful  cunning  ! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence  ! 
I  am  your  vdfe,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid  :  to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me ;  but  I'll  be  your  servant. 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mira.  My  husband  then  ? 

Fer.   Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom  ;  here's  my  hand. 


*  Command. 


6  Own'A 


Mira.    And  mine,  with  my  heart  in't ;    And  now 
farewell, 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand  !  thousand  ! 

[Exeunt  Fer.  and  Mir. 

Pro.   So  glad  of  this  as  they,  I  cannot  be. 
Who  are  surpris'd  with  all ;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.      I'll  to  my  book  ; 
For  yet,  ere  supper-time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit*  ^ 

SCENE  II.  —  Another  part  of  the  Island.         *" 

Enter  Stephano  and  Trincujlo  ;  CaajIbk-s  following 
with  a  bottle. 

Ste.  Tell  not  me ;  —  when  the  butt  is  out,  w© 
will  drink  water  j  not  a  drop  before :  therefore 
bear  up  and  board  'em :  Servant-monster,  drink 
to  me. 

Trin.  Servant-monster  ?  the  folly  of  this  island ! 
They  say,  there's  but  five  upon  this  isle :  we  are 
three  of  them  ;  if  the  other  two  be  brained  like  us, 
the  state  totters. 

Ste.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid  thee ;  thy 
eyes  are  almost  set  in  thy  hea(l. 

Trin.   Where  should  they  be  set  else  ? 

Ste.  My  man-monster  hath  drowned  his  tongue 
in  sack  :  for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot  drown  me  :  I 
swam,  ere  I  could  recover  the  shore,  five-and-thirty 
leagues,  off  and  on,  by  this  light.  —  Thou  shalt  be 
my  lieutenant,  monster,  or  my  standard. 

Trin.  Your  lieutenant,  if  you  list ;  he's  no 
standard. 

Ste.   We'll  not  run,  monsieur  monster. 

Trin.  Nor  go  neither  :  but  you'll  lie,  like  dogs ; 
and  yet  say  nothing  neither. 

Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if  thou 
beest  a  good  moon-calf. 

Cal.  How  does  thy  honour?  Let  me  lick  thy 
shoe  :   I'll  not  serve  him,  —  he  is  not  valiant. 

Trin.  Thou  liest,  most  ignorant  monster  ;  I  am 
in  case  to  justle  a  constable  :  Was  there  ever  man 
a  coward,  that  hath  drunk  so  much  sack  as  I  to- 
day ?  Wilt  thou  tell  a  monstrous  lie,  being  but  half 
a  fish,  and  half  a  monster  ? 

Cal.  Lo,  how  he  mocks  me  !  wilt  thou  let  him, 
my  lord  ? 

Tjin.  Lord,  quoth  he !  —  that  a  monster  should 
be  such  a  natural ! 

Cal.   Lo,  lo,  again  !  bite  him  to  death,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your  head ; 
if  you  prove  a  mutineer,  the  next  tree  —  The  poor 
monster's  my  subject,  and  he  shall  not  suffer  indig- 
nity. 

Cal.  I  thank  my  noble  lord.  Wilt  thou  be  pleas'd 
To  hearken  once  again  the  suit  I  made  thee  ? 

Ste.  Marry  will  I  :  kneel,  and  repeat  it ;  I  wil 
stand,  and  so  shall  Trinculo. 

Enter  Ariel,  invisible. 

Cal.   As  I  told  thee 
Before,  I  am  subject  to  a  tyrant ; 
A  sorcerer,  that  by  his  cunning  hath 
Cheated  me  of  this  island. 

u4ri.  Thou  liest. 

Cal.  Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou  ; 
I  would  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  tliee 
I  do  not  lie. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more  in  his 
tale,  by  this  hand,  I  will  supplant  some  of  youi 
teeth. 


Scene  III. 


TEMPEST. 


13 


Trin.   Why,  I  said  notliing. 
Sle.   Mum  then,  and  no  more.  —  \_To  Caliban.] 
1  *roceed. 

Cal.   I  say,  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle  ; 
From  me  he  got  it.     If  thy  greatness  will 
Revenge  it  on  him  —  for,  I  know,  thou  dar'st ; 
But  this  thing  dare  not. 
Stc.   That's  most  certain. 

Cal.   Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I'll  serve  thee. 
ISte.     How  now  shall  this  .be  compassed  ?  Canst 
thou  bring  me  to  the  party  ? 

Cal.   Yea,  yea,  my  lord :  I'll  yield  him  thee  asleep, 
Where  thou  may'st  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 
Ari.   Thou  liest,  thou  canst  not. 
Cal.   What  a  pied  ninny's  this !  6  Thou  scurvy 
patch  ! — 
I  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows, 
And  take  his  bottle  from  him  :   when  that's  gone, 
He  shall  drink  nought  but  brine  ;  for  I'll  not  show 

him 
Where  the  quick  freshes  7  are. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  further  danger :  inter- 
rupt the  monster  one  word  further,  and,  by  this 
hand,  I'll  turn  my  mercy  out  of  doors,  and  make  a 
stock-fish  of  thee. 

Trm.  Why,  what  did  I  ?  I  did  nothing ;  I'll  go 
further  off. 

Ste.   Didst  thou  not  say,  he  lied  ? 
Ari.    Thou  liest. 

Ste.  Do  I  so  ?  take  thou  that.  [Strikes  him.']  As 
you  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 

Trin.  I  did  not  give  the  lie  :  —  Out  o'  your  wits, 
and  hearing  too  ?  —  This  can  sack  and  drinking  do. 
—  A  murrain  on  your  monster,  and  the  devil  take 
your  fingers ' 

Cal.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Ste.  Now,  forward  with  your  tale.  Pr'ythee 
stand  further  off. 

Cal.   Beat  him  enough  :    after  a  little  time, 
I'll  beat  him  too. 
Ste.  Stand  further.  —  Come,  proceed. 

Cal.  Why,  as  I  told  thee,  'tis  a  custom  with  him 
r  the  afternoon  to  sleep  :  there  thou  may'st  brain 

him. 
Having  first  seiz'd  his  books  ;  or  with  a  log 
Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake. 
Or  cut  his  wezand  8  with  thy  knife  :    Remember, 
First  to  possess  his  books ;  for  without  them 
He's  but  a  sot,  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 
One  spirit  to  command :    They  all  do  hate  him. 
As  rootedly  as  I :    Bum  but  his  books  ; 
He  has  brave  utensils,  (for  so  he  calls  them,) 
Which,  when  he  has  a  house,  he'll  deck  witlial. 
And  that  most  deeply  to  consider,  is 
The  beauty  of  his  daughter  ;  he  himself 
Calls  her  a  nonpareil :    I  ne'er  saw  woman. 
But  only  Sycorax  my  dam  and  she  ; 
But  she  as  far  sur})asseth  Sycorax, 
As  greatest  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass  ? 

Cal.   Ay,  my  lord;  she  will  become  thy  bed,  I 
warrant. 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

Ste.   Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man  :   his  daughter 
nnd  I  will  be  king  and  queen  ;  (save  our  graces !  ) 
and  Trinculo  and  thyself  shall  be  viceroys :  —  Dost 
thou  like  the  plot,  Trinculo? 
Trin.   Excellent. 

«  Alluding  to  Trinculo 's  partv-colourcd  dross 
'Springs.  « Throat 


Stc.  Give  me  thy  hand  ;  I  am  sorry  I  beat  thee  : 
but,  while  thou  livest,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  thy 
head. 

Cal.   Within  this  half  hour  will  he  be  asleep  ; 
Wilt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honour. 

Ari.   This  will  I  tell  my  master. 

Cal.   Thou  mak'st  me  merry  :   I  am  full  of  plea- 
sure ; 
Let  us  be  jocund  :   Will  you  troll  the  catch 
You  taught  me  but  while-ere  ? 

Sle.  At  tliy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  reason, 
any  reason  :  Come  on,  Trinculo,  let  us  sing.  [Sirigs. 

Flout  'em,  and  skout  ""em ;  and  skout  'em,  and 
Jiout  'em  ; 

Thought  is  free. 

Cal.   That's  not  the  tune. 

[Arlel  plays  the  tune  on  a  tabor  and  jtipe. 

Ste.   What  is  this  same  ? 

Trin.  This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  played  by 
the  picture  of  No-body. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  a  man,  show  thyself  in  thy  like- 
ness :  if  thou  beest  a  devil,  take't  as  thou  list. 

Trin.   O,  forgive  me  my  sins  ! 

Ste.   Mercy  upon  us  ! 

Cal.   Art  thou  afeard? 

Ste.   No,  monster,  not  I. 

Cal.   Be  not  afeard  ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises. 
Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears  ;  and  sometimes  voices, 
That,  if  I  then  had  wak'd  after  long  sleep, 
Will  make  me  sleep  again  :  and  then,  in  dreaming, 
The  clouds,  methought, would  open,  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me ;  that,  when  I  wak'd, 
I  cry'd  to  dream  again. 

Ste.  This  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  mo, 
where  I  shall  have  my  musick  for  notliing. 

Cal.  When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 

Ste.  That  shall  be  by  and  by  :  I  remember  the 
storj-. 

Trin.  The  sound  is  going  away  :  let's  follow  it, 
and  after,  do  our  work. 

Ste.  Lead,  monster ;  we'll  follow.  —  I  would  I 
could  see  this  taborer  :   he  lays  it  on. 

rWn. Wilt  come?  I'll  follow,  Steplamo. [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IIL  —  Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter   Alonso,    Sebastian,    Antonio,    Gonzalo, 
Adrian,  Francisco,  and  others. 

Gon.   By'r  lakin  9,  I  can  go  no  further,  sir  ; 
My  old  bones  ache  :   here's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 
Through  forth-rights,  and  meanders !  by  your  pa.- 

tience, 
I  needs  must  rest  me. 

Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee 

Who  am  myself  attach'd  with  weariness. 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits :  sit  down,  and  rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer  :   he  is  drown 'd. 
Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find ;  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land :   well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.   I  am  right  glad  that  he's  so  out  of  hope. 

[Aside  to  Sebastian. 
Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolv'd  to  effect. 

»  Our  lady. 


u 


TEMPEST. 


Act  hi.    Scene  III. 


Tljc  next  advantage 


Seb. 
Will  we  take  thoroughly. 

Ant.  Let  it  be  to-night ; 

For,  now  they  are  oppress'd  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance, 
As  when  tliey  are  fresh. 

Seb.  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

Solemn  and  strange  Mustek ;  arid  PaosPERO  above, 
invbible.  Enter  several  strange  Shapes,  bringing 
in  a  Banquet ;  they  dance  about  it  with  gentle  ac- 
tions <f  salutation :  and,  inviting  tlie  King,  i^c.  to 
eat,  they  depart. 

Alan.  What  haraiony  is  this  ?  my  good  friends, 
hark  ! 

Gon.   Marvellous  sweet  musick  ! 

Mon.   Give  us   kind  keepers,   heavens !     What 
were  these  ? 

Seb.   A  living  drollery  ^  :    Now  I  will  believe. 
That  there  are  unicorns  ;  that  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne  ;  one  phoenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I'll  believe  both  ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me, 
And  I'll  be  sworn  'tis  true  :  Travellers  ne'er  did  lie. 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me  ? 
If  I  should  say  I  saw  such  islanders, 
(For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island,) 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet,  note. 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle-kind,  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Pro.  Honest  lord. 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  there  present 
Are  worse  than  devils.  [Aside. 

Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse. 

Such   shapes,  such  gesture,  and   such  sound,   ex- 
pressing 
(  Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue)  a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

Pro-  Praise  in  departing. 

[Aside. 

Fran.   They  vanish'd  strangely. 

Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind  j  for  we  have 

stomachs.  — 
Will't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  ? 

Alon.  Not  I. 

Gon.   Faith,  sir,  you  need  not  fear :   When  we 
were  boys. 
Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers, 
De^s'-lapp'd  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging 

at  them 
Wallets  of  flesh  ?  or  that  there  were  such  men. 
Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?  which  now  we 

find, 
Each  putter-out  on  five  for  one,  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of. 

Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed. 

Although  my  last :   no  matter,  since  I  feel 
The  best  is  past :  —  Brother,  my  lord  the  duke, 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  Ariel  like  a  harpy  ; 
claps  his  ivings  ujjon  the  table,  and,  with  a  quaint 
device,  the  banquet  vanishes. 

'  Show. 


Ariel.   You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny 
(That  hath  to  instrument  this  lower  world. 
And  what  is  in't,)  the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caused  to  throw  up  ;  and  on  this  island 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit ;  you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  live.      I  have  made  you  mad  ; 

[Seeing  Alon.  Seb.  <^c.  draw  their  swords. 
And  even  with  such  like  valour,  men  hang  and 

drown 
Their  proper  selves.     You  fools  !  I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  fate  ;  the  elements 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  temper'd,  may  as  well 
Wound  the  loud  winds,  or  with  bemock'd-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle^  that's  in  my  plume ;  my  fellow-ministers 
Are  like  invulnerable  :   if  you  could  hurt. 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengths. 
And  will  not  be  uplifted  :    But  remember, 
(For  that's  my  business  to  you,)  that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero  ; 
Expos'd  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it. 
Him,  and  his  innocent  child ;  for  which  foul  deed 
The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting,  have 
Incens'd  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  creatures^ 
Against  your  peace  :    Thee  of  thy  son,  Alonso, 
They  have  bereft !  and  do  pronounce  by  me. 
Lingering  perdition  (worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once)  shall  step  by  step  attend 
You,  and  your  ways ;  whose  wraths  to  guard  you 

from 
(Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle  ;  else  falls 
Upon  your  heads,)  is  nothing,  but  heart's  sorrow, 
And  a  clear  3  life  ensuing. 

He  vanishes  in  thunder  :  then,  to  soft  musick,  enter 
the  Shapes  again,  a7id  dance  ivith  mops  and  viowes, 
and  carry  out  the  table. 

Pro.    [Aside."]   Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy 
hast  thou 
Perform'd,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had,  devouring : 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  'bated, 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say :   so,  with  good  b'fe. 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 
Their  several  kinds  have  done :   my  high  charms 

work. 
And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up 
In  their  distractions :   they  now  are  in  my  power  ; 
And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  whilst  I  visit 
Young  Ferdinand,  (whom  they  suppose  is  drown'd,) 
And  his  and  my  loved  darling. 

[Exit  PROSPERoyro/n  above. 

Gon.   V  the  name  of  something  holy,  sir,  why 
stand  you 
in  this  strange  stare  ? 

Alon.  O,  it  is  monstrous  !  monstrous  ! 

Methought  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ;  and  the  thunder. 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounc'd 
The  name  of  Prosper ;  it  did  bass  my  trespass. 
Therefore  my  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded  ;  and 
I'll  seek  him  deeper  than  e'er  plummet  sounded. 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit. 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

I'll  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

Ant.  I'll  be  thy  second. 

[Exexint  Seb.  and  Ant. 

Gon.   All  three  of  them  are  desperate ;  their  great 
guilt, 


2  Down. 


3  Pure,  blameless. 


Act  IV.    Scene  I. 


TEMPEST. 


15 


Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after, 

Now  'gins  to   bite  the   spirits : I  do  beseech 

you 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly, 


And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstacy  * 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adr.  Follow,  I  p/ay  you. 

{^ExcuiU 


ACT  IV. 


I 


SCENE  I.  —  Before  Prospero's  Cell. 

Enter  Prospero,  Ferdinand,  and  Miranda. 

Pj  0.   If  I  have  too  austerely  punish 'd  you, 
Your  compensation  makes  amends ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  tlu-ead  of  mine  own  life, 
Or  that  for  wliich  I  live ;  whom  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand :   all  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :  here,  afore  Heaven, 
I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.      O  Ferdinand, 
Do  not  smile  at  me,  that  I  boast  her  off, 
For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise. 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it. 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.   Then,  as  my  gift,  and  tliine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchas'd,  take  my  child,  but  not 
Till  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rites  be  minister'd. 
Then  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life. 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now  ;  the  strong'st  suggestion 
Our  worser  Genius  can,  shall  never  taint 
My  honour. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke : 

Sit  then,  and  talk  with  her,  she  is  thine  own.  — 
What,  Ariel ;  my  industrious  servant  Ariel ! 

Enter  Ariel. 

An.   What  would  my  potent  master  ?  here  I  am. 

Pro.  Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last  service 
Did  worthily  perform ;  and  I  must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick  :  go,  bring  the  rabble. 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  place : 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  tliis  young  couple 
Some  vanity  of  mine  art ;  it  is  my  promise. 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari.  Presently  ? 

Pro.   Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.    Before  you  can  say,  Come,  and  go, 
And  breathe  twice ;  and  cry,  so,  so ; 
Each  one,  tripping  on  liis  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mowe : 
Do  you  love  me,  master  ?  no. 

Pro.  Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel:  Do  not  approach. 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

An.  Well  I  conceive.    [Exit. 

Pro.   Look,  thou  be  true. 

Fer,  I  warrant  you,  sir. 

Pro.  Well.  — 

Now  come,  my  Ariel ;  bring  a  corollary  •», 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit ;  appear,  and  pertly.  — 
No  tongue ;  all  eyes ;  be  silent.  [.Soft  musick. 

A  Masque.     Enter  Iris. 
Iris.   Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  peas ; 
*  Surplus. 


Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep. 
And  flat  meads  tliatch'd  with  stover,  them  to  kee 
Thy  banks  with  peonied  and  lilied  brims. 
Which  spongy  April  at  thy  hest^  betrims, 
To  make  cold  nymphs   chaste   crowns ;   and  thy 

broom  groves, 
Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 
Being  lass-lorn  ;  thy  pole-clipt  vineyard  ; 
And  thy  sea-marge,  steril,  and  rocky-hard, 
Where  thou  thyself  dost  air  :  The  queen  o'  the  sky, 
Whose  wat'ry  arch,  and  messenger,  am  I, 
Bids  thee  leave  these ;  and  with  her  sovereign  grace, 
Here,  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place. 
To  come  and  sport :  her  peacocks  fly  amain  ; 
Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 

Enter  Ceres. 

Cer.   Hail,  many-colour'd  messenger,  that  ne'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter  ; 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  wings,  upon  my  flowers 
Diffiisest  honey-drops,  refreshing  showers ; 
And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosky  7  acres,  and  my  unshrubb'd  down, 
Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth  ;  Why  hath  thy  queen 
Summon'd  me  liifher,  to  this  short-grass'd  green  ? 

Iris.   A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate ; 
And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  bless'd  lovers. 

Cer.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow. 

If  Venus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know. 
Do  now  attend  the  queen  ?  since  they  did  plot 
The  means,  that  dusky  Dis  8  my  daughter  got 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandal'd  company 
I  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid  :   I  met  her  deity 
Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos ;  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her. 

Cer.  Highest  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno  comes :   I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Enter  Juno. 
Juno.  How  does  my  bounteous  sister?  Go  with 
me. 
To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be. 
And  honour'd  in  their  issue. 

SONG. 

Juno.    Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing. 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing. 
Hourly  joys  be  stili  upon  you  ! 
Juno  sirtgs  her  blessings  on  you. 

Cer.  Earth's  increase,  andfoison  ^  plenty  ; 
Bams,  and  garners  never  empty; 
Vines  with  clustering  bunches  growing  ; 
Plants,  with  goodly  burden  bowing; 


^  Alienation  of  mind. 

r  Woody.  »  Pluta 


«  Command. 
>  Abundance. 


IG 


TEMPEST. 


Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest, 

the  very  end  of  harvest .' 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you  ; 
Ceres^  blessing  so  is  on  you. 

Fer.    This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly  :   May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits  ? 

Pro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines  call'd  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever ; 

So  rare  a  wonder'd  '  father,  and  a  wife. 
Make  this  place  paradise. 

[Juno  and  Ceres  luhisper,  and  send  Iris  on 
employment. 

Pro.  Sweet  now,  silence  : 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously ; 
Tiierc's  something  else  to  do  :   hush,  and  be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.   You  nymphs,  call'd   Naiads,  of  the  wan- 
d'ring  brooks, 
Witli  your  sedg'd  crowns,  and  ever  harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons  ;  Juno  does  command : 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love ;  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 
You  sunburn'd  sicklemen,  of  August  weary, 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry  ; 
Make  holy-day :  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on. 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 

Enter  certain  Reapers,  properly  habited :  they  join 
with  the  Nymjihs  in  a  graceful  dance;   towards 
the  end  whereof  Prospero  starts  suddenly,  and 
speaks ;  after  which,  to  a  strange,  hollow,  and  con- 
fused noise,  they  heavily  vanish. 
Pro.    \^Aside.'\   I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban,  and  his  confederates. 
Against  my  life  ;  the  minute  of  their  plot 

Is  almost  come [To  the  Spirits.']    Well  done  ;  — 

avoid  ;  —  no  more. 
Fer.   This  is  most  strange  :  your  father's  in  some 
passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

Mira.  Never  till  this  day. 

Saw  I  him  touch'd  with  anger  so  distemper'd. 
Pro.   You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  mov'd  sort. 
As  if  you  were  dismay'd ;  be  cheerful,  sir  : 
Our  revels  now  are  ended :   these  our  actors. 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air ; 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabrick  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capp'd  tow'rs,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind  :  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.  —  Sir,  I  am  vex'd ; 
Bear  with  my  weakness :   my  old  brain  is  troubled. 
Be  not  disturb'd  with  my  infirmity  : 
If  you  be  pleas'd,  retire  into  my  cell. 
And  there  repose  ;  a  turn  or  two  I'll  walk. 
To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.  Mira.  We  wish  your  peace. 

\^Exeui^t. 
1  Able  to  produce  such  wonders.  | 


Pro.   Come  with  a  thought :  - 
Ariel,  come. 

Enter  Ariel. 


Act  IV. 

I  thank  you  :  — 


An.  Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to :  What's  thy  plea- 
sure? 

Pro.  Spirit, 

We  must  prepare  to  meet  with  Caliban. 

Ari.   Ay,   my   commander:   when  I   presented 
Ceres, 
I  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it  j  but  I  fear'd. 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

Pro.   Say  again,  where  didst  thou   leave  these 
varlets  ? 

Ari.   I  told   you,   sir,  they  were   red-hot  with 
drinking ; 
So  full  of  valour,  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces ;  beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet ;  yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project :   Then  I  beat  my  tabor. 
At  which,  like  unback'd  colts,  they  prick'd  their  ears, 
Advanc'd  their  eyelids,  lifted  up  their  noses. 
As  they  smelt  musick  ;  so  I  charm'd  their  ears. 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  foUow'd,  through 
Tooth'd  briers,  sharp   furzes,  pricking   goss,  and 

thorns. 
Which  enter'd  their  frail  shins ;  at  last  I  left  them 
I'  the  filthy  mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell. 
Up  to  the  chins. 

Pro.  This  was  well  done,  my  bird. 

Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go,  bring  it  hither. 
For  stale  2  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.      {^Exit. 

Pro.   A  devil,  a  born  devil,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  3  can  never  stick  ;  on  whom  my  pains, 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost ; 
And  as,  with  age,  his  body  uglier  grows. 
So  his  mind  cankers  :   I  will  plague  them  all. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  loaden  with  glistering  apparel,  ^c. 
Even  to  roaring :  —  Come,  hang  them  on  this  line. 

Prospero    and    Ariel    remain    invisible.       Enter 
Caliban,  Stephano,  and  Trinculo,  all  wet. 

Cal.   Pray  you,  tread  softly,  that  the  blind  mole 
may  not 
Hear  a  foot  fall :    we  now  are  near  his  cell. 

Ste.  Monster,  your  fairy,  which,  you  say,  is  a 
harmless  fairy,  has  done  little  better  than  played  the 
Jack  4  with  us. 

Trin.  Monster,  my  nose  is  in  great  indignation. 

Ste.  So  is  mine.  Do  you  hear,  monster  ?  If  I 
should  take  a  displeasure  against  you ;  look  you,— 

Trin.   Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 

Cal.    Good  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favour  still : 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I'll  bring  thee  to 
Shall  hood-wink  this  mischance :  therefore,  speak 

softly. 
All's  hush'd  as  midnight  yet. 

Trin.   Ay,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  pool, — 

Ste.   There's  not  only  disgrace  and  dishonour  in     ' 
that,  monster,  but  an  infinite  loss. 

Trin.  That's  more  to  me  than  my  wetting  :  yet 
this  is  your  harmless  fair}',  monster. 

Ste.  I  will  fetch  off  my  bottle,  though  I  be  o'er 
ears  for  my  labour. 


3  Education. 


Jack  with  a  lantern. 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


TEMPEST. 


17 


Cal.  Pr'ythee,  my  king,  be  quiet  :  Seest  thou  here, 
This  is  the  mouth  of  the  cell :   no  noise,  and  enter  : 
Do  that  good  mischief,  which  may  make  this  island 
Tliine  own  for  ever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye  thy  foot-licker. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand :  I  do  begin  to  have 
bloody  thoughts. 

Tr'm.  O  king  Stephano  !  O  peer !  O  worthy  Ste- 
phano  !  look,  what  a  wardrobe  here  is  for  thee  ! 

Cal.   Let  it  alone,  thou  fool ;  it  is  but  trash. 

Trin.  O,  ho,  monster  ;  we  know  what  belongs  to 
a  frippery  ^  :  —  O  king  Stephano  ! 

Sle.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo ;  by  this  hand, 
I'll  have  that  gown. 

Trin,   Tliy  grace  shall  have  it. 

Cal.   The  dropsy  drown  tliis  fool !   what  do  you 
mean, 
To  doat  thus  on  such  luggage  ?     Let's  along, 
And  do  the  murder  first :   if  he  awake. 
From  toe  to  crown  he'll  fill  our  skins  with  pinches ; 
Make  us  strange  stuff. 

Ste.  Be  you  quiet,  monster.  —  Mistress  line,  is 
not  this  my  jerkin  ?  Now  is  the  jerkin  under  tlie 
line :  now,  jerkin,  you  are  like  to  lose  your  hair, 
and  prove  a  bald  jerkin. 

Trin.  Do,  do :  We  steal  by  line  and  level,  a'nt 
like  your  grace. 

Ste.  I  thank  thee  for  that  jest ;  here's  a  garment 
for't :  wit  shall  not  go  unrewarded,  while  I  am  king 
of  this  country :  Steal  by  line  and  levels  is  an  ex- 
cellent pass  of  pate  ;  there's  another  garment  for't. 


Trin.  Monster,  come,  put  some  lime  7  upon  your 
-fingers,  and  away  with  tlie  rest. 

Cal.  I  will  have  none  on't :  we  shall  lose  our  time, 
And  all  be  turn'd  to  barnacles,  or  to  apes 
With  foreheads  villainous  low. 

Ste.  Monster,  lay-to  your  fingers ;  help  to  bear 
this  away,  where  my  hogshead  of  wine  is,  or  I'll 
turn  you  out  of  my  kingdom ;  go  to,  carry  this. 

Trin.   And  this. 

Ste.   Ay,  and  this. 

A  noise  of  hunters  heard.  Enter  divers  Spirits,  in 
shape  of  hounds,  and  hunt  them  about  ;  Prospero 
and  A  riel  setting  tliem  on. 

Pro.    Hey,  Mountain,  hey  ! 

Jri.   Silver  !  there  it  goes.  Silver  / 

Pro.  Furi/,  Fury!  there.  Tyrant,  there !  hark,  hark  ! 
[Cal.  Ste.  and  Trin.  are  driven  out. 
Go,  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 
With  dry  convulsions  ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 
With  aged  cramps ;  and  more  pinch-spotted  make 

them. 
Than  pard  %  or  cat  o'  mountain. 

Ari.  Hark,  they  roar. 

Pro.   Let  them  be  hunted  soundly :   At  this  hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies  : 
Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom  :  for  a  little. 
Follow,  and  do  me  service. 

[Ejxunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  --  Before  the  Cell  of  Prospero. 

Enter  Prospero  m  his  magic  robes,  and  Ariel. 

Pro.   Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head  : 
My  charms  crack  not ;  my  spirits  obey  ;  and  time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.      How's  the  day  ? 

Ai-i.   On  the  sixth  hour  ;  at  which  time,  my  lord. 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

Pro.  I  did  say  so. 

When  first  I  rais'd  the  tempest.      Say,  my  spirit. 
How  fares  the  king  and  his  ? 

Ari.  Confin'd  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge ; 
Just  as  you  left  them,  sir ;  all  prisoners 
In  the  lime-grove  which  weather-fends ^  your  cell; 
They  cannot  budge,  till  you  release.      The  king, 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted  ; 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brim-full  of  sorrow  and  dismay  ;  but  chiefly 
Him  you  term'd,  sir.  The  good  old  lord,  Gonzalo ; 
His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From  eves  of  reeds :  your  charm  so  strongly  works 

That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit? 

Ari.   Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pro.  And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afHictions  ?  and  shall  not  myself. 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relisli  all  as  sharply 

*  A  shop  for  sale  of  old  clothes. 
6  Defends  from  bad  weather. 


Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  mov'd  than  thou  art  ? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the 

quick. 
Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason,  'gainst  my  fury 
Do  I  take  part :  the  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance  :   they  being  penitent. 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further  :    Go,  release  them,  Ariel ; 
My  charms  I'll  break,  tlieir  senses  I'll  restore. 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.  I'll  fetch  them,  sir, 

[Exit. 

Pro.   Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes, 
and  groves ; 
And  ye,  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him» 
When  he  comes  back ;  you  demy-puppets,  tliat 
By  moon-shine  do  the  green-sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites  ;  and  you,  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight-mushrooms  ;  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew  ;  by  whose  aid 
( Weak  masters  tliough  you  be)  I  have  be-dimm'd 
The  noon-tide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azur'd  vault 
Set  roaring  war :   to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifled  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt :   the  strong-bas'd  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake ;  and  by  the  spurs  pluck 'd  up 
The  pine,  and  cedar :   graves,  at  my  command, 
Have  wak'd  their  sleepers ;  oped,  and  led  them  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art :   But  this  rough  magick 


'  Bird-lime. 


*  Leopard. 


18 


TEMPES'I'. 


Act  V. 


I  here  abjure  :  and,  when  I  have  requir'd 

Some  heavenly  musick,  (which  even  now  I  do,) 

To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 

This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff*. 

Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth, 

And  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 

I'll  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  Musick. 

Be-eiiter  Arikl:   after  him  Alonso,  with  a  frantic 
gesture,  attended  by   Gonzalo;   Sebastian    aiid 
Antonio  in  like  manner  attended  by  Adrian  and 
Francisco:    They  all  enter  the  circle  which  Pros- 
PERO  had  made,  and  there  stand  charmed;  which 
Prospero  observing,  speaks. 
A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 
To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains, 
Now  useless,  boil'd  within  thy  skull !   There  stand, 

For  you  are  spell-stopp'd. 

Holy  Gonzalo,  honourable  man, 
Mine  eyes,  even  sociable  to  the  shew  of  thine, 
Fall  fellowly  drops.  —  The  charm  dissolves  apace  ; 
And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night. 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason.  —  O  my  good  Gonzalo, 
My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 
To  him  thou  follow'st ;  I  will  pay  thy  graces 
Home  both  in  word  and  deecl.  —  Most  cruelly 
Didst  thou,  Alonso,  use  me  and  my  daughter : 
Thy  brotlier  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act ;  — 
Thou'rt  pinch'd  for't  now,  Sebastian.  —  Flesh  and 

blood, 
You  brother  mine,  that  entertain'd  ambition, 
Expell'd  remorse'  and  nature  ;  who,  with  Sebastian, 
(Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong,) 
Would  here  have  kill'd  your  king  ;   I  do  forgive  thee. 
Unnatural  though  thou  art !  —  Their  understanding 
Begins  to  swell ;  and  the  approaching  tide 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores. 
That  now  lie  foul  and  muddy.      Not  one  of  them. 
That  yet  looks  on  me,  or  would  know  me  :  —  Ariel, 
Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell ; 

[Exit  Ariel. 
I  will  dis-case  me,  and  my  self  present. 
As  I  was  sometime  Milan  ;  —  quickly,  spirit  : 
Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

Ariel  re-enters,  singing,  and  helps  to  attire 
Prospero. 

Ari.    Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I; 
In  a  coioslip's  bell  I  lie  : 
There  I  couch  when  oiols  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly. 
After  summer  merrily  : 
Meri'ily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now. 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Pro.  Why  that's  my  dainty  Ariel ;  I  shall  miss  thee  ; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom  :   so,  so,  so.  — 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches ;  the  master  and  the  boatswain. 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place  ; 
And  presently,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ari.   I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 
Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [JSxit  Ariel. 

Gon  All  torment,  trouble,  wonder,  and  amazement 
Inhabits  here  :    Some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country  ! 

1  Pity  or  tenderness  of  heart. 


Pro.  Beliold,  sir  king, 

Tlie  wronged  Duke  of  Milan,  Prospero  : 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body : 
And  to  thee,  and  thy  company,  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

Alon.  Whe'r  ^  thou  beest  he,  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me. 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know  :  thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood  ;  and  since  I  saw  thee, 
The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  held  me  :   this  must  crave 
( An  if  this  be  at  all)  a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign ;  and  do  entreat 
Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs :  —  But  how  should 

Prospero 
Be  living  and  be  here  ? 

Pro.  First,  noble  friend. 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age ;  whose  honour  cannot 
Be  measur'd,  or  confin'd. 

Gon.  Whether  this  be. 

Or  be  not,  I'll  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe thingscertain  : — Welcome,my  friends  all:— • 
But  you,  my  brace  of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 

[Aside  to  Seb.  and  Ant. 
I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you. 
And  justify  you  traitors :   at  this  time 
I'll  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.  The  devil  speaks  in  him.  [Aside. 

Pro.  No :  — 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fault ;  all  of  them ;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know. 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation  : 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since 
Were  wreck'd  upon  this  shore  ;  where  I  have  lost. 
How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is  ! 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  woe  3  for't,  sir. 

Alon.   Irreparable  is  the  loss ;  and  Patience 
Says,  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pro.  I  rather  think. 

You  have  not  sought  her  help  ;  of  whose  soft  grace. 
For  the  like  loss,  I  have  her  sovereign  aid. 
And  rest  myself  content. 

Alon.  You  the  like  loss  ? 

Pi'o.    As  great  to  me,  as  late ;  and,  portable 
To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you :   for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

Alon.  A  daughter? 

O  heavens !  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there  !  that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 
Where    my   son  lies.      When   did  you  lose    your 
daughter  ? 

Pro.   In  this  last  tempest.    I  perceive,  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire. 
That  they  devour  their  reason  ;  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath  ;   but  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain. 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  verj'  duke 


2  Whether. 


Sony. 


Scene  I. 


TEMPEST. 


19 


Which  was  thrust  forth  ol'  Milan  ;  wIjo  most  strangely 
Upon  tljis  shore,  where  you  were  wreck 'd,  was  landed, 
To  be  the  lord  on't.     No  more  yet  of  this ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir; 
This  cell's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants. 
And  subjects  none  abroad  :   pray  you  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 
I  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing  j 
At  least,  bring  forth  a  wonder,  to  content  ye 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

The  entrance  of  the  cell  opens,  and  discovers  Ferdi- 
nand and  Miranda  playing  at  chess. 

Mira.   Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Fer.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

1  would  not  for  the  world. 

Mira.  Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should 
wrangle. 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

^lo7i.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle  ! 

Fer.   Tho'  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful ; 
I  have  curs'd  them  witliout  cause. 

[Ferd.  kneels  to  Alon. 

Alon.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
Arise,  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here. 

Mira.  O  !  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is  !   O  brave  new  world, 
That  has  such  people  in't ! 

Pro.  'Tis  new  to  thee. 

jilon.     What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou  wast 
at  play  ? 
Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever'd  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she's  mortal ; 

But,  by  immortal  Providence,  she's  mine ; 
I  chose  her,  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice  ;  nor  thought  I  had  one :  she 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown. 
But  never  saw  before  ;  of  whom  I  have 
Received  a  second  life,  and  second  father 
Tliis  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

^lon.  I  am  hers : 

But  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound,  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness ! 

Pro.  Tliere,  sir,  stop  : 

Let  us  not  burden  our  remembrances 
With  a  heaviness  that's  gone. 

Gon.  I  have  inly  wept. 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  down,  you 

gods. 
And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown  ; 
For  it  is  you,  that  have  chalk'd  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  liither  ! 

^lon.  I  say,  Amen,  Gonzalo ! 

Gon.  Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his  issue 
Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?  O,  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy  ;  and  set  it  down 
Wirij  gold  on  lasting  pillars :    In  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis ; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife, 
Where  he  himself  was  lost ;   Prospero  his  dukedom. 


In  a  poor  isle  ;  and  all  of  us,  ourselves. 
When  no  man  was  his  own. 

Mon.  Give  me  your  hands : 

[To  Fer.  and  Mir. 
Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart. 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy  ' 


Gon. 


Be't  so !   Amen  ! 


He-enter  Ariel,  mth  the  Master  and  Boatswain 
amazedly  following. 

0  look,  sir,  look,  sir ;  here  are  more  of  us  ! 

1  prophesied,  if  a  gallows  were  on  land. 

This  fellow  could  not  drown  :  —  Now,  blasphemy. 
That  swear'st  grace  o'erboard,  not  an  oath  on  shore  ? 
Hast  thou  no  mouth  by  land  ?  What  is  the  new  s  ? 
Boats.   The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely  found 
Our  king,  and  company  :   the  next  our  ship,  — 
Which,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split, 
Is  tight  and  yare"*,  and  bravely  rigg'd,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

An.  Sir,  all  this  service"] 

Have  I  done  since  I  went.  I  Aside. 

Pro.  My  tricksy*  spirit !  J 

Alon.  These  are  not  natural  events  ;  they  strengthen 
From  strange  to  stranger :  —  Say,   how  came   you 
hither? 
Boats.   If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 
I'd  strive  to  tell  you.      We  were  dead  of  sleep, 
And  (how,  we  know  not,)  all  clapp'd  under  hatches. 
Were,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several  noises 
Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  gingling  chains. 
And  more  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible. 
We  were  awak'd  ;  straitway,  at  liberty  : 
Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship  ;  our  master 
Cap'ring  to  eye  her  :    On  a  trice,  so  please  you. 
Even  in  a  dream,  were  we  divided  from  them. 
And  were  brought  moping  hither. 

Ari.  Was't  well  done  ? "] 

Pro.  Bravely,  my  diligence.    Thou  shalt  I  Asiile. 

be  free.  J 

Alon.  This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod : 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct  ^  of:  some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  liege. 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on 
Tlie  strangeness  of  this  business  ;  at  pick'd  leisure. 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I'll  resolve  you 
(Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable)  of  every 
Tliese  happen 'd  accidents  :   till  when,  be  cheerful. 
And   think  of  each   thing   well.  —  Come   hither, 
spirit;  [Aside. 

Set  Caliban  and  liis  companions  free  : 
Untie  the  spell.      [Exit  Ariel.]      How  fares  my 

gracious  sir? 
There  are  yet  missing  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads,  that  you  remember  not. 

Re-enter   Ariel,   driving   in  Caliban,  Stepmano, 
and  Trinculo,  in  their  stolen  apparel. 

Ste.  Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and  let  no 
man  take  care  for  himself;  for  all  is  but  fortune  :  — 
Coragio,  bully-monster,  Coragio ! 

TVin.  If  these  be  true  spies  which  I  wear  in  my 
head,  here's  a  goodly  sight. 

Cal.   O  Setebos,  Uiese  be  brave  spirits,  indeed  ! 
How  fine  my  master  is  !     I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me. 


Ready. 


Clever,  adroit. 
C  2 


6  Conductor. 


TEMPEST. 


Act  V. 


Scb.  Ila,  ha  ; 

What  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio? 
Will  money  buy  them  ? 

Ant.  Very  like,  one  of  them 

Is  a  plain  fish,  and,  no  doubt,  marketable. 

Pro.  Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my  lords, 
Then  say,  if  they  be  true  ^  : — This  mis-shapen  knave. 
His  mother  was  a  witch  ;  and  one  so  strong 
That  could  control  the  moon,  make  flows  and  ebbs, 
And  deal  in  her  command,  without  her  power  : 
These  three  have  robb'd  me  ;  and  this  demi-devil 
(  For  he's  a  bastard  one)  had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life  :   two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know,  and  own  ;  this  tiling  of  darkness  I 
Acknowledge  mine. 

Cal.  I  shall  be  pinch'd  to  death. 

Alon.    Is  not  this  Stephano,  my  drunken  butler  ? 

St'b.    He  is  drunk  now  :   Where  had  he  wine  ? 

Alon.  And  Trinculo  is  reeling  ripe  :  Where  should 
they 
Find  tills  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  them  ?  — 
How  cam'st  thou  in  this  pickle  ? 

Trin.  I  have  been  in  such  a  pickle,  since  I  saw 
you  last,  that,  I  fear  me,  will  never  out  of  my  bones : 
I  shall  not  fear  fly-blowing. 

Seb.   Why,  how  now,  Stephano? 

Ste.   O,  touch  me  not ;   I  am  not  Stephano,  but 
a  cramp. 

Pro.   You'd  be  king  of  the  isle,  sirrah  ? 

Ste.   I  should  have  been  a  sore  one  then. 

Alon.   This  is  as  strange  a  thing  as  e'er  I  look'd 
on.  [Pointing  to  Caliban. 

Pro.  He  is  as  disproportion'd  in  his  manners, 
As  in  his  shape ;  —  Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell ; 


Take  with  you  your  companions  ;  as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

Cal.    Ay,  that  I  will ;  and  I'll  be  wise  hereafter. 
And  seek  for  grace  :   What  a  thrice-double  ass 
Was  I,  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god. 
And  worship  this  dull  fool  ? 

Pro.  Go  to  ;   away  ! 

Alo7i.  Hence,  and  bestow  your  luggage  where  you 
found  it. 

Seb.   Or  stole  it,  rather. 

[Exeunt  Cal.  Ste.  and  Trin. 

Pro.   Sir,  I  invite  your  highness,  and  your  train. 
To  my  poor  cell :   where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night ;  which  (part  of  it)  I'll  waste 
With  such  discourse,  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 
Go  quick  away  :   the  story  of  my  life. 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by. 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle :    And  in  the  mom, 
I'll  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemniz'd  ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

Alon.  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Take  the  ear  strangely. 

Pro.  I'll  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 
Your  royal  fleet  far  off.  —  My  Ariel ;—  chick. 
That  is  thy  charge  ;  then  to  the  elements 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well !  —  [Aside.]    Please  you 
di'aw  near.  [ExeufU. 


EPILOGUE.  —  Spoken  hy  Prospero. 


Nou.1  my  charms  are  all  overthrown, 
And  what  strength  I  havens  mine  own  ; 
Which  is  mostjaint  :  now,  'tis  true, 
I  must  be  here  coiifined  by  you. 
Or  sent  to  Naples  :   Let  me  not. 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got. 
And  pardon'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island,  by  your  spell ; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands. 
With  the  help  ^your  good  hands.  ^ 

1  Honest    ^  Applause ;  noise  was  supposed  to  dissolve  a  spell. 


Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  Jill,  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please :   Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant  j 
And  my  ending  is  despair, 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer  ; 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 

As  you  from  crimes  would  pardon'd  be, 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 


-2^ 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Dpke  of  Milan,  Father  to  Silvia. 

Valentine,    1    ^     ,,  /.-ir 

T>  Y   Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

Proteus,        J  -^ 

A  NTONio,  Father  to  Proteus. 

Thurio,  a  foolish  Rival  to  Valentine. 

Eglamour,  Agent  for  Silvia  in  her  Escape^ 

Speed,  a  clownish  Servant  to  Valentine. 

Launce,  Servant  to  Proteus. 


Panthino,  Servant  to  Antonio. 
Host  tvhere  Julia  lodges  in  Milan. 
Outlaws. 

Julia,  a  Lady  of  Verona,  beloved  by  Proteus. 
Silvia,  the  Duke's  Daughter,  beloved  by  Valentine, 
Lucetta,  Waiting-woman  to  Julia. 


Servants,  Musicians. 
SCENE,  sometimes  in  Verona;  sometimes  in  Milan  ;  and  on  the  Frontiers  o/" Mantua. 


1^\ 


LET   OO   THAT    UDIjE    ONGIVIL  TOCCH. 


TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA, 


ACT  I. 


SC'ENE    I.  —  yin  o/}Pn  Place  in  Vcroiiu. 
Enter  Valentink  mid  Protkus. 

Vnl.    Cease  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus  ; 
Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  liomely  wits  : 
Wer't  not  aHcction  chains  tliy  tender  days 
To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  lionour'd  love, 
I  ratlier  would  entreat  tiiy  company, 
To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  al)road, 
Than  living  dully  sluggardiz'd  at  home, 
Wear  out  thy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness. 
Hut,  since  thou  lov'st,  love  still,  and  thrive  therein, 
Even  as  I  would,  when  1  to  love  begin. 

Pro.  Wilt  tiiou  begone  ?   Sweet  Valentine,  adieu  ! 
Think  on  thy  Proteus,  wiien  tliou,  haply,  seest 
Some  rare  note- worthy  object  in  thy  travel : 
Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness, 
When  thou  dost  meet  good  hap  ;  and,  in  thy  danger. 
If  evt-r  danger  do  environ  tliee, 
('ommend  thy  grievance  to  my  holy  prayers, 
For  I  will  be  thy  bead's-man,  Valentine. 

Vol.    And  on  a  love-book  jjray  for  my  success. 

Pro.    Upon  some  book  I  love,  PU  pray  for  thee. 

Val.    That's  on  some  shallow  story  of  deep  love. 
How  young  Leander  cross'd  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.   That's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love ; 
For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

Vol.   'Tis  true ;  for  you  are  over  boots  in  love, 
And  yet  you  never  swam  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  Over  the  boots  ?  nay,  give  me  not  the  boots. ' 

Val     No,  PU  not,  for  it  boots  thee  not. 

Pro.  What? 

Val.  To  be 

'  A  hiiinoroin  puiiUhmcnt  at  harvest-home  fea&ts,  iS.c. 


la  love,   where  scorn  is  bought  witli  groans  ;  coy 

looks. 
With  heart-sore  sighs  ;  one  fading  moment's  mirth. 
With  twenty  watchful,  weary,  tedious  nights  : 
If  haply  won,  perhaps,  a  hapless  gain  ; 
If  lost,  why  then  a  grievous  labour  won  ; 
However,  but  a  folly  bought  with  wit. 
Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished. 

Iho.    So,  by  your  circumstance,  you  call  me  fool. 

Val.  So,  by  your  circumstance,  I  fear,  you'll  prove. 

Pro.  'Tis  love  you  cavil  at ;    I  am  not  love. 

Val.   Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you  : 
And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 
Methinks  should  not  be  chronicled  for  wise. 

Pro.   Yet  writers  say.  As  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 

Vat.    And  writers  say,  As  the  most  forward  bud 
Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow. 
Even  so  by  love  the  young  and  tender  wit 
Is  turn'd  to  folly  ;   blasting  in  the  bud. 
Losing  its  verdure  even  in  the  prime. 
And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 
But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  counsel  thee. 
That  art  a  votary  to  fond  desire? 
Once  more  adieu  :   my  father  at  the  road 
Expects  my  coming,  there  to  see  me  shipp'd. 

/Vo.    .'\nd  thither  will  I  bring  thee,  Valentine. 

Vnl.  Sweet  Proteus,  no  ;  now  let  us  take  our  leave. 
.'\t  Milan  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters. 
Of  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 
Betideth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend  ; 
And  I  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 

Pro.    All  happiness  Iwchance  to  thee  in  Milan  ! 
C  ;} 


22 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Act  1. 


Val.   As  much  to  you  at  home  !  and  so  farewell ! 
[Exit  Valentine. 

Pro>  He  after  honour  haunts,  I  after  love  : 
He  leaves  his  friends  to  dignify  them  more ; 
I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all  for  love. 
Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  metamorphos'd  me  ; 
Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time, 
"War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought ; 
Made  wit  with  musing  weak,  heart  sick  with  thought. 

Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  Sir  Proteus,  save  you  :  saw  you  my  master  ? 

2*ro.    But  now  he    parted  hence,  to  embark  for 
Milan. 

Speed.  Twenty  to  one  then  he  is  shipp'd  already ; 
And  I  have  play'd  the  sheep  in  losing  him. 

Pro.   Indeed  a  sheep  doth  very  often  stray. 
An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

Speed.  You  conclude  that  my  master  is  a  shepherd 
then,  and  I  a  sheep  ? 

Pro.   I  do. 

Speed.  Why  then  my  horns  are  his  horns,  whether 
I  wake  or  sleep. 

Pro.   A  silly  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep. 

Speed.   This  proves  me  still  a  sheep. 

Pro.   True  ;  and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 

Speed    Nay,  that  I  can  deny  by  a  circumstance. 

Pro.   It  shall  go  hard,  but  I'll  prove  it  by  another. 

Speed.  The  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not  the 
sheep  the  shepherd  ;  but  I  seek  my  master,  and  my 
master  seeks  not  me ;  therefore,  I  am  no  sheep. 

Pro.  The  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shepherd, 
the  shepherd  for  food  follows  not  the  sheep ;  thou 
for  wages  followest  thy  master,  thy  master  for  wages 
follows  not  thee  -.   therefore,  thou  art  a  sheep. 

Speed.  Such  another  proof  will  make  me  cry  baa. 

Pro.  But  dost  thou  hear  ?  gav'st  thou  my  letter 
to  Julia? 

Speed.  Ay,  sir :  I,  a  lost  mutton,  gave  your  letter 
to  her ;  and  she  gave  me,  a  lost  mutton,  nothing  for 
my  labour. 

Pro.  Nay,  in  that  you  are  astray,  'twere  best 
pound  you. 

Speed.  Nay,  sir,  less  than  a  pound  shall  serve  me 
for  carrying  your  letter. 

Pro.  You  mistake  ;  I  mean  the  pound,  a  pinfold. 

Speed     From  a  pound  to  a  pin  ?  fold  it  over  and 
over, 
'Tis  threefold  too  little  for  carrying  a  letter  to  your 
J  over. 

Pro.   But  what  said  she?  did  she  nod? 

[Speed  nods 

Speed.  I. 

Pro.   Nod,  I  ?  why,  that's  noddy.  ^ 

Speed.  You  mistook,  sir  ;  I  say,  she  did  nod  :  and 
you  ask  me,  if  she  did  nod;  and  I  say,  I. 

Pro.    And  that  set  together,  is  —  noddy. 

Speed.  Now  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  set  it  to- 
gether, take  it  for  your  pains. 

Pro.  No,  no,  you  shall  have  it  for  bearing  the  letter. 

Speed.  Well,  I  perceive,  I  must  be  fain  to  bear 
with  you. 

Pro.   Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  the  letter  very  orderly ;  having 
nothing  but  the  word,  noddy,  for  my  pains. 

Pro.    Beshrew  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 

Speed.  And  yet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow  purse. 

Pro.  Come,  come,  open  the  matter  in  brief:  What 
said  she  ? 

2  A  game  at  cards. 


Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that  the  money,  and  the 
matter,  may  be  both  at  once  delivered. 

Pro.  Well,  sir,  here  is  for  your  pains  :  What  said 
she? 

Speed.   Truly,  sir,  I  think  you'll  hardly  win  her. 

Pro.  Why  ?  Could'st  thou  perceive  so  much  from 
her? 

Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  all  from 
her ;  no,  not  so  much  as  a  ducat  for  delivering  your 
letter  :  And  being  so  hard  to  me  that  brought  your 
mind,  I  fear  she'll  prove  as  hard  to  you  in  telling  her 
mind. 

Pro.    What,  said  she  nothing  ? 

Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as  —  take  this  for  thy 
pains.  To  testify  your  bounty,  I  thank  you,  you 
have  testern'd''  me ;  in  requital  whereof,  henceforth 
carry  your  letters  yourself :  and  so,  sir,  I'll  commend 
you  to  my  master. 

Pro.    Go,  go,  be  gone,  to  save  your  ship  from 
wreck ; 
Which  cannot  perish,  having  thee  aboard, 
Being  destined  to  a  drier  death  on  shore :  — 
I  must  go  send  some  better  messenger ; 
I  fear,  my  Julia  would  not  deign  my  lines. 
Receiving  them  from  such  a  worthless  post.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  same.    Garden  of  3 uWsJ s  house. 
Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 

Jul.   But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 
Would'st  thou  then  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love? 

Luc.   Ay,   madam  ;  so  you  stumble  not  unheed- 
fully. 

Jid.   Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen, 
That  every  day  with  parle  encounter  me, 
In  thy  opinion,  which  is  worthiest  love? 

Luc.    Please  you,  repeat  their  names,   I'll  shew 
my  mind 
According  to  my  shallow  simple  skill. 

Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  fair  Sir  Eglamour  i 

Luc.  As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat  and  fine  ;1 
But  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine. 

Jul.   What  think'st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercatio  ? 

L.UC.   Well  of  his  wealth  ;  but  of  himself,  so,  so. 

Jul   What  think'st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus  ? 

Luc.   Lord,  lord  !  to  see  what  folly  reigns  in  us  ! 

Jul.  How  now!  what  means  this  passion  at  his 
name  ? 

Luc.   Pardon,  dear  madam  ;  'tis  a  passing  shame, 
That  I,  unworthy  body  as  I  am. 
Should  censure*  thus  on  lovely  gentlemen. 

Jul.   Why  not  on  Proteus,  as  of  all  the  rest  ? 

Luc.   Then  thus, of  many  good  I  think  him 

best. 

Jul.   Your  reason  ? 

Luc.  I  have  no  other  but  a  woman's  reason  ;  I 
think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 

Jul.  And  would'st  thou  have  me  cast  my  love  on 
him  ? 

Luc.    Ay,  if  you  thought  your  love  not  cast  away. 

Jul.   Why,  he  of  all  the  rest,  hath  never  mov'd  me. 

Luc.   Yet  he  of  all  the  rest,  I  think ,  best  loves  ye. 

Jul.    His  little  speaking  shews  his  love  but  small. 

Luc.    Fire,  that  is  closest  kept,  burns  most  of  all. 

Jul.    They  do  not  love,  that  do  not  show  their  love. 

Luc.    O,  tliey  love  least,  that  let  men  know  their 
love. 

Jul.   I  would  I  knew  his  mind. 


Given  me  a  sixpence. 


Pass  senteiicQ 


Scene  II. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


23 


Ltic.  Peruse  this  paper,  madam. 

Jul.  To  Julia,  —  Say,  from  whom  ? 

Luc.  That  the  contents  will  shew. 

Jul.   Say,  say  ;  who  gave  it  thee  ? 

Luc.   Sir  Valentine's  page ;  and  sent,  I   tliink, 
from  Proteus : 
He  would  have  given  it  you,  but  I,  being  in  the  way. 
Did  in  your  name  receive  it ;  pardon  the  fault,  I  pray. 

Jul.   Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker  !  * 
Dare  you  presume  to  harbour  wanton  lines? 
To  wliisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth  ? 
Now,  trust  me,  'tis  an  office  of  great  worth, 
And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  place. 
There,  take  tlie  paper,  see  it  be  return'd ; 
Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 

Luc.  To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee  than  hate. 

Jul.    Will  you  begone  ? 

Lice.  That  you  may  ruminate.    \^Ei'it. 

Jul.   And  yet,  I  would  I  had  o'erlook'd  tlie  letter. 
It  were  a  shame  to  call  her  back  again, 
And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her. 
"What  fool  is  she,  that  knows  I  am  a  maid, 
And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view? 
Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  No,  to  that 
Which  they  would  have  the  profferer  construe,  Ay. 
Fie,  fie  !  how  wayward  is  this  foolish  love, 
That,  like  a  testy  babe,  will  scratch  the  nurse. 
And  presently,  all  humbled,  kiss  the  rod ! 
How  churlishly  I  cliid  Lucetta  hence, 
When  villingly  I  would  have  had  her  here  ! 
How  mgrily  I  taught  my  brow  to  fro\vn, 
When  inward  joy  enforc'd  my  heart  to  smile  ! 
jMy  penance  is,  to  call  Lucetta  back, 
And  ask  remission  for  my  folly  past :  — 
What  ho!  Lucetta! 

Re-enter  Lucetta. 

Luc.  What  would  your  ladyship  ? 

Jul.   Is  it  near  dinner  time  ? 

Ltic.  I  would  it  were  ; 

riiat  you  might  kill  your  stomach  ^  on  your  meat, 
And  not  upon  your  maid. 

Jul.  What  is't  you  look  up 

So  ;5inger.ly  '( 

Luc.  Nothing. 

Jul.  Why  didst  thou  stoop  then  ? 

IjUc   To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 

Jul.   And  is  that  paper  nothing  ? 

Luc  Nothing  concerning  me. 

Jul.   Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 

Luc.   Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns, 
Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 

Jul.  Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rhyme. 

Luc.    That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune  : 
Give  me  a  note  :   your  ladyship  can  set. 

Jul.   As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible  : 
Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  Light  o  love. 

Luc.   It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 

Jul.   Heavy?  belike  it  hatli  some  burden,  then. 

Luc   Ay ;  and  melodious  were  it,  would  you  sing 
it. 

Jul.  And  why  not  you  ? 

Luc  I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

Jul.   Let's  see  your  song :  —  How  now,  minion  ? 

Lite.   Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out : 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 

Jul.   You  do  not  ? 

Luc.   No,  madam ;  it  is  too  sharp. 


Matchmaker. 


Tassion  or  obetitwcy. 


Jul.   You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 

Lite.   Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat, 
And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descan' 
There  wanteth  but  a  mean  ^  to  fill  your  song. 

Jul.  The  mean  is  drown'd  with  your  unruly  base. 

Luc.  Indeed  I  did  the  base  9  for  Proteus. 

Jul.   This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 
Here  is  a  coil'  with  protestation  !  — 

[Tears  the  letter. 
Go,  get  you  gone ;  and  let  the  papers  lie  : 
You  would  be  fingering  them,  to  anger  me. 

Luc.   She  makes  it  strange;  but  she  would  be 
best  pleas'd 
To  be  so  anger'd  with  another  letter.  [Krit. 

Jul.  Nay,  would  I  were  so  anger'd  with  the  same  ! 

0  hateful  hands,  to  tear  such  loving  words  ! 
Injurious  wasps  !  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 
And  kill  the  bees,  tliat  yield  it,  with  your  stings  ! 
I'll  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

And  here  is  writ  —  kirid  Julia ;  —  unkind  Julia  ! 
As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 

1  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones. 
Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 
Look,  here  is  writ  —  love-wounded  Proteus  :  — 
Poor  wounded  name  !  my  bosom  as  a  bed. 

Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  throughly  heal'd  : 

And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 

But  twice,  or  thrice,  was  Proteus  written  down  ? 

Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away. 

Till  I  Iiave  found  each  letter  in  tlie  letter, 

Except  mine  own  name ;  that  some  wliirlwind  bear 

Unto  a  ragged,  fearful,  lianging  rock,. 

And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea  ! 

Lo,  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ,  — 

Poor  forlorn  Proteus,  passionate  Proteus, 

To  the  sweet  Julia ;  —  that  I'll  tear  away  ; 

And  yet  I  will  not,  sith  so  prettily 

He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names  : 

Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another ; 

Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

Re-enter  LncKTTA. 

Luc.   Madam,  dinner's  ready,    and  your  fatliei 

stays. 
Jul.   Well,  let  us  go, 
Luc.   What,  shall  these  papers  lie  like  tell-tales 

here  ? 
Jul.  If  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up. 
Luc.   Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  do\N  n  : 
Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie,  for  catching  cold. 
Jul.   I  see  you  have  a  montli's  mind  to  tlicm. 
Luc.   Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights  \ou 
see ; 
I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink. 

Jul.   Come,  come,  will't  please  you  go?  [^Excunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  same.     A  Room  in  Antonio's 
House. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Panthino. 

Ant.  Tell  me,  Panthino,  what  sad  2  talk  was  that. 
Wherewith  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister? 

Pant.  'Twas  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  your  son. 

Ajit.   Why,  what  of  him  ? 

Pant.  He  wonder'd  that  your  lordship 

Would  suffer  him  to  spend  his  youth  at  home  ; 
While  other  men,  of  slender  reputation,  3 


7  A  term  in  musick. 
'  A  chaUengo. 
2  Serious. 


C  4 


"  The  tenor  in  musick. 

'  Bustle,  stir. 

^  Little  consequence. 


24 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Act  II. 


Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 

Some,  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there  ; 

Some,  to  discover  islands  far  away ; 

Some,  to  the  studious  universities. 

For  any,  or  for  all  these  exercises. 

He  said,  that  Proteus,  your  son,  was  meet ; 

And  did  request  me,  to  importune  you, 

To  let  him  spend  his  time  no  more  at  home, 

Which  would  be  great  impeachment  ■*  to  his  age. 

In  having  known  no  travel  in  his  youth. 

Ant.  Nor  need'st  thou  much  imp6rtune  me  to  that 
Whereon  this  month  I  have  been  hammering. 
I  have  consider'd  well  his  loss  of  time ; 
And  how  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  man, 
Not  being  try'd  and  tutor'd  in  the  world  : 
Experience  is  by  industry  atchiev'd, 
And  perfected  by  the  swift  course  of  time  : 
Then,  tell  me,  whither  were  I  best  to  send  him  ? 

Pant.   I  think,  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant. 
How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 
Attends  the  emperor  in  his  royal  court. 

Ant.   I  know  it  well. 

Pant.  'Twere  good,   I  think,  your  lordship  sent 
him  thither  : 
There  shall  he  practise  tilts  and  tournaments. 
Hear  sweet  discourse,  converse  with  noblemen ; 
And  be  in  eye  of  every  exercise 
Worthy  his  youth  and  nobleness  of  birth. 

Ant.   I  like  thy  counsel ;  well  hast  thou  advis'd  : 
And  that  thou  may'st  perceive  how  well  I  like  it. 
The  execution  of  it  shall  make  known  j 
Even  with  the  speediest  execution 
I  will  dispatch  him  to  the  emperor's  court. 

Pant.   To-morrow,  may  it  please  you,   Don  Al- 
phonso. 
With  other  gentlemen  of  good  esteem. 
Are  journeying  to  salute  the  emperor. 
And  to  commend  their  service  to  his  will. 

Ant.  Good  company;  with  them  shall  Proteus  go; 
And,  in  good  time,  —  now  will  we  break  with  him.  ^ 

Enter  Proteus. 
Pro.    Sweet  love  !  sweet  lines  !  sweet  life  ! 
Here  is  her  hand  the  agent  of  her  heart ; 
Here  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honour's  pawn  : 
O,  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 
To  seal  our  happiness  with  their  consents  ! 
O  heavenly  Julia ! 


Am.    How  now?    what  letter  are  you  reading 
there? 

Pro.    May't  please  your  lordship,  'tis  a  word  or 
two 
Of  commendation  sent  from  Valentine, 
Deliver'd  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 

A7it.   Lend  me  the  letter ;  let  me  see  what  news. 

Pro.  There  is  no  news,  my  lord  ;  but  that  he  writes 
How  happily  he  lives,  how  well  belov'd. 
And  daily  graced  by  the  emperor  ; 
Wishing  me  with  him,  partner  of  liis  fortune. 

Ant.   And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish  ? 

Pro.   As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will. 
And  not  depending  on  his  friendly  vnsh. 

Ant.   My  will  is  something  sorted  with  his  wish  : 
Muse  6  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed  ; 
For  what  I  will,  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 
I  am  resolv'd,  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
With  Valentinus  in  the  emperor's  court ; 
What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives. 
Like  exhibition  7  thou  shalt  have  from  me. 
To-morrow  be  in  readiness  to  go  : 
Excuse  it  not,  for  I  am  peremptory. 

Pro.   My  lord,  I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided; 
Please  you,  deliberate  a  day  or  two. 

Ant.   Look,  what  thou  want'st  shall  be  sent  after 
thee ; 
No  more  of  stay ;  to-morrow  thou  must  go.  — 
Come  on,  Panthino  ;  you  shall  be  employ'd 
To  hasten  on  his  expedition. 

[Exeunt  Ant.  a7id  Pant. 

Pro.  Thus  have  I  shunn'd  the  fire,  for  fear  of 
burning ; 
And  drench'd  me  in  the  sea,  where  I  am  drown'd  : 
I  fear'd  to  shew  my  father  Julia's  letter, 
Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  love ; 
A  nd  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse 
Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 
O,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day  ; 
Which  now  shews  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun. 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  ! 

He-enter  Panthino. 

Pant.   Sir  Proteus,  your  father  calls  for  you  ; 
He  is  in  haste,  therefore,  I  pray  you,  go. 

Pro.   Why,  this  it  is  :   my  heart  accords  thereto  ; 
And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers,  no.    [Exeunt. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  L  — Milan.   An  Apartment  in  the  Duke's 
Palace. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Speed. 

Speed.   Sir,  your  glove. 

Val.   Not  mine :   my  gloves  are  on. 

Speed.   Why  then  this  may  be  yours,  for  this  is 
but  one. 

Val.  Ha  !  let  me  see  :  ay,  give  it  me,  it's  mine  :  — 
Sweet  ornament  that  decks  a  thing  divine  ! 
Ah  Silvia  !   Silvia  ! 

Speed.   Madam  Silvia!  madam  Silvia! 

Val.   How  now,  sirrah  ? 

Speed.   She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 


<  Reproach. 


Break  the  matter  to  him. 


Val.   Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her  ? 

Speed.    Your  worship,  sir ;  or  else  I  mistook. 

Val.   Well,  you'll  still  be  too  forward. 

Speed.  And  yet  I  was  last  chidden  for  being  too 
slow. 

Val.  Go  to,  sir ;  tell  me,  do  you  know  madam 
Silvia? 

Speed.   She  that  your  worship  loves  ? 

Vol.   Why,  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  by  these  special  marks  :  First,  you 
have  learned,  like  sir  Proteus  ;  to  wreath  your  arms 
like  a  male-content ;  to  relish  a  love-song,  like  a 
robin-red-breast ;  to  walk  alone,  like  one  that  had 
the  pestilence ;  to  sigh,  like  a  school-boy  that  had 


6  Wonder. 


Allowance. 


Scene  I. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


25 


lost  his  A,  B,  C  ;  to  weep,  like  a  girl  that  had 
buried  her  grandam  ;  to  fast,  like  one  that  takes 
diet  P  ;  to  watch,  like  one  that  fears  robbing;  to  speak 
puling,  like  a  beggar  at  Hallowmas.  9  You  were 
wont,  when  you  laughed,  to  crow  like  a  cock ;  when 
you  walked,  to  walk  like  one  of  the  lions ;  when 
you  fasted,  it  was  presently  after  dinner  ;  when  you 
looked  sadly,  it  was  for  want  of  money  :  and  now 
you  are  metamorphosed  with  a  mistress,  that,  when 
I  look  on  you,  I  can  hardly  think  you  my  master. 

Val.    Are  all  these  things  perceived  in  me  ? 

Speed.   They  are  all  perceived  without  you. 

Val.   Without  me  ?     They  cannot. 

Speed.  Without  you  ?  nay,  that's  certain,  for 
without  you  were  so  simple,  none  else  would  :  but 
you  are  so  without  these  follies,  that  these  follies  are 
within  you. 

Fal.  But,  tell  me,  dost  thou  know  my  lady  Silvia  ? 

Speed.  She,  that  you  gaze  on  so,  as  she  sits  at 
supper  ? 

Val.   Hast  thou  observed  that  ?  even  she  I  mean. 

Speed.  Why,  sir,  I  know  her  not. 

Val.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on  her, 
and  yet  know'st  her  not  ? 

Speed.   Is  she  not  hard  favoured,  sir  ? 

VaJ,   Not  so  fair,  boy,  as  well  favoured. 

Speed.    Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 

Val.   What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Speed.  That  she  is  not  so  fair,  as  (of  you)  well 
favoured. 

Val.  I  mean,  that  her  beauty  is  exquisite,  but  her 
favour  infinite. 

Speed.  That's  because  the  one  is  painted,  and  the 
other  out  of  all  count. 

Val.   How  painted  ?  and  how  out  of  count  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  so  painted,  to  make  her  fair, 
that  no  man  counts  of  her  beauty. 

Vol.  How  esteemest  thou  me  ?  I  account  of  her 
beauty. 

Speed.    You  never  saw  her  since  she  was  deformed. 

Vol.   How  long  hath  she  been  deformed  ? 

Speed.   Ever  since  you  loved  her. 

Vol.  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I  saw  her ;  and 
still  I  see  her  beautiful. 

Speed.   If  you  love  her,  you  cannot  see  her. 

Val.   Why? 

Speed.  Because  love  is  blind.  O,  that  you  had 
mine  eyes ;  or  your  own  had  the  lights  they  were 
wont  to  have,  when  you  chid  at  sir  Proteus  for  going 
ungartered. 

Val.  What  should  I  see  then  ? 

Speed.  Your  own  present  folly,  and  her  passing 
deformity :  for  he,  being  in  love,  could  not  see  to 
garter  liis  hose  ;  and  you,  being  in  love,  cannot  see 
to  put  on  your  hose. 

Val.  Belike,  boy,  then  you  are  in  love  ;  for  last 
morning  you  could  not  see  to  wipe  my  shoes. 

Speed.  True,  sir  ;  I  was  in  love  with  my  bed  :  I 
thank  you,  you  swinged  '  me  for  my  love,  which 
makes  me  the  bolder  to  chide  you  for  yours. 

Val.  Last  night  she  enjoined  me  to  write  some 
lines  to  one  she  loves. 

Speed.   And  have  you  ? 

Val.   I  have. 

Sj)€ed.   Are  tliey  not  lamely  writ  ? 

Vai.  No,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them  :  — 
Peace,  here  she  comes. 


"  Under  a  rogimcn. 
>  Whipped. 


9  AUhallowniaa. 


Eyiter  Silvia. 

Speed.  O  excellent  motion  !  ■'  O  exceeding  puppet ! 
now  will  he  interpret  to  her. 

Val.   Madam  and  mistress,  a  thousand  good-mor- 
rows. 

Speed.   O,  give  you  good  even  !  here's  a  million 
of  manners.  [Asule. 

Sil.  Sir  Valentine  and  servant,  to  you  two  thousand. 

Speed.   He  should  give  her  interest ;  and  she  gives 
it  him. 

Val.   As  you  enjoin'd  me,  I  have  writ  your  letter. 
Unto  the  secret  nameless  friend  of  yours  ; 
Which  I  was  much  unwilling  to  proceed  in. 
But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.   I  thank  you,  gentle  servant ;  'tis  very  clerkly  3 
done. 

Val.   Now  trust  me,  madam,  it  came  hardly  off; 
For  being  ignorant  to  whom  it  goes, 
I  writ  at  random,  very  doubtfully. 

SU.   Perchance  you  tliink  too  much  of  so  much 
pains? 

Val.  No,  madam  ;  so  it  stead  you,  I  will  write. 
Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much  : 
And  yet,  — 

Sil.   A  pretty  period  !   Well,  I  guess  the  sequel ; 
And  yet  I  will  not  name  it :  —  and  yet  I  care  not ; 
And  yet  take  this  again  ;  —  and  yet  I  thank  you  ; 
Meaning  henceforth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 

Speed.    And  yet  you  will ;  and  yet  another  yet. 

[A^ide. 

Val.   What   means   your   ladyship  ?  do  you  not 
like  it? 

Sil.    Yes,  yes  ;  the  lines  are  very  quaintly  writ 
But  since  unwillingly,  take  them  again  ; 
Nay,  take  them. 

Val.   Madam,  they  are  for  you. 

SU.   Ay,  ay  ;  you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request : 
But  I  will  none  of  them  ;  they  are  for  you  : 
I  would  have  had  them  writ  more  movingly. 

Val.   Please  you,  I'll  write  your  ladyship  another. 

5^.    And,  when  it's  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it  over  ; 
And,  if  it  please  you,  so  ;  if  not,  why,  so. 

Val.   If  it  please  me,  madam  !  what  then  ? 

Sil.   Why,  if  it  please  you,  take  it  for  your  labour ; 
And  so  good-morrow,  servant.  [Exii  Silvia. 

Speed.   O  jest  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible. 
As  a  nose  on  a  man's  face,  or  a  weathercock  on  a 

steeple  ! 
My  master  sues  to  her;  and  she  hath  taught  her  suitor. 
He  being  her  pupil,  to  become  her  tutor. 
O  excellent  device  !  was  there  ever  heard  a  better  ? 
That  my  master,    being  scribe,  to  himself  should 
write  the  letter  ? 

Val.   How  now,  sir?  what  are  you  reasoning  with 
yourself? 

Speed.   Nay,  I  was  rhyming;  'tis  you  tliat  have 
the  reason. 

Val.   To  do  what  ? 

Speed.   To  be  a  spokesman  from  madam  Silvia. 

Val.   To  whom  ? 

Speed.   To  yourself:   why,  she  wooes  you  by  a 
figure  ? 

Vol.   What  figure  ? 

Speed.   By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 

Vol.   Why,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me. 

Sj>eed.  What  need  she,  when  she  hatli  matle  you 
write  to  yourself?  Why,  do  you  not  perceive  the  jest  ? 


A  ptippci-*how. 


3  like  a  scholar. 


26 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Act  II. 


Val.   No,  believe  me. 

Speed.  No  believing  you,  indeed,  sir:  But  did 
you  perceive  her  earnest  ? 

Val.   She  gave  me  none,  except  an  angry  word. 

Speed.   Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

Val.   That's  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  delivered,  and 
there  an  end. 

Val.   I  would,  it  were  no  worse. 

Speed.   I'll  warrant  you,  'tis  as  well. 
For  often  you  have  writ  to  her ;  and  she,  in  modesty. 
Or  else  for  want  of  idle  time,  could  not  again  reply ; 
Or  fearing  else  some  messenger,  that  might  lier  mind 

discover. 
Herself  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write  unto  her 

lover.  — 
All  this  I  speak  in  print ;  for  in  print  I  found  it.  — 
Why  muse  you,  sir  ?  'tis  dinner-time. 

Val.   I  have  dined. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir :  though  the  came- 
leon  Love  can  feed  on  the  air,  I  am  one  that  am 
nourished  by  my  victuals,  and  would  fain  have  meat : 
O,  be  not  like  your  mistress ;  be  moved,  be  moved. 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Verona.  J  Room  in  Julia's  House. 

Enter  Proteus  and  Julia. 

Pro.   Have  patience,  gentle  Julia. 

Jul.   I  must,  where  is  no  remedy. 

Pro.   When  possibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 

Jul.   If  you  turn  not,  you  will  return  the  sooner  : 
Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julia's  sake. 

\_Giving  a  ring. 

Pro.   Why  then  we'll  make  exchange  ;  here  take 
you  this. 

Jul.    And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss. 

Pro.   Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy  ; 
And  when  that  hour  o'erslips  me  in  the  day. 
Wherein  I  sigh  not,  Julia,  for  thy  sake. 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetful  ness  ! 
My  father  stays  my  coming  ;  answer  not ; 
The  tide  is  now  :   nay,  not  the  tide  of  tears  ; 
That  tide  will  stay  me  longer  than  I  should  : 

l^ExU  Julia. 
Julia,  farewell.  —  What !  gone  without  a  word  ? 
Ay,  so  true  love  should  do  ;  it  cannot  speak ; 
For  truth  hath  better  deeds,  than  words,  to  grace  it, 

Enter  Panthino. 

Pant.   Sir  Proteus,  you  are  staid  for. 
Pro.    Go ;   I  come,  I  come ;  — 
Alas  !  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  Launce,  leading  a  dog. 
Laun.  Nay,  it  will  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done 
weeping ;  all  the  kind^  of  the  Launces  have  this 
very  fault :  I  have  received  my  proportion,  like  the 
prodigious  son,  and  am  going  with  sir  Proteus  to 
the  Imperial's  court.  I  think,  Crab  my  dog  be  the 
sourest-natured  dog  that  lives :  my  mother  weeping, 
my  father  wailing,  my  sister  crying,  our  maid  howl- 
ing, our  cat  wringing  her  hands,  and  all  our  house 
in  a  great  perplexity,  yet  did  not  this  crucl-hcarted 

■*  Kindred. 


cur  shed  one  tear ;  he  is  a  stone,  a  very  pebble- 
stone, and  has  no  more  pity  in  him  than  a  dog :  a 
Jew  would  have  wept  to  have  seen  our  parting ; 
why,  my  grandam  having  no  eyes,  look  you,  wept 
herself  blind  at  my  parting.  Nay,  I'll  show  you 
the  manner  of  it :  This  shoe  is  my  father ;  —  no 
this  left  shoe  is  my  father  ;  —  no,  no,  this  left  shoe 
is  my  mother ;  —  nay,  that  cannot  be  so  neither  ; — 
yes,  it  is  so,  it  is  so ;  it  hath  the  worser  sole  ;  This 
shoe  is  my  mother,  and  this  my  father;  A  ven- 
geance on't !  there  'tis :  now,  sir,  this  staff  is  my 
sister;  for,  look  you,  she  is  as  white  as  a  lily, 
and  as  small  as  a  wand :  this  hat  is  Nan,  our 
maid ;  I  am  the  dog :  —  no,  the  dog  is  himself, 
and  I  am  the  dog  ;  —  O,  the  dog  is  me,  and  I  am 
myself;  ay,  so,  so.  Now  come  I  to  my  father; 
Father,  your  blessing  ;  now  should  not  the  shoe  speak 
a  word  for  weeping ;  now  should  I  kiss  my  father ; 
well,  he  weeps  on  :  — now  come  I  to  my  mother,  (O, 
that  she  could  speak  now  !)  like  a  wood  ^  woman  ; — 
well,  I  kiss  her ;  —  why  there  'tis ;  here's  my 
mother's  breath  up  and  down ;  now  come  I  to  my 
sister  ;  mark  the  moan  she  makes ;  now  the  dog  all 
this  while  sheds  not  a  tear,  nor  speaks  a  word ;  but 
see  how  I  lay  the  dust  with  my  tears. 

Enter  Panthino. 

Pant.  Launce,  away,  away,  aboard  ;  thy  master 
is  shipped,  and  thou  art  to  post  after  with  oars. 
What's  the  matter  ?  why  weepest  thou,  man  ?  Away, 
ass  ;  you  will  lose  the  tide,  if  you  tarry  any  longer. 

Laun.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  ty'd  were  lost :  for 
it  is  the  unkindest  ty'd  that  ever  man  ty'd. 

Pant.   What's  the  unkindest  tide  ? 

Laun.   Why,  he  that's  ty'd  here ;   Crab,  my  dog. 

Pant.  Tut,  man,  I  mean  thou'lt  lose  the  flood ; 
and,  in  losing  the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage ;  and,  in 
losing  thy  voyage,  lose  thy  master ;  and,  in  losing 
thy  master,  lose  thy  service ;  and,  in  losing  thy 
service,  — 

Laun.  Lose  the  tide,  and  the  voyage,  and  the 
master,  and  the  service  ?  The  tide  !  —  Why,  man,  if 
the  river  were  dry,  I  am  able  to  fill  it  with  my 
tears;  if  the  wind  were  down,  I  could  drive  the 
boat  with  my  sighs. 

Pant.  Come,  come  away,  man ;  I  was  sent  to 
call  thee. 

Laun.    Sir,  call  me  what  thou  darest. 

Pant.   Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Laun.  Well,  I  will  go.  \^Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 


Milan.  An  Apart?nent  in  the  Duke's 
Palace. 


Enter  Valentine,  Silvia,  Thurio,  aiid  Speed. 
Sil.   Servant  — 
Vol.   Mistress? 

Speed.   Master,  sir  Thurio  frowns  on  you. 
Val.   Ay,  boy,  it's  for  love. 
Speed.   Not  of  you. 
Val.    Of  my  mistress  then. 
Speed.  'Twere  good,  you  knock'd  him. 
Sil.   Servant,  you  are  sad.^ 
Val.   Indeed,  madam,  I  seem  so. 
Thu.    Seem  you  that  you  are  not  ? 
Val.    Haply,  I  do. 
Thu.    So  do  counterfeits. 
Val.    So  do  you. 


^  Crazy,  distracted. 


^  Serious. 


Scene  IV. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


27 


7%?^.   What  seem  I  tliat  I  am  not? 
Val.   Wise. 

T/iu.   What  instance  of  the  contrary? 

Vol.   Your  folly. 

Thu.  And  how  quote  7  you  my  folly  ? 

Fal.    I  quote  it  in  your  jerkin. 

Thu.   My  jerkin  is  a  doublet. 

Fal.   Well,  then,  I'll  double  your  folly. 

Thu.   How? 

Sil.  What,  angry,  sir  Thurio?  do  you  change 
colour? 

Vol.  Give  him  leave,  madam;  he  is  a  kind  of 
cameleon. 

Thu.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your 
blood,  than  live  in  your  air. 

Vol.   You  have  said,  sir. 

Thu.   Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

VcU.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  always  end  ere 
you  begin. 

Sil.  A  fine  volley  of  words,  gentlemen,  and 
quickly  shot  off. 

Val.  'Tis  indeed,  madam  ;  we  thank  the  giver. 

Sii.   Who  is  that,  servant  ? 

Val.  Yourself,  sweet  lady ;  for  you  gave  the  fire . 
sir  Thurio  borrows  his  wit  from  your  ladyship's 
looks,  and  spends  what  he  borrows,  kindly  in  your 
company. 

Thu.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  with  me, 
I  shall  make  your  wit  bankrupt. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  have  an  exchequer 
of  words,  and  I  think  no  other  treasure  to  give  your 
followers  :  for  it  appears  by  their  bare  liveries,  that 
tliey  live  by  your  bare  words. 

Sil.  No  more,  gentlemen,  no  more  ;  here  comes 
my  father. 

Enter  Duke. 

Buke.   Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  are  hard  beset. 
Sir  Valentine,  your  father's  in  good  health  :  • 
WJiat  say  you  to  a  letter  from  your  friends 
Of  much  good  news  ? 

Val.  My  lord,  I  will  be  thankful 

To  any  hajipy  messenger  from  thence. 
Duke.  Know  you  Don  Antonio,  your  countrjonan  ? 

Val.   Ay,  my  good  lord,  I  know  the  gentleman 
To  be  of  worth,  and  worthy  estimation. 
And  not  without  desert  so  well  reputed. 

Duke.   Hath  he  not  a  son  ? 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  a  son  that  well  deserves 
The  honour  and  regard  of  such  a  father. 

Duke.   You  know  him  well  ? 

Val.   I  knew  him  as  myself ;  for  from  our  infancy 
We  have  conversed  and  spent  our  hours  together ; 
And  though  myself  have  been  an  idle  truant, 
Omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time, 
To  clothe  mine  age  with  angel-like  perfection  ; 
Yet  hath  sir  Proteus,  for  tliat's  his  name, 
Made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days  ; 
His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old  ; 
His  head  unmellow'd,  but  his  judgment  ripe ; 
And,  in  a  word,  (for  far  behind  his  worth 
Come  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow,) 
He  is  complete  in  feature,  and  in  mind, 
With  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman. 

Duke.   Beshrew  me,  sir,  but,  if  he  make  this  good, 
He  is  as  worthy  for  an  empress'  love. 
As  meet  to  be  an  emperor's  counsellor. 
Well,  sir  ;  tliis  gentleman  is  come  to  me, 
Witli  commendation  from  great  potentates  ; 

7  Note,  observe. 


And  here  he  means  to  spend  his  time  a-while  : 
I  think,  'tis  no  unwelcome  news  to  you. 

Val.   Should  I  have  wish'd  a  thing,  it  had  been  he. 

Duke.  Welcome  him  then  according  to  his  worth  : 

Silvia,  I  speak  to  you  ;  and  you,  sir  Thurio : 

For  Valentine,  I  need  not  'cite  ^  him  to  it : 

I'll  send  him  hither  to  you  presently.    [Ent  Duke. 

Val.    This  is  the  gentleman,  I  told  your  ladyship, 
Had  come  along  witli  me,  but  that  his  mistress 
Did  hold  his  eyes  lock'd  in  her  crystal  looks. 

Sil.  Belike  tliat  now  she  hath  enfranchis'd  them 
Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty. 

Val.    Nay,  sure,  I  think  she  holds  them  prisoners 
still. 

Sil.   Nay,  then  he  should  be  blind ;  and  being 
blind, 
How  could  he  see  his  way  to  seek  out  you  ? 

Val.   Why,  lady,  love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes. 

Thu.   They  say  that  love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all. 

Vol.   To  see  such  lovers,  Thurio,  as  yourself; 
Upon  a  homely  object  love  can  wink. 

Enter  Proteus. 

Sil.  Have  done,  have  done ;  here  comes  the  gen- 
tleman. 

Val.   Welcome,  dear  Proteus  !  —  Mistress,  I  be- 
seech you, 
Confirm  his  welcome  with  some  special  favour. 

Sil.   His  worth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome  hitlicr, 
If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wish'd  to  hear  from. 

Val.   Mistress,  it  is  :   sweet  lady,  entertain  him 
To  be  my  fellow-servant  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.    Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  high  a  servant. 

Pro.   Not  so,  sweet  lady  ;  but  too  mean  a  servant 
To  have  a  look  of  such  a  worthy  mistress. 

Val.    Leave  off  discourse  of  disability :  — 
Sweet  lady,  entertain  him  for  your  servant. 

Pro.    My  duty  will  I  boast  of,  nothing  else. 

Sil.    And  duty  never  yet  did  want  his  meed ; 
Servant,  you  are  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress. 

Pro.   I'll  die  on  him  that  says  so,  but  yourself. 

Sil.   Tliat  you  are  welcome  ? 

Pro.  No ;  that  you  are  wortliless. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.   Madam,  my  lord  your  father  would  sjicak 

with  you. 
Sil.   I'll  wait  upon  his  pleasure.      [Exit  Servant. 
Come,  sir  Thurio, 
Go  with  me :  —  Once  more,  new  servant,  welcome : 
I'll  leave  you  to  confer  of  home-affairs ; 
When  you  have  done,  we  look  to  hear  from  you. 
Pro.   We'll  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  Silvia,  Thurio,  atid  Speed. 
Vnl.   Now,  tell  me,  how  do  all  from  whence  you 

came  ? 
Pro.  Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them  much 

commended. 
Vai.   And  how  do  yours  ? 

Pro.  I  lefl  them  all  in  health. 

Val.    How  does  your  lady  ?  and  how  thrives  your 

love? 
Pro.   My  tales  of  love  were  wont  to  weary  you  ; 
I  know  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 

Val.    Ay,  Proteus,  but  that  life  is  alter'd  now; 
I  have  done  penance  for  contemning  love  ; 
Whose  high  imi)erious  thoughts  have  punish'd  me 
With  bitter  fasts,  with  penitential  groans, 

"  Incite. 


28 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Act  II. 


With  nightly  tears,  anil  daily  heart-sore  sighs  ; 

For,  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love, 

Love  hath  chas'd  sleep  from  my  enthralled  eyes, 

And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart's  sorrow. 

O,  gentle  Proteus,  love's  a  mighty  lord ; 

And  hath  so  humbled  me,  as  I  confess, 

There  is  no  woe  to  his  correction, 

Nor,  to  his  service,  no  such  joy  on  earth  ! 

Now,  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love  ; 

Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and  sleep, 

Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  love. 

Pro.   Enough ;  I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye  : 
Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so  ? 

Val.  Even  she  ;  and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint  ? 

Pro.   No ;  but  she  is  an  earthly  paragon. 

Val.   Call  her  divine. 

Pro.  I  will  not  flatter  her. 

Val.   O,  flatter  me  ;  for  love  delights  in  praises. 

Pro.  When  I  was  sick,  you  gave  me  bitter  pills ; 
And  I  must  minister  the  like  to  you. 

Val.   Then  speak  the  truth  by  her ;  if  not  divine, 
Yet  let  her  be  a  principality, 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 

Pro.   Except  my  mistress, 

Val.  Sweet,  except  not  any ; 

Except  thou  wilt  except  against  my  love. 

Pro.    Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own  ? 

Val.    And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her  too  : 
She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honour,  — 
To  bear  my  lady's  train ;  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss. 
And,  of  so  great  a  favour  growing  proud, 
Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swelling  flower, 
And  make  rough  winter  everlastingly. 

Pro.   Why,  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is  this  ? 

Val.  Pardon  me,  Proteus  ;  all  I  c^n,  is  nothing ; 
To  her,  whose  worth  makes  other  worthies  nothing ; 
She  is  alone. 

Pro.   Then  let  her  alone. 

Val.   Not  for  the  world  :   why,  man,  she  is  mine 
own ; 
And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel. 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl. 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 
Forgive  me,  that  I  do  not  dream  on  thee. 
Because  thou  seest  me  dote  upon  my  love. 
My  foolish  rival,  that  her  father  likes. 
Only  for  his  possessions  are  so  huge. 
Is  gone  with  her  along  ;  and  I  must  after, 
For  love,  thou  know'st,  is  full  of  jealousy. 

Pro.   But  she  loves  you  ? 

Val.  Ay,  and  we  are  betroth'd  ; 

Nay,  more,  our  marriage  hour, 
With  all  the  cunning  manner  of  our  flight, 
Determin'd  of :   how  I  must  climb  her  window  ; 
The  ladder  made  of  cords ;  and  all  the  means 
Plotted,  and  'greed  on,  for  my  happiness. 
Good  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  my  chamber. 
In  these  affairs  to  aid  me  with  thy  counsel. 

Pro.    Go  on  before ;   I  shall  enquire  you  forth  : 
I  must  unto  the  road,  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use  ; 
And  then  I'll  presently  attend  you. 

Val.   Will  you  make  haste  ? 

Pro.   I  will.  —  [Exit  Val. 

Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels, 
Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another. 
So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 
Is  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 
Is  it  mine  eye,  or  Valentinus'  praise. 


Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression. 

That  makes  me,  reasonless,  to  reason  thus  ? 

She's  fair ;  and  so  is  Julia,  that  I  love :  — 

That  I  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thaw'd ; 

Which,  like  a  waxen  image  'gainst  a  fire, 

Bears  no  impression  of  the  thing  it  was. 

Methinks,  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold ; 

And  that  I  love  him  not,  as  I  was  wont : 

O  !  but  I  love  his  lady  too,  too  much  ; 

And  that's  the  reason  I  love  him  so  little. 

How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice  9, 

That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her  ? 

'Tis  but  her  picture  I  have  yet  beheld, 

And  that  hath  dazzled  my  reason's  light ; 

But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 

There  is  no  reason  but  I  shall  be  blind. 

If  I  can  check  my  erring  love,  I  will ; 

If  not,  to  compass  her  I'll  use  my  skill.  \^Ej.it. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Speed  and  Launce. 

Speed.  Launce !  by  nline  honesty,  welcome  to 
Milan. 

Laun.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth ;  for  I 
am  not  welcome.  I  reckon  this  always  —  that  a 
man  is  never  undone,  till  he  be  hanged ;  nor  never 
welcome  to  a  place,  till  some  certain  shot  be  paid, 
and  the  hostess  say  welcome. 

Speed.  Come  on,  you  mad-cap,  I'll  to  the  ale- 
house vnth  you  presently ;  where,  for  one  shot  of 
five-pence,  thou  shalt  have  five  thousand  welcomes. 
But,  sirrah,  how  did  thy  master  part  with  madam 
Julia? 

Laun.  Marry,  after  they  closed  in  earnest,  they 
parted  very  fairly  in  jest. 

Speed.   But  shall  she  marry  him  ? 

Laun.   No, 

Speed.   How  then  ?  shall  he  marry  her  ? 

Laun.   No,  neither. 

Speed.   What,  are  they  broken? 

Laun.   No,  they  are  both  as  whole  as  a  fish. 

Speed.  What  an  ass  art  thou !  I  understand  tliee  not. 

Laun.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst 
not !  My  staflP  understands  me. 

Speed.   What  thou  say'st  ? 

Lau7i.  Ay,  and  what  I  do  too :  look  thee,  I'll 
but  lean,  and  my  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.    It  stands  under  thee,  indeed. 

Laun.  Why,  stand  under  and  understand  is  all  one. 

Speed.   But  tell  me  true,  wiO't  be  a  match  ? 

Laun.  Ask  my  dog :  if  he  say,  ay,  it  will ;  if 
he  say,  no,  it  will ;  if  he  shake  his  tail,  and  say 
nothing,  it  will. 

Speed.    The  conclusion  is  then,  that  it  will. 

Laun.  Thou  shalt  never  get  such  a  secret  from 
me,  but  by  a  parable. 

Speed.  'Tis  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But,  Launce, 
how  say'st  thou,  that  my  master  has  become  a  nota- 
ble lover  ? 

Laun.   I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed.   Than  how  ? 

Laun.  A  notable  lubber,  as  thou  reportest  him 
to  be. 

Speed.   Why,  thou  ass,  thou  mistakest  me. 

Laun.  Why,  fool,  I  meant  not  thee;  I  meant 
thy  master. 

Sjyeed.  I  tell  thee,  my  master  is  become  a  hot  lover. 

9  On  further  knowledge. 


I 


Scene  VII. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


29 


Lnnn.  Why,  I  tell  thee,  I  care  not  though  he 
burn  himself  in  love.  If  thou  wilt  go  with  me  to 
the  alehouse,  so;  wilt  thou  go? 

Speed.   At  thy  service.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  The  same.     An  AjMrtment  in  the 
"  Palace. 
Enter  Proteus. 
Pro.   To  leave  my  Julia,  shall  I  be  forsworn  ; 
To  love  fair  Silvia,  shall  I  be  forsworn  ; 
To  wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn ; 
And  even  that  power,  which  gave  me  first  my  oath. 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  perjury. 
Love  bade  me  swear,  and  love  bids  me  forswear : 

0  sweet-suggesting  •  love,  if  thou  hast  sinn'd. 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it. 
At  first  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star, 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun. 

Unheedful  vows  may  heedfully  be  broken  ; 

And  he  wants  wit,  that  wants  resolved  will 

To  learn  his  wit  to  exchange  the  bad  for  better.  — 

Fie,  fie,  unreverend  tongue  !  to  call  her  bad. 

Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  hast  preferr'd 

With  twenty  thousand  soul -confirming  oaths. 

1  cannot  leave  to  love,  and  yet  I  do ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love,  where  I  should  love. 

Julia  I  lose,  and  Valentine  I  lose : 

If  I  keep  them,  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 

If  I  lose  them,  thus  find  I  by  their  loss, 

For  Valentine,  myself;  for  Julia,  Silvia. 

I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend ; 

For  love  is  still  more  precious  in  itself: 

And  Silvia,  witness  heaven,  that  made  her  fair  ! 

Shews  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 

I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive, 

Rememb'ring  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead ; 

And  Valentine  I'll  hold  an  enemy. 

Aiming  at  Sylvia  as  a  sweeter  friend. 

I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself. 

Without  some  treachery  used  to  Valentine :  — 

This  night  he  meanetli  with  a  corded  ladder 

To  climb  celestial  Silvia's  chamber-window  ; 

Myself  in  counsel,  his  competitor  2  : 

Now  presently  I'll  give  her  father  notice 

Of  their  disguising,  and  pretended  3  flight ; 

Who,  all  enrag'd,  will  banish  Valentine ; 

For  Thurio,  he  intends,  shall  wed  his  daughter  : 

But  Valentine  being  gone,  I'll  quickly  cross, 

By  some  sly  trick,  blunt  Thurio's  dull  proceeding. 

Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  my  purpose  swift. 

As  tliou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  this  drift !     [Exit. 

SCENE  VII. — Verona.   A  Room  in  Julia's  House. 
Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 

Jul.    Counsel,  Lucetta;  gentle  girl,  assist  me  ! 
And,  even  in  kind  love,  I  do  conjure  thee,  — 
Who  art  the  table  wherein  all  my  thoughts 
Are  visibly  character 'd  and  engraved,  — 
To  lesson  me ;  and  tell  me  some  good  mean, 
How,  with  my  honour,  I  may  undertake 
A  journey  to  my  loving  Proteus. 

L71C.   Alas  !  the  way  is  wearisome  and  long. 

./«/.    A  true  devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary 
To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  feeble  steps : 
Much  less  shall  she,  that  hath  love's  wings  to  fly : 
And  when  the  flight  is  made  to  one  so  dear, 
Of  such  divine  perfection,  as  sir  Proteus. 

Luc*   Better  forbear,  till  Proteus  make  return. 


Tempting 


'  Confederate. 


3  Intended. 


Jid.    O,  know'st  thou  not,  his  looks  are  my  soul's 
food? 
Pity  the  deartli  that  I  have  pined  in. 
By  longing  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 
Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love. 
Thou  would'st  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow. 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 

Luc.  I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love's  hot  fire  ; 
But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage. 
Lest  it  should  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Jul.  The  more  thou  dam'st  it  up,  the  more  it  bums ; 
The  current,  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides. 
Thou  know'st,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth  rage  ; 
But,  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered. 
He  makes  sweet  music  with  the  enamel'd  stones. 
Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  ; 
And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays. 
With  willing  sport  to  the  wild  ocean. 
Tlien  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course  : 
I'll  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream. 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step. 
Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love ; 
And  there  I'll  rest,  as,  after  much  turmoil  +, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

Ltic.   But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along  ? 

Jul.   Not  like  a  woman  ;  for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men  : 
Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  beseem  some  well-reputed  page. 

Luc.  Why  then  your  ladyship  must  cut  your  hair. 

Jul.    No,  girl ;   I'll  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings, 
With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots : 
To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  youth 
Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 
But  tell  me,  wench,  how  will  the  world  repute  me, 
For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey  ? 
I  fear  me,  it  will  make  me  scandaliz'd. 

Luc.  If  you  think  so,  then  stay  at  home,  and  go  not. 

Jtd.   Nay,  that  I  will  not. 

Luc.   Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 
If  Proteus  like  your  journey,  when  you  come. 
No  matter  who's  displeas'd,  when  you  are  gone  : 
I  fear  me,  he  will  scarce  be  pleas'd  withal. 

Jul.   That  is  the  least,  Lucetta,  of  my  fear : 
A  tliousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  his  tears, 
And  instances  as  infinite  of  love. 
Warrant  me  welcome  to  my  Proteus. 

Ltic   All  these  are  servants  to  deceitful  men. 

Jul.   Base  men  that  use  them  to  so  base  eflfect ! 
But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth  : 
His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles ; 
His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate ; 
His  tears  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart ; 
His  heart  as  far  from  fraud,  as  heaven  from  earth. 

Luc.   Pray  heaven,  he  prove  so,  when  you  come 
to  him ! 

Jul.  Now,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  do  him  not  that  wrong, 
To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth  : 
Only  deserve  my  love,  by  loving  liim  ; 
And  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
To  take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of. 
To  furnish  me  upon  my  longing  *  journey. 
All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  tliy  dispose. 
My  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation  ; 
Only  in  lieu  thereof,  despatch  me  hence  : 
Come,  answer  not,  but  to  it  presently ; 
I  am  impatient  of  my  tarriance.  [Ereimt. 


Trouble. 


»  Longed  for. 


30 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Act  III. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I Milan.  An  Ante-room  in  the  Duke'5 

Palace. 

Enter  Duke,  Thurio,  and  Proteus. 

Duhe.   Sir  Thurio,  give  us  leave,  I  pray  awhile ; 
We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about  — 

\^ExU  Thurio. 
Now,  tell  me,  Proteus,  what's  your  will  with  me  ? 

Pro.   My  gracious  lord,  that  which  I  would  dis- 
cover. 
The  law  of  friendship  bids  me  to  conceal : 
But,  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  favours 
Done  to  me,  undeserving  as  I  am. 
My  duty  pricks  me  on  to  utter  that 
Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from  me. 
Know,  worthy  prince,  sir  Valentine,  my  friend, 
This  night  intends  to  steal  away  your  daughter  ; 
Myself  am  one  made  privy  to  the  plot. 
I  know,  you  have  determin'd  to  bestow  her 
On  Thurio,  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates  ; 
And  should  she  thus  be  stolen  away  from  you. 
It  would  be  much  vexation  to  your  age. 
Thus,  for  my  duty's  sake,  I  rather  chose 
To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift. 
Than,  by  concealing  it,  heap  on  your  head 
A  pack  of  soiTows,  which  would  press  you  down. 
Being  unprevented,  to  your  timeless  grave. 

Duke.  Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest  care ; 
Wliich  to  requite,  command  me  while  I  live. 
This  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen. 
Haply,  when  they  have  judged  me  fast  asleep  ; 
And  oftentimes  have  purpos'd  to  forbid 
Sir  Valentine  her  company,  and  my  court : 
But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim  6  might  err. 
And  so,  unworthily,  disgrace  the  man, 
(A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunn'd,) 
I  gave  him  gentle  looks  ;  thereby  to  find 
That  which  thyself  hast  now  disclos'd  to  me. 
And,  that  thou  may'st  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 
Knowing  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested  ', 
I  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tower. 
The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept ; 
And  thence  she  cannot  be  convey'd  away. 

Pro.   Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devis'd  a  mean 
How  he  her  chamber  window  will  ascend. 
And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down  ; 
For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone. 
And  this  way  comes  he  with  it  presently  ; 
Where,  if  it  please  you,  you  may  intercept  him. 
But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  so  cunningly, 
That  my  discovery  be  not  aim'd  8  at ; 
For  love  of  you,  not  hate  unto  my  friend. 
Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence.  9 

Duke.   Upon  mine  honour,  he  shall  never  know 
That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 

Pro.   Adieu,  my  lord ;  sir  Valentine  is  coming. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Valentine. 

Duke.    Sir  Valentine,  whither  away  so  fast  ? 

Val.   Please  it  your  grace,  there  is  a  messenger 
That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends, 
And  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 


6  Guess. 
*  Guessed. 


^  Tempted. 
9  Design. 


Duke.   Be  they  of  much  import? 

Val.   The  tenor  of  them  doth  but  signify 
My  health,  and  happy  being  at  your  court. 

Duke.  Nay,  then  no  matter ;  stay  with  me  a  while ; 
I  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs. 
That  touch  me  near,  wherein  thou  must  be  secret. 
'Tis  not  unknown  to  thee,  that  I  have  sought 
To  match  my  friend,  sir  Thurio,  to  my  daughter. 

Vul.  I  know  it  well,  my  lord ;  and,  sure,  the  match 
Were  rich  and  honourable  ;  besides,  the  gentleman 
Is  full  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth,  and  qualities 
Beseeming  such  a  wife  as  your  fair  daughter : 
Cannot  your  grace  win  her  to  fancy  him  ? 

Duke.   No,  trust  me ;  she  is  peevish,  sullen,  fro- 
ward. 
Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty  ; 
Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child. 
Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father : 
And,  may  I  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers. 
Upon  advice,  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her ; 
And,  where  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 
Should  have  been  cherish'd  by  her  child-like  duty, 
I  now  am  full  resolved  to  take  a  wife. 
And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  take  her  in : 
Then  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding  dower ; 
For  me  and  my  possessions  she  esteems  not. 

Val.  What  would  your  grace  have  me  to  do  in  this  ? 

Duke.   There  is  a  lady,  sir,  in  Milan,  here. 
Whom  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice  and  coy. 
And  nought  esteems  my  aged  eloquence  : 
Now,  therefore,  would  I  have  thee  to  my  tutor, 
( For  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court : 
Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  chang'd  ;) 
How,  and  which  way,  I  may  bestow  myself. 
To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 

Val.  Win  her  with  gifts,  if  she  respect  not  words; 
Dumb  jewels  often,  in  their  silent  kind. 
More  than  quick  words,  do  move  a  woman's  mind. 

Duke.  But  she  did  scorn  a  present  that  I  sent  her. 

Val.   A  woman  sometimes  scorns  what  best  con- 
tents her  : 
Send  her  another  ;  never  give  her  o'er  ; 
For  scorn  at  first  makes  after-love  the  more. 
If  she  do  frown,  'tis  not  in  hate  of  you. 
But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you  : 
If  she  do  chide,  'tis  not  to  have  you  gone ; 
For  why,  the  fools  are  mad,  if  left  alone. 
Take  no  repulse,  whatever  she  doth  say  ; 
For,  get  you  gone,  she  doth  not  mean,  away  : 
Flatter,  and  praise,  commend,  extol  their  graces 
Though  ne'er  so  black,  say,  they  have  angels'  faces. 
That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man. 
If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Duke.  But  she,  I  mean,  is  promis'd  by  her  friends 
Unto  a  youthful  gentleman  of  worth  ; 
And  kept  severely  from  resort  of  men. 
That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 

Val.   Why  then  I  would  resort  to  her  by  night. 

Duke.   Ay,  but  the  doors  be  lock'd,  and  keys  kept 
safe. 
That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  night. 

Val.  What  lets,  but  one  may  enter  at  her  window? 

Duke.  Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  the  ground  j 
And  built  so  shelving,  that  one  cannot  climb  it 
Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  life. 


Scene  I. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


31 


Vol.  Why  then,  a  ladder,  quauntly  made  of  cords, 
To  cast  up  with  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks, 
Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero's  tower, 
So  bold  Leander  would  adventure  it. 

Duke>   Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood. 
Advise  me  where  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 

Val.  When  would  you  use  it?  pray,  sir,  tell  me  that. 

Diike.   This  very  night ;  for  love  is  like  a  child, 
That  longs  for  every  tiling  that  he  can  come  by. 

Val.   By  seven  o'clock  1*11  get  you  such  a  ladder. 

Duke.   But,  hark  thee ;  I  will  go  to  her  alone  j 
How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither  ? 

Val.  It  will  be  light,  my  lord,  that  you  may  bear  it 
Under  a  cloak,  that  is  of  any  length. 

Duke.   A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the 
turn? 

Val.   Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  me  see  thy  cloak ; 

I'll  get  me  one  of  such  another  length. 

Val.   Why,  any  cloak  will  serve  the  turn,  my  lord. 

Duke.  How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a  cloak?  — 
I  pray  tliee,  let  me  feel  thy  cloak  upon  me.  — 
What  letter  is  this  same  ?  What's  here  ?  —  To  Silvia. 
And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding  ! 
I'll  be  so  bold  to  break  the  seal  for  once.      [Reads. 

My  thoughts  do  harbour  with  my  Silvia  nightly; 

And  slaves  they  are  to  me,  that  send  themjlyiyig: 
0,  could  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly. 

Himself  would  lodge,  where  senseless  they  are  lying. 
My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  pure  bosom,  rest  them  ; 

WhUe  I,  their  king,  that  thither  them  importune. 
Do  curse  the  grace  that  with  such  grace  hath  blcss'd 
them, 

Because  myself  do  want  my  servant^ sjbrtune  .- 
/  curse  myself,  for  they  are  sent  by  me, 
That  they  should  harbour  where  their  lord  should  be. 
What's  here  ? 
Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee  : 

'Tis  so  ;  and  here's  the  ladder  for  the  purpose.  — 
Why,  Phaeton  (for  thou  art  Merops'  son), 
Wilt  thou  aspire  to  guide  the  heavenly  car. 
And  with  thy  daring  folly  bum  the  world  ? 
Wilt  thou  reach  stars,  because  they  shine  on  thee  ? 
Go,  base  intruder  !  over-weening  slave  ! 
Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates ; 
And  think,  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert. 
Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence : 
Tliank  me  for  this,  more  than  for  all  the  favours, 
Which,  all  too  much,  I  have  bestow'd  on  thee. 
But  if  tliou  linger  in  my  territories, 
Longer  than  swiftest  expedition 
Will  give  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  court. 
By  heaven,  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 
I  ever  bore  my  daughter,  or  thyself. 
Begone,  I  will  not  hear  thy  vain  excuse. 
But,  as  thou  lov'st  thy  life,  make  speed  from  hence. 

[Exit  DOKE. 
Val.   And  why  not  death,  rather  than  live  in  tor- 
ment? 
To  die,  is  to  be  banishM  from  myself; 
And  Silvia  is  myself;  banish'd  from  her, 
Is  self  from  self;  a  deadly  banishment ! 
What  light  is  light,  if  Silvia  be  not  seen  ? 
What  joy  is  joy,  if  Silvia  be  not  by  ? 
Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is  by. 
And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  peifection. 
Except  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night. 
There  is  no  musick  in  the  nightingale  • 
Unless  1  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day, 


There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon  : 
She  is  my  essence ;  and  I  leave  to  be, 
If  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 
Foster'd,  illumin'd,  cherish'd,  kept  alive. 
I  fly  not  death,  to  fly  his  deadly  doom : 
Tarry  I  here,  I  but  attend  on  death ; 
But,  fly  I  hence,  I  fly  away  from  life. 

Enter  Proteus  and  Launce. 

Pro.    Run,  boy,  run,  run,  and  seek  him  out. 

Laun.   So-ho  !  so-ho ! 

Vro.   What  seest  thou  ? 

Laun.   Him  we  go  to  find :  there's  not  a  hair 
on's  head,  but  'tis  a  Valentine. 

Pro.   Valentine  ? 

Val.   No. 

Pro.  Who  then  ?   his  spirit  ? 

Val.   Neither. 

Pro.   What  then  ? 

Vol.   Nothing. 

Laun.  Can  nothing  speak  ?  master,  shall  I  strike? 

Pro.   Whom  would'st  thou  strike  ? 

Laun.   Nothing. 

Pro.   Villain,  forbear. 

Laun.  Why,  sir,  I'll  strike  nothing  :  I  pray  you,— 

Pro.   Sirrah,  I  say,  forbear  ;    Friend  Valentine,  a 
word. 

Vol.  My  ears  are  stopp'd,  and  cannot  hear  good 
news. 
So  much  of  bad  already  hath  possess'd  them. 

Pro.   Then  in  dumb  silence  will  I  bury  mine 
For  they  are  harsh,  untunable,  and  bad. 

Val.   Is  Silvia  dead  ? 

Pro.   No,  Valentine. 

Val.   No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia !  — 
Hath  she  forsworn  me  ? 

Pro.   No,  Valentine. 

Val.  No  Valentine,  if  Silvia  have  forsworn  me  !  — 
What  is  your  news  ? 

Laun.   Sir,  there's  a  proclamation  that  you  are 
vanish'd. 

Pro.  That  thou  art  banished,  O,  that's  the  news; 
From  hence,  from  Silvia,  and  from  me  thy  friend. 

Val.   O,  I  have  fed  upon  this  woe  already. 
And  now  excess  of  it  will  make  me  siu^eit. 
Doth  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished  ? 

Pro.   Ay,  ay  ;  and  she  hath  oflTer'd  to  the  doom, 
(Which,  unrevers'd,  stands  in  effectual  force,) 
A  sea  of  melting  pearl,  which  some  call  tears  : 
Those  at  her  father's  churlish  feet  she  tender'd  ; 
With  them,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  self; 
Wringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became  them. 
As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  woe  : 
But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 
Sad  sighs,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears. 
Could  penetrate  her  uncompassionate  sire  ; 
But  Valentine,  if  he  be  ta'en,  must  die. 
Besides,  her  intercession  chaTd  him  so. 
When  she  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant, 
That  to  close  prison  he  commanded  her. 
With  many  bitter  threats  of  'biding  there. 

Vul.   No  more ;  unless  the  next  word  that  thou 
speak'st. 
Have  some  malignant  power  upon  my  life  : 
If  so,  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  mine  ear, 
As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  dolour. 

Pro.   Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  canst  not  help. 
And  study  help  for  tliat  which  tliou  lament'st. 
Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 
Here  if  thou  stay,  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love  ; 


32 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.       Act  III.  Scene  II. 


Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 
Hope  is  a  lover's  stall';  walk  hence  with  that, 
And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 
Thy  letters  may  be  here,  though  thou  art  hence ; 
"Which,  being  writ  to  me,  shall  be  deliver'd 
Even  in  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love. 
The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate  : 
Come,  I'll  convey  thee  through  the  city  gate  ; 
And,  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that  may  concern  thy  love  affairs : 
As  thou  lov'st  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 
Regard  thy  danger,  and  along  with  me. 

Val.  I  pray  thee,  Launce,  an  if  thou  seest  my  boy. 
Bid  him  make  haste,  and  meet  me  at  the  north  gate. 

Pro.    Go,  sirrali,  find  him  out.    Come,  Valentine. 

Val.   O  my  dear  Silvia !  hapless  Valentine  ! 

[Exeunt  Valentine  ajid  Proteus. 

Laun.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you  ;  and  yet  I  have 
the  wit  to  think  my  master  is  a  kind  of  a  knave  : 
but  that's  all  one,  if  he  but  one  knave.  He  lives 
not  now,  that  knows  me  to  be  in  love  :  yet  I  am  in 
love  ;  but  a  team  of  horse  shall  not  pluck  that  from 
me ;  nor  who  'tis  I  love,  and  yet  'tis  a  woman  :  but 
what  woman,  I  will  not  tell  myself. 

Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  How  now,  signior  Launce  ?  what  news 
with  your  mastership  ? 

Laun.   With  my  master's  ship  ?  why,  it  is  at  sea. 

Speed.  Well,  your  old  vice  still;  mistake  the 
word  :   What  news  then  in  your  paper  ? 

Laun.  The  blackest  news,  that  ever  thou  heard'st. 

Speed.   Why,  man,  how  black  ? 

Laun,  Why,  as  black  as  ink. 

Sp^ed.   Let  me  read  them. 

Laun.  Fie  on  thee,  jolt-head;  thou  canst  not  read. 

Speed.  Thou  liest,  I  can. 

Laun.   I  will  try  thee. 

Speed.   Come,  fool,  come  :   try  me  in  thy  paper. 

Laun.   There ;  and  saint  Nicholas  9  be  thy  speed ! 

Speed.   Imprimis,  She  can  milk. 

Laun.   Ay,  that  she  can. 

Speed.    Item,  She  brews  good  ale. 

Laun.  And  thereof  comes  the  proverb.  —  Bless- 
ing of  your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale. 

Speed.   Item,  She  can  sew. 

LMtm.   That's  as  much  as  to  say,  Can  she  so  ? 

Speed.   Here  follow  her  vices. 

Lau7i.   Close  at  the  heels  of  her  virtues. 

Speed.   Item,  She  doth  talk  in  her  sleep. 

Laun.  It's  no  matter  for  that,  so  she  sleep  not  in 
her  talk. 

Speed.   Item,  She  is  slow  in  words. 

Laun.  O  villain,  that  set  this  down  among  her 
vices !  To  be  slow  in  words,  is  a  woman's  only 
virtue  :  I  pray  thee,  out  with't ;  and  place  it  for  her 
chief  virtue. 

Speed.   Item,  She  is  proud. 

Laun.  Out  with  that  too ;  it  was  Eve's  legacy, 
and  cannot  be  ta'en  from  her. 

Speed.   Item,  She  hath  no  teeth. 

LMun.  I  care  not  for  that  neither,  because  I  love 
crusts. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  curst. ' 

Laun.   Well ;  the  best  is,  she  hath  no  teeth  to  bite. 

Speed.    Item,  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor. 

Laun.  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall :  if  she  will 
not,  I  will ;  for  good  things  should  be  praised. 

9  St.  Nicholas  presided  over  young  scholars. 
1  Troward. 


Speed.   Item,  She  is  too  liberal.'^ 

Laun.  Of  her  tongue  she  cannot ;  for  that's  writ 
down  she  is  slow  of :  of  her  purse  she  shall  not ;  for 
that  I'll  keep  shut.      What's  next  ? 

Speed.   She  has  more  faults  than  hairs,  — 

Laun.   That's  monstrous  :  O,  that  that  were  out ! 

Speed.   And  more  wealth  than  faults. 

Laun.  Why,  that  word  makes  the  faults  gra- 
cious :  Well,  I'll  have  her :  and  if  it  be  a  match, 
as  nothing  is  impossible,  — 

Speed.   What  then? 

Laun.  Why,  then  I  will  tell  thee,  —  that  thy 
master  stays  for  thee  at  the  north  gate. 

Speed.    For  me  ? 

Laun.  For  thee  ?  ay ;  who  art  thou  ?  he  hath  staid 
for  a  better  man  than  thee. 

Speed.  And  must  I  go  to  him  ? 

Laun.  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast  staid 
.so  long,  that  going  will  scarce  serve  the  turn. 

Speed.  Why  didst  not  tell  me  sooner  ?  plague  of 
your  love-letters  !  [Exit. 

Laun.  Now  will  he  be  swinged  for  reading  my 
letter  :  An  unmannerly  slave,  that  will  thrust  him- 
self into  secrets  !  —  I'll  after,  to  rejoice  in  the  boy's 
correction.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II The  same.    A  Room  in  the  Duke's 

Palace. 
Enter  Duke  and  Thurio  ;   Proteus  behind. 

Duke.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not,  but  that  she  will  love 
you, 
Now  Valentine  is  banish'd  from  her  sight. 

Thu.   Since  his  exile  she  hath  despised  me  most. 
Forsworn  my  company,  and  rail'd  at  me, 
That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 

Duke.   This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched  3  in  ice ;  which  with  an  hour's  heat 
Dissolves  to  water,  and  doth  lose  his  form. 
A  little  time  will  melt  her  frozen  thoughts, 
And  worthless  Valentine  shall  be  forgot.  — 
How  now,  sir  Proteus  ?  Is  your  countryman, 
According  to  our  proclamation,  gone  ?  ^ 

Pro.   Gone,  my  good  lord.  fl  i 

Duke.   My  daughter  takes  his  going  grievously. 

Pro.   A  little  time,  my  lord,  will  kill  that  grief. 

Duke.   So  I  believe ;  but  Thurio  thinks  not  so.— 
Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee 
f  For  thou  hast  shewn  some  sign  of  good  desert) 
Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 

Pro.   Longer  than  L  prove  loyal  to  your  grace, 
Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  grace. 

Duke.  Thou  know'st  how  willingly  I  would  effect 
The  match  between  Sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 

Pro.   I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.   And  also,  I  tliink,  thou  art  not  ignorant 
How  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 

Pro.   She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was  here. 

Duke.    Ay,  and  perversely  she  pers^vers  so. 
What  might  we  do  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine,  and  love  sir  Thurio  ? 

Pro.  The  best  way  is  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice,  and  poor  descent ; 
Three  things  that  w^omen  highly  hold  in  hate. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  she'll  think,  that  it  is  spoke  in  hate. 

Pro.   Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 
Therefore  it  must,  with  circumstance,  be  spoken 
By  one,  whom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend. 

Duke.  Then  you  must  undertake  to  slander  him. 


2  Licentious  in  language. 


3  Cut. 


ACT  IV.    Scene  I.       TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


33 


Pro.   And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loth  to  do : 
'Tis  an  ill  office  for  a  gentleman ; 
Especially,  against  Iiis  very  friend. 

Duke.  Where  your  good  word  cannot  advantage  him, 
Your  slander  never  can  endamage  him ; 
Therefore  the  office  is  indifferent, 
Being  entreated  to  it  by  your  friend. 

Pro.   You  have  prevail'd,  my  lord  :  if  I  can  do  it. 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise, 
She  shall  not  long  continue  love  to  him. 
But  say,  this  weed  her  love  from  Valentine, 
It  follows  not  that  she  will  love  sir  Thurio. 

Tliu.  Therefore,  as  you  unwind  her  love  from  him. 
Lest  it  should  ravel,  and  be  good  to  none, 
You  must  provide  to  bottom  it  on  me : 
Which  must  be  done,  by  praising  me  as  much 
As  you  in  worth  dispraise  sir  Valentine. 

Duke.  And,  Proteus,  we  dare  trust  you  in  this  kind ; 
Because  we  know,  on  Valentine's  report. 
You  are  already  love's  firm  votary. 
And  cannot  soon  revolt  and  change  your  mind. 
Upon  this  warrant  shall  you  have  access, 
Where  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large ; 
For  she  is  lumpish,  heavy,  melancholy. 
And,  for  your  friend's  sake,  will  be  glad  of  you  ; 
Where  you  may  temper  her,  by  your  persuasion, 
To  hate  young  Valentine,  and  love  my  friend. 
Pro.    As  much  as  I  can  do,  I  will  effect :  — 
But  you,  sir  Thurio,  are  not  sharp  enough  ; 
You  must  lay  lime  \  to  tangle  her  desires. 


By  wailful  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 
Should  be  full  fraught  with  serviceable  vows. 

Duke.  Ay,  much  the  force  of  heaven-bred  poesy. 

Pro.    Say,  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 
You  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  your  heart : 
Write  till  your  ink  be  dry ;  and  with  your  tears 
Moist  it  again ;  and  frame  some  feeling  line, 
That  may  discover  such  integrity  :  — 
For  Orpheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poets'  sinews ; 
Whose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and  stones, 
Make  tigers  tame,  and  huge  leviathans 
Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands. 
After  your  dire  lamenting  elegies. 
Visit  by  night  your  lady's  chamber-window 
With  some  sweet  concert :  to  their  instruments 
Tune  a  deploring  dump  ^ ;  the  night's  dead  silence 
Will  well  become  such  sweet  complaining  grievance. 
This,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her. 
Duke.  Tills  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been  in  love. 

Tim.  And  thy  advice  this  night  I'll  put  in  practice. 
Therefore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction-giver. 
Let  us  into  the  city  presently 
To  sort  7  some  gentlemen  well  skill'd  in  musick : 
I  have  a  sonnet,  that  will  serve  the  turn, 
To  give  tlie  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 

Duke.   About  it,  gentlemen. 

Pro.  We'll  wait  upon  your  grace  till  after  supper : 
And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 

DuJce.  Even  now  about  it :   I  will  pardon  you. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I A  Forest  near  Mantua. 

Enter  certain  Out-laws. 

1  Out.   Fellows,  stand  fast ;  I  see  a  passenger. 

2  Out.   If  there  be  ten,  shrink  not,  but  down 

with  'em. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Speed. 

3  Out.   Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have 

about  you ; 
If  not,  we'll  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you. 

Speed.   Sir,  we  are  undone  !  these  are  the  villains 
That  all  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 

Vol.   My  friends  — 

1  Out.   That's  not  so,  sir ;  we  are  your  enemies. 

2  Out.   Peace  ;  we'll  hear  him. 

3  Out.   Ay,  by  my  beard,  will  we ; 
For  he's  a  proper  *  man. 

Vol.  Then  know,  that  I  have  little  wealth  to  lose  j 
A  man  I  am,  cross'd  with  adversity : 
My  riches  are  these  poor  habiliments. 
Of  which  if  you  should  here  disfumish  me, 
You  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 

2  Out.  Whither  travel  you  ? 
Vol.   To  Verona. 

1  Out.   Whence  came  you  ? 
Vol.   From  Milan. 

3  Out.   Have  you  long  sojoum'd  there  ? 

Vol.   Some  sixteen  months ;   and  longer  might 
have  staid. 
If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 
1  Out.  What,  were  you  banish'd  thence  ? 
Vol.  I  was. 


Birdlime. 


■»  Wen  looking. 


2  Out.   For  what  off'ence  ? 

Vol.  For  that  which  now  torments  me  to  rehearse : 
I  kill'd  a  man,  whose  death  I  much  repent ; 
But  yet  I  slew  him  manfully  in  fight. 
Without  false  vantage,  or  base  treachery. 

1  Out.  Why  ne'er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  so 
But  were  you  banish'd  for  so  small  a  fault  ? 

Vol.   I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom. 

1  Out.   Have  you  the  tongues  ?  8 

Vol.  My  youthful  travel  therein  made  me  happy  ; 
Or  else  I  often  had  been  miserable. 

3  Out.  By  the  bare  scalp  of  Robin  Hood's  fat  friar, 
This  fellow  were  a  king  for  our  wild  faction. 

1  Out.   We'll  have  him  :   sirs,  a  word. 
Sj)eed.   Master,  be  one  of  them  ; 

It  is  an  honourable  kind  of  thievery. 
Fal.   Peace,  villain  ! 

2  Out.  Tell  us  this :  Have  you  any  thing  to  take 

to? 
Val.   Nothing,  but  my  fortune. 

3  Out.  Know  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentlemen. 
Such  as  the  fury  of  ungovemed  youth 

Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful  »  men. 

1  Out.   But  to  the  purpose,  — you  are  beautified 
With  goodly  shape  ;  and  by  your  own  report 

A  linguist ;  and  a  man  of  such  perfection, 
As  we  do  in  our  quality  much  want ;  — 

2  Out.   Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banish'd  man. 
Therefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you  : 

Are  you  content  to  be  our  general  ? 

To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 

And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness  ? 


•  Mournful  elegy. 

•  Languages. 


1  Choose  out 
>  LawAiL 


I 


3i 


TWO  GENTLExMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Act  IV. 


3  Out.   What  say'st  thou  ?  wilt  thou  be  of  our 
consort  ? 
Say,  ay,  and  bo  the  captain  of  us  all  : 
We'll  do  tliee  homage,  and  be  rul'd  by  thee, 
Love  thee  as  our  commander,  and  our  king. 

1  Oat.  But  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy,  thou  diest. 

2  Out.   Thou  shalt  not  live  to  brag  what  we  have 

offer'd. 
Val.   I  take  your  offer,  and  will  live  with  you  ; 
Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
On  silly  women,  or  poor  passengers. 

3  Out    No,  we  detest  such  vile  base  practices. 
Como,  go  with  us,  we'll  bring  thee  to  our  crews. 
And  shew  thee  all  the  treasure  we  have  got ; 
Which,  with  ourselves,  all  rest  at  thy  dispose. 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.  —  Milan.     Court  of  the  Palace. 
Enter  Proteus. 

Pro.   Already  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 
And  now  I  must  be  as  unjust  to  Thurio. 
Under  the  colour  of  commending  him, 
I  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer : 
But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy. 
To  be  corrupted  with  my  worthless  gifts. 
When  1  protest  true  loyalty  to  her, 
She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend  : 
When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows, 
She  bids  me  think,  how  I  have  been  forsworn 
In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  lov'd  : 
And,  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips  9, 
The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover's  hope, 
Yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love. 
The  more  it  grows  and  fawneth  on  her  still. 
But  here  comes  Thurio :  now  must  we  to  her  window, 
And  give  some  evening  musick  to  her  ear. 

Enter  Thurio,  and  Musicians. 

Tku.  How  now,  sir  Proteus  ?  are  you  crept  before 
us? 

Pro.  Ay,  gentle  Thurio  ;  for  you  know,  that  love 
Will  creep  in  service  where  it  cannot  go. 

Thu.   Ay,  but  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not  here. 

Pro.    Sir,  but  I  do ;  or  else  I  would  be  hence. 

Thu.   Whom?   Silvia? 

Pro.    Ay,  Silvia,  —  for  your  sake. 

Thu.  I  thank  you  for  your  own.  Now,  gentlemen. 
Let's  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  a  while. 

Enter  Host,  at  a  distance;  and  J vi.ia  in  boy's  clothes. 

Host.  Now,  my  young  guest !  methinks  you're 
allychoUy  ;    I  pray  you,  why  is  it  ? 

Jul.  Marry,  mine  host,  because  I  cannot  be  merry. 

Host.  Come,  we'll  have  you  merry :  I'll  bring  you 
where  you  shall  hear  musick,  and  see  the  gentleman 
that  you  ask'd  for. 

Jul.    But  shall  I  hear  him  speak  ? 

Host.    Ay,  that  you  shall. 

Jul.    That  will  be  musick.  [Musick  plays. 

Host.    Hark!  hark! 

Jul.    Is  he  among  these  ? 

Host.   Ay  :  but  peace,  let's  hear  'em. 

SONG. 

Who  is  Silvia  ?   What  is  she  ? 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  9 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she  ; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  he. 

9  Passionate  reproaches. 


Is  she  kind,  as  she  is  fair  9 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  : 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him,  of  his  blindness  ; 
And,  being  help  d,  inhabits  there. 

Tlien  to  Silvia  let  ns  sing, 

That  SUvia  is  excelling ; 
Site  excels  each  mortal  thing. 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling  ; 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Host.    How  now  ?  are  you  sadder  than  you  were 
before  ? 
How  do  you,  man  ?  the  musick  likes  you  not. 

Jul.  You  mistake ;  the  musician  likes  me  not. 

Host.   Why,  my  pretty  youth  ? 

Jul.    He  plays  false,  father. 

Host.    How  ?  out  of  tune  on  the  strings  ? 

Jul.  Not  so  ;  but  yet  so  false  that  he  grieves  my 
very  heart-strings. 

Host.   You  have  a  quick  car. 

Jul.  Ay,  I  would  I  were  deaf !  it  makes  me  have 
a  slow  heart. 

Host.   I  perceive  you  delight  not  in  musick. 

Jul.   Not  a  whit,  when  it  jars  so. 

Host.   Hark,  what  fine  change  is  in  the  musick  I 

Jul.   Ay  ;  that  change  is  the  spite. 

Host.  You  would  have  them  always  play  but  one 
thing  ? 

Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one  thing. 
But,  host,  doth  this  sir  Proteus,  that  we  talk  on, 
often  resort  unto  this  gentlewoman  ? 

Host.  I  tell  you  what  Launce,  his  man,  told  me, 
he  loved  her  out  of  all  nick,  i 

Jul.    Where  is  Launce  ? 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog  ;  which,  to-morrow, 
by  his  master's  command,  he  must  carry  for  a  pre- 
sent to  his  lady. 

Jul.   Peace  !  stand  aside  !  the  company  parts. 

Pro.    Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  you  !   I  will  so  plead. 
That  you  shall  say,  my  cunning  drift  excels. 
Thu.   Where  meet  we? 

Pro.    At  saint  Gregory's  well. 

Thu.   Farewell.  [Exeunt  Thurio  anrf  Musicians. 

Silvia  appears  above,  at  her  window. 

Pro.   Madam,  good  even  to  your  ladyship, 

SU.   I  thank  you  for  your  musick,  gentlemen 
Who  is  that,  that  spake  ? 

Pro.  One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart's  truth, 
You'd  quickly  learn  to  know  him  by  his  voice. 

Sil.   Sir  Proteus,  as  I  take  it. 

Pro.    Sir  Proteus,  gentle  lady,. and  your  servant. 

Sil.    What  is  your  will  ? 

Pro.  That  I  may  compass  yours. 

SU.  You  have  your  wish ;  my  will  is  even  this,  — 
That  presently  you  hie  you  home  to  bed. 
Thou  subtle,  perjur'd,  false,  disloyal  man  ! 
Think'st  thou,  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless. 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery. 
That  hast  deceiv'd  so  many  with  thy  vows  ? 
Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 
For  me,  —  by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear, 
I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request. 
That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit ; 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself. 
Even  for  this  time  I  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 

Pro.  I  grant,  sweet  love,  that  I  did  love  a  lady 
But  she  is  dead. 

J  Beyond  all  reckoning. 


4 

ith,  11 


Scene  IV. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


35 


Jul.  'Twcre  falso,  if  I  should  speak  it ; 

For  I  am  sure,  she  is  not  buried.  [Aside. 

SH.   &iy  that  she  be  ;  yet  Valentine,  thy  friend, 
Survives  ;  to  vv^hom,  thyself  art  witness, 
I  am  bethroth'd  :    And  art  thou  not  asham'd 
To  wrong  him  with  thy  importunacy  ? 

Pro.    I  likewise  hear,  tliat  Valentine  is  dead. 

Sil.'  And  so,  suppose,  am  I ;   for  in  his  grave 
Assure  thyself  my  love  is  buried. 

Pro.   Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  earth. 

Sil.    Go  to  thy  lady's  grave,  and  call  her's  thence; 
Or,  at  the  least,  in  her's  sepulchre  thine. 

Jul.    He  heard  not  that.  [Axiie. 

Pro.    Madam,  if  your  heart  be  so  obdurate, 
Vouchsafe  me  yet  your  picture  for  my  love, 
The  picture  that  is  hanging  in  your  chamber  ; 
To  that  I'll  speak,  to  that  I'll  sigh  and  weep  : 
For,  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  else  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow  ; 
And  to  your  shadow,  I  will  make  true  love. 

Jul.   If  'twere  a  substance,  you  would,  sure,  de- 
ceive it, 
And  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  I  am.  [Aside. 

Sil.   I  am  very  loth  to  be  your  idol,  sir ; 
But,  since  your  falsehood  shall  become  you  well 
To  worship  shadows,  and  adore  false  shapes, 
Send  to  me  in  the  morning,  and  I'll  send  it : 
And  so  good  rest. 

Pro.  As  wretches  have  o'er  night, 

Tliat  wait  for  execution  in  the  mom. 

[Ereunt  Proteus,  and  Silvia  frotn  above. 

Jul.    Host,  will  you  go  ? 

Host.    By  my  haJlidom  ',  I  was  fast  asleep. 

Jul.   Pray  you,  where  lies  sir  Proteus  ? 

Host.   Marry,  at  my  house :   Trust  me,  I  think 
'tis  almost  day. 

JuL   Not  so  ;  but  it  hath  been  the  longest  night 
Tliat  e'er  I  watch'd,  and  the  most  heaviest.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. 


The  same. 


Enter  Eglamour. 
Egl.   This  is  the  hour  that  madam  Silvia 
Entreated  me  to  call,  and  know  her  mind ; 
There  some  great  matter  she'd  employ  me  in.  — 
Madam,  madam  ! 

Silvia  appears  above,  at  her  tvindow. 

Sil.  Who  calls? 

Egl.  Your  servant,  and  your  friend ; 

One  that  attends  your  ladyship's  command. 

Sil.  Sir  Eglamour,  a  thousand  times  good-morrow. 

Egl.   As  many,  wortliy  lady  to  yourself. 
According  to  your  ladyship's  impose  % 
I  am  thus  early  come,  to  know  what  service 
It  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 

Sil.   O  Eglamour,  thou  art  a  gentleman, 
(Think  not  I  flatter,  for,  I  swear,  I  do  not,) 
Valiant,  wise,  remorsefuH,  well  accomplish'd. 
Thou  art  not  ignorant,  what  dear  good  will 
I  bear  unto  the  banish'd  Valentine  ; 
Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 
Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abhorr'd. 
Tliyself  hast  lov'd ;  and  1  have  heard  thee  say, 
No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart. 
As  when  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died, 
I'pon  whose  grave  tliou  vow'dst  pure  chastity. 
Sir  Eglamour,  I  would  to  Valentine, 


'  Holy  dame,  blessed  lady. 
*  Compassionate. 


3  Injunction,  command. 


To  Mantua,  where,  I  hear,  he  makes  al)ode  ; 

And,  for  the  ways  are  dangerous  to  pass, 

I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company. 

Upon  whose  faith  and  honour  1  repose. 

Urge  not  my  father's  anger,  Eglamour, 

But  think  upon  my  grief,  a  lady's  grief; 

And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence. 

To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match. 

Which  heaven  and  fortune  still  reward  with  plagues. 

I  do  desire  tliee,  even  from  a  heart 

As  full  of  sorrows  as  the  sea  of  sands, 

To  bear  me  company,  and  go  with  me  : 

If  not,  to  hide  what  I  have  said  to  thee. 

That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 

Egl.   Madam,  I  pity  much  your  grievances . 
Which  since  I  know  tliey  virtuously  are  plac'd, 
I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you  ; 
Recking  ^  as  little  what  betideth  mc. 
As  much  I  wish  all  good  befortune  you. 
When  will  you  go  ? 

SU.  This  evening  coming. 

Egl.   Where  shall  I  meet  you  ? 

Sil.  At  friar  Patrick's  cell, 

Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 

Egl.   I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship : 
Good-morrow,  gentle  lady. 

Sil.    Good-morrow,  kind  sir  Eglamour.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  IVie  same. 
Enter  Launch,  unth  his  dog. 
When  a  man's  servant  shall  play  tlie  cur  with  him, 
look  you,  it  goes  hard  :  one  that  I  brought  up  of  a 
puppy;  one  that  I  saved  from  drowning,  when  tliree 
or  four  of  his  blind  brothers  and  sisters  went  to  it ! 
1  have  taught  him  —  even  as  one  would  say  pre- 
cisely, Tims  I  would  teach  a  dog.  I  was  sent  to 
deliver  him,  as  a  present  to  mistress  Silvia,  from 
my  master ;  and  I  came  no  sooner  into  the  dining- 
chamber,  but  he  steps  me  to  her  trencher,  and 
steals  her  capon's  leg.  O,  'tis  a  foul  thing,  whei^a 
cur  cannot  keep^  himself  in  all  companies!  I  would 
have,  as  one  should  say,  one  that  takes  upon  him 
to  be  a  dog  indeed,  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  dog  at  all 
things.  If  I  had  not  had  more  wit  than  he,  to  take 
a  fault  upon  me  that  he  did,  I  tliink  verily  he  had 
been  hanged  for't ;  sure  as  I  live,  he  had  suflered 
for't.  I  have  sat  in  the  stocks  for  puddings  he  hath 
stolen,  otherwise  he  had  l)een  executed :  I  have 
stood  on  the  pillory  for  geese  he  hath  killed,  other- 
wise he  had  suffered  for't :  thou  tliink'st  not  of  this 
now ! 

Enter  Proteus  and  Julia. 

Pro.    Sebastian  is  thy  name?  I  like  tijcc  well, 
And  will  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 

Jul.   In  what  you  please  ; —  I  will  do  what  I  can. 

Pro.   I  hope  thou  wilt.  —  How  now,  you  idle 
peasant?  [To  Launck. 

Where  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  I  carried  mistress  Silvia  llie 
dog  you  bade  me. 

Pro.   And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  she  says,  your  dog  w-as  a  cur;  and 
tells  you,  currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for  such  a 
present. 

Pro*   But  she  received  my  dogl 

Laun.  No,  indeed,  she  did  not:  here  have  I 
brought  him  back  again. 


Caring. 


D  2 


•  Restrain. 


86 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.     Act  IV.    Scene  IV. 


Pro.   What,  didst  thou  ofler  her  this  from  me  ? 

Laun.  Ay,  sir;  the  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from 
me  by  the  hangman's  boys  in  the  market-place  : 
and  then  I  offered  her  mine  own  ;  who  is  a  dog  as 
big  as  ten  of  yours,  and  therefore  the  gift  the  greater. 

Pro.    Go,  get  thee  hence,  and  find  my  dog  again, 
Or  ne'er  return  again  into  my  sight. 
Away,  I  say  :    Stay'st  thou  to  vex  me  here  ? 
A  slave,  that,  still  an  end',  turns  me  to  shame. 

{Exit  Launce. 
Sebastian,  I  have  entertained  thee, 
Partly,  that  I  have  need  of  sucli  a  youth, 
That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business. 
For  'tis  no  trusting  to  yon  foolish  lowt ; 
But,  chiefly,  for  thy  face,  and  thy  behaviour ; 
Which  (if  my  augury  deceive  me  not) 
Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune,  and  truth  : 
Tlierefore  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain  thee. 
Go  presently,  and  take  this  ring  with  thee, 
Deliver  it  to  madam  Silvia  : 
She  loved  me  well,  deliver'd  it  to  me. 

Jul,    It  seems  you  loved   her  not,  to  leave  her 
token  ; 
Slie's  dead,  belike. 

Pro.  Not  so ;  I  think,  she  lives. 

Jul.   Alas ! 

Pro.   Why  dost  thou  cry,  alas  ? 

Jul.   I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her. 

Pro.   Wherefore  should'st  thou  pity  her  ? 

Jul.   Because,  methinks,  that  she  lov'd  you  as  well 
As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia  : 
She  dreams  on  him,  that  has  forgot  her  love ; 
You  dote  on  her,  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 
'Tis  pity,  love  should  be  so  contrary; 
And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry,  alas ! 

Pro.   Well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 
This  letter  ;  —  That's  her  chamber.  —  Tell  my  lady 
I  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 
Your  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber, 
Where  thou  shalt  find  me  sad  and  solitary. 
*  \_Exit  Proteus. 

Jul.  How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message? 
Alas,  poor  Proteus  !  thou  hast  entertain'd 
A  fox,  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs : 
Alas,  poor  fool  !  why  do  I  pity  him 
That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me  ? 
Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me  ; 
Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pity  him. 
This  ring  I  gave  him,  when  he  parted  from  me, 
To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good  will : 
And  now  am  I  (unhappy  messenger) 
To  plead  for  that  which  I  would  not  obtain ; 
To  carry  that  which  I  would  have  refus'd ; 
To  praise  his  faith,  which  I  would  have  disprais'd. 
I  am  my  master's  true  confirmed  love  ; 
But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master. 
Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 
Yet  I  will  woo  for  him ;  but  yet  so  coldy, 
As,  heaven  it  knows,  I  would  not  have  him  speed. 

Enter  Silvia  attended. 
Gentlewoman,  good  day  !   I  pray  you,  be  my  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  madam  Silvia. 

SU.   What  would  you  with  her,  if  that  I  be  she  ? 

Jul.   If  you  be  she,  I  do  entreat  your  patience 
To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 

SU.    From  whom? 

Jul.   From  my  master,  sir  Proteus,  madam. 

SU.   O  !  —  he  sends  you  for  a  picture  ? 
7  In  the  end 


Jul.    Ay,  madam. 

SU.   Ursula,  bring  my  picture  there. 

[Picture  brought. 
Go,  give  your  master  this :   tell  him  from  me. 
One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget, 
Would  better  fit  his  chamber  than  this  shadow. 

Jul.   Madam,  please  you  peruse  this  letter.  — 
Pardon  me,  madam ;  I  have  unadvis'd 
Deliver'd  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not ; 
This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship. 

SU.   I  pray  thee,  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

Jul.   It  may  not  be  ;  good  madam,  pardon  me. 

SU.   There,  hold. 
I  will  not  look  upon  your  master's  lines : 
I  know  they  are  stuflT'd  with  protestations. 
And  full  of  new-found  oaths  ;  which  he  will  break 
As  easily  as  I  do  tear  his  paper. 

Jul.   Madam,  he  sends  your  ladyship  this  ring. 

SU.   The  more  shame  for  him  tliat  he  sends  it  me : 
For  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times. 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure : 
Though  his  false  finger  hath  profan'd  the  ring. 
Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia;  so  much  wrong. 

Jul.    She  thanks  you. 

SU.   What  say'st  thou  ? 

Jul.   I  thank  you,  madam,  that  you  tender  her ; 
Poor  gentlewoman  !  my  master  wrongs  her  much. 

SU.   Dost  thou  know  her  ? 

Jul.   Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself. 
To  think  upon  her  woes,  I  do  protest. 
That  I  have  wept  an  hundred  several  times. 

SU.  Belike,  she  thinks  that  Proteus  hath  forsook  her. 

Jul.   I   think  she  doth,  and  that's   her  cause  of 
sorrow. 

SU.    Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 

Jul.    She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is : 
When  she  did  think  my  master  lov'd  her  well. 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you  ; 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass. 
And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away. 
The  air  hath  starv'd  the  roses  in  her  cheeks. 
And  pinch'd  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face, 
That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

SU.   How  tall  was  she  ? 

Jul.    About  my  stature  :   for  at  Pentecost  % 
When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play'd, 
Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part, 
And  I  was  trimm'd  in  madam  Julia's  gown  ; 
Which  serv'd  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgment. 
As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me  : 
Therefore  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 
And,  at  that  time,  I  made  her  weep  a-good  9, 
For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part : 
Madam,  'twas  Ariadne,  passioning 
For  Theseus'  perjury,  and  unjust  flight ; 
Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears, 
That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal, 
Wept  bitterly ;  and,  would  I  might  be  dead. 
If  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow ! 

SU.   She  is  beholden  to  thee,  gentle  youth  !  — 
Alas,  poor  lady  !  desolate  and  left !  — 
L  weep  myself  to  think  upon  thy  words. 
Here,  youth,  there  is  my  purse  ;   I  give  thee  this 
For  thy  sweet  mistress'  sake,  because  thou  lov'st  her. 
Farewell.  [ExU  Silvia. 

Jul.    And  she  shall  thank  you  for't,  if  e'er  you 
know  her.  — 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild,  and  beautiful. 


8  Whitsuntide. 


9  In  good  earnest 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


37 


I  hope  my  master's  suit  will  be  but  cold, 
Since  she  respects  my  mistress'  love  so  much. 
Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself ! 
Here  is  her  picture  :    Let  me  see  ;   I  tliink, 
If  I  had  such  a  tire  ',  this  face  of  mine 
Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers : 
And  yet  the  painter  flatter'd  her  a  little, 
Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 
Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow  : 
If  that  be  all  the  difference  in  his  love, 
I'll  get  me  such  a  colour'd  periwig. 
Her  eyes  are  grey  as  glass ;  and  so  are  mine  : 
Ay,  but  her  forehead's  low,  and  mine's  as  high. 


What  siiould  it  be,  that  he  respects  in  her. 

But  I  can  make  respective  in  myself. 

If  this  fond  love  were  not  a  blinded  god  ? 

Come,  shadow,  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up, 

For  'tis  thy  rival.      O  thou  senseless  form, 

Thou  shalt  be  worshipp'd,  kiss'd,  lov'd,  and  ador'd ; 

And,  were  there  sense  in  his  idolatry. 

My  substance  should  be  statue  in  thy  stead. 

I'll  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress'  sake. 

That  us'd  me  so ;  or  else,  by  Jove  I  vow, 

I  should  have  scratch'd  out  your  unseeing  eyes, 

To  make  my  master  out  of  love  w  ith  thee. 

[Ejiit. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  Thesante.     An  Abbey. 

Enter  Eglamour. 

Egl.   The  sim  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky  ; 
And  now,  it  is  about  the  very  hour 
That  Silvia,  at  Patrick's  cell,  should  meet  me. 
She  will  not  fail ;  for  lovers  break  not  hours, 
Unless  it  be  to  come  before  their  time ; 
So  much  they  spur  their  expedition. 

Enter  Silvia. 
See,  where  she  comes  :   Lady,  a  happy  evening ! 

SU.   Amen,  amen  !  go  on,  good  Eglamour  ! 
Out  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey  wall ; 
I  fear,  I  am  attended  by  some  spies. 

Egl.  Fear  not:  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues  off; 
If  we  recover  that,  we  are  sure  enough.     \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  same.     An  Apartment  in  the 
Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  Thurio,  Proteus,  and  Julia. 

Thu^   Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Silvia  to  my  suit  ? 

Pro.   O,  sir,  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was ; 
And  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 

Thu.   What,  that  my  leg  is  too  long? 

Pro.   No  ;  that  it  is  too  little. 

Thii.  I'll  wear  a  boot  to  make  it  somewhat  rounder. 

Pro.  But  love  will  not  be  spurr'd  to  what  it  loaths. 

Thu.   What  says  she  to  my  face  ? 

Pro.   She  says,  it  is  a  fair  one. 

Thu.  Nay,  then,  the  wanton  lies;  my  face  is  black. 

Pro.    But  pearls  are  fair  ;  and  the  old  saying  is. 
Black  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies'  eyes. 

Jul.  'Tis  true ;  such  pearls  as  put  out  ladies'  eyes ; 
For  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  them.    [Aside. 

Thu.   How  likes  she  my  discourse  ? 

Pro.   Ill,  when  you  talk  of  war. 

T/iu.   But  well,  when  I  discourse  of  love,  and 
peace  ? 

Jul.   But  better,  indeed,  when   you    hold  your 
peace.  [Aside. 

Thu.   What  says  she  to  my  valour? 

Pro.   O,  sir,  she  makes  no  doubt  of  that. 

Jul.  She  needs  not,  when  she  knows  it  cowardice. 

[Aside. 

Thu.   What  says  she  to  my  birth  ? 

Pro.   That  you  are  well  deriv'd. 

Jul.   True;  from  a  gentleman  to  a  fool.    [Aside. 
'  Hcad.drcw. 


Thu.  Considers  she  my  possessions  ? 

Pro.   O,  ay  ;  and  pities  them. 

r/jM.   Wherefore? 

Jid.  That  such  an  ass  should  owe  -  them.    [Aside. 

Pro.   That  they  are  out  by  lease. 

Jul.   Here  comes  the  duke. 

Ejiter  Duke. 

Duke.  How  now,  sir  Proteus?  how  now,  Thurio? 
Which  of  you  saw  sir  Eglamour  of  late  ? 

Thu.   Not  I. 

Pro.  Nor  I. 

Duke.  Saw  you  my  daughter  ? 

Pro.  Neither. 

Duke.   Why,  then,  she's  fled  unto  that  peasant 
Valentine ; 
And  Eglamour  is  in  her  company. 
'Tis  true ;  for  friar  Laurence  met  them  both. 
As  he  in  penance  wander'd  through  the  forest : 
Him  he  knew  well,  and  guess'd  that  it  was  she  ; 
But,  being  mask'd,  he  was  not  sure  of  it : 
Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 
At  Patrick's  cell  this  even  ;  and  there  she  was  not : 
These  likelihoods  confirm  her  flight  from  hence. 
Therefore,  I  pray  you,  stand  not  to  discourse, 
But  mount  you  presently  ;  and  meet  with  me 
Upon  the  rising  of  the  mountain  foot 
That  leads  towards  Mantua,  whither  they  are  fled  : 
Despatch,  sweet  gentlemen,  and  follow  me.    [Exit. 

Thu.   Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish  girl, 
Tliat  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her : 
I'll  after ;  more  to  be  revenged  on  Eglamour, 
Than  for  the  love  of  reckless  3  Silvia.  [Exit, 

Pro.   And  I  will  follow,  more  for  Silvia's  love. 
Than  hate  of  Eglamour,  that  goes  with  her.   [Exit. 

Jul.    And  I  will  follow,  more  to  cross  that  love, 
Than  hate  for  Silvia,  that  is  gone  for  love.     [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  —  Frontiers  of  Mantua.    The  Forest. 
Enter  Silvla  and  Outlaws. 

Out.    Come,  come ; 
Be  patient,  we  must  bring  you  to  our  captain. 

Sil.    A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  leam'd  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 

2  Out.   Come,  bring  her  away. 

1  Out.  Where  is  the  gentleman  that  was  with  her  ? 

3  Out.    Being  nimble-footed,  he  hath  out-run  us, 
But  Moyscs,  and  Valerius,  follow  him. 

^  Own.  '  Carelcu. 

D3 


98 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Act  V 


Go  thou  with  her  to  the  west  end  of  the  wood, 
There  is  our  captain  ;  we'll  follow  him  that's  fled ; 
The  thicket  is  beset,  he  cannot  'scape. 

1  Out.   Come,  1  must  bring  you  to  our  captain's 
cave; 
Fear  not ;  he  bears  an  honourable  mind, 
And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 

Sil.  O  Valentine,  this  I  endure  for  thee !  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Valentine. 

Val.   How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  ! 
This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns : 
Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 
A  nd,  to  the  nightingale's  complaining  notes, 
Tune  my  distresses,  and  record  4  my  woes. 

0  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast. 
Leave  not  the  mansion  so  long  tenantless ; 
Lest,  growing  ruinous,  the  building  fall, 
And  leave  no  memory  of  what  it  was  ! 
Repair  me  with  thy  presence,  Silvia ; 

Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  forlorn  swain  !  — 
"What  halloing,  and  what  stir  is  this  to-day  ? 
These  are  my  mates,  that  make  their  wills  their  law, 
Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase  : 
They  love  me  well ;  yet  I  have  much  to  do. 
To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages. 
Withdraw  thee,  Valentine  :   who's  this  comes  here  ? 

[Steps  aside. 

Enter  Proteus,  Silvia,  and  Julia. 

Pro.   Madam,  this  service  I  have  done  for  you, 
(Though  you  respect  not  aught  your  servant  doth,) 
To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  him 
That  would  have  forc'd  your  honour  and  your  love. 
Vouchsafe  me  for  my  meed  but  one  fair  look ; 
A  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg. 
And  less  than  this,  I  am  sure,  you  cannot  give. 

Val.    How  like  a  dream  is  this  I  see  and  hear  ! 
Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  a  while.    \_Aside. 

Sil.   O  miserable,  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 

Pro.   Unhappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came  ; 
But,  by  my  coming,  I  have  made  you  happy. 

Sil.    By  thy  approach  thou  mak'st  me  most  un- 
happy. 

Jul.   And  me,  when  he  approacheth  to  your  pre- 
sence. [Aside. 

Sil.   Had  I  been  seiz'd  by  a  hungry  lion, 

1  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 
Rather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me. 
O,  heaven  be  judge  how  I  love  Valentine, 
Whose  life's  as  tender  to  me  as  my  soul ; 
And  full  as  much  (for  more  there  cannot  be) 
I  do  detest  false  perjur'd  Proteus ; 
Therefore  begone,  solicit  me  no  more. 

Pro.   What  dangerous  action,   stood  it  next  to 
death. 
Would  I  not  undergo  for  one  calm  look  ? 
O,  'tis  the  curse  in  love,  and  still  approv'd  ^, 
When  women  cannot  love  where  they're  belov'd. 

Sil.  When  Proteus  cannot  love  where  he's  belov'd. 
Read  over  Julia's  heart,  thy  first  best  love. 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy  faith 
Into  a  thousand  oaths  ;  and  all  those  oaths 
Descended  into  perjury,  to  love  me. 
Thou  hast  no  faith  left  now,  unless  thou  hadst  two. 
And  tijat's  far  worse  than  none :  better  have  none 


Sing. 


*  Felt,  experienced. 


Than  plural  faith,  which  is  too  much  by  one : 
Thou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend  ! 

Pro.  In  love, 

Who  respects  friend  ? 

Sil.  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.   Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  words 
Can  no  way  change  you  to  a  milder  form, 
I'll  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arms'  end ; 
And  love  you  'gainst  the  nature  of  love,  force  you. 

Sil.   O  heaven ! 

Pro.  I'll  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

Val.   Rufiian,  let  go  that  rude  uncivil  touch  j 
Thou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion  ! 

Pro.  Valentine ! 

Val.  Thou  common  friend,  that's  without  faith  or 
^  love ; 
( For  such  is  a  friend  now,)  treacherous  man ! 
Thou  hast  beguil'd  my  hopes ;  nought  but  mine  eye 
Could  have  persuaded  me  :    Now  I  dare  not  say 
I  have  one  friend  alive ;  thou  would'st  disprove  me. 
Who  should  be  trusted  now,  when  one's  right  hand 
Is  perjur'd  to  the  bosom?  Proteus, 
I  am  sorry,  I  must  never  trust  thee  more. 
But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake. 
The  private  wound  is  deepest :    O  time,  most  curet! 
'Mongst  all  foes,  that  a  friend  should  be  the  worst ! 

Pro.   My  shame  and  guilt  confound  me.  — 
Forgive  me,  Valentine  :   if  hearty  sorrow 
Be  a  sufficient  ransom  for  offence, 
I  tender  it  here ;   I  do  as  truly  suffer. 
As  e'er  I  did  commit. 

Val.  Then  I  am  paid  ; 

And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest :  — 
Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied. 
Is  nor  of  heaven,  nor  earth  ;  for  these  are  pleas'd  ; 
By  penitence  the  Eternal's  wrath's  appeas'd :  — 
And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free. 
All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia,  I  give  thee. 

Jul.    O  me  unhappy  !  [Faints. 

Pro.   Look  to  the  boy. 

Val.   Why,  boy  !  why,  wag  !  how  now  ?  what  is* 
the  matter  ? 
Look  up ;  speak. 

Jul.  O  good  sir,  my  master  charg'd  me 

To  deliver  a  ring  to  madam  Silvia ; 
Which,  out  of  my  neglect,  was  never  done. 

Pro.   Where  is  that  ring,  boy  ? 

Jul.  Here  'tis  :  this  is  it.    [Gives  a  ritig. 

Pro.    How  !  let  me  see  : 
Why  this  is  the  ring  I  gave  to  Julia. 

Jul.    O,  cry  your  mercy,  sir,  I  have  mistook  ; 
This  is  the  ring  you  sent  to  Silvia. 

[Shoii's  another  ring. 

Pro.    But,  how  cam'st  thou  by  tliis  ring  ?  at  my 
depart, 
I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 

Jul.    And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me  ; 
And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hither. 

Pro.   How  !  Julia  ! 

Jul.   Behold  her  that  gave  aim  ^  to  all  thy  oaths, 
And  entertain'd  them  deeply  in  her  heart : 
How  oft  hast  thou  with  peijury  cleft  the  root  ?  7 
O  Proteus,  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush  ! 
Be  thou  asham'd,  that  I  have  took  upon  me 
Such  an  immodest  raiment ;  if  shame  live 
In  a  disguise  of  love  : 
It  is  the  lesser  blot,  modesty  finds. 
Women  to  change  their  shapes,  than  mentheirminds. 

c  Direction. 

7  An  aUueioQ  to  cleaving  the  pin  in  archery. 


Scene  IV. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


39 


Pro.  Than  men  thair  minds  ?  'tis  true  :  O  heaven  ! 
were  man 
But  constant,  he  were  perfect :  that  one  error 
Fills  him  with  faults ;  makes  him  run  through  all 

sins  : 
Inconstancy  falls  off,  ere  it  begins  ; 
What  is  in  Silvia's  face,  but  I  may  spy 
More  fresh  in  Julia's  with  a  constant  eye  ? 

Vol.   Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either : 
Let  me  be  blest  to  make  this  happy  close  ; 
'Twere  pity  two  such  friends  should  be  long  foes. 
Pro.  Bear  witness,  heaven,  I  have  my  wish  for  ever. 
Jul.   And  I  have  mine. 

Enter  Out-laws,  with  Duke  and  Thurio. 

Out.  A  prize,  a  prize,  a  prize  ! 

Vol.   Forbear,  I  say  ;  it  is  my  lord  the  duke. 
Yi)ur  grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgrac'd, 
Banished  Valentine. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine ! 

Thu.    Yonder  is  Silvia;  and  Silvia's  mine. 

Val.  Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy  death ; 
Come  not  within  the  measure  of  my  wrath  -.8 
Do  not  name  Silvia  t^iine ;  if  once  again, 
IMiJan  shall  not  behold  thee.      Here  she  stands, 
Take  but  possession  of  her  with  a  touch  ;  — 
I  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love.  — 

Thu.   Sir  Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I ; 
I  hold  him  but  a  fool,  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not : 
I  claim  her  not,  and  therefore  she  is  thine. 

Duke.    The  more  degenerate  and  base  art  thou. 
To  make  such  means  9  for  her  as  thou  hast  done. 
And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions.  — 
Now,  by  tlie  honour  of  my  ancestry, 
I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Vdentine, 


Length  of  my  sword. 


9  Interest 


And  think  thee  worthy  of  an  empress'  love. 
Know  then,  I  here  forget  all  former  griefs. 
Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal  thee  home  again.  — 
Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  uimvall'd  merit. 
To  which  I  thus  subscribe,  —  sir  Valentine, 
Thou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  deriv'd  ; 
Take  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserv'd  her. 

Vol.   I  thank  your  grace ;  the  gift  hath  made  me 
happy. 
I  now  beseech  you  for  your  daughter's  sake, 
To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  of  you. 

Duke.    I  grant  it,  for  thine  own,  whate'er  it  be. 

Vol.   These  banish'd  men,  tliat  I  have  kept  withal. 
Are  men  endued  with  worthy  qualities  ; 
Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here. 
And  let  them  be  recall'd  from  their  exile  : 
They  are  reformed,  civil,  full  of  good, 
And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 

Duke.   Thou  hast  prevail'd:    I  pardon  them,  and 
thee; 
Dispose  of  them,  as  thou  know'st  tlieir  deserts. 
Come,  let  us  go ;  we  will  include  '  all  jars 
With  triumphs,  mirth,  and  rare  solemnity. 

Val.    And,  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 
With  our  discourse  to  make  your  grace  to  smile  : 
What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.   I  think  the  boy  hath  grace  in  him  :  he 
blushes. 

Vol.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord ;  more  grace  than  boy. 

Duke.   What  mean  you  by  that  saying  ? 

Val.   Please  you,  I'll  tell  you  as  we  pass  along. 
That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned.  — 
Come,  Proteus  ;  'tis  your  penance,  but  to  hear 
The  story  of  your  loves  discovered  : 
That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours  ; 
One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness. 

\^Eieunt. 
'  Conclude. 


D  4 


ul 


0^ 


MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Sir  John  Falstakk. 

Fenton. 

Shallow,  o  country  Justice. 

Slender,  cousin  to  Shallow. 

Mr'  P  g"'  1  ^"'^  Gentlemen  dweUing  at  Windsor. 
William  Page,  a  Boy,  son  to  Mr.  Page. 
Sir  Hugh  Evans,  a  Welsh  Parson. 
Dr.  Caius,  a  French  Physician. 
Host  of  the  Garter  Inn. 

Bardolph,  "I 

Pistol,         \  Followers  of  Falstafl'. 

Nym,  J 

SCENEy  Windsor ; 


Robin,  Page  to  FalstaflT. 
Simple,  Servant  to  Slender, 
RuoBT,  Servant  to  Dr.  Caius. 


Mrs.  Ford. 

Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Anne  Page,  her  Daughter,  in  love  with  Fenton. 

Mrs.  Quickly,  Servant  to  Dr.  Caius. 


Servants  to  Page,  Ford,  ^c. 
and  the  parts  a(^acent. 


MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR 


SCENE  1.  —  Windsor. 


AC 

Before  Page's  House. 


E?iter  Justice  Shallow,  Slender,  aw/  Sir^  Hugh 
Evans. 

Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not;  I  will  make 
a  Star-chamber  matter  of  it ;  if  he  were  twenty  sir 
Jolm  Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse  Robert  Shallow, 
esquire. 

Sleti.  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace, 
and  coram. 

Slial.    Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  Cust-alorum.^ 

Slen  Ay,  and  rntolorum  too ;  and  a  gentleman 
born,  master  parson  ;  who  writes  himself  armigero  ; 
in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or  obligation,  armi- 
gero. 

Shal.  Ay,  that  we  do :  and  have  done  any  time 
these  three  hundred  years. 

Slen.  All  his  successor;  ^ 
done't ;  and  all  his  ancestors,  that  come  after  him, 
may :  they  may  give  the  dozen  white  luces  in  their 
coat. 

Shal.    It  is  an  old  coat. 

Eva.  The  dozen  white  louses  do  become  an  old 
coat  well ;  it  agrees  well,  passant :  it  is  a  familiar 
beast  to  man,  and  signifies  —  love. 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish  ;  the  salt  fish  is 
an  old  coat. 

'  A  title  formerly  appropriated  to  chaplains. 
2  C.ustos  Rotulorum 


r  I. 

I       Slen.    I  may  quarter,  coz  ? 
I       Shal.    You  may,  by  marrying. 
1       Eva.    It  is  marring  indeed,  if  he  quarter  it. 
Shal.    Not  a  whit. 

Eva.  Yes,  py'r  ^  lady  ;  if  he  has  a  quarter  of  your 
;  coat,  there  is  but  three  skirts  for  yourself,  in  my 
j  simple  conjectures  :  but  this  is  all  one  :  If  Sir  J^hn 
I  Falstaflf  have  committed  disparagements  unto  you, 
j  I  am  of  the  church,  and  will  be  glad  to  do  my  be- 
nevolence, to  make  atonements  and  compromises 
between  you. 

Shal.   Tile  Council  shall  hear  it ;  it  is  a  riot. 
Eoa.    It  is  not  meet  the  Council  hear  a  riot ;  there 
is  no  fear  of  Got  in  a  riot;  the  Council,  look  you, 
shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hear 
a  riot ;  take  your  vizaments  *  in  that. 

Shal.  Ha  !  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the 
sword  should  end  it. 
[  Eva.  It  is  petter  that  friends  is  the  sword,  and 
end  it :  and  there  is  also  another  device  in  my  prain, 
which,  peradventure,  prings  goot  discretions  with 
it :  There  is  Anne  Page,  which  is  daughter  to 
master  George  Page,  which  is  pretty  virginity. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne  Page  ?  She  has  brown  hair, 
and  speaks  small  like  a  woman. 

Eva.  It  is  that  fery  person  for  all  the  'orld,  as 
just  as  you  will  desire  :  and  seven  hundred  pounds 
of  monies,  and  gold,  and  silver,  is  her  grandsire, 


Scene  I. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


41 


upon  his  death's  bed,  give,  when  she  is  able  to 
overtake  seventeen  years  old  :  it  were  a  goot  motion, 
if  we  leave  our  pribbles  and  prabbles,  and  desire  a 
marriage  between  master  Abraham  and  mistress 
Anne  Page. 

Shal.  Did  her  grandsire  leave  her  seven  hundred 
pound? 

Eva.  Ay,  and  her  father  is  make  her  a  petter  penny. 

Shal.  I  know  the  young  gentlewoman ;  she  has 
good  gifts. 

Eva.  Seven  hundred  pounds,  and  possibilities, 
is  good  gifts.  . 

Shal.  Well,  let  us  see  honest  master  Page :  Is 
Falstaff  there? 

Eva.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  lie?  I  do  despise  a  liar, 
as  I  do  despise  one  that  is  false ;  or  as  I  despise 
one  that  is  not  true.  The  knight,  sir  John,  is 
tliere  ;  and,  I  beseech  you,  be  ruled  by  your  well- 
willers.  I  will  peat  the  door  [knocks]  for  master 
Page.     What,  hoa  !  pless  your  house  here  ! 

Enter  Page. 

Pt^e.  Who's  there  ? 

Eva.  Here's  your  friend,  and  justice  Shallow : 
and  here  young  master  Slender;  that  peradven- 
tures  shall  tell  you  another  tale,  if  matters  grow 
to  your  likings. 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worships  well :  1 
thank  you  for  my  venison,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Master  Page,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  Much 
good  do  it  your  good  heart !  I  wished  your  venison 
better ;  it  was  ill-kill'd :  —  How  doth  good  mistress 
Page  ?  —  and  I  love  you  always  with  my  heart,  la ; 
witli  my  heart. 

Page.   Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Shal.   Sir,  I  thank  you ;  by  yea  and  no,  I  do. 

Page.   I  am  glad  to  see  you,  good  master  Slender. 

Slen.  How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir?  I 
lioard  say  he  was  outrun  on  Cotsale.* 

Page.   It  could  not  be  judg'd,  sir. 

Slen.   You'll  not  confess,  you'll  not  confess. 

Shah  That  he  will  not ;  —  'tis  your  fault,  'tis  your 
fault :  —  'Tis  a  good  dog. 

Page.    A  cur,  sir. 

Shal.  Sir,  he's  a  good  dog,  and  a  fair  dog  ;  Can 
there  be  more  said  ?  he  is  good,  and  fair.  —  Is  sir 
John  Falstaff  here  ? 

Page.  Sir,  he  is  witliin  ;  and  I  would  I  could  do 
a  good  office  between  you. 

Eva.   It  is  spoke  as  a  Christian  ought  to  speak. 

Shal.   He  hath  wrong'd  me,  master  Page. 

Page.   Sir,  he  doth  in  some  sort  confess  il. 

Shal.  If  it  be  confess'd,  it  is  not  redress'd  ;  is  not 
that  so,  master  Page  ?  .  He  hath  wrong'd  me ;  in- 
deed, he  hath  ;  —  at  a  word,  he  hath  ;  —  believe  me ; 
—  Robert  Shallow,  esquire,  saith,  he  is  wrong'd. 

Page.   Here  comes  sir  John. 

Enter  Sir  John  Falstaff,  Bardolph,  Nym,  and 
Pistol. 

Fal.  Now,  master  Shallow  ;  you'll  complain  of 
me  to  the  king  ? 

Shal.  Knight  you  have  beaten  my  men,  killed  my 
<leer,and  brokeopen  my  lodge:  this  shall  beanswer'd. 

Fal.  I  will  answer  it  straight ;  —  I  have  done  all 
1 1  lis  :  —  That  is  now  answer'd. 

Shal.   The  Council  shall  know  this. 

Fal.  'Twere  better  for  you,  if  it  were  known  in 
counsel .  you'll  be  laugh'd  at. 

*'  Cutswold,  in  Gloucestershire. 


Eva.   Pauca  verba,  sir  John,  good  worts. 

Fal.    Good  worts  *5 !  good  cabbage Slender,  I 

broke  your  head;  What  matter  have  you  against 
me? 

Slen.  Marry,  sir,  I  have  matter  in  my  head 
against  you ;  and  against  Bardolph,  Nym,  and 
Pistol.  They  carried  me  to  the  tavern,  and  made 
me  drunk,  and  afterwards  picked  my  pocket. 

Bar.   You  Banbury  cheese  !  ^ 

Slen.   Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Pist.   How,  now,  Mephostophilus  ?  8 

Slen.   Ay,  it  is.no  matter. 

N^t/m.  Slice,  I  say  !  pauca,  pauca  ;  slice  !  that^s 
my  humour. 

Slen.  Where's  Simple,  my  man  ?  —  can  you  tell, 
cousin  ? 

Eva.  Peace :  I  pray  you  !  Now  let  us  understand : 
There  is  three  umpires  in  this  matter  as  I  under- 
stand :  that  is  —  master  Fiigc,Jidelicet,  master  Page ; 
and  there  is  myself,  fidelket,  myself ;  and  the  three 
party  is,  lastly  and  finally,  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Page.  We  three,  to  hear  it,  and  end  it  between  them. 

Eva.  Fery  goot :  I  will  make  a  prief  of  it  in  my 
note-book  ;  and  we  will  afterwards  'ork  upon  the 
cause,  with  as  great  discreetly  as  we  can. 

Fal.   Pistol, 

Pist.   He  hears  with  ears. 

Eva.  What  phrase  is  this.  He  hears  with  ear  ? 
Why,  it  is  affectations. 

Fal.   Pistol,  did  you  pick  master  Blender's  purse? 

Slen.  Ay,  by  these  gloves,  did  he,  (or  I  would  I 
might  never  come  in  mine  own  great  chamber  again 
else,)  of  seven  groats  in  mill-sixpences,  and  two  Ed- 
ward shovel-boards**,  that  cost  me  two  shillings  and 
two  pence  a-piece  of  Yead  Miller,  by  these  gloves. 

Fal.   Is  this  true.  Pistol  ? 

Eva.   No  ;  it  is  false,  if  it  is  a  pick-purse. 

Pist.   Ha,  thou  mountain-foreigner  !  —  Sir  John, 
and  master  mine, 
I  combat  challenge  of  this  latten  bilbo  : ' 
Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras^  here  ; 
Word  of  denial ;  froth  and  scum,  thou  liest. 

Slen.   By  these  gloves,  then  'twas  he. 

Nt/m.  Be  advised,  sir,  and  pass  good  humours  : 
I  will  say,  many  trap,  with  you  if  you  run  the  nut- 
hook's  3  humour  on  me ;  that  is  the  very  note  of  it. 

Slen.  By  this  hat,  then  he  in  the  red  face  had  it : 
for  though  I  cannot  remember  what  I  did  when  you 
made  me  drunk,  yet  I  am  not  altogether  an  ass. 

Fal.    What  say  you.  Scarlet  and  John  ? 

Bard.  Why,  sir,  for  my  part,  I  say,  the  gentleman 
had  drunk  himself  out  of  his  five  sentences. 

Eva.  It  is  liis  five  senses  :  fie,  what  the  igno- 
rance is  ! 

Bard.  And  being  fap  *,  sir,  was,  as  tliey  say, 
cashier'd  ;  and  so  conclusions  pass'd  the  careires.* 

Slen.  Ay,  you  spake  in  Latin  then  too  :  but  'tis 
no  matter :  I'll  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I  live  again, 
but  in  honest,  civil,  godly  company,  for  this  trick  : 
if  I  be  drunk,  I'll  be  drunk  with  those  that  have 
the  fear  of  God,  and  not  witli  drunken  knaves. 

Eva.   That  is  a  virtuous  mind. 

Fal.  You  hear  all  these  matters  denied,  gentle- 
men ;  you  hear  it. 

^  Worts  was  the  ancient  name  of  all  the  cabbage  kitd. 

■  Nothing  but  paring  ! 

"  The  name  of  an  ugly  spirit 

!*  King  Edward's  sliilhngs  used  in  the  game  of  shuffleboard. 

>  Blade  as  thin  as  a  lath.  3  Lipa, 

3  If  you  say  I  am  a  thief  •♦  Drunk, 

>  The  bounds  of  good  behaviour. 


42 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  I. 


Eater  Mistress    Anne  Page  wUh   wine;    Mistress 
Ford  and  Mistress  Pack  fullomng. 

Page.  Nay,  daughter,  carry  tlie  wine  in;  we'll 
drink  within.  [Exit  Anne  Page. 

Slen.   O  heaven  !  this  is  mistress  Anne  Page. 

Page.   How  now,  mistress  P""ord  ? 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  by  my  troth,  you  are  veiy 
well  met :  by  your  leave,  good  mistress.  [JCissing  her. 

Page.  Wife,  bid  these  gentlemen  welcome  :  — 
Come,  we  have  a  hot  venison  pasty  to  dinner; 
come,  gentlemen,  I  hope  we  shall  drink  down  all 
unkindness. 

\^Exeiint  all  but  Shal.  Slender,  and  Evans. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings,  I  had  my 
book  of  Songs  and  Sonnets  here  :  — 

Enter  Simple. 
How  now.  Simple  !  where  have  you  been  ?  I  must 
wait  on  myself,  must  I  ?  You  have  not  The  Book 
if  Riddles  about  you,  have  you  ? 

Sim.  Book  of  Riddles  !  why  did  you  not  lend  it 
to  Alice  Shortcake  upon  Allhallowmas  last,  a  fort- 
night afore  Michaelmas  ?  ^ 

Shal.  Come,  coz  ;  come,  coz ;  we  stay  for  you, 
A  word  with  you,  coz  ;  marrj',  this,  coz  ;  There 
is,  as  'twere  a  tender,  a  kind  of  tender,  made  afar 
off  by  sir  Hugh  here ;  —  Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  sir,  you  shall  find  me  reasonable  ;  if 
it  be  so,  I  shall  do  that  that  is  reason. 

Shal.   Nay,  but  understand  me. 

Slen.   So  I  do,  sir. 

Eva.  Give  ear  to  his  motions,  master  Slender  :  I 
will  description  the  matter  to  you,  if  you  be  capa- 
city of  it. 

Slen.  Nay  I  will  do  as  my  cousin  Shallow  says  : 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me ;  he's  a  justice  of  peace  in 
his  country,  simple  though  I  stand  here. 

Eva.   But  this  is  not  the  question ;  the  question 
is  concerning  your  marriage. 
'    Shal.   Ay,  there's  the  point,  sir. 

Eva.  Marry,  is  it ;  the  very  point  of  it ;  to  mis- 
tress Anne  Page. 

Slen.  Why,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  marry  her,  upon 
any  reasonable  demands. 

Eva.  But  can  you  affection  the  'oman  ?  Let  us 
command  to  know  that  of  your  naouth,  or  of  your 
lips ;  for  divers  philosophers  hold,  that  the  lips  is 
parcel  of  the  mouth ;  —  Therefore,  precisely,  can 
you  carry  your  good  will  to  the  maid  ? 

Shal.  Cousin  Abraham  Slender,  can  you  love  her? 

Slen.  I  hope,  sir,  —  I  will  do,  as  it  shall  become 
one  that  would  do  reason. 

Eva.  Nay,  you  must  speak  possitable,  if  you  can 
carry  her  your  desires  towards  her. 

Shid.  That  you  must.  Will  you,  upon  good 
dowry,  marry  her  ? 

Slen.  I  will  do  a  greater  thing  than  that,  upon 
your  request,  cousin,  in  any  reason. 

Shal.  Nay,  conceive  me,  conceive  me,  sweet  coz  ; 
what  I  do,  is  to  pleasure  you,  coz :  Can  you  love 
the  maid  ? 

Slen.  I  will  marry  her,  sir,  at  your  request ;  but 
if  there  be  no  great  love  in  the  beginning,  yet 
heaven  may  decrease  it  upon  better  acquaintance, 
when  we  are  married,  and  have  more  occasion  to 
know  one  another  :  I  hope,  upon  familiarity  will 
grow  more  contempt ;  but  if  you  say,  vxarry  her, 

'•  An  intended  blunder. 


I  will  marry  her,  tliat  I  am  freely  dissolved,  and 
dissolutely. 

Eva.  It  is  a  fery  discretion  answer ;  save,  the 
faul'  is  in  the  'ort  dissolutely  :  the  'ort  is,  according 
to  our  meaning,  resolutely  ;  —  his  meaning  is  good. 

Shal.    Ay,  1  think  my  cousin  meant  well. 

Slen.    Ay,  or  else  I  would  I  might  be  hanged,  la. 

Re-enter  Anne  Page. 

Shal.  Here  comes  fair  mistress  Anne  :  — Would 
I  were  young,  for  your  sake,  mistress  Anne ! 

Anne.  The  dinner  is  on  the  table ;  my  father 
desires  your  worships'  company. 

Shal.   I  will  wait  on  him,  fair  mistress  Anne. 
Eva.   I  will  not  be  absence  at  the  grace. 

[Exeunt  Shallow  and  Sir  H.  Evans. 
Anne.  Wil't  please  your  worship  to  come  in,  sir  ? 
Sle7i.   No,  I  thank  you,  forsooth,  heartily ;   I  am 
very  well. 

Anne.  The  dinner  attends  you,  sir. 
Slen.  I  am  not  a-hungry,  1  thank  you,  forsooth  : 
Go,  sirrah,  for  all  you  are  my  man,  go,  wait  upon 
my  cousin  Shallow  :  [Exit  Simple.]  A  justice  of 
peace  sometime  may  be  beholden  to  his  friend  for 
a  man  :  —  I  keep  but  three  men  and  a  boy  yet,  till 
my  mother  be  dead  :  But  what  though  ?  yet  I  live 
like  a  poor  gentleman  born. 

Anne.  I  may  not  go  in  without  your  worship  t 
they  will  not  sit,  till  you  come. 

Slen.  I'faith,  I'll  eat  nothing  ;  I  thank  you  as 
much  as  though  I  did. 
■  Ajine.  I  pray  you,  sir,  walk  in. 
Slen.  I  had  rather  walk  here,  I  thank  you:  I 
bruised  my  shin  the  other  day  with  playing  at  sword 
and  dagger  with  a  master  of  fence,  three  veneys  7 
for  a  dish  of  stewed  prunes ;  and,  by  my  troth,  I 
cannot  abide  the  smell  of  hot  meat  since.  Why  do 
your  dogs  bark  so  ?  be  there  bears  i'the  town  ? 

Anne.  I  think  there  are,  sir  ;  I  heard  them 
talked  of. 

Slen.   I  love  the  sport  well ;  but  I  shall  as  soon 
quarrel  at  it,  as  any  man  in  England  :  —  You  are 
afraid,  if  you  see  the  bear  loose,  are  you  not  ? 
Anne.   Ay,  indeed,  sir. 

Slen.  That's  meat  and  drink  to  me  now  :  I  have 
seen  Sackerson  ^  loose,  twenty  times :  and  have 
taken  him  by  the  chain  :  but,  I  warrant  you,  the 
women  have  so  cried  and  shriek'd  at  it,  that  it 
pass'd  9  :  —  but  women,  indeed,  cannot  abide  'em  ; 
they  are  very  ill-favoured  rough  things. 

Re-enter  Page. 

Page.   Come,  gentle  master  Slender,  come 
stay  for  you. 

Slen.   I'll  eat  nothing  ;   I  thank  you,  sir. 

Page.  By  cock  and  pye,  you  shall  not  choose, 
sir ;  come,  come. 

Slen.   Nay,  pray  you,  lead  the  way. 

Page.   Come  on,  sir. 

Slen.   Mistress  Anne,  yourself  shall  go  first. 

Anne.   Not  I,  sir,  pray  you,  keep  on. 

Slen.  Truly,  I  will  not  go  first ;  truly,  la  ;  I  will 
not  do  you  that  wrong. 

Anne.   I  pray  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I'll  rather  be  unmannerly  than  trouble- 
some ;  you  do  yourself  wrong,  indeed,  la.   [Exeunt. 

?  Three  set-to's,  bouts,  or  hits.  „      .        . 

«  The  name  of  a  bear  exhibited  at  Pans- Garden,  South wark. 
9  Surpassed  all  expression. 


Scene  IV. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


43 


SCENE  II.  —  The  same. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans  and  Simple. 

Eva.  Go  your  ways,  and  ask  of  Doctor  Cains' 
house,  which  is  the  way :  and  there  dwells  one 
mistress  Quickly,  which  is  in  the  manner  of  his 
nurse,  or  his  dry  nurse,  or  his  cook,  or  his  laundry, 
his  washer,  and  his  wringer. 

Sim.   Well,  sir. 

Eva.   Nay,  it  is  petter  yet : give  her  this 

letter  ;  for  it  is  a  'oman  that  altogether's  acquaintance 
with  mistress  Anne  Page ;  and  the  letter  is,  to  do- 
sire  and  to  require  her  to  solicit  your  master's  desires 
to  mistress  Anne  Page  :  I  pray  you  be  gone  ;  I  will 
make  an  end  of  my  dinner;  there's  pippins  and  cheese 
to  come.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Falstaff,  Host,   Bardolph,  Nym,  Pistol, 
and  Robin. 

Fal.   Mine  host  of  the  Garter,  — 

Hoit.  What  says  my  bully-rook  ?  Speak  scholarly, 
and  wisely. 

Fal.  Truly,  mine  host,  I  must  turn  away  some  of 
my  followers. 

Host.  Discard,  bully  Hercules ;  cashier :  let  them 
wag :   trot,  trot. 

Fal.   I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a  week. 

Host.  Thou  art  an  eijiperor,  Caesar,  Keisar,  and 
Pheczar.  I  will  entertain  Bardolph  ;  he  sliall  draw, 
he  shall  tap  :   said  I  well,  bully  Hector  ? 

Fat.    Do  so,  good  mine  host. 

Host.  I  have  spoke  ;  let  him  follow  :  Let  me  see 
tliec  froth,  and  lime  :    I  am  at  a  word  ;  follow. 

(Exit  Host 

Fal.  Bardolph,  follow  him  ;  a  tapster  is  a  good 
trade  ;  an  old  cloak  makes  a  new  jerkin  ;  a  withered 
scrvingman,  a  fresh  tapster  ;   Go,  adieu. 

Dard.  It  is  a  life  that  I  have  desired ;  I  will  thrive. 

[Exit  Bard. 

Pist.  O  base  Gongarian  i  wight !  wilt  thou  the 
spigot  wield  ? 

Kt/m.  His  mind  is  not  heroitk,  and  there's  the 
humour  of  it. 

Fal.  I  am  glad  I  am  so  acquit  of  this  tinder-box  : 
his  thefts  were  too  open :  his  filching  was  like  an 
unskilful  singer,  he  kept  not  time. 

Ni/m.  The  good  humour  is,  to  steal  at  a  minute's 
rest 

Pist.  Convey,  the  wise  it  call :  Steal!  foh,  a  fico  ^ 
for  tlie  phrase ! 

Fal.   Well,  sirs,  I  am  almost  out  at  heels. 

Pist.  Why  then  let  kibes  ensue. 

Fal.  There  is  no  remedy  ;  I  must  shift. 

Pist.   Young  ravens  must  have  food. 

Fal.   Which  of  yru  know  Ford  of  this  town  ? 

Pist.   I  ken  the  wight ;  he  is  of  subtance  good. 

Fal.  My  honest  lads,  I  will  toll  you  what  I  am 
al)out 

Pist.   Two  yards  and  more. 

Fal.  No  quips  now,  Pistol ;  indeed  I  am  in  the 
waist  two  yards  about:  but  I  am  now  about  no 
waste  ;  I  am  about  thrift  Briefly,  I  do  mean  to 
make  love  to  Ford's  wife ;  I  spy  entertainment  in 
her;  she  discourses,  she  carves,  she  gives  the  leer 
of  invitation;    I  can  construe   tlic  action  of  her 


For  Hungarian. 


Fig. 


familiar  style ;  and  the  hardest  voice  of  her  beha- 
viour, to  be  English'd  rightly,  is,  I  am  Sir  John 
Falstnff's. 

Pist.  He  hath  studied  her  well,  and  ti-anslated 
her  well ;  out  of  honesty  into  English. 

Ni/m.  The  anchor  is  deep ;  will  that  humour  pass  ? 

Fal.  Now,  the  report  goes,  she  has  all  the  rule  of 
her  husband's  purse. 

Pist.    To  her,  boy^  say  I. 

Nym.   The  humour  rises ;  it  is  good. 

Fal.  I  have  writ  me  here  a  letter  to  her :  and  here 
another  to  Page's  wife  ;  who  even  now  gave  me  good 
eyes  too  ;  she  bears  the  purse  too  ;  she  is  a  region 
in  Guiana,  all  gold  and  bounty.  I  will  be  cheater  3 
to  them  both,  and  they  shall  be  excliequers  to  me  ; 
they  shall  be  my  East  and  West  Indies,  and  I  will 
trade  to  them  both.  Go,  bear  thou  this  letter  to 
mistress  Page  ;  and  thou  this  to  mistress  Ford  :  we 
will  thrive,  lads,  we  will  thrive. 

Pist.   Shall  I  sir  Pandarus  of  Troy  become. 
And  by  my  side  wear  steel  ?  then,  Lucifer  take  all ! 

Nym.  I  will  run  no  base  humour  ;  here,  take  the 
humour  letter ;  I  will  keep  the  'haviour  of  reputation. 

Fal.   Hold,  sirrah,    [To   Rob.]   bear  you  these 
lettei-s  tightly  4 ; 
Sail  like  my  pinnace  to  these  golden  shores.  — 
Rogues,  hence  avaunt !  vanish  like  hailstones,  go ; 
Trudge,  plod  away,  o'  the  hoof;  seek  shelter,  pack  ! 
Falstaff  will  learn  the  humour  of  this  age, 
French  thrift,  you  rogues ;  myself,  and  skirted  page. 
[Exeunt  Falstaff  and  Robin. 

Pist.   Let   vultures   gripe   tliee,  for  gourd  and 
fullam  5  hold. 
And  high  and  low  beguile  the  rich  and  poor : 
Tester  I'll  have  in  pouch  6,  when  thou  shalt  lack. 
Base  Phrygian  Turk  ! 

Nym.  I  have  operations  in  my  head,  which  be 
humours  of  revenge. 

Pist.   Wilt  thou  revenge  ? 

Nym.   By  welkin,  and  her  star  ! 

Pist.   With  wit,  or  steel  ? 

Nym.   With  both  the  humours,  I  : 
I  will  discuss  the  humour  of  tliis  love  to  Pago. 

Pist.   And  I  to  Ford  shall  eke  unfold. 
How  Falstaff,  varlet  vile, 
His  dove  will  prove,  his  gold  will  hold, 
And  his  soft  couch  defile. 

Nym.  My  humour  shall  not  cool :  I  will  incense  7 
Page  to  deal  with  poison  ;  I  will  possess  him  with 
yellowness  8,  for  the  revolt  of  mien  is  dangerous : 
that  is  my  true  humour. 

Pist.  Thou  art  the  Mars  of  malcontents :  I  second 
thee;  troop  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —^  Room  in  Dr.  Caius'a  House, 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly,  Simple,  and  Rugby. 

Quick.  What ;  John  Rugby  !  —  I  pmy  thee,  go  to 
the  casement,  and  see  if  you  can  see  my  master, 
master  doctor  Caius,  coming :  if  he  do,  i'  faith,  and 
find  any  body  in  the  house,  here  will  be  an  old 
abusing  of  the  king's.  English. 

Rug.   I'll  go  watch.  [Exit  Rugby. 

Quick.  Go ;  and  we'll  have  a  posset  for't  soon 
at  night,  at  the  latter  end  of  a  sea-coal  fire.  An 
honest,  willing,  kind  fellow,  as  ever  servant  shall 


EuAciitour,  an  o(Hcer  in  the  Exchequer. 


*  Cleverly. 

f  Sixpence  I'll  have  in  pocket 

«  Jcolousjr. 


False  dice. 
''  Instigate. 


4,4. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  I.  Scene  IV 


come  in  liouse  withal ;  and,  I  warrant  you,  no  tell- 
tale, nor  no  breed-bate  9  :  his  worst  fault  is,  that  he 
is  given  to  prayer :  he  is  something  peevish  '  that 
way  :  but  nobody  but  has  his  fault ;  —  but  let  that 
pass.      Peter  Simple,  you  say  your  name  is  ? 

Sim.    Ay,  for  fault  of  a  better. 

Quick.   And  master  Slender's  your  master  ? 

Sim.    Ay,  forsooth. 

Quick.  Does  he  not  wear  a  great  round  beard,  like 
a  glover's  paring  knife  ? 

Sim.  No,  forsooth  :  he  hath  but  a  little  wee  face, 
with  a  little  yellow  beard ;  a  Cain-coloured  beard. 

Quick.    A  softly-sprighted  man,  is  he  not? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth  :  but  he  is  as  tall  2  a  man  of  his 
hands,  as  any  is  between  this  and  his  head ;  he  hath 
fought  with  a  warrener. 

Quick.  How  say  you  ?  —  O,  I  should  remember 
him  ;  does  he  not  hold  up  his  head,  as  it  were  ?  and 
strut  in  his  gait  ? 

Si?)i.   Yes,  indeed,  does  he. 

Quick.  Well,  heaven  send  Anne  Page  no  worse 
fortune.  Tell  master  parson  Evans,  I  will  do  what 
I  can  for  your  master ;  Anne  is  a  good  girl,  and  I 
wish  — 

Re-enter  Rugby. 

Jtug.   Out,  alas !  here  comes  my  master. 

Quick.  We  shall  all  be  shent  3  ;  Run  in  here,  good 
young  man  ;  go  into  this  closet.  [iS7m^s  Simple  m 
t/ie  closet.]  He  will  not  stay  long.  — What,  John 
Rugby  !  John,  what,  John,  I  say  !  —  Go,  John,  go 
enquire  for  my  master ;  I  doubt  he  be  not  well, 
that  he  comes  not  home :  —  and  down,  down, 
adown-a,  &c.  [Sings. 

Enter  Doctor  Caius. 

Cuius.  Vat  is  you  sing  ?  I  do  not  like  dese  toys ; 
Pray  you,  go  and  vetch  me  in  my  closet  un  hoitier 
verd ;  a  box,  a  green-a  box  ;  Do  intend  vat  T  speak  ? 
a  green-a  box. 

Quick.  Ay  forsooth,  I'll  fetch  it  you.  I  am  glad 
he  went  not  in  himself;  if  he  had  found  the  young 
man,  he  would  have  been  horn-mad.  [Aside. 

Caius.  Fe,  fe,  fe,  fe  !  ma  foi,  il  fait  fort  chaud. 
Je  r\ien  vais  a  la  cour,  —  la  grande  affaire. 

Quick.   Is  it  this,  sir  ? 

Caius.  Ouiy ;  mette  le  au  mon  pocket ;  Dipiche, 
quickly  :  —  Vere  is  dat  knave  Rugby  ? 

Quick.  What,  John  Rugby  !  John  ! 

Rug.   Here,  sir, 

Caius.  You  are  John  Rugby,  and  you  are  Jack 
Rugby  :  Come,  take-a  your  rapier,  and  come  after 
my  heel  to  de  court. 

Rug.  'Tis  ready,  sir,  here  in  the  porch. 

Caius.  By  my  trot,  I  tarry  too  long  :  —  Od's  me  ! 
Qu^ay-f  oublie  ?  dere  is  some  simples  in  my  closet, 
dat  I  vill  not  for  the  varld  I  shall  leave  behind. 

Quick.  Ah  me  !  he'll  find  the  young  man  there, 
and  be  mad. 

Caius.  0  diable,  diable  I  vat  is  in  my  closet  ?  — 
Villainy  ?  larron  !  [Pulling  Simple  0M^]  Rugby, 
my  rapier. 

Quick.   Good  master,  be  content. 

Caius.   Verefore  shall  I  be  content-a  ? 

Quick.   The  young  man  is  an  honest  man. 

Caius.  Vat  shall  de  honest  man  do  in  my  closet  ? 
dere  is  no  honest  man  dat  shall  come  in  my  closet. 

Quick.   I  beseech  you,  be  not  so  flegmatick ;  hear 


9  Strife.  1  Foolish. 

3  Scolded,  reprimanded. 


Brave. 


the  truth  of  it.     He  came  of  an  errand  to  me  from 
parson  Hugh. 

Caius.   Veil. 

Sim.    Ay,  forsooth,  to  desire  her  to  — — — 

Quick.   Peace,  I  pray  you. 

Caius.  Peace-a  your  tongue  :  —  Speak-a  your  tale. 

Sim.  To  desire  this  honest  gentlewoman,  your 
maid,  to  speak  a  good  word  to  mistress  Anne  Page 
for  my  master,  in  the  way  of  marriage. 

Quick.  Tliis  is  all,  indeed,  la  ;  but  I'll  ne'er  put 
my  finger  in  the  fire,  and  need  not. 

Caius.  Sir  Hugh  send-a  you  ?  —  Rugby,  baillex 
me  some  paper  :  —  Tarry  you  a  little-a  while. 

[  Writes. 

Quick.  I  am  glad  he  is  so  quiet :  if  he  had  been 
thoroughly  moved,  you  should  have  heard  him  so 
loud,  and  so  melancholy  :  —  But  notwithstanding, 
man,  I'll  do  your  master  what  good  I  can :  and  the 
very  yea  and  the  no  is,  the  French  doctor,  my 
master,  —  I  may  call  him  my  master,  look  you,  for 
I  keep  his  house ;  and  I  wash,  wring,  brew,  bake, 
scour,  dress  meat  and  drink,  make  the  beds,  and 
do  all  myself ;  — 

Sim.  'Tis  a  great  charge,  to  come  under  one 
body's  hand. 

Quick.  Are  you  avis'd  o'  that  ?  you  shall  find  it 
a  great  charge  :  and  to  be  up  early  and  down  late : 
—  but  notwithstanding,  (to  tell  you  in  your  ear ; 
I  would  have  no  words  of  it;)  my  master  himself 
is  in  love  with  mistress  Anne  Page ;  but  notwith- 
standing that,  —  I  know  Anne's  mind,  —  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  * 

Caius.  You  jack'nape;  give-a  dis  letter  to  sir 
Hugh  ;  by  gar,  it  is  a  shallenge ;  I  vill  cut  his  troat 
in  de  park  ;  and  I  will  teach  a  scurvy  jack-a-nape 
priest  to  meddle  or  make  :  —  you  may  be  gone ;  it 
is  not  good  you  tarry  here.  [  Exit  Simple. 

Quick.   Alas,  he  speaks  but  for  his  friend. 

Caius.  It  is  no  matter-a  for  dat ;  —  do  not  you 
tell-a  me  dat  I  shall  have  Anne  Page  for  myself?  — 
by  gar,  I  will  kill  de  jack  priest ;  and  I  have  ap- 
pointed mine  host  of  de  Jarterre  to  measure  our 
weapon  :  —  by  gar,  I  vill  myself  have  Anne  Page. 

Quick.  Sir,  the  maid  loves  you,  and  all  shall  be 
well :   we  must  give  folks  leave  to  prate. 

Caius.  Rugby,  come  to  the  court  vit  me ;  —  By 
gar,  if  I  have  not  Anne  Page,  I  shall  turn  your  head 
out  of  my  door :  —  Follow  my  heels,  Rugby. 

[Exeunt  Caius  and  Rugby. 

Quick.  You  shall  have  An  fools-head  of  your  own. 
No,  I  know  Anne's  mind  for  that ;  never  a  woman 
in  Windsor  knows  more  of  Anne's  mind  than  I  do  ; 
nor  can  do  more  than  I  do  with  her. 

Fent.   [Within.}   Who's  within  there,  ho? 

Quick.  Who's  there,  I  trow?  Come  near  the 
house,  I  pray  you. 

Enter  Fenton. 

Fent.   How  now,  good  woman  ;  how  dost  thou  ? 

Quick.  The  better,  that  it  pleases  your  good  wor- 
ship to  ask. 

Fent.  What  news?  how  does  pretty  mistress  Anne? 

Quick.  In  truth,  sir,  and  she  is  pretty,  and  honest, 
and  gentle :  and  one  that  is  your  friend,  I  can  tell 
you  that  by  the  way ;   I  praise  heaven  for  it. 

Fent.  Shall  I  do  any  good,  thinkest  thou  ?  Shall 
I  not  lose  my  suit  ? 

Quick.  Troth,  sir,  all  is  in  his  hands  above ;  but 
notwithstanding,  master  Fenton,  I'll  be  sworn  on  a 


I 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


45 


Have  not  your  worsliip  a 


book  slie  loves  you : 
wart  above  your  eye  ? 

Fent.   Yes,  marry,  have  I ;  what  of  that  ? 

Quick.  Well,  thereby  hangs  a  tale  ;  —  good  faith, 
it  is  such  another  Nan  j  —  but,  I  detest  •♦,  an  honest 
maid  as  ever  broke  bread :  —  We  had  an  hour's 
talk  of  that  wart ;  —  I  shall  never  laugh  but  in  that 
niaitl's  company !  —  But,  indeed,  she  is  given  too 
nmcli  to  allicholly  ^  and  musing  :  But  for  you  — 
Well,  go  to. 

Fent.   Well,  I  shall  see  her  to-day :   Hold,  there's 


money  for  thee  ;  let  me  have  thy  voice  in  my  belialf : 
—  if  tliou  seest  her  before  me,  commend  me  — 

Quick.  Will  I  ?  i'faith,  that  we  will :  and  I  will 
tell  your  worship  more  of  the  wart,  the  next  time  we 
have  confidence  ;  and  of  other  wooers. 

Fent.   Well,  farewell ;  I  am  in  great  haste  now. 

[Edt. 

Quick.  Farewell  to  your  worship.  —  Truly,  an 
honest  gentleman  ;  but  Anne  loves  him  not :  for  I 
know  Anne's  mind  as  well  as  another  does  :  —  Out 
upon't !  what  have  I  forgot  ?  [Fxil. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  Before  Page's  House. 

Enter  Mistress  Page,  with  a  letter. 
Mrs.  Page.   What !  have  I  'scaped  love-letters  in 
the  holy-day  time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a 
subject  for  them  ?     Let  me  see  :  \^Reads. 

Ask  me  no  reason  why  I  love  you  ;  for  though  love 
use  reason  for  his  precisian  ^,  he  admits  him  not  for  his 
counsellor :  You  are  not  young,  no  more  am  I :  go 
to  then,  there's  sympathy :  you  are  merry,  so  am  I ; 
Ha  !  ha!  then  there's  more  sympathy  :  you  love  sack, 
and  so  do  I ;  JFould  you  desire  better  sympathy  9  Let 
it  suffice  thee,  mistress  Page,  (at  tlie  least,  if  the  love 
of  a  soldier  can  suffice,)  that  I  love  thee.  I  wiU  not 
say,  pity  me,  'tis  not  a  soldierlike  phrase  ;  but  I  say, 
love  me.     By  me. 

Thine  own  true  knight. 

By  day  or  night. 

With  aU  his  might. 

For  thee  tofght, 

John  Falstaff. 

0  wicked,  wicked  world !  —  one  that  is  well  nigh 
worn  to  pieces  with  age,  to  show  himself  a  young 
gallant!  What  unweighed  behaviour  hath  this 
Flemish  drunkard  picked  out  of  my  conversation, 
that  he  dares  in  this  manner  assay  me  ?  Why,  he 
liath  not  been  thrice  in  my  company  ! — What  should 

1  say  to  him  ?  —  I  was  then  frugal  of  my  mirth.  — 
Why,  I'll  exhibit  a  bill  in  the  parliament  for  the 
putting  down  of  men.  How  shall  I  be  revenged  on 
liim  ?  for  revenged  I  will  be. 

Enter  Mistress  Ford. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mrs.  Page  !  trust  me,  I  was  going  to 
your  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  And  trust  me,  I  was  coming  to  you. 
You  look  very  ill. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  that ;  I  have 
to  show  to  the  contrary. 

Mrs.  Page.  'Faith,  but  you  do,  in  my  mind. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  I  do  then ;  yet,  I  say,  I  could 
show  you  to  the  contrary  :  O,  mistress  Page,  give 
me  some  counsel ! 

Mrs.  Page.   What's  the  matter,  woman  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  O  woman,  if  it  were  not  for  one  trifling 
respect,  I  could  come  to  such  honour ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman  :  —  take  the 
honour  :  What  is  it  ?  —  disjiense  with  trifles  ;  — 
what  is  it? 

*  She  means,  I  protest  *  Melancholy. 

•  Most  probably  Shakspoare  wrote  physician. 


Mrs.  Ford.  If  I  would  but  go  to  hell  for  an  eternal 
moment,  I  could  be  knighted. 

Mrs.  Page.   What?  —  Sir  Alice  Ford  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  burn  daylight  : . —  here,  read, 
read  ;  —  perceive  how  I  might  be  knighted,  —  I 
shall  think  the  worse  of  fat  men,  as  long  as  I  have 
an  eye  to  make  difference  of  men's  liking  :  And 
yet  he  would  not  swear ;  praised  women's  modesty  ; 
and  gave  such  orderly  and  well-behaved  reproof  to 
all  uncomeliness,  that  I  would  have  sworn  his  dis- 
position would  have  gone  to  the  truth  of  his  words  : 
but  they  do  no  more  adhere  and  keep  place  together, 
than  the  hundredth  psalm  to  the  tune  of  Green 
sleeves.  What  tempest,  I  trow,  threw  this  whale, 
with  so  many  tuns  of  oil  in  him,  ashore. at  Windsor  ? 
How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him?  I  think,  the 
best  way  were  to  entertain  him  with  hope,  till  the 
wicked  fire  have  melted  him.  —  Did  you  ever  hear 
the  like  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Letter  for  letter ;  but  that  the  name 
of  Page  and  Ford  differs  !  —  To  thy  great  comfort 
in  this  mystery  of  ill  opinions,  here's  the  twin-brother 
of  thy  letter  :  but  let  thine  inherit  first ;  for,  I  pro- 
test, mine  never  shall.  I  warrant  he  hath  a  thousand 
of  these  letters  writ  with  blank  space  for  diflerent 
names  (sure  more),  and  these  are  of  the  second 
edition  :   He  will  print  them  out  of  doubt. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why  this  is  the  very  same  ;  the  very- 
hand,  the  very  words :  What  doth  he  think  of 
us? 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  I  know  not :  it  makes  me  al- 
most ready  to  wrangle  with  mine  own  honesty.  I'll 
entertain  myself  like  one  that  I  am  not  acquainted 
withal ;  for,  sure,  unless  he  know  some  strain  in 
me,  that  I  know  not  myself,  he  would  never  have 
boarded  me  in  this  fury.  Let's  be  revenged  on 
him ;  let's  appoint  him  a  meeting ;  give  him  a  show 
of  comfort  in  his  suit :  and  lead  him  on  with  a  fine- 
baited  delay,  till  he  hath  pawn'd  his  horses  to  mine 
host  of  the  Garter. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  will  consent  to  act  any  villainy 
against  him,  that  may  not  sully  the  chariness  7  of 
our  honesty.  O,  that  my  husband  saw  this  letter ! 
it  would  give  eternal  food  to  his  jealousy. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  look,  where  he  comes ;  and  my 
good  man  too  :  he's  as  far  from  jealousy,  as  I  am 
from  giving  him  cause ;  and  that,  I  hope,  is  an  un- 
measurable  distance. 

Afrs.  Ford.   You  are  the  happier  woman. 

Mrs.  Page.  Let's  consult  together  against  tliis 
greasy  knight .   Come  Iiither.  [  They  retire. 

I  Caution. 


46 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  II, 


Enter  Ford,  Pistol,  Page,  and  Nym. 


Ford.   Well,  I  hope  it  be  not  so. 

Pint.   Hope  is  a  curtail »  dog  in  some  affairs  : 
Sir  John  affects  thy  wife. 

Ford.   Why,  sir,  my  wife  is  not  young. 

Fist.   He  wooes  both  high  and  low,  both  rich  and 
poor. 
Both  young  and  old,  one  with  another,  Ford  ; 
He  loves  tliy  gally-mawfry  9  ;   Ford,  perpend.  ' 

Ford.   Love  my  wife  ? 

Fist.  With  liver  burning  hot :  Prevent,  or  go  thou 
Like  sir  Actjeon  he,  with  Ring- wood  at  thy  heels : 
O,  odious  is  the  name  ! 

Ford.   What  name,  sir  ? 

Fist.   The  horn,  I  say  :    Farewell. 
Take  heed  ;  have  open  eye ;  for  thieves  do  foot  by 

night : 
Take  heed,  ere  summer  comes,  or  cuckoo-birds  do 
sing.  — 

Away,  sir  corporal  Nym. 

Believe  it,  Page  ;  he  speaks  sense.      [Exit  Pistol. 

Ford.   I  will  be  patient ;   I  Avill  find  out  this. 

Nym.  And  this  is  true.  [To  Page.]  I  like  not 
the  humour  of  lying.  He  hath  wronged  me  in  some 
humours  ;  I  should  have  borne  the  humoured  letter 
to  her :  but  I  have  a  sword,  and  it  shall  bite  upon 
my  necessity.  He  loves  your  wife ;  there's  the 
short  and  the  long.  My  name  is  corporal  Nym ; 
I  speak,  and  I  avouch.  'Tis  true  :  —  my  name  is 
Nym,  and  Falstaff  loves  your  wife.  —Adieu  !  I  love 
not  the  humour  of  bread  and  cheese  j  and  there's  the 
humour  of  it.      Adieu.  [Exit  Nym. 

Page.  The  humour  of  it,  quoth  'a  !  here's  a  fellow 
frights  humour  out  of  his  wits. 

Ford.   I  will  seek  out  Falstaff. 

Page.  I  never  heard  such  a  drawling,  affecting 
rogue. 

Ford.   If  I  do  find  it,  well. 

Page.  I  will  not  believe  such  a  Catalan  ^,  tho'  the 
priest  o'  the  town  commended  him  for  a  true  man. 

Ford.  'Twas  a  good  sensible  fellow  :    Well. 
.  Page.   How  now,  Meg  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Whither  go  you,  George  ? —  Hark  you. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  sweet  Frank  ?  why  art  thou 
melancholy  ? 

Ford.  I  melancholy !  I  am  not  melancholy.  — 
Get  you  home,  go. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Thou  hast  some  crotchets  in  thy  head 
now.  —  Will  you  go,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Have  with  you.  —  You'll  come  to 
dinner,  George  ?  —  Look,  who  comes  yonder  :  she 
shall  be  our  messenger  to  this  paltry  knight. 

[Aside  to  Mrs.  Ford. 

Enter  Mistress  Quickly. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Trust  me,  I  thought  on  her :  she'll 
fit  it. 

Mrs.  Page.  You^  are  come  to  see  my  daughter 
Anne? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  and,  I  pray,  how  does  good 
mistress  Anne? 

Mrs.  Page.  Go  in  with  us,  and  see ;  we  have  an 
nour's  talk  with  you. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Ford,  and 
Mrs.  Quickly. 

Page.   How  now,  master  Ford  ? 


"  A  dog  that  misses  his  game. 
'  Consider. 


9  A  medley. 

2  A  lying  sharper 


Ford.  You  heard  what  this  knave  told  me  ;  did 
you  not  ? 

Page.  Yes  ;  and  you  heard  what  the  other  told  me? 

Ford.   Do  you  think  there  is  truth  in  them  ? 

Page.  Hang  'em,  slaves!  I  do  not  think  the  knight 
would  offer  it:  but  these  that  accuse  him  in  his 
intent  towards  our  wives,  are  a  yoke  of  his  discarded 
men  ;  very  rogues,  now  they  be  out  of  service. 

Ford.   Were  they  his  men  ? 

Page.   Marry,  were  they. 

Ford.  I  like  it  never  the  better  for  that.  —  Does 
he  lie  at  the  Garter  ? 

Page.  Ay,  marry,  does  he.  If  he  should  intend 
this  voyage  towards  my  wife,  I  would  turn  her  loose 
to  him ;  and  what  he  gets  more  of  her  than  sharp 
words,  let  it  lie  on  my  head. 

Ford.  I  do  not  misdoubt  my  wife  ;  but  I  would 
be  loth  to  turn  them  together  :  A  man  may  be  too 
confident :  I  would  have  nothing  lie  on  my  head : 
I  cannot  be  thus  satisfied. 

Page.  Look,  where  my  ranting  host  of  the  Garter 
comes :  there  is  either  liquor  in  his  pate,  or  money 
in  his  purse,  when  he  looks  so  merrily, —  How  how, 
mine  host? 

Enter  Host  and  Shallow. 

Host.  How  now,  bully-rook  ?  thou'rt  a  gentle- 
man :   cavalero-justice,  I  say. 

Shal.  I  follow,  mine  host,  I  follow.  —  Good  even 
and  twenty,  good  master  Page  !  Master  Page,  will 
you  go  with  us  ?  we  have  sport  in  hand. 

Host.  Tell  him,  cavalero-justice ;  tell  him,  bully- 
rook. 

Shal.  Sir,  there  is  a  fray  to  be  fought,  between  sir 
Hugh  the  Welsh  priest,  and  Caius  the  French  doctor. 

Ford.  Good  mine  host  of  the  Garter,  a  word  with 
you. 

Host.   What  say'st  thou,  bully-rook  ? 

{They  go  aside. 

Shal.  Will  you  \to  Page]  go  with  us  to  behold 
it  ?  my  merry  host  hath  had  the  measuring  of  their 
weapons;  and,  I  think,  he  hath  appointed  them 
contrary  places :  for,  believe  me,  I  hear,  the  parson 
is  no  jester.  Hark,  I  will  tell  you  what  our  sport 
shall  be. 

Host.  Hast  thou  no  suit  against  my  knight,  my 
guest-cavalier  ? 

Ford.  None,  I  protest :  but  I'll  give  you  a  pottle 
of  burnt  sack  to  give  me  recourse  to  him,  and  tell 
him,  my  name  is  Brook  ;  only  for  a  jest. 

Host.  My  hand,  bully :  thou  shalt  have  egress 
and  regress ;  said  I  well  ?  and  thy  name  shall  be 
Brook  :  It  is  a  merry  night.  —  Will  you  go  on, 
hearts  ? 

Shal.   Have  with  you,  mine  host. 

Page.  I  have  heard  tlie  Frenchman  hath  good 
skill  in  his  rapier. 

Shal.  Tut,  sir,  I  could  have  told  you  more  !  In 
these  times  you  stand  on  distance,  your  passes, 
stoccadoes,  and  I  know  not  what:  'tis  the  heart, 
master  Page ;  'tis  here,  'tis  here.  I  have  seen  the 
time,  with  ray  long  sword,  I  would  have  made  you 
four  tall  fellows  skip  like  rats. 

Host.   Here,  boys,  here,  here  !  shall  we  wag? 

Page.  Have  with  you  :  —  I  had  rather  hear  tliern 
scold  than  fight. 

[Exeunt  Host,  Shallow,  and  Page. 

Ford.  Though  Page  be  a  secure  fool,  and  stands 
so  firmly  on  his  wife's  frailty,  yet  I  cannot  put  off 
my  opinion  so  easily :   she  was  in  his  company  at 


I 


Scene  II. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


47 


Page's  house ;  and,  what  tliey  made  there,  I  know 
not.  Well,  I  will  look  furtlier  into't :  and  I  have 
a  disguise  to  sound  Falstaff:  If  I  find  her  honest,  I 
lose  not  my  labour ;  if  she  be  otherwise,  'tis  labour 
well  bestowed.  [Eiit. 

SCENE  II.  —^  Room  in  the  Garter  Imi. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Pistol. 

Fal.   I  will  not  lend  thee  a  penny. 

Putt.   Why  tlien  the  world's  mine  oyster, 
Which  I  with  sword  will  open.  — 
I  will  retort  tlie  sum  in  equipage.  3 

Fal.  Not  a  penny.  I  have  been  content,  sir,  you 
should  lay  ray  countenance  to  pawn  ;  I  have  grated 
upon  my  good  friends  for  three  reprieves  for  you 
and  your  coach-fellow  *  Nym ;  or  else  you  had 
looked  through  the  grate  like  a  geminy  of  baboons. 
I  am  disgraced  for  swearing  to  gentlemen  my  friends, 
you  were  good  soldiers,  and  tall  fellows  :  and  when 
mistress  Bridget  lost  the  handle  of  her  fan,  I  took't 
upon  mine  honour,  thou  hadst  it  not. 

Pist.   Didst   thou   not   share?    hadst    thou   not 
fifteen  pence? 

Fal.  Reason,  you  rogue,  reason  :  Think'st  thou, 
rU  endanger  my  soul  gratis  ?  At  a  word,  hang  no 
more  about  me,  I  am  no  gibbet  for  you  :  —  go.  — 
A  short  knife  and  a  throng  ^  :  —  to  your  manor 
of  Pickt-hatch  6,  go.  —  You'll  not  bear  a  letter  for 
me,  you  rogue  ! — you  stand  upon  your  honour!  — 
Wliy,  thou  unconfinable  baseness,  it  is  as  much 
as  1  can  do,  to  keep  tlie  terras  of  ray  honour  pre- 
cise. I,  I,  I  myself  sometimes,  leaving  the  fear  of 
heaven  on  the  left  hand,  and  hiding  mine  honour  in 
my  necessity,  am  fain  to  shuflle,  to  hedge,  and  to 
lurch ;  and  yet  you,  rogue,  will  ensconce  7  your 
rags,  your  cat-a-mountain  looks,  your  red-lattice  8 
phrases,  and  your  bold-beating  oaths,  under  the 
shelter  of  your  honour !   You  will  not  do  it,  you  ? 

Pist.  I  do  relent:  what  would'st  thou  more  of  man? 

Enter  Robin. 
Rob.   Sir,  here's  a  woman  would  speak  witli  you. 
Fal.   Let  her  approach. 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Quick.    Give  your  worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.    Good-morrow,  good  wife. 

Quick.   Not  so,  an't  please  your  worship. 

Fal.    Goml  maid,  then. 

Quick.  I'll  be  sworn ;  as  my  mother  was,  the 
first  hour  I  was  born. 

Fal.  I  do  believe  the  swearer  :  What  with  me  ? 
Quick.  Shall  I  vouchsafeyourworshipawordortwo? 

Fal.  Two  thousand,  fair  woman;  and  I'll  vouch- 
safe thee  the  hearing. 

Quick.  There  is  one  mistress  Ford,  sir; — I  pray, 
come  a  little  nearer  tliis  ways ;  —  I  myself  dwell 
with  master  doctor  Caius. 

Ful.   Well,  on  :    Mistress  Ford  you  say, 

Quick.  Your  worship  says  very  true :  I  pray  your 
worship,  come  a  little  nearer  this  ways. 

Fal.  I  warrant  thee,  nobody  hears;  —  raine  own 
people,  raine  own  people. 

Quick.  Are  tliey  so?  Heaven  bless  them,  and 
make  them  his  servants  ! 

Fal.  Well :   Mistress  Ford :  —  what  of  her  ? 

*  Pay  you  again  in  stolen  goods. 

*  Draws  along  with  you.  *  To  cut  purses  In  a  crowd. 
«  Pickt-hatch  was  in  Clerkenwell.  7  Protect 

'  Al0-house. 


Quick.  Why,  sir,  she's  a  good  creature ;  but 
your  worship's  a  wanton  :  Well,  heaven  forgive 
you,  and  all  of  us,  I  pray  ! 

Fal.   Mistress  Ford  ;  —  come,  mistress  Ford,  — 

Quick.  Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of 
it ;  you  have  brought  her  into  such  a  canaries »,  as 
'tis  wonderful.  Tlie  best  courtier  of  them  all, 
when  the  court  lay  at  Windsor,  could  never  have 
brought  her  to  such  a  canary.  Yet  there  has  been 
knights,  and  lords,  and  gentlemen,  with  their 
coaches ;  I  warrant  you,  coach  after  coach,  letter 
after  letter,  gift  after  gift;  sraelling  so  sweetly 
(all  musk),  and  so  rushling,  I  warrant  you,  in  silk 
and  gold ;  and  in  such  alligant  terms  ;  and  in  such 
wine  and  sugar  of  the  best  and  the  fairest,  that  would 
have  won  any  woman's  heart ;  and,  I  warrant  you, 
they  could  never  get  an  eye-wink  of  her.  —  I  had 
myself  twenty  angels  given  me  this  morning :  but 
I  defy  all  angels,  (in  any  such  sort,  as  they  say,) 
but  in  the  way  of  honesty :  —  and,  I  warrant  you, 
they  could  never  get  her  so  much  as  sip  on  a  cup 
with  the  proudest  of  them  all  ;  and  yet  there  has 
been  earls,  nay,  which  is  more,  pensioners ;  but,  I 
warrant  you,  all  is  one  with  her. 

Fal.  But  what  says  she  to  me?  be  brief,  my 
good  she- Mercury. 

Qziick.  Marry,  she  hath  received  your  letter  ;  for 
the  which  she  thanks  you  a  thousand  times ;  and 
she  gives  you  to  notify,  that  her  husband  will  be 
absence  from  his  house  between  ten  and  eleven. 

Fal.   Ten  and  eleven  ? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth ;  and  then  you  may  come 
and  see  the  picture,  she  says  that  you  wot  '  of ;  — 
master  Ford,  her  husband,  will  be  from  home. 
Alas  !  the  sweet  woman  leads  an  ill  life  with  him  ; 
he's  a  very  jealousy  man ;  she  leads  a  very  fram- 
pold  -  life  with  him,  good  heart. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven  :  Woman,  commend  me  to 
her ;   I  will  not  fail  her. 

Quick.  Why,  you  say  well :  But  I  have  another 
messenger  to  your  worship  :  Mistress  Page  hath  her 
hearty  commendations  to  you  too ;  —  and  let  me 
tell  you  in  your  ear,  she's  as  fartuous  a  civil  modest 
wife,  and  one  (I  tell 'you)  that  will  not  miss  your 
morning  nor  evening  prayer,  as  any  is  in  Windsor, 
whoe'er  be  tlie  otlier :  and  she  bade  me  tell  your 
worship,  that  her  husband  is  seldom  from  home ; 
but,  she  hopes,  there  will  come  a  time.  I  never 
knew  a  woman  so  dote  upon  a  man  ;  surely,  I  think 
you  have  charms,  la ;  yes,  in  trutli. 

Fal.  Not  I,  I  assure  thee  ;  setting  the  attraction 
of  my  good  parts  aside,  I  have  no  other  channs. 

Quick.    Blessing  on  your  heart  for't ! 

Fal.  But,  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this :  has  Ford's 
wife,  and  Page's  wife,  acquainted  each  otlier  how 
they  love  me  ? 

Quick.  That  were  a  jest,  indeed  !  —  they  have 
not  so  little  grace,  I  hope  :  —  tliat  were  a  trick, 
indeed  !  But  mistress  Page  would  desire  you  to 
send  her  your  little  Page,  of  all  loves';  her  husband 
has  a  marvellous  infection  to  the  little  page:  and, 
truly,  master  Page  is  an  honest  man.  Never  a  wife 
in  Windsor  leads  a  better  life  than  she  does;  do 
what  she  will,  say  what  she  will,  take  all,  pay  all, 
all  is  as  she  will  ;  and,  truly,  she  deserves  it :  for  if 
tliere  be  a  kind  woman  in  Windsor,  she  is  one.  You 
must  send  her  your  Page ;  no  remedy. 


»  A  mistake  of  Mrs.  Quickly's  for  quandary. 

I  Know.  s  FretAU,  peevish.  »  By  aU 


48 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  II. 


Fal.   Why,  I  will. 

Quick.  Nay,  but  do  so,  then  :  and,  look  you,  he 
may  come  and  go  between  you  both  ;  and,  in  any 
case,  have  a  nay- word'*,  that  you  may  know  one 
''notlier's  mind,  and  the  boy  never  need  to  under- 
stand any  thing ;  for  'tis  not  good  that  children 
should  know  any  wickedness  :  old  folks,  you  know, 
have  discretion,  as  they  say,  and  know  the  world. 

Fal.   Fare  thee  well :  commend  me  to  them  both  : 
there's  my  purse  ;   I  am  yet  thy  debtor.  —  Boy,  go 
along  with  tliis  woman.  —  This  news  distracts  me. 
[Exeunt  Quickly  and  Robik. 

Pist.   This  is  one  of  Cupid's  carriers :  — 
Clap  on  more  sails ;  pursue,  up  with  your  fights  ; 
Give  fire ;  she  is  my  prize,  or  ocean  whelm  them  all ! 

[Exit  Pistol. 

Fal.  Say'st  thou  so,  old  Jack  ?  go  thy  ways  ;  I'll 
make  more  of  thy  old  body  than  I  have  done.  Will 
they  yet  look  after  thee  ?  Wilt  thou,  after  the  ex- 
pence  of  so  much  money,  be  now  a  gainer  ? 

Enter  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  there's  one  master  Brook  below 
would  fain  speak  with  you,  and  be  acquainted  with 
you;  and  hath  sent  your  worship  a  morning's  draught 
of  sack. 

Fal.   Brook,  is  his  name  ? 

Bard.    Ay,  sir. 

Fal.  Call  him  in.  [Ent  Bardolph.]  Such 
Brooks  are  welcome  to  me,  that  o'erflow  such 
liquor.  Ah  !  ha  !  mistress  Ford  and  mistress  Page, 
have  I  encompassed  you  ?  go  to  j  via  !  ^ 

Re-enter  Bardolph,  with  Ford  disguised. 

Ford.    Bless  you,  sir. 

Fal.    And  you,  sir  :   Would  you  speak  with  me  ? 

Ford.  I  make  bold,  to  press  with  so  little  prepar. 
ation  upon  you. 

Fal.  You're  welcome  ;  What's  your  will  ?  Give 
us  leave,  drawer.  [Exit  Bardolph. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  am  a  gentleman  that  have  spent 
much  ;  my  name  is  Brook.    . 

Fal.  Good  master  Brook,  Ldesire  more  acquaint- 
ance of  you. 

Ford.  Good  sir  John,  I  sue  for  yours :  not  to 
charge  you  ;  for  I  must  let  you  understand,  I  think 
myself  in  better  plight  for  a  lender  than  you  are : 
the  which  hath  something  embolden'd  me  to  this 
unseason'd  intrusion :  for  they  say,  if  money  go 
before,  all  ways  do  lie  open. 

Fal.   Money  is  a  good  soldier,  sir,  and  will  on. 

Ford.  Troth,  and  I  have  a  bag  of  money  here 
troubles  me :  if  you  will  help  me  to  bear  it,  sir 
John,  take  all,  or  half,  for  easing  me  of  the  carriage. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  know  not  how  I  may  deserve  to  be 
your  porter. 

Ford.  I  will  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  the 
hearing. 

Fal.  Speak,  good  master  Brook  ;  I  shall  be  glad 
to  be  your  servant. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  hear  you  are  a  scholar,  —  I  will  be 
brief  with  you  ;  —  and  you  have  been  a  man  long 
"known  to  me,  though  I  had  never  so  good  means, 
as  desire,  to  make  myself  acquainted  with  you.  I 
shall  discover  a  thing  to  you,  wherein  I  must  very 
much  lay  open  mine  own  imperfection  :  but,  good 
sir  John,  as  you  have  one  eye  upon  my  follies,  as 
you  hear   them   unfolded,  turn   another   into    the 


*  A  watcli-word. 


A  cant  phrase  of  exultation. 


register  of  your  own ;  that  I  may  pass  with  a.  re- 
proof the  easier,  sith  ^  you  yourself  know,  how  easy 
it  is  to  be  such  an  offender. 

Fal.   Very  well,  sir  ;  proceed. 

Ford.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  town,  her 
husband's  name  is  Ford. 

Fal.   Well,  sir. 

Ford-  I  liave  long  loved  her,  and,  I  protest  to 
you,  bestowed  much  on  her;  followed  her  with  a 
doting  observance ;  engrossed  opportunities  to  meet 
her ;  fee'd  every  slight  occasion,  that  could  but 
niggardly  give  me  sight  of  her ;  not  only  bought 
many  presents  to  give  her,  but  have  given  largely 
to  many,  to  know  what  she  would  have  given  : 
briefly,  I  have  pursued  her,  as  love  hath  pursued 
me  ;  which  hath  been,  on  the  wing  of  all  occasions. 
But  whatsoever  I  have  merited,  either  in  my  mind, 
or  in  my  means,  meed,  I  am  sure,  I  have  received 
none;  unless  experience  be  a  jewel:  that  I  have 
purchas'd  at  an  infinite  rate ;  and  that  hath  taught 
me  to  say  this  : 

Love  like  a  shadow  fiies,  when  substance  love  pursues  ; 
Pursuing  that  that  fives,  andfiying  what  pursues. 

Fal.  Have  you  received  no  promise  of  satisfac- 
tion at  her  hands  ? 

Ford.   Never. 

Fal.   Have  you  importun'd  her  to  such  a  purpose  ? 

Ford.   Never. 

Fal.   Of  what  quality  was  your  love  then  ? 

Ford.  Like  a  fair  house,  built  upon  another 
man's  ground ;  so  that  I  have  lost  my  edifice,  by 
mistaking  the  place  where  I  erected  it. 

Fal.  To  what  purpose  have  you  unfolded  this  to  me? 

Ford.  When  I  have  told  you  that,  I  have  told 
you  all.  Some  say,  that,  though  she  appear  honest 
to  me,  yet,  in  other  places,  she  enlargeth  her  mirth 
so  far,  that  there  is  shrewd  construction  made  of 
her.  Now,  sir  John,  here  is  the  heart  of  my  pur- 
pose :  You  are  a  gentleman  of  excellent  breeding, 
admirable  discourse,  of  great  admittance  7,  authentic 
in  your  place  and  person,  generally  allowed  8  for  your 
many  warlike,  courtlike,  and  learned  preparations. 

Fal.   O,  sir  ! 

Ford.  Believe  it,  for  you  know  it.  —  There  is 
money  ;  spend  it,  spend  it ;  spend  more  ;  spend  all 
I  have  ;  only  give  me  so  much  of  your  time  in  ex- 
change of  it,  as  to  lay  an  amiable  siege  to  the  ho- 
nesty of  this  Ford's  wife :  use  your  art  of  wooing, 
win  her  to  consent  to  you ;  if  any  man  may,  you 
may  as  soon  as  any. 

Fal.  Would  it  apply  well  to  the  vehemency  of 
your  affection,  that  I  should  win  what  you  would 
enjoy?  Methinks  you  prescribe  to  yourself  veiy 
preposterously . 

Ford.  O,  understand  my  drift!  she  dwells  so 
securely  on  the  excellency  of  her  honour,  that  the 
folly  of  my  soul  dares  not  present  itself;  she  is  too 
bright  to  be  looked  against.  Now,  could  I  come 
to  her  with  any  detection  in  my  hand,  my  desires 
had  instance  and  argument  to  commend  themselves ; 
I  could  drive  her  then  from  the  ward  of  her  purity, 
her  reputation,  her  marriage-vow,  and  a  thousand 
other  her  defences,  which  now  are  too  strongly 
embattled  against  me  :   What  say  you  to't,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  first  make  bold  with 
your  money  ;  next,  give  me  your  hand  ;  and  last, 
as  I  am  a  gentleman,  you  shall,  if  you  will,  have 
Ford's  wife. 


6  Since. 


7  In  the  greatest  companies. 


Approved. 


Scene  III. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


49 


Ford.   O  good  sir  ! 

'Fed.   Master  Brook,  I  say  you  shall. 

Fwd.  Want  no  money,  sir  John,  you  shall  want 
none. 

JPa/.  Want  no  mistress  Ford,  master  Brook,  you 
shall  want  none.  I  shall  be  with  her  (I  may  tell 
you)  by  her  own  appointment ;  even  as  you  came 
in  to  me,  her  assistant,  or  go-between,  parted  from 
me :  I  say,  I  shall  be  with  her  between  ten  and 
eleven  ;  for  at  that  time  the  jealous  rascally  knave, 
her  husband,  will  be  forth.  Come  you  to  me  at 
night ;  you  shall  know  how  I  speed. 

Ford.  I  am  West  in  your  acquaintance.  Do  you 
know  Ford,  sir? 

Fal.  Hang  him,  poor  knave  !  I  know  him  not : 
—  yet  I  wrong  him  to  call  him  poor  ;  they  say,  the 
jealous  knave  hath  masses  of  money  ;  for  the  which 
his  wife  seems  to  me  well-favoured.  I  will  use  her 
as  the  key  of  the  rogue's  coffer ;  and  there's  my 
harvest-home. 

Ford.  I  would  you  knew  Ford,  sir ;  that  you 
might  avoid  him,  if  you  saw  him. 

Fed.  Hang  him,  mechanical  salt-butter  rogue  !  I 
will  stare  him  out  of  his  wits ;  I  will  awe  him  with 
my  cudgel :  it  shall  hang  like  a  meteor  o'er  his  horns : 
master  Brook,  thou  shalt  know,  I  will  predominate 
o'er  the  peasant,  and  thou  shalt  have  his  wife.  — 
Come  to  me  soon  at  night :  —  Ford's  a  knave,  and 
I  will  aggravate  his  stile  9  ;  thou,  master  Brook, 
shalt  know  him  for  a  knave  and  cuckold :  —  come 
to  me  soon  at  night.  \^ExU. 

Ford.  What  an  Epicurean  rascal  is  this  !  —  My 
lieart  is  ready  to  crack  with  impatience.  —  Who 
says  this  is  improvident  jealousy?  My  wife  hath 
sent  to  him,  the  hour  is  fixed,  the  match  is  made. 
Would  any  man  have  thought  this  ?  —  See  the 
curse  of  having  a  false  woman  !  my  bed  sliall  be 
abused,  my  coffers  ransacked,  my  reputation  gnawn 
at;  and  I  shall  not  only  receive  this  villainous 
wrong,  but  stand  under  the  adoption  of  abominable 
terms,  and  by  him  that  does  me  this  wrong.  Page 
is  an  ass,  a  secure  ass ;  he  will  trust  his  wife,  he 
will  not  be  jealous  :  I  will  rather  trust  a  Fleming 
with  my  butter,  parson  Hugh  the  Welshman  with 
my  cheese,  an  Irishman  with  my  aqua-vitje  bottle, 
or  a  thief  to  walk  my  ambling  gelding,  than  my 
wife  with  herself:  then  she  plots,  then  she  rumi- 
nates, then  she  devises:  and  what  they  think  in 
their  hearts  they  may  effect,  they  will  break  their 
liearts  but  they  will  effect.  Heaven  be  praised  for 
my  jealousy  !  —  Eleven  o'clock  the  hour ;  —  I  will 
prevent  this,  detect  my  wife,  be  revenged  on  Fal- 
staff,  and  laugh  at  Page.  I  will  about  it ;  better 
three  hours  too  soon,  than  a  minute  too  late.  Fie, 
fie,  fie  !  cuckold  !  cuckold  !  cuckold  !  \^ExU. 

SCENE  III.  —  Windsor  Park. 

Enter  Caius  and  Rugbt. 

Cains.  Jack  Rugby ! 

Rug.   Sir. 

Caius.   Vat  is  de  clock.  Jack  ? 

Rvg.  'Tis  past  the  hour,  sir,  that  sir  Hugh  pro- 
raised  to  meet. 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  has  save  his  soul,  dat  he  is  no 
come ;  he  has  pray  his  Pible  veil,  dat  he  is  no 
come :  by  gar,  Jack  Rugby,  he  is  dead  already,  if 
he  be  come. 

»  Add  to  his  titles. 


Rug.  He  is  wise,  sir;  he  knew,  your  worship 
would  kill  him,  if  he  came. 

Caius.  By  gar,  de  herring  is  no  dead,  so  as  I  vill 
kill  him.  Take  your  rapier,  Jack  ;  I  vill  tell  you 
how  I  vill  kill  him. 

Rug.   Alas,  sir,  I  cannot  fence. 

Caius.   Villainy,  take  your  rapier. 

Riig.    Forbear,  here's  company. 

Enter  Host,  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Page. 

Host.   'Bless  thee,  bully  doctor. 

Shal.  'Save  you,  master  doctor  Caius. 

Page.   Now,  good  master  doctor  ! 

Sleri.    Give  you  good  morrow,  sir. 

Coitcs.  Vat  be  all  you,  one,  two,  tree,  four,  come  for. 

Host.  To  see  thee  fight,  to  see  thee  foin ',  to  see 
thee  traverse,  to  see  thee  here,  £o  see  thee  there ;  to 
see  thee  pass  thy  punto,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse,  thy 
distance,  thy  montlnt.^  Is  he  dead,  my  Ethiopian? 
is  he  dead,  my  Francisco?  ha,  bully!  What  says 
my  ^sculapius  ?  my  Galen  ?  my  heart  of  elder  ? 
ha  !  is  he  dead,  bully  Stale  ?  is  he  dead  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  is  de  coward  Jack  priest  of  the 
vorld ;  he  is  not  show  his  face. 

Host.  Thou  art  a  Castilian  king  !  a  Hector  of 
Greece,  my  boy ! 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  bear  vitness  that  me  have  stay 
six  or  seven,  two,  tree  hours  for  him,  and  he  is  no 
come. 

Shal.  He  is  the  wiser  man,  master  doctor  :  he  is 
a  curer  of  souls,  and  you  a  curer  of  bodies ;  if  you 
should  fight,  you  go  against  the  hair  of  your  pro- 
fessions :   is  it  not  true,  master  Page  ? 

Page.  Master  Shallow,  you  have  yourself  been 
a  great  fighter,  though  now  a  man  of  peace. 

Shal.  Bodykins,  master  Page,  though  I  now  be 
old,  and  of  the  peace,  if  I  see  a  sword  out,  my 
finger  itches  to  make  one  :  though  we  are  justices, 
and  doctors,  and  churchmen,  master  Page,  we  have 
some  salt  of  our  youth  in  us ;  m'c  are  the  sons  of 
women,  master  Page. 

Page.  'Tis  true,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  It  will  be  found  so,  master  Page.  Master 
doctor  Caius,  I  am  come  to  fetch  you  home.  I  am 
sworn  of  the  peace  ;  you  have  showed  yourself  a 
wise  physician,  and  sir  Hugh  hath  shown  liimself  a 
wise  and  patient  churchman  :  you  must  go  with  me, 
master  doctor. 

Host.  Pardon,  guest  justice :  — A  word,  monsieur. 

Caius.  Scurvy  Jack-dog  priest !  by  gar,  me  vill 
cut  his  ears. 

Host.   He  will  clapper-claw  thee  tightly,  bully. 

Caius.   Clapper- de-claw  !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.   That  is,  he  will  make  thee  amends. 

Caiiis.  By  gar,  me  do  look,  he  shall  clappcr-dc- 
claw  me ;  for  by  gar,  me  vill  have  it. 

Host.  And  I  will  provoke  him  to't,  or  let  him  wag. 

Caius.   Me  tank  you  for  dat. 

Host.  And  moreover,  bully,  —  But  first,  master 
guest,  and  master  Page,  and  eke  cavalero  Slender, 
go  you  through  the  town  to  Frogmore. 

[jiside  to  them. 

Page.   Sir  Hugh  is  tlicrc,  is  he  ? 

Host.  He  is  there  :  see  what  humour  he  is  in  ; 
and  I  will  bring  the  doctor  about  by  the  fields:  will 
it  do  well  ? 

Slial.   We  will  do  it. 

Page.  Shal.  and  Slcn.  Adieu,  good  master  doctor. 
[Exeunt  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 
'  Fence.  «  Terras  in  fencing. 


50 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  III. 


Caius.  By  gar,  me  vill  kill  de  priest;  for  he  speak 
for  a  jack-an-ape  to  Anne  Page. 

Host.  Let  him  die  :  but,  first,  sheath  thy  impa- 
tience ;  throw  cold  water  on  thy  choler  :  go  about 
the  fields  with  me  through  Frogmore :  I  will  bring 
thee  where  Mrs.  Anne  Page  is,  at  a  farm-house,  a 
feasting  ;  and  thou  shalt  woo  her  :  said  I  well  ? 

Caiiis.   By  gar,  me  tank  you  for  dat :  by  gar,  I 


love  you ;  and  1  shall  procure-a  you  dc  good  guest, 
de  earl,  de  knight,  de  lords,  de  gentlemen,  my 
patients. 

Host.  For  the  which,  I  will  be  thy  adversary  to- 
wards Anne  Page  ;  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.   By  gar,  'tis  good  ;  veil  said. 

Host.  Let  us  wag  then. 

Caiics.   Come  at  my  heels.  Jack  Rugby.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III, 


SCENE  I.  —  A  Field  near  Frogmore. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans  and  Simple. 

Eva.   I   pray  you   now,  good  master  Slender's 

serving   man,  and   friend  Simple  by  your  name, 

which  way  have  you  looked  for  master  Caius,  that 

calls  himself  Doctor  of  Phi/sick  ? 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  the  city-ward,  the  park-ward, 
every  way ;  old  Windsor  way,  and  every  way  but 
the  town  way. 

Eva.   I  most  fehemently  desire  you,  you  will  also 
look  that  way. 
Sim.   I  will,  sir. 

Eva.   'Pless  my  soul  !  how  full  of  cholers  I  am, 
and  trembling  of  mind !  —  I  shall  be  glad,  if  he 
have  deceived  me  :  —  how  melancholies  L  am  !  —  I 
will  knog  his  knave's  costards,  when  I  have  good 
opportunities  for  the  'ork:  — 'pless  my  soul !  {Sings. 
To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals  ; 
There  will  we  make  our  peds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
To  shallow  ■ 
Mercy  on  me  !   I  have  a  great  dispositions  to  cry. 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals  ;  ■— 
When  as  I  sat  in  Pabylon,  — — 
And  a  thousan    vagram  posies. 

To  shalloiv 

Sim.   Yonder  he  is  coming,  this  way,  sir  Hugh. 
Eva.    He's  welcome  :  — 

t  To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls  —— 

Heaven  prosper  the  right !  — What  weapons  is  he? 

Sim.  No  weapons,  sir  :  There  comes  my  master, 
master  Shallow,  and  another  gentleman  from  Frog- 
more, over  the  stile,  this  way 

Eva.  Pray  you,  give  me  my  gown ;  or  else  keep 
it  in  your  arms. 

Enter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 

Shal.  How  now,  master  parson  ?  Good  morrow, 
good  sir  Hugh.  Keep  a  gamester  from  the  dice,  and 
a  good  student  from  his  book,  and  it  is  wonderful. 

Slen.   Ah,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Page.   Save  you,  good  sir  Hugh  ! 

Eva.  'Pless  you  from  his  mercy  sake,  all  of  you ! 

Shal.  What !  the  sword  and  the  word  !  do  you 
study  them  both,  master  parson  ? 

Page.  And  youthful  still,  in  your  doublet  and 
hose,  this  raw  rheumatic  day  ? 

Eva.   There  is  reasons  and  causes  for  it. 

Page.  We  are  come  to  you,  to  do  a  good  office, 
master  parson. 

Eva.   Fery  well :   What  is  it  ? 

Page.    Yonder  is  a  most  reverend   gentleman, 

8  Head. 


who  belike,  having  received  wrong  by  some  person, 
is  at  most  odds  with  his  own  gravity  and  patience, 
that  ever  you  saw. 

Shal.  I  have  lived  fourscore  years  and  upwards ; 
I  never  heard  a  man  of  his  place,  gravity,  and 
learning,  so  wide  of  his  own  respect. 

Eva.   What  is  he  ? 

Page.  I  think  you  know  him ;  master  doctor 
Caius,  the  renowned  French  physician. 

Eva.  I  had  as  lief  you  would  tell  me  of  a  mess 
of  porridge. 

Page.    Why? 

Eva.  He  has  no  more  knowledge  in  Hibocrates 
and  Galen,  —  and  he  is  a  knave  besides;  a  cowardly 
knave,  as  you  would  desires  to  be  acquainted  withal. 

Page.  I  warrant  you  he's  the  man  should  fight  with 
him. 

Slen.   O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Shal.  It  appears  so,  by  his  weapons :  —  Keep 
them  asunder  j  —  here  comes  doctor  Caius. 

Enter  Host,  Caius,  and  Rugby. 

Page.  Nay,  good  master  parson,  keep  in  your 
weapon. 

Shal.   So  do  you,  good  master  doctor. 

Host.  Disarm  them,  and  let  them  question  :  let 
them  keep  their  limbs  whole,  and  hack  our  English. 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  let-a  me  speak  a  word  vit  your 
ear  :    Verefore  vill  you  not  meet  a-me  ? 

Eva.    Pray  you,  use  your  patience :  In  good  time. 

Caius.  By  gar,  you  are  de  coward,  de  Jack  dog, 
John  ape- 

Eva.  Pray  you,  let  us  not  be  laughing-stogs  to 
other  men's  humours ;  I  desire  you  in  friendship, 
and  I  will  one  way  or  other  make  you  amends : 
and  I  will  knog  your  knave's  cogscomb,  for  missing 
your  meetings  and  appointments. 

Caius.  Hiable  !  —  Jack  Rugby,  —  mine  Host  de 
Jarterre,  have  I  not  stay  for  him,  to  kill  him  ?  have 
I  not,  at  de  place  I  did  appoint  ? 

Eva.  As  I  am  a  christians  soul,  now,  look  you, 
this  is  the  place  appointed ;  I'll  be  judgment  by 
mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Host.  Peace,  I  say,  Guallia,  and  Gaul,  French 
and  Welsh  ;  soul-curer  and  body-curer. 

Caius.   Ay,  dat  is  very  good  !  excellent ! 

Host.  Peace,  I  say ;  hear  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 
Am  I  politick  ?  am  I  subtle  ?  am  I  a  Machiavel  ? 
Shall  I  lose  my  doctor  ?  no ;  he  gives  me  the  po- 
tions. Shall  I  lose  my  parson  ?  my  priest  ?  my  sir 
Hugh  ?  no  ;  he  gives  me  the  proverbs  and  the  no- 
verbs.—  Give  me  thy  hand,  terrestrial ;  so :  —  Give 

me  thy  hand,  celestial ;  so. Boys  of  art,  1  have 

deceived  you  both ;  I  have  directed  you  to  wrong 
places :  your  hearts  are  mighty,  your  skins  are 
whole,  and  let  burnt  sack  be  the  issue.  —  Come 


Scene  II. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


51 


lay  their   swords  to  pawn  :  —  Follow  me,  lad  of 
peace  ;  follow,  follow,  follow. 

Sluil.  Trust  me,  a  mad  host :  —  Follow,  gentle- 
men, follow. 

Slen.   O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

[Exeunt  Shal.  Slen.  Page,  and  Host. 

Caius.  Ha  !  do  I  perceive  dat  ?  have  you  make-a 
de  sot  of  us  ?  ha,  ha  ! 

Eva.  This  is  well  ;  he  has  made  us  his  vlouting- 
stog.  —  I  desire  you,  that  we  may  be  friends  ;  and 
let  us  knog  our  prains  together,  to  be  revenge  on 
this  same  scall,  scurvy,  cogging  companion,  the 
host  of  the  Garter. 

Caius.  By  gar,  vit  all  my  heart :  he  promise  to  bring 
me  vere  is  Anne  Page  :   by  gar,  he  deceive  me  too. 

Eva.  Well,  I  will  smite  his  noddles :  —  Pray  you, 
follow.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  Street  in  Windsor. 

Enter  Mistress  Page  a7id  Robik. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  keep  your  way,  little  gallant ; 
you  were  wont  to  be  a  follower,  but  now  you  are  a 
leader:  Whether  had  you  rather,  lead  mine  eyes, 
or  eye  your  master's  heels  ? 

Rob.  I  had  rather,  forsooth,  go  before  you  like 
a  man,  than  follow  him  like  a  dwarf. 

Mrs.  Page.  O  you  are  a  flattering  boy  ;  now,  I 
see,  you'll  be  a  courtier. 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.  Well  met,  mistress  Page:  Whither  go  you? 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  sir,  to  see  your  wife  :  Is  she 
at  home? 

Ford.  Ay ;  and  as  idle  as  she  may  hang  together, 
for  want  of  company :  I  think  if  your  husbands 
were  dead,  you  two  would  marry. 

Mrs.  Page.  Be  sure  of  that,  —  two  other  husbands. 

Ford.   Where  had  you  this  jiretty  weather-cock  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  I  cannot  tell  what  his  name  is  my 
husband  had  him  of:  What  do  you  call  your 
knight's  name,  sirrah  ? 

Rob.   Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Ford.   Sir  John  Falstaff! 

Mrs.  Page.  He,  he ;  I  can  never  hit  on's  name. 
There  is  such  a  league  between  my  good  man  and 
he  !  —  Is  your  wife  at  home,  indeed  ? 

Ford.   Indeed,  she  is. 

Mrs.  Page.  By  your  leave,  sir  ;  —  I  am  sick,  till 
I  see  her.  [Exeunt  Mrs.  Page  and  Robin. 

Ford.  Has  Page  any  brains  ?  hath  he  any  eyes ; 
hath  he  any  thinking  ?  Sure  they  sleep  ;  he  hath  no 
use  of  them.  Why,  this  boy  will  carry  a  letter  twenty 
miles,  as  easy  as  a  cannon  will  shoot  point-blank 
twelve  score.  He  pieces-out  his  wife's  inclination  ; 
he  gives  her  folly  motion,  and  advantage  :  and  now 
she's  going  to  my  wife,  and  Falstaff's  boy  with  her. 
A  man  may  hear  this  shower  sing  in  the  wind  !  — 
and  Falstaft"'s  boy  with  her  !  —  Good  plots  !  —  they 
are  laid ;  and  our  revolted  wives  share  damnation 
togetlier.  Well ;  I  will  take  him,  then  torture  my 
wife,  pluck  the  borrowed  veil  of  modesty  from  the 
so  seeming  mistress  Page,  divulge  Page  himself  for 
a  secure  and  wilful  Actaeon  ;  and  to  these  violent 
proceedings  all  my  neighbours  shall  cry  aim.-*  [Clock 
strikes.'l  The  clock  gives  me  my  cue,  and  my  as- 
surance bids  me  search ;  tliere  I  shall  find  Falstaff: 
I  shall  be  rather  praised  for  this  than  mocked  ;  for 
it  is  as  positive  as  the  eartli  is  firm,  that  Falstaff  is 
there  :    I  will  go. 

<  Shall  encourage. 


Enter  Page,  Shallow,  Slender,  Host,  Sir  Hugh 
Evans,  Caius,  and  Rugby. 

Shal.  Page,  &c.   Well  met,  master  Ford. 

Ford.  Trust  me,  a  good  knot :  I  have  good  cheer 
at  home  ;  and  I  pray  you,  all  go  witli  me. 

Shal.   I  must  excuse  myself,  master  Ford. 

Slen.  And  so  must  I,  sir  ;  we  have  appointed  to 
dine  with  mistress  Anne,  and  I  would  not  break 
with  her  for  more  money  than  I'll  speak  of. 

Shal.  We  have  lingered  about  a  match  between 
Anne  Page  and  my  cousin  Slender,  and  this  day 
we  shall  have  our  answer. 

Slen.   I  hope  I  have  your  good-will,  father  Page. 

Page.  You  have,  master  Slender ;  I  stand  wholly 
for  you  :  —  but  my  wife,  master  doctor,  is  for  you 
altogether, 

Caius.  Ay,  by  gar ;  and  de  maid  is  love-a  me ; 
my  nursh-a  Quickly  tell  me  so  mush. 

Host.  What  say  you  to  young  master  Fenton  ? 
he  capers,  he  dances,  he  has  eyes  of  youth,  he 
writes  verses,  he  speaks  holyday  ^ ;  he  smells  April 
and  May :   he  will  carry't,  he  will  carry't. 

Page.  Not  by  my  consent,  I  promise  you.  The 
gentleman  is  of  no  having  :  he  kept  company  with 
the  wild  Prince  and  Poins ;  he  is  of  too  high  a 
region,  he  knows  too  much.  No,  he  shall  not 
knit  a  knot  in  his  fortunes  ^vith  the  finger  of  my 
substance  :  if  he  take  her,  let  him  take  her  simply ; 
the  wealth  I  have,  waits  on  my  consent,  and  my 
consent  goes  not  that  way. 

Ford.  I  beseech  you,  heartily,  some  of  you  go 
home  with  me  to  dinner  :  besides  your  cheer,  you 

shall  have  sport ;   I  will  show  you  a  monster. 

Master  doctor,  you  shall  go  ;  —  so  shall  you,  master 
Page ;  —  and  you,  sir  Hugh. 

Shal.  Well,  fare  you  well :  —  we  shall  have  the 
freer  wooing  at  master  Page's. 

[Exeunt  Shallow  atid  Slender. 

Caius.   Go  home,  John  Rugby;  I  come  anon. 

[Exit  Rugby. 

Host.  Farewell,  my  hearts :  I  will  to  my  honest 
knight  Falstaff,  and  drink  canary  with  him. 

[Exit  Host, 

Ford.  [Aside.]  I  think,  I  shall  drink  in  pipe-wine 
first  with  him  ;  I'll  make  him  dance.  Will  you  go, 
gentles  ? 

All.  Have  with  you,  to  see  this  monster.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  Ford's  House. 
Enter  Mrs.  Ford  and  Mrs.  Page. 
Mrs.  Ford.  What,  John  !  what,  Robert  ! 
Mrs.  Page.   Quickly,  quickly :  Is  the  buck-bas- 
ket— 
Mrs.  Ford.   I  warrant :  —  What,  Robin,  I  say. 

Enter  Servants  tvith  a  basket. 

Mrs.  Page.   Come,  come,  come. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Here,  set  it  down. 

Mrs.  Page.  Give  your  men  the  charge ;  we  must 
be  brief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  before,  John 
and  Robert,  be  ready  here  hard  by  in  tlie  brew- 
house  ;  and  when  I  suddenly  call  you,  come  forth, 
and  (without  any  pause,  or  staggering,)  take  this 
basket  on  your  shoulders  :  that  done  trudge  with 
it  in  all  haste,  and  carry  it  among  the  whitsters  in 

*  Out  of  the  common  style. 
£  3 


52 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  III. 


Datchet-mead,  and  there  empty  it  in  the  muddy 
ilitch,  close  by  the  Thames'  side. 

Mrs.  Page.   You  will  do  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  have  told  them  over  and  over  ;  they 
lack  no  direction :  Begone,  and  come  when  you 
are  called.  [Exeunt  Servants. 

Mrs.  Page.   Here  comes  little  Robin. 

Enter  Robin. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas-musket  ?  ^  what 
news  with  you  ? 

Rob.  My  master  sir  John  is  come  in  at  your  back- 
door, mistress  Ford  ;  and  requests  your  company. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  little  Jack-a-lent  7,  have  you 
been  true  to  us  ? 

Rob.  Ay,  I'll  be  sworn :  My  master  knows  not 
of  your  being  liere ;  and  hath  threatened  to  put  me 
into  everlasting  liberty,  if  I  tell  you  of  it ;  for,  he 
swears,  he'll  turn  me  away. 

Mrs.  Page.  Thou'rt  a  good  boy ;  this  secrecy  of 
thine  shall  be  a  tailor  to  thee,  and  shall  make  thee 
a  new  doublet  and  hose.  —  I'll  go  hide  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  so  :  —  Go  tell  thy  master,  I  am 
alone.     Mistress  Page,  remember  you  your  cue. 

[Exit  Robin. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  warrant  thee  ;  if  I  do  not  act  it, 
hiss  me.  [Exit  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go  to  then ;  we'll  use  this  gross 
watery  pumpion  j  we'll  teach  him  to  know  turtles 
from  jays. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Have  I  caught  thee,  mi/  heavenly  jewel ! 
Why,  now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  lived  long  enough  : 
this  is  the  period  of  my  ambition  :  O  this  blessed 
hour! 

Mrs.  Ford.   O  sweet  sir  John  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog,  I  cannot  prate, 
mistress  Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish :  I  would 
thy  husband  were  dead ;  I'll  speak  it  before  the 
best  lord,  I  would  make  thee  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  your  lady,  sir  John !  alas,  I  should 
be  a  pitiful  lady. 

Fal.  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such  an- 
other :  I  see  how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the  dia- 
mond :  Thou  hast  the  right  arched  bent  of  the  brow, 
that  becomes  the  ship-tire,  the  tire-valiant,  or  any 
tire  of  Venetian  admittance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief,  sir  John  :  my  brows 
become  nothing  else  ;  nor  that  well  neither. 

Fal.  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  say  so  :  thou  would'st 
make  an  absolute  courtier  :  and  the  firm  fixture  of 
thy  foot  would  give  an  excellent  motion  to  thy  gait, 
in  a  semi-circled  farthingale.  I  see  what  thou  wert, 
if  fortune  thy  foe  were  not ;  nature  is  thy  friend : 
Come,  thou  canst  not  hide  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Believe  me,  there's  no  such  thing  in 
me. 

Fal.  What  made  me  love  thee  ?  let  that  persuade 
thee,  there's  something  extraordinary  in  thee. 
Come,  I  cannot  cog,  and  say,  thou  art  this  and 
that,  like  a  many  of  these  lisping  haw-thorn  buds, 
that  come  like  women  in  men's  apparel,  and  smell 
like  Bucklers-bury  8  in  simple-time  ;  I  cannot :  but 
I  love  thee ;  none  but  thee ;  and  thou  deservest  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  not  betray  me,  sir ;  I  fear,  you 
love  mistress  Page. 

"  A  young  small  hawk. 

7  A  puppet  thrown  at  in  Lent,  like  shrove-cocks. 

8  Formerly  chiefly  inhabited  by  druggists. 


Fal.  Thou  might'st  as  well  say,  I  love  to  walk 
by  the  Counter-gate  ;  which  is  as  hateful  to  me  as 
the  reek  of  a  lime-kiln. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well  heaven  knows,  how  I  love  you  ; 
and  you  sliall  one  day  find  it. 

Fal.    Keep  in  that  mind  ;   I'll  deserve  it. 

Mrs  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  tell  you,  so  you  do  ;  or 
else  I  could  not  be  in  that  mind.' 

Rob.  [ivithin.]  Mistress  Ford,  mistress  Ford ! 
here's  mistress  Page  at  the  door,  sweating,  and 
blowing,  and  looking  wildly,  and  would  needs  speak 
with  you  presently. 

Fal.  She  shall  not  see  me  ;  I  will  ensconce  9  me 
behind  the  arras. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Pray  you,  do  so ;  she's  a  very  tat- 
tling woman.  —  [Falstaff  hides  himself. 

Enter  Mrs.  Page  and  Robin. 
What's  the  matter  ?  how  now  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  O  mistress  Ford,  what  have  you 
done  ?  You're  shamed,  you  are  overthrown,  you 
are  undone  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What's  the  matter,  good  mistress 
Page? 

Mrs.  Page.  O  well-a-day,  mistress  Ford  !  having 
an  honest  man  to  your  husband,  to  give  him  such 
cause  of  suspicion ! 

Mrs.  Ford.   What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion  !  —  Out 
upon  you  !  how  am  I  mistook  in  you  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.   Why,  alas  !  what's  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Your  husband's  coming  hither,  wo- 
man, with  all  the  officers  in  Windsor,  to  search  for 
a  gentleman,  that,  he  says,  is  here,  now  in  the 
house,  by  your  consent,  to  take  an  ill  advantage  of 
his  absence  :   you  are  undone. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Speak  louder,  [Aside."] — 'Tis  not 
so,  I  hope. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that  you 
have  such  a  man  here ;  but  'tis  most  certain  your 
husband's  coming  with  half  Windsor  at  his  heels, 
to  search  for  such  a  one.  I  come  before  to  tell 
you  :  If  you  know  yourself  clear,  why  I  am  glad  of 
it :  but  if  you  have  a  friend  here,  convey,  convey 
him  out.  Be  not  amazed ;  call  all  your  senses  to 
you :  defend  your  reputation,  or  bid  farewell  to 
your  good  life  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  shall  I  do  ?  —  There  is  a  gen- 
tleman, my  dear  friend ;  and  I  fear  not  mine  own 
shame,  so  much  as  his  peril :  I  had  rather  than  a 
thousand  pound,  he  were  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  For  shame,  never  stand  you  had 
rather,  and  you  had  rather,-  your  husband's  here 
at  hand,  bethink  you  of  some  conveyance :  in  the 
house  you  cannot  hide  him.  —  O,  how  have  you 
deceived  me !  —  Look,  here  is  a  basket :  if  he  be 
of  any  reasonable  stature,  he  may  creep  in  here; 
and  throw  foul  linen  upon  him,  as  if  it  were  going 
to  bucking :  Or,  it  is  whiting-time  ',  send  him  by 
your  t\?'o  men  to  Datchet-mead. 

Mrs.  Ford.  He's  too  big  to  go  in  there:  What 
shall  I  do  ? 

Re-enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Let  me  see't !  let  me  see't !  O  let  me  see't ! 
I'll  in,  I'll  in  ;  —  follow  your  friend's  counsel ;  — 
I'll  in. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  sir  John  Falstaff !  Are  these 
your  letters,  knight  ? 

"  Hide.  1  Bleaching  time. 


Scene  IV. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


53 


Fed.   I  love  ihee,  and  none  but  thee  ;  help  me 

away  :   let  me  creep  in  here  ;   I'll  never 

\_He  goes  into  the  basket ;  they  cover  him 
with  foul  linen. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hef][>  to  cover  your  master,  boy  : 
Call  your  men,  mistress  Ford  :  —  You  dissemblinff 
knight.  ^ 

Mrs  Ford.  What,  John,  Robert,  John  !  [Exit 
RowN  ;  Re-enter  Servants.]  Go,  take  up  these 
clothes  here,  quickly;  Where's  the  cowl-staff?^ 
look,  how  you  drumbleS ;  carry  them  to  the  laun- 
dress in  Datchet-mead ;  quickly,  come. 

EiUer  Ford,  Page,  Caius,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near  :  if  I  suspect  without 
cause,  why  Uien  make  sport  at  me,  then  let  me  be 
your  jest ;  I  deserve  it.  —  How  now  ?  whither  bear 
you  this  ? 

Serv.   To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 
Mrs.  Ford.   Why,  what  have  you  to  do  whither 
they  bear  it  ?     You  were  best  meddle  with  buck- 
washing. 

Ford.  Buck  ?  I  would  I  could  wash  myself  of 
tlie  buck  !  Buck,  buck,  buck  ?  Ay,  buck  ;  I  war- 
rant you,  buck  ;  and  of  the  season  too,  it  shall  ap- 
pear. [Exeunt  Servants  with  the  basket.]  Gentle- 
men, I  have  dreamed  to-night:  I'll  tell  you  my 
dream.  Here,  here,  here  be  my  keys  :  ascend  my 
chambers,  search,  seek,  find  out :    I'll  warrant  we'll 

unkennel  the  fox  :  —  Let  me  stop  this  way  first : 

So  now  uncape.* 

Page.  Good  master  Ford,  be  contented :  you 
wrong  yourself  too  much. 

Ford.   True,  master  Page.— Up, gentlemen;  you 
shall  see  sport  anon  :   follow  me,  gentlemen.  [Exit. 
Eva.   This  is  fery  fantastical  humours,  and  jea- 
lousies. 

Caius.  By  gar,  'tis  no  de  fashion  of  France  :  it  is 
not  jealous  in  France. 

Page.   Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen  ;  see  the  issue 
of  liis  search.       [Exeunt  Evans,  Page,  and  Caius. 
Mrs.  Page.   Is  there  not  a  double  excellency  in 
this?  ^ 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  know  not  which  pleases  me  better, 
tliat  my  husband  is  deceived,  or  sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  What  a  taking  was  he  in,  when  your 
husband  asked  who  was  in  the  basket  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Tlu-owing  him  into  the  water  will  do 
liim  a  benefit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  rascal !  I  would, 
all  of  tlie  same  strain  were  in  the  same  distress. 

Mrs.  Foi'd.  I  think  my  husband  hath  some  spe- 
cial suspicion  of  Falstaff*'s  being  here ;  for  I  never 
saw  him  so  gross  in  his  jealousy  till  now. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  will  lay  a  plot  to  try  that :  And  we 
will  yet  have  more  tricks  with  Falstaft':  his  dissolute 
disease  will  scarce  obey  this  medicine. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  send  that  foolish  carrion, 
mistress  Quickly,  to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing 
into  the  water;  and  give  him  another  hope,  to 
betray  him  to  another  punishment  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  We'll  do  it ;  let  him  be  sent  for  to- 
morrow eight  o'clock,  to  have  amends. 

Re-enter  Ford,  Page,  Caius,  andSirlixsQn  Evans. 
Ford.   I  cannot  find  him:    may  be  the  knave 
bragged  of  Uiat  he  could  not  compass. 


Mrs.  Page.   Heard  you  that  ? 
Mrs.  Ford.   Ay,  ay,  peace  :  —  You  use  me  well, 
master  Ford,  do  you  ? 
Ford.    Ay,  I  do  so. 

Mrs.   Ford.   Heaven  make  you  better  than  your 
thoughts  ! 

Ford.   Amen. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  do  yourself  mighty  wrong,  mas- 
ter Ford. 

Ford.   Ay,  ay  ;   I  must  bear  it. 
Eva.   If  there  be  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in 
the  chambers,  and  in  the  coflfers,  and  in  the  presses, 
heaven  forgive  my  sins  ! 

Caius.   By  gar,  nor  I  too  ;  dere  is  no  bodies. 
Page.  Fie,  fie,  master  Ford!  are  you  not  ashamed? 
What  spirit,  what  devil  suggests  this  imagination  ? 
I  would  not  have  your  distemper  in  tliis  kind,  for 
the  wealth  of  Windsor  Castle. 

Ford.  'Tis  my  fault,  master  Page :  I  suffer  for  it. 
Eva.    You  suffer  for  a  pad  conscience  ;  your  wife 
is  as  honest  a  'omans,  as  I  will  desires  among  five 
thousand,  and  five  hundred  too. 

Caius.   By  gar,  I  see  'tis  an  honest  woman. 

Ford.   Well ;  —  I   promised   you   a    dinner : 

Come,  come,  walk  in  the  park  :  I  pray  you,  pardon 
me  ;  I  will  hereafter  make  known  to  you,  why  I 
have  done  this.  —  Come,  wife  ;  —  come  mistress 
Page  :  I  pray  you  pardon  me  ;  pray  heartily,  par- 
don me. 

Page.  Let's  go  in,  gentlemen;  but,  trust  me, 
we'll  mock  him.  I  do  invite  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing to  my  house  to  breakfast ;  after,  we'll  a  birding 
together  ;  I  have  a  fine  hawk  for  the  bush  :  Shall  it 
be  so? 

Ford.    Any  thing. 

Eva.  If  there  is  one,  I  shall  make  two  in  the 
company. 

Ford.   Pray  you  go,  master  Page. 
Eva.    I  pray  you  now,  remembrance  to-morrow 
on  the  knave,  mine  host. 

Caius.   Dat  is  good  ;  by  gar,  vit  all  my  heart. 
Eva.  A  knave ;  to  have  liis  gibes  and  his  mock- 
eries- [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  in  Page's  House. 

Enter  Fenton,  and  Mistress  Anne  Page. 

Fent.   I  see,  I  cannot  get  thy  father's  love ; 
Therefore,  no  more  turn  me  to  him,  sweet  Nan. 

Anne.   Alas  !  how  then  ? 

Fen.  Why,  thou  must  be  tliyself. 

He  doth  object,  I  am  too  great  of  birtli  ; 
And  that,  my  state  being  gall'd  with  my  expence, 
I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth  : 

Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me, 

My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies  ; 
And  tells  me,  'tis  a  thing  impossible 
I  should  love  thee,  but  as  a  property. 

Anne.   INIay  be,  he  tells  you  true. 

Fent.   No,  heaven  so  speed  mc  in  my  time-  lo 
come ! 
Albeit,  I  will  confess,  thy  father's  wealth 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I  woo'd  thee,  Anne  : 
Yet,  wooing  thee,  I  found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  sums  in  scaled  bags ; 
And  'tis  the  very  riches  of  thyself 
That  now  I  aim  at, 

Anne.  Gentle  master  Fenton, 

Yet  seek  my  father's  love  :  still  seek  it,  bir : 
E  3 


54 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  III. 


If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit. 

Cannot  attain  it,  why  then.  —  Hark  you  hither. 

{_Tliey  converse  apart. 

Enter  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Shal.  Break  their  talk,  Mrs.  Quickly  j  my  kins- 
man shall  speak  for  himself. 

Slen.  I'll  make  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on't* :  slid,  'tis 
but  venturing. 

Shal.   Be  not  dismay'd. 

iSZen.  No,  she  shall  not  dismay  me  :  I  care  not* 
for  that,  —  but  that  I  am  afeard. 

Quiclc.  Hark  ye ;  master  Slender  would  speak  a 
word  with  you. 

Anne.   I   come   to   him.  —  This  is  my  father's 
choice. 
O,  what  a  world  of  vile  ill-favour'd  faults 
Looks  liandsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a  year ! 

[Asixle. 

Quick.  And  how  does  good  master  Fenton?  Pray 
you,  a  word  with  you. 

Shal.  She's  coming ;  to  her,  coz.  O  boy,  thou 
hadst  a  father. 

Slen.  I  had  a  father,  mistress  Anne ;  — my  uncle 
can  tell  you  good  jests  of  him  :  —  Pray  you,  uncle, 
tell  mistress  Anne  the  jest,  how  my  father  stole 
two  geese  out  of  a  pen,  good  uncle. 

Shal.   Mistress  Anne,  my  cousin  loves  you. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  do  ;  as  well  as  I  love  any  woman 
in  Glocestershire. 

Shnl.   He  will  maintain  you  like  a  gentlewoman. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  will,  come  cut  and  long-tail, 
under  the  degree  of  a  'squire. 

Shal.  He  wall  make  you  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  jointure. 

Anne.  Good  master  Shallow,  let  him  woo  for 
himself. 

Shal.  Marry,  I  thank  you  for  it ;  I  thank  you  for 
that  good  comfort.  She  calls  you,  coz  ;  I'll  leave 
you. 

Anne.   Now,  master  Slender. 

Slen.   Now,  good  mistress  Anne. 

Anne.   What  is  your  will. 

Slen.  My  will?  od's  heartlings,  that's  a  pretty 
jest  indeed !  I  ne'er  made  my  will  yet,  I  thank 
heaven  ;  I  am  not  such  a  sickly  creature,  I  give 
heaven  praise. 

Anne.  I  mean,  master  Slender,  what  would  you 
with  me  ? 

Sle?i.  Truly,  for  mine  own  part,  I  would  little  or 
nothing  with  you  :  Your  father,  and  my  uncle,  have 
made  motions  :  if  it  be  my  luck,  so  ;  if  not,  happy 
man  be  his  dole  !  ^  They  can  tell  you  how  things 
go,  better  than  I  can  :  You  may  ask  your  father ; 
here  he  comes. 

E7iter  Page,  and  Mistress  Page. 
Page.  Now,  master  Slender :  —  Love  him,  daugh- 
ter Anne.  — 
Why,  how  now  !  what  does  master  Fenton  here  ? 
You  wrong  me,  sir,  thus  still  to  haunt  my  house : 
I  told  you,  sir,  my  daughter  is  dispos'd  of. 
Fent.   Nay,  master  Page,  be  not  impatient. 
Mrs.  Page.    Good  master  Fenton,  come  not  to 

my  child. 
Page.   She  is  no  match  for  you. 
Fent.   Sir,  will  you  hear  me  ? 
Page.  No,  good  master  Fenton. 

*  A  proverb  —  a  shaft  was  a  long  arrow,  and  a  bolt  a  thick 
ihort  one.  »  Lot. 


Come,  master  Shallow  :   come,  son  Slender  ;  in  :  — 

Knowing  my  mind,  you  wrong  me,  master  Fenton. 

[Exeunt  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slendek. 

Quick.   Speak  to  mistress  Page. 

Fent.   Good  mistress  Page,  for  that  I  love  your 
daughter 
In  such  a  righteous  fashion  as  I  do. 
Perforce,  against  all  checks,  rebukes,  and  manners, 
I  must  advance  the  colours  of  my  love, 
And  not  retire  :   Let  me  liave  your  good  will. 

Anne.   Good  mother,  do  not  marry  me  to  yond' 
fool. 

Mrs.  Page.   I  mean  it  not ;  I  seek  you  a  better 
husband. 

Quick.    That's  my  master,  master  doctor. 

Anne.  Alas,  I  had  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth, 
And  bowl'd  to  death  with  turnips. 

Mrs.  Page.   Come,  trouble  not  yourself:   Good 
master  Fenton. 
I  will  not  be  your  friend,  nor  enemy  : 
My  daughter  will  I  question  how  she  loves  you. 
And  as  I  find  her,  so  am  I  aflfected  ; 
'Till  then,  farewell  sir  :  — :  She  must  needs  go  in  ; 
Her  father  will  be  angry. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Page  and  Anne. 

Fent.    Farewell,  gentle  mistress ;  farewell.  Nan. 

Quick.  This  is  my  doing  now ;  —  Nay,  said  I, 
will  you  cast  away  your  child  on  a  fool,  and  a 
physician  ?  Look  on  master  Fenton  :  —  this  is  my 
doing. 

Fent.   I  thank  thee  ;  and  I  pray  thee,  once  to- 
night 
Give  my  sweet  Nan  this  ring  :  There's  for  thy  pains. 

[Exit. 

Quick.  Now  heaven  send  thee  good  fortune  !  A 
kind  heart  he  hath :  a  woman  would  run  through 
fire  and  water  for  such  a  kind  heart.  But  yet,  I 
would  my  master  had  mistress  Anne ;  or  I  would 
master  -Slender  had  her ;  or,  in  sooth,  I  would 
master  Fenton  had  her :  I  will  do  what  I  can  for 
tliem  all  three ;  for  so  I  have  promised,  and  I'll  be 
as  good  as  my  word ;  but  speciously  ^  for  master 
Fenton.  Well,  I  must  of  another  errand  to  sir 
John  Falstaff  from  my  two  mistresses:  What  a 
beast  am  I  to  slack  7  it.  [ExU, 

SCENE  V.  —  A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Falstaff  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.    Bardolph,  I  say,  — 

Bard.   Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Go  fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack ;  put  a  toast 
in't.  [Exit  Bard.]  Have  I  lived  to  be  carried  in 
a  basket,  like  a  barrow  of  butcher's  offal  ?  and  to 
be  thrown  into  the  Thames?  Well;  if  I  be  served 
such  another  trick,  I'll  have  my  brains  ta'en  out, 
and  buttered,  and  give  them  to  a  dog  for  a  new 
year's  gift.  The  rogues  slighted  me  into  the  river 
with  as  littlp  remorse  as  they  would  have  drowned 
blind  puppies,  fifteen  i'  the  litter  :  and  you  may 
know  by  my  size,  that  I  have  a  kind  of  alacrity  in 
sinking ;  if  the  bottom  were  ever  so  deep,  I  should 
down.  I  had  been  drowned,  but  that  the  shore 
was  shelvy  and  shallow  :  a  death  that  I  abhor  ;  for 
the  water  sM^ells  a  man  ;  and  what  a  thing  should  I 
have  been,  when  I  had  been  swelled!  I  should 
have  been  a  mountain  of  mummy. 


Specially. 


Neglect. 


J 


Scene  V. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


bb 


Re-enter  Bardolph,  with  the  wine. 

Hard.  Here's  mistress  Quickly,  sir,  to  speak  with 
you. 

Fal.  Come,  let  me  pour  in  some  sack  to  the 
Thames  water  ;  for  my  inside's  as  cold,  as  if  I  liad 
swallowed  snow-balls.      Call  her  in. 

Bard.   Come  in,  woman. 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Quick.  By  your  leave ;  I  cry  you  mercy  :  Give 
your  worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.  Take  away  these  chalices :  Go  brew  me  a 
pottle  of  sack  finely.  —  {Eint  Bardolph.]  —  How 
now  ? 

Quiclr.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  your  worship  from 
mistress  Ford. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford!  I  have  had  ford  enough:  I 
was  thrown  into  the  ford. 

Quick.  Alas  the  day  !  good  heart,  that  was  not 
her  fault ;  she  does  so  take  on  with  her  men  ;  they 
mistook  their  erection. 

Fal.  So  did  I  mine,  to  build  upon  a  foolish  wo- 
man's promise. 

Quick.  Well,  she  laments,  sir,  for  it,  that  it  would 
yearn  your  heart  to  see  it.  Her  husband  goes  tliis 
morning  a  birding ;  she  desires  you  once  more  to 
come  to  her  between  eight  and  nine  :  I  must  carry 
her  word  quickly ;  slie'll  make  you  amends,  1 
warrant  you. 

Fal.  Well,  I  will  visit  her:  Tell  her  so;  and  bid 
her  tliink,  what  a  man  is  :  let  her  consider  his 
frailty,  and  then  judge  of  my  merit. 

Quick.   I  will  tell  her. 

Fal.   Do  so.     Between  nine  and  ten,  say'st  thou? 

QuicA:   Eight  and  nine,  sir. 

Fal.   Well,  be  gone  :   I  will  not  miss  her. 

Quick.   Peace  be  with  you,  sir.  [Exit. 

Fal.  I  marvel,  I  hear  not  of  master  Brook ;  he 
sent  me  word  to  stay  within  :  I  like  his  money 
well.     O,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.   Bless  you,  sir  ! 

Fal.  Now,  master  Brook?  you  come  to  know 
what  hath  passed  between  me  and  Ford's  wife  ? 

Ford.   That,  indeed,  sir  John,  is  my  business. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  not  lie  to  you ;  I  was 
at  her  house  the  hour  she  appointed  me. 

Ford.    And  how  sped  you,  sir? 

Fal.   Very  ill-favouredly,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  How  so,  sir  ?  Did  she  change  her  deter- 
mination ? 

Fal.  No,  master  Brook ;  but  the  peaking  cor- 
nuto,  her  husband,  master  Brook,  dwelling  in  a 
continual  'larum  of  jealousy,  comes  me  in  the  in- 
stant of  our  encounter,  after  we  had  embraced, 
kissed,  protested,  and,  as  it  were,  spoke  tlie  pro- 
logue of  our  comedy ;  and  at  his  heels  a  rabble  of 
his  companions,  tliither  provoked  and  instigated  by 
liis  distemjjer,  and,  forsooth,  to  search  his  house  for 
his  wife's  love. 

Ford.   What,  while  you  were  there  ? 

Fal.   While  I  was  there. 

Ford.  And  did  he  search  for  you,  and  could  not 
find  you  ? 

Fal.  You  shall  hear.  As  good  luck  would  have 
it,  comes  in  one  mistress  Page  ;  gives  intelligence 
of  Ford's  approach ;   and,  by  her    invention,  and 


Ford's  wife's  distraction,  they  conveyed  me  into  a 
buck-basket  ? 

Ford.    A  buck-basket? 

Fal.  Yea,  a  buck-basket:  rammed  me  in  with 
foul  shirts  and  socks,  foul  stockings,  and  greasy 
napkins;  that,  master  Brook,  there  was  the  rankest 
compound  of  villainous  smell,  that  ever  offended 
nostril. 

Ford.  And  how  long  lay  you  there  ? 
Fal.  Nay,  you  shall  hear,  master  Brook,  what  I 
have  suffered  to  bring  this  woman  to  evil  for  your 
good.  Being  thus  crammed  in  the  basket,  a  couple 
of  Ford's  knaves,  his  hinds,  were  called  forth  by 
tlieir  mistress,  to  carry  me  in  the  name  of  foul 
clothes  to  Datchet-lane :  they  took  me  on  tlieir 
shoulders ;  met  the  jealous  knave  their  master  in 
tlie  door ;  who  asked  them  once  or  twice  what  tljey 
had  in  their  basket :  I  quaked  for  fear,  lest  the 
lunatic  knave  would  have  searched  it;  but  Fate, 
ordaining  he  should  be  a  cuckold,  held  his  hand. 
Well ;  on  went  he  for  a  search,  and  away  went  I 
for  foul  clothes.  But  mark  the  sequel,  master 
Brook :  I  suffered  tlie  pangs  of  three  several  deatlis: 
first,  an  intolerable  fright,  to  be  detected  -with  a 
jealous  bell-wether :  next,  to  be  compassed  like  a 
good  bilbo  8,  in  the  circumference  of  a  peck,  hilt  to 
point,  heel  to  head :  and  then,  to  be  stopped  in, 
like  a  strong  distillation,  with  stinking  clothes : 
think  of  that,  —  a  man  of  my  kidney,  think  of  that ; 
that  am  as  subject  to  heat  as  butter ;  a  man  of 
continual  dissolution  and  thaw ;  it  was  a  miracle  to 
'scape  suffocation.  And  in  the  height  of  this  bath, 
when  I  was  more  than  half  stewed  in  grease,  like  a 
Dutch  dish,  to  be  thrown  into  the  Thames,  and 
cooled,  glowing  hot,  in  that  surge,  like  a  horse- 
shoe ;  think  of  that ;  — hissing  hot,  —  think  of  that, 
master  Brook. 

Ford.  In  good  sadness,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  for 
my  sake  you  have  suffered  all  this.  My  suit  then 
is  desperate ;  you'll  undertake  her  no  more. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  be  thrown  into  ^tna, 
as  I  have  been  into  Thames,  ere  I  will  leave  her 
thus.  Her  husband  is  this  morning  gone  a  bird- 
ing :  I  have  received  from  her  another  embassy  of 
meeting ;  'twixt  eight  and  nine  is  the  hour,  master 
Brook. 
Ford.  'Tis  past  eight  already,  sir. 
Fal.  Is  it?  I  will  then  address  me  to  my  appoint- 
ment. Come  to  me  at  your  convenient  leisure,  and 
you  shall  know  how  I  speed ;  and  the  conclusion 
shall  be  crowned  with  your  having  her :  Adieu. 
You  shall  have  her,  master  Brook  ;  master  Brook, 
you  shall  cuckold  Ford.  [Exit. 

Ford.  Hum!  ha!  is  this  a  vision?  is  this  a  dream? 
do  I  sleep  ?  Master  Ford,  awake ;  awake,  master 
Ford;  there's  a  hole  made  in  your  best  coat,  master 
Ford.  This  'tis  to  be  married  !  this  'tis  to  have 
linen  and  buck-baskets  !  —  Well,  I  will  proclaim 
myself  what  I  am  :  I  will  now  take  the  lecher  ;  he 
is  at  my  house  :  he  cannot  'scaj>e  me ;  'tis  impos- 
sible he  should  ;  he  cannot  creep  into  a  halfpenny 
purse,  nor  into  a  pepper-box :  but,  lest  the  devil 
that  guides  him  should  aid  him,  I  will  search  im- 
possible places.  Though  what  I  am  I  cannot 
avoid,  yet  to  be  what  I  would  not,  shall  not  make 
me  tame :  if  I  have  horns  to  make  one  mad,  let  tlie 
proverb  go  with  me,  I'll  be  horn  mad.  [Exit. 

^  Bilboa,  where  the  lN>st  blades  arc  made. 
E  4 


56 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  IV. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  l.  —  A  Room  in  Ford'*  House. 

Enter  Falstaff  and  Mrs.  Ford. 

Fed.  Mistress  Ford,  your  sorrow  hath  eaten  up 
my  sufferance :  I  see  you  are  obsequious  in  your 
love,  and  I  profess  requital  to  a  hair's  breadUi;  not 
only,  mistress  Ford,  in  the  simple  office  of  love,  but 
in  all  the  accoutrement,  complement,  and  ceremony 
of  it.     But  are  you  sure  of  your  Iiusband  now  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.   He's  a  birding,  sweet  sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  [Within.'\  What  hoa,  gossip  Ford! 
what  hoa ! 

Mrs.  Ford.   Step  into  the  chamber,  sir  John. 

\_E3it  Falstaff. 
Enter  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Page.  How  now,  sweetheart?  who's  at 
home  beside  yourself? 

Mrs.  Ford.   Why,  none  but  mine  own  people. 

Mrs.  Page.   Indeed? 

Mrs.  Ford.  No,  certainly ; — speak  louder.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  nobody 
here. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Why  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  woman,  your  husband  is  in 
his  own  lunes  9  again  :  he  so  takes  on  yonder  with 
my  husband  ;  so  rails  against  all  married  mankind  j 
so  curses  all  Eve's  daughters,  of  what  complexion 
soever ;  and  so  buffets  himself  on  the  forehead,  cry- 
ing Peer  out,  peer  out !  that  any  madness  I  ever 
yet  beheld  seemed  but  taraeness,  civility,  and  pa- 
tience, to  this  his  distemper  he  is  in  now  :  I  am 
glad  the  fat  knight  is  not  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  does  he  talk  of  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Of  none  but  him;  and  swears,  he 
was  carried  out,  the  last  time  he  searched  for  him 
in  a  basket :  protests  to  my  husband  he  is  now 
here;  and  hath  drawn  him  and  the  rest  of  their 
company  from  their  sport,  to  make  another  experi- 
ment of  liis  suspicion  :  but  I  am  glad  the  knight  is 
not  here  ;  now  he  shall  see  his  own  foolery. 

Mrs.  Ford.   How  near  is  he,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Hard  by ;  at  street  end ;  he  will  be 
here  anon. 

Mrs.  Ford.    I  am  undone  !  —  the  knight  is  here. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  then  you  are  utterly  shamed, 
arid  he's  but  a  dead  man.  What  a  woman  are  you  ? 
—  Away  with  him,  away  with  him ;  better  shame 
than  murder. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Which  way  should  he  go?  how 
should  I  bestow  him?  Shall  I  put  him  into  the 
basket  again? 

Re-enter  Falstaff. 

Fa  I.  No,  I'll  come  no  more  i'  the  basket :  May 
I  not  go  out  ere  he  come  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas,  three  of  master  Ford's  bro- 
thers watch  the  door  with  pistols,  that  none  shall 
issue  out ;  otherwise  you  might  slip  away  ere  he 
came.      But  what  make  you  here  ? 

Fal.  Whall  shall  I  do  ?  —  I'll  creep  up  into  the 
chimney. 

Mrs.  Ford.  There  they  always  use  to  discharge 
their  birding  pieces  :   creep  into  the  kiln  hole. 

Fal.   Where  is  it  ? 

3  Mad  fits. 


Mrs.  Ford.  He  will  seek  there  on  my  word. 
Neither  press,  coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault,  but. 
he  hath  an  abstract  for  the  remembrance  of  such 
places,  and  goes  to  them  by  his  note  :  There  is  no 
hiding  you  in  the  house. 

Fal.    I'll  go  out  then. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  you  go  out  in  your  own  sem- 
blance, you  die,  sir  John.  Unless  you  go  out  dis- 
guised. 

Mrs.  Ford.   How  might  we  disguise  him? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  the  day,  I  know  not.  There 
is  no  woman's  gown  big  enough  for  him ;  other- 
wise, he  might  put  on  a  hat,  a  muffler,  and  a  ker- 
chief, and  so  escape. 

Fed.  Good  hearts,  devise  something  ;  any  extre- 
mity rather  than  a  mischief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  My  maid's  aunt,  the  fat  woman  of 
Brentford,  has  a  gown  above. 

Mrs.  Page.  On  my  w'ord,  it  will  serve  liim ; 
she's  as  big  as  he  is  :  and  there's  her  thrum'd  hati 
and  her  muffler  too  :    Run  up,  sir  John. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  go,  sweet  sir  John  :  mistress 
Page  and  I  will  look  some  linen  for  your  head. 

Mrs.  Page.  Quick,  quick;  we'll  come  dress  you 
straight:  put  on  the  gown  the  while.  [£xj/ Falstaff. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  would  my  husband  would  meet  liim 
in  this  shape :  he  cannot  abide  the  old  woman  of 
Brentford ;  he  swears  she's  a  witch  :  forbade  lier 
my  house,  and  hath  threatened  to  beat  her. 

Mrs.  Page,  Heaven  guide  him  to  thy  husband's 
cudgel ;  and  the  devil  guide  his  cudgel  afterwards  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.   But  is  my  husband  coming  ? 

Mrs,  Page.  Ay,  in  good  sadness  is  he;  and  talks 
of  the  basket;  too,  howsoever  he  hath  had  intelli- 
gence. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We'll  try  that ;  for  I'll  appoint  my 
men  to  carry  the  basket  again,  to  meet  him  at  the 
door  with  it,  as  they  did  last  time. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  but  he'll  be  here  presently  ; 
let's  go  dress  him  like  the  witch  of  Brentford. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I'll  first  direct  my  men,  what  they 
shall  do  with  the  basket.  Go  up,  I'll  bring  linen 
for  him  straight.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  varlet !  we  can- 
not misuse  him  enough. 

We'll  leave  a  proof,  by  that  which  we  will  do. 

Wives  may  be  merry,  and  yet  honest  too.    [Exit. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Ford,  with  two  servants. 
Mrs.  Ford.    Go,  sirs,  take  the  basket  again  on 
your  shoulders ;  your  master  is  hard  at  door  ;  if  he 
bid  you  set  it  down,  obey  him  :   quickly,  dispatch. 

[Exit. 

1  Serv.   Come,  come,  take  it  up. 

2  Serv.  Pray  heaven,  it  be  not  full  of  the  knight 
again. 

1  Serv,  I  hope  not ;  I  had  as  lief  bear  so  much 
lead. 

Enter  Ford,  Page,  Shallow,  Caius,  and  Sir 
Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  Ay,  but  if  it  prove  true,  master  Page,  have 
you  any  way  then  to  unfool  me  again  ?  —  Set  down 

the  basket,  villain  :  —  Somebody  call  my  wife 

You,  youth  in  a  basket,  come  out  here !  —  O,  you 
panderly  rascals !  there's  a  knot,  a  gang,  a  pack,  a 


Scene  I. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


57 


conspiracy  against  me :  Now  shall  the  devil  be 
shamed.  What !  wife,  I  say  !  come,  come  forth ; 
behold  what  honest  clothes  you  send  forth  to  bleach- 
ing. 

Page.  Why,  this  passes!  Master  Ford,  you  are  not 
to  go  loose  any  longer ;  you  must  be  pinioned. 

Eva.  Why,  this  is  lunatics !  this  is  mad  as  a  mad 
dog! 

Shed.  Indeed,  master  Ford,  this  is  not  well ;  in- 
deed. 

Enter  Mrs.  Ford. 

Ford.  So  say  I  too,  sir.  —  Come  hither,  mistress 
Ford ;  mistress  Ford,  the  honest  woman,  the  modest 
wife,  the  virtuous  creature,  that  hath  the  jealous  fool 
to  her  husband  !  —  I  suspect  without  cause,  mistress, 
do  I? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  be  my  witness,  you  do,  if  you 
suspect  me  in  any  dishonesty. 

Ford.   Well  said,  brazen-face  j  hold  it  out. 

Come  fortli,  sirrah. 

{Pulls  the  clothes  out  of  the  basket. 

Page.   Tliis  passes ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Are^you  not  ashamed?  let  the  clothes 
alone. 

Ford.   I  shall  find  you  anon. 

Eva.  'Tis  unreasonable  !    Come  away. 

Ford.   Empty  the  basket,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Why,  man,  why,  — 

Ford.  Master  Page,  as  I  am  a  man,  there  was  one 
conveyed  out  of  my  house  yesterday  in  this  basket : 
Why  may  not  he  be  there  again  ?  In  my  house  I  am 
sure  he  is  :  my  intelligence  is  true ;  my  jealousy  is 
reasonable  :    Pluck  me  out  all  the  linen. 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  you  find  a  man  there,  he  shall  die 
a  flea's  death. 

Page.    Here's  no  man. 

Shot.  By  my  fidelity,  this  is  not  well,  master  Ford ; 
this  wrongs  you. 

Eva.  Master  Ford,  you  must  pray,  and  not  fol- 
low the  imaginations  of  your  own  heart :  tliis  is 
jealousies. 

Ford.   Well,  he's  not  here  I  seek  for. 

Page.   No,  nor  no  where  else,  but  in  your  brain. 

Ford.  Help  to  5earch  my  house  this  one  time  : 
if  I  find  not  what  I  seek,  show  no  colour  for  my 
extremity,  let  me  for  ever  be  your  table-sport ;  let 
tliem  say  of  me,  As  jealous  as  Ford,  that  searched  a 
hollow  walnut  for  his  wife's  Icman. '  Satisfy  me  once 
more  ;  once  more  search  with  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  hoa,  mistress  Page  !  come  you, 
and  the  old  woman  down ;  my  husband  will  come 
into  the  chamber. 

Ford.   Old  woman  !  What  old  woman's  that  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  it  is  my  maid's  auntof  Brentford. 

Ford.  A  witch,  a  quean,  an  old  cozening  quean  ! 
Have  I  not  forbid  her  my  house  ?  She  comes  of  er- 
rands, does  she  ?  We  are  simple  men  ;  we  do  not 
know  what's  brought  to  pass  under  the  profession 
of  fortune-telling.  She  works  by  charms,  by  spells, 
by  the  figure,  and  such  daubcry  as  tliis  is ;  beyond 
our  element :  we  know  nothing.  — —  Come  down, 
you  witch,  you  hag  you ;  come  down,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  good,  sweet  husband ;  —  good 
gentlemen,  let  him  not  strike  the  old  woman. 

Enter    Falstaff  in  woman  s  clothes,   led   by  Mrs. 
Page. 
Mrs.  Page.   Come,  mother  Pratt,  come,  give  me 
your  hand. 

»  Lover. 


Ford.   I'll  jjrat  her : out  of  my  door,  you 

witch !  {beats  him.']  you  rag,  you  baggage,  you 
pole-cat,  you  ronyon  !  ^  out !  out !  I'll  ceujure  you, 
I'll  fortune-tell  you.  [Exit  Fal. 

Mrs.  Page.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  I  tliink  you 
have  kill'd  the  poor  woman. 

Mrs.  Ford,  Nay,  he  will  do  it :  —  'Tis  a  goodly 
credit  for  you. 

Ford.   Hang  her,  vHtch  ! 

Eva,  By  yea  and  no,  I  think,  the  'oman  is  a  witch 
indeed  :  I  like  not  when  a  'oman  has  a  great  peard ; 
I  spy  a  great  peard  under  her  muffler. 

Ford.  Will  you  follow,  gentlemen  ?  I  beseech 
you,  follow  ;  see  but  the  issue  of  my  jealousy  :  if  I 
cry  out  thus  upon  no  trail  3,  never  trust  me  when  I 
open  again. 

Page.  Let's  obey  his  humour  a  little  further: 
Come,  gentlemen. 

{Exeunt  Page,  Ford,  Shallow,  and  Evans. 

Mrs.  Page.   Trust  me,  he  beat  him  most  pitifully. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  by  the  mass,  that  he  did  not ; 
he  beat  him  most  unpitifuUy,  methought. 

Mrs.  Page.  I'll  have  the  cudgel  hallowed  ;  it  hatli 
done  meritorious  service. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  think  you  ?  May  we,  with  the 
warrant  of  womanhood,  and  the  witness  of  a  good 
conscience,  pursue  him  with  any  further  revenge  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  The  spirit  of  wantonness  is,  sure, 
scared  out  of  him ;  if  the  devil  have  him  not  in  fee- 
simple,  with  fine  and  recovery,  he  will  never,  1 
think,  attempt  us  again. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  tell  our  husbands  how  we 
have  served  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Yes,  by  all  means ;  if  it  be  but  to 
scrape  the  figures  out  of  your  husband's  brains.  If 
they  can  find  in  their  hearts,  the  poor  unvirtuous 
fat  knight  shall  be  any  further  afiSicted,  we  two  will 
still  be  the  ministers. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I'll  warrant,  they'll  have  him  pub- 
lickly  shamed  :  and,  methinks,  there  would  be  no 
period  to  the  jest,  should  he  not  be  publickly 
shamed. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  to  the  forge  with  it  then,  shape 
it :   I  would  not  have  things  cool.  {Exeu7zt. 

SCENE  II.  —  ^  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Sir,  the  Germans  desire  to  have  three  of 
your  horses :  the  duke  himself  will  be  to-morrow  at 
court,  and  they  are  going  to  meet  him. 

Host.  What  duke  should  that  be,  comes  so  se- 
cretly ?  I  hear  not  of  him  in  the  court  :  Let  me 
speak  with  the  gentlemen  ;  they  speak  English  ? 

Bard.    Ay,  sir ;   I'll  call  them  to  you. 

Host.  They  shall  have  my  horses  ;  but  I'll  make 
them  pay,  I'll  sauce  them  :  they  have  had  my  houses 
a  week  at  command ;  I  have  turned  away  my  other 
guests:  they  must  come  off ;  I'll  sauce  them :  Come. 

{Exeunt, 

SCENE  IIL  —  A  Room  in  Ford'*  House. 

Enter  Page,    Ford,  Mrs.  Page,   Mrs.  Ford,  and 
Sir  Hugh  Evans. 
Eva.   'Tis  one  of  the  pest  discretions  of  a  'oman 
as  ever  I  did  look  upon. 

Page.  And  did  he  send  you  both  these  letters  at 
nn  instant? 

J  Scab.  i  Scent 


58 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  IV. 


Mrs.  Page,  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Ford.   Pardon  me,  wife  :    Henceforth  do  what 
thou  wilt ; 
I  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  cold, 
Than  thee  with  wantonness :   now  doth  thy  honour 

stand, 
In  him  that  was  of  late  an  heretick. 
As  firm  as  faith. 

Page.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well;  no  more. 

Be  not  as  extreme  in  submission, 
As  in  offence ; 

But  let  our  plot  go  forward  :  let  our  wives 
Yet  once  again,  to  make  us  publick  sport. 
Appoint  a  meeting  with  this  old  fat  fellow, 
Where  we  may  take  him,  and  disgrace  him  for  it. 

Ford.   There  is  no  better  way  than   that  they 
spoke  of. 

Page.  How !  to  send. him  word  they'll  meet  him 
in  the  park  at  midnight !  fie,  fie  !  he'll  never  come. 

Eva.  You  say,  he  has  been  thrown  in  the  rivers  ; 
and  has  been  grievously  peaten,  as  an  old  'oraan  : 
methinks,  there  should  be  terrors  in  him,  that  he 
should  not  come. 

Page.   So  think  I  too. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Devise  but  how  you'll  use  him  when 
he  comes. 
And  let  us  two  devise  to  bring  him  thither. 

Mrs.  Page.   There  is  an  old  tale  goes,  that  Heme 
the  hunter, 
Sometime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest, 
Doth  all  the  winter  time,  at  still  midnight. 
Walk  round  about  an  oak,  with  great  ragg'd  horns ; 
And  there  he  blasts  the  tree,  and  takes  *  the  cattle ; 
And  makes  milch-kine  yield  blood,  and  shakes  a 

chain 
In  a  most  liideous  and  dreadful  manner : 
You  have  heard  of  such  a  spirit ;  and  well  you  know. 
The  superstitious  idle-headed  eld  ^ 
Received,  and  did  deliver  to  our  age. 
This  tale  of  Heme  the  hunter  for  a  truth. 

Page.  Why,  yet  there  want  not  many,  that  do  fear 
In  deep  of  night  to  walk  by  this  Heme's  oak  : 
But  what  of  this  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.   Marry,  this  is  our  device ; 
That  FalstafF  at  that  oak  shall  meet  with  us, 
Disguis'd  like  Herne,  with  huge  horns  on  his  head. 

Page.  Well,  let  it  not  be  doubted  but  he'll  come. 
And  in  this  shape :   When  you  have  brought  him 

tliither, 
What  shall  be  done  with  him  ?   what  is  your  plot  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    That  likewise  have  we  thought  upon, 
and  thus  : 
Nan  Page  my  daughter,  and  my  little  son. 
And  three  or  four  more  of  their  growth,  we'll  dress 
Like  urcliins,  ouphes  6,  and  fairies,  green  and  white. 
With  rounds  of  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads, 
And  rattles  in  their  hands  ;  upon  a  sudden, 
As  Falstaff",  she,  and  I,  are  newly  met, 
Let  them  from  forth  a  saw-pit  rush  at  once 
With  some  diffused  song  ;  upon  their  sight. 
We  two  in  great  amazedness  will  fly  : 
Then  let  them  all  encircle  him  about. 
And,  fairy-like,  to  pinch  the  unclean  knight ; 
And  ask  him,  why,  that  hour  of  fairy-revel. 
In  their  so  sacred  paths  he  dares  to  tread. 
In  shape  prophane. 

Mrs.  Ford.  And  till  he  tell  the  truth, 

Let  the  supposed  fairies  pinch  him  sound, 
And  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 


■•  Strikes. 


s  Old  age. 


6  Elf,  hobgoblia 


Mrs.  Page.  The  truth  being  known. 

We'll  all  present  ourselves  ;  dis-horn  the  spirit. 
And  mock  him  home  to  Windsor. 

Ford.  The  children  must 

Be  practised  well  to  this,  or  they'll  ne'er  do't. 

Eva.  I  will  teach  the  children  their  behaviours ; 
and  I  will  be  like  a  jack-an-apes  also,  to  burn  the 
knight  with  my  taber. 

Ford,  That  will  be  excellent.  I'll  go  buy  them 
vizards. 

Mrs.  Page.  My  Nan  shall  be  the  queen  of  all  the 
fairies. 
Finely  attired  in  a  robe  of  white. 

Page.  That  silk  will  I  go  buy ;  —  and  in  that  time 
Shall  master  Slender  steal  my  Nan  away,      [Aside. 

And  marry  her  at  Eton. Go,  send  to  Falstaff 

straight. 

Ford.  Nay,  I'll  to  him  again  in  name  of  Brook  : 
He'll  tell  me  all  his  purpose  :    Sure,  he'll  come. 

Mrs.  Page.   Fear  not  you  that :    Go,  get  us  pro- 
perties. 
And  tricking  for  our  fairies. 

Eva.  Let  us  about  it :  It  is  admirable  pleasures, 
and  fery  honest  knaveries. 

[Exeunt  Page,  Ford,  and  Evans. 

Mrs.  Page.    Go,  mistress  Ford, 
Send  quickly  to  sir  John,  to  know  his  mind. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Ford. 
I'll  to  the  doctor ;  he  hath  my  good  will. 
And  none  but  he,  to  marry  with  Nan  Page. 
That  Slender,  though  well  landed,  is  an  idiot ; 
And  he  my  husband  best  of  all  affects : 
The  doctor  is  well  money'd,  and  his  friends 
Potent  at  court ;  he,  none  but  he,  shall  have  her, 
Though  twenty  thousand  worthier  come  to  crave  her. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —  ^  Room  hi  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Host  and  Simple. 

Host.  What  would'st  thou  have,  boor?  what, 
thick-skin?  speak,  breathe,  discuss;  brief,  short, 
quick,  snap. 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  speak  with  sir  John 
Falstaff  from  master  Slender. 

Host.  There's  his  chamber,  his  house,  his  castle, 
his  standing-bed,  and  truckle-bed ;  'tis  painted  about 
with  the  story  of  the  prodigal,  fresh  and  new :  Go, 
knock  and  call ;  he'll  speak  like  an  Anthropopha- 
ginian  7  unto  thee  :    Knock,  I  say. 

Sim.  There's  an  old  woman,  a  fat  woman,  gone 
up  into  his  chamber ;  I'll  be  so  bold  as  stay,  sir, 
till  she  come  down  :  I  come  to  speak  with  her,  in- 
deed. 

Host.  Ha !  a  fat  woman  !  the  knight  may  be 
robbed :  I'll  call.—  Bully  knight !  Bully  sir  John  ! 
speak  from  thy  lungs  military  :  Art  thou  there  ?  it 
is  thine  host,  thine  Ephesian,  calls. 

Fal.  [above."]  How  now,  mine  host? 

Host.  Here's  a  Bohemian- Tartar  tarries  the  com- 
ing down  of  thy  fat  woman  :   Let  her  descend,  bully, 
let  her  descend ;  my  chambers  are  honourable :  Fye  !      m  j 
privacy  !  fye  !  f| ! 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  There  was,  mine  host,  an  old  fat  woman 
even  now  with  me  ;  but  she's  gone. 

Sim.  Pray  you,  sir,  was't  not  the  wise  woman  of 
Brentford  ? 

7  A  cannibal. 


Scene  IV. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


59 


Fal.  Ay,  marry,  was  it,  muscle-shell;  What 
would  you  with  her  ? 

Sim.  My  master,  sir,  my  master  Slender,  sent  to 
her,  seeing  her  go  through  the  streets,  to  know,  sir, 
whether  one  Nym,  sir,  that  beguiled  him  of  a  chain, 
had  the  chain,  or  no. 

Fal.   I  spake  with  tlie  old  woman  about  it. 

Sinu   And  what  says  she,  I  pray,  sir? 

Fal.  Marry,  she  says,  that  tlie  very  same  man, 
that  beguiled  master  Slender  of  his  chain,  cozened 
him  of  it. 

Sim.  I  would,  I  could  have  spoken  with  the 
woman  herself;  I  had  other  things  to  have  spoken 
with  her  too,  from  him. 

Fal.   What  are  tliey  ?  let  us  know. 

Host.   Ay,  come  ;  quick. 

Sim.   I  may  not  conceal  them,  sir. 

Fal.   Conceal  them,  or  thou  diest. 

Sim,  Why,  sir,  they  were  notliing  but  about 
mistress  Anne  Page  ;  to  know,  if  it  were  my  mas- 
ter's fortune  to  have  her,  or  no. 

Fal.   'Tis,  'tis  his  fortune. 

Sim.   What,  sir? 

Fal.  To  have  her,  —  or  no  :  Go ;  say,  the  woman 
told  me  so. 

Sim.   May  I  be  so  bold  to  say  so,  sir  ? 

Fal.   Ay,  sir  Tike  ;  who  more  bold  ? 

Sinu  I  thank  your  worship  :  I  shall  make  my 
master  glad  with  these  tidings.  \^Exit  Simple. 

Host.  Thou  art  clerkly  >*,  thou  art  clerkly,  sir 
John.     Was  there  a  wise  woman  with  thee  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  tliat  there  was,  mine  host ;  one,  that 
hath  taught  me  more  wit  than  ever  I  learned  before 
in  my  life  :  and  I  paid  nothing  for  it  neither,  but 
was  paid  for  my  learning. 

Enter  Bardolph. 

Bard.   Out,  alas,  sir  !  cozenage  !  mere  cozenage  ! 

Host.  Where  be  my  horses  ?  speak  well  of  them, 
varletto. 

Bard.  Run  away  with  the  cozeners :  for  so  soon 
as  I  came  beyond  Eton,  they  threw  me  off,  from 
behind  one  of  them,  in  a  slough  of  mire  ;  and  set 
spurs,  and  away,  like  three  German  devils,  three 
Doctor  Faustuses. 

Hoft.  They  are  gone  but  to  meet  the  duke,  vil- 
lain :  do  not  say,  they  be  fled  ;  Germans  are  honest 
men. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Eva.   WTiere  is  mine  host  ? 

Host.   What  is  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Eva.  Have  a  care  of  your  entertainments :  there 
is  a  friend  of  mine  come  to  town,  tells  me,  there  is 
three  couzin  germans,  that  has  cozened  all  the 
hosts  of  Readings,  of  Maidenhead,  of  Colebrook, 
of  horses  and  money.  I  tell  you  for  good-will,  look 
you  :  you  are  wise,  and  full  of  gibes  and  vlouting- 
stogs ;  and  'tis  not  convenient  you  should  be  co- 
zened :    Fare  you  well.  \^Exit. 

Enter  Doctor  Caius. 
Caius.   Vere  is  mine  Host  de  Jarterre  9 
Host.  Here,   master  doctor,   in  perplexity,  and 
doubtful  dilemma. 

Caius.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat :  but  it  is  tell-a  me, 
dat  you  make  grand  preparation  for  a  duke  dc  Jar- 
many  :  by  my  trot,  dere  is  no  duke,  cLit  the  court 
is  know  to  come ;  I  tell  you  for  good  vill :   Adieu. 

{EiU. 
*  Scholar  like. 


Host.  Hue  and  cry,  villain,  go  :  —  assist  me, 
knight ;  I  am  undone  :  —  fly,  run,  hue  and  cry, 
villain !   I  am  undone  ! 

\^Exeunt  Host  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.  I  would,  all  the  world  might  be  cozened ; 
for  I  have  been  cozened  and  beaten  too.  If  it 
should  come  to  the  ear  of  the  court,  how  I  have 
been  transformed,  and  how  my  transformation  hath 
been  washed  and  cudgeled,  they  would  melt  me 
out  of  my  fat,  drop  by  drop,  and  liquor  fishermen's 
boots  with  me ;  1  warrant,  they  would  whip  me 
with  their  fine  wits,  till  I  were  as  crest-fallen  as  a 
dried  pear.  I  never  prospered  since  I  foreswore 
myself  at  Primero.  9  Well,  if  my  wind  were  but 
long  enough  to  say  my  prayers,  I  would  repent.  — 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Now  !  whence  come  you  ? 

Quick.    From  the  two  parties,  forsooth. 

Fal.  The  devil  take  one  party,  and  his  dam  the 
other,  and  so  they  shall  be  both  bestowed !  I  have 
suffered  more  for  their  sakes,  more,  tlian  the  vil- 
lainous inconstancy  of  man's  disposition  is  able  to 
bear. 

Quick.  And  have  not  they  suffered  ?  Yes,  I  war- 
rant ;  speciously  one  of  them  :  mistress  Ford,  good 
heart,  is  beaten  black  and  blue,  that  you  cannot 
see  a  white  spot  about  her. 

Fal.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  black  and  blue  ?  I 
was  beaten  myself  into  all  the  colours  of  the  rain- 
bow, and  I  was  like  to  be  apprehended  for  the 
witch  of  Brentford  ;  but  that  my  admirable  dex- 
terity of  wit,  my  counterfeiting  the  action  of  an 
old  woman,  deliver'd  me,  the  knave  constable  had 
set  me  i'  the  stocks,  i'  the  common  stocks,  for  a 
witch. 

Quick.  Sir,  let  me  speak  with  you  in  your  cham- 
ber :  you  shall  hear  how  things  go  ;  and,  I  warrant, 
to  your  content.  Here  is  a  letter  will  say  some- 
what. Good  hearts,  what  ado  here  is  to  bring  you 
together !  Sure  one  of  you  does  not  serve  heaven 
well,  that  you  are  so  crossed. 

Fal.   Come  up  into  my  chamber.  -  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Fenton  and  Host. 

Host.  Master  Fenton,  talk  not  to  me  ;  my  mind 
is  heavy,  I  will  give  over  all. 

Fent.   Yet  hear  me  speak  :    Assist  me  in  my  pur- 
pose. 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I'll  give  thee 
A  hundred  pound  in  gold,  more  than  your  loss. 

Host.  I  will  hear  you,  master  Fenton  ;  and  I  will, 
at  the  least,  keep  your  counsel. 

Fent.   From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  the  dear  love  I  bear  to  fair  Anne  Page  ; 
Who,  mutually,  hath  answered  my  affection 
(So  far  fortli  as  herself  might  be  her  chooser). 
Even  to  my  wish  :    I  have  a  letter  from  her 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at; 
The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter. 
That  neither,  singly,  can  be  manifested. 
Without  the  show  of  both  ;  —  wherein  fat  Falstaff 
Hath  a  great  scene  :   the  image  of  the  jest 

[Shoning  the  letter 
I'll  show  you  here  at  large.  Hark,  good  mine  host 
To-night  at  Heme's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 

>  A  game  at  cards. 


60 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  V. 


Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  the  fairy  queen  ; 

The  purpose  why,  is  here ;  in  which  disguise, 

While  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot, 

Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slip 

Away  with  Slender,  and  with  him  at  Eton 

Immediately  to  marry :   she  hath  consented  : 

Now,  sir, 

Her  mother,  ever  strong  against  that  match, 

And  firm  for  doctor  Caius,  hath  appointed 

That  he  shall  likewise  shuffle  her  away, 

While  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds. 

And  at  the  deanery,  where  a  priest  attends, 

Straight  marry  her:   to  this  her  mother's  plot 

She,  seemingly  obedient,  likewise  hath 

Made  promise  to  the  doctor  ;  —  Now,  thus  it  rests ; 

Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white ; 

And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 

To  take  her  by  the  hand,  and  bid  her  go, 

She  shall  go  with  him :  — her  mother  hath  intended, 


Tlie  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor 
(For  they  must  all  be  mask'd  and  vizarded). 
That,  quaint  in  green,  she  shall  be  loose  enrob'd, 
With  ril)ands  pendant,  flaring  'bout  her  head  j 
And  when  the  doctor  spies  his  vantage  ripe. 
To  pinch  her  by  the  hand,  and  on  that  token, 
The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  him. 

Host.  Which  means  she  to  deceive?  father  or 
mother  ? 

Fent.   Both,  my  good  host,  to  go  along  with  me  : 
And  here  it  pests,  —  that  you'll  procure  the  vicar 
To  stay  for  me  at  church,  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
And,  in  the  lawful  name  of  marrying, 
To  give  our  hearts  united  ceremony. 

Host.  Well,   husband    your  device;   I'll  to  the 
vicar  : 
Bring  you  the  maid,  you  shall  not  lack  a  priest. 

Fent.   So  shall  I  evermore  be  bound  to  thee ; 
Besides,  I'll  make  a  present  recompense.    \_Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Filter  Falstaff  and  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Fal.   Pr'y thee,  no  more  prattling  ;  —  go. I'll 

hold  1 :  This  is  the  third  time ;  I  hope,  good  luck 
lies  in  odd  numbers.  Away,  go  ;  they  say,  there  is 
divinity  in  odd  numbers,  either  in  nativity,  chance, 
or  death.  —  Away. 

Quick.  I'll  provide  you  a  chain  j  and  I'll  do  what 
I  can  to  get  you  a  pair  of  horns. 

Fal.  Away,  I  say ;  time  wears :  hold  up  your 
head,  and  mince.  [Exit  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Enter  Ford. 
How  now,  master  Brook  ?  master  Brook,  the  mat- 
ter will  be  known  to-night,  or  never.      Be  you  in 
the  Park  about  midnight,  at  Heme's  oak,  and  you 
shall  see  wonders. 

Ford.  Went  you  not  to  her  yesterday,  sir,  as  you 
told  me  you  had  appointed  ? 

Fal.  I  went  to  her,  master  Brook,  as  you  see, 
like  a  poor  old  man  :  but  I  came  from  her,  master 
Brook,  like  a  poor  old  woman.  That  same  knave. 
Ford,  her  husband,  hath  the  finest  mad  devil  of 
jealousy  in  him,  master  Brook,  that  ever  governed 
frenzy.  I  will  tell  you.  —  He  beat  me  grievously, 
in  the  shape  of  a  woman  ;  for  in  the  shape  of  man, 
master  Brook,  I  fear  not  Goliath  with  a  weaver's 
beam  ;  because  I  know  also,  life  is  a  shuttle.  I  am 
in  haste;  go  along  with  me  ;  I'll  tell  you  all,  master 
Brook.  Since  I  plucked  geese,  played  truant,  and 
whipped  top,  I  knew  not  what  it  was  to  be  beaten, 
till  lately.  Follow  me  :  I'll  tell  you  strange  things 
of  this  knave  Ford  :  on  whom  to-night  I  will  be 
revenged,  and  I  will  deliver  his  wife  into  your  hand. 
—  Follow  :  Strange  things  in  hand,  master  Brook  ! 
follow.  \_Exexint. 

SCENE  II.  —  Windsor  Park. 

Enter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 
Page.   Come,   come ;  we'll  couch  i'  the  castle- 
ditch,  till  we  see  the  light  of  our  fairies.  —  Re- 
member, son  Slender,  my  daughter. 

'  Keep  to  the  time. 


Slen.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  I  have  spoke  with  her,  and 
we  have  a  nay-word  ^,  how  to  know  one  another.  1 
come  to  her  in  white,  and  cry  mum;  she  cries 
budget ;  and  by  that  we  know  one  another. 

Shal.  That's  good  too;  But  what  needs  either 
your  mum  or  her  budget  ?  the  white  will  decipher 
her  well  enough.  —  It  hath  struck  ten  o'  clock. 

Page.  The  night  is  dark ;  light  and  spirits  will 
become  it  well.  Heaven  prosper  our  sport !  No 
man  means  evil  but  the  devil,  and  we  shall  know 
him  by  liis  horns.     Let's  aAvay ;  follow  me. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Street  in  Windsor. 

Enter  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Ford,  and  Dr.  Caius. 

Mrs-  Page.  Master  doctor,  my  daughter  is  in 
green :  when  you  see  your  time,  take  her  by  the 
hand,  away  with  her  to  the  deanery,  and  despatch 
it  quickly  :  Go  before  into  the  park  ;  we  two  must 
go  together. 

Caius.   I  know  vat  I  have  to  do ;   Adieu. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [Exit  Caius.] 
My  husband  will  not  rejoice  so  much  at  the  abuse 
of  Falstaff,  as  he  will  chafe  at  the  doctor's  marrying 
my  daughter  :  but  'tis  no  matter ;  better  a  little 
chiding,  than  a  great  deal  of  heart-break. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Where  is  Nan  now,  and  her  troop 
of  fairies  ?  and  the  Welsh  devil,  Hugh  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  They  are  all  couched  in  a  pit  hard 
by  Heme's  oak,  with  obscured  lights  :  which  at  the 
very  instant  of  Falstaff 's  and  our  meeting,  they  will 
at  once  display  to  the  night. 

Mrs.  Ford.    That  cannot  choose  but  amaze  him. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  he  be  not  amazed,  he  will  be 
mocked ;  if  he  be  amazed,  he  will  every  way  be 
mocked. 

Mrs.  Ford.    We'll  betray  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Page.  Those  who  betray  him  do  no  treach- 
ery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  The  hour  draws  on  ;  To  the  oak,  to 
the  oak!  [Exeunt. 

2  Watch-word. 


Scene  IV. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


61 


SCENE  IV.  —  Windsor  Park. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  and  Fairies. 
Eoa.   Trib,  trib,  fairies ;  come  ;  and  remember 
your  parts  :   be  pold,  I  pray  you  ;  follow  me  into 
the  pit :   and  when  I  give  the  watch-'ords,  do  as  I 


pid  you  ;  Come,  come  ;  trib,  trib. 


\^Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  Falstaff  dutguised,  with  a  buck's  head  on. 

Fal.  Tlie  Windsor  bell  hath  struck  twelve;  the 
minute  draws  on :  Now,  love  assist  me :  —  Re- 
member, Jove,  thou  wast  a  bull  for  thy  Europa; 
love  set  on  thy  horns.  —  O  powerful  love  !  —  For 
me,  I  am  here  a  Windsor  stag ;  and  the  fattest,  I 
think,  i'  the  forest :   Who  comes  here  ?  my  doe  ? 

Enter  Mrs.  Ford  and  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John  ?  art  thou  there,  my  deer  ? 
my  male  deer  ? 

Fal.  My  doe?  —  Let  the  sky  rain  potatoes;  let 
it  thunder  to  the  tune  of  Green  Sleeves;  hail  kissing- 
corafits,  and  snow  eringoes ;  I  will  shelter  me  here. 

[Embracing  her. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  is  come  with  me, 
sweet-heart. 

Fal.  Divide  me  like  a  bribe-buck,  each  a  haunch : 
I  wiU  keep  my  sides  to  myself,  my  shoulders  for  the 
fellow  of  this  walk,  and  my  horns  I  bequeath  your 
husbands.  Am  I  a  woodman  ?  ha  !  Speak  1  like 
Heme  the  hunter? — Why,  now  is  Cupid  a  child  of 
conscience  ;  he  makes  restitution.  As  I  am  a  true 
spirit,  welcome.  [Noise  within. 

Mrs.  Page.   Alas  !  what  noise  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.    Heaven  forgive  our  sins  ! 

Fal.   What  should  this  be  ? 

mZ  pZ':  } ''™'"  '™^-  f ''"'••'  "'"  °-^- 

Fal.  I  think,  the  devil  will  not  have  me ;  he 
would  never  else  cross  me  thus. 

E7iter  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  like  a  satyr;  Mrs.  Quicklt 
and  Pistol  ;  Anne  Page,  as  tlie  Fairy  Queen,  at- 
tended by  her  brother  and  others,  dressed  like  fairies, 
%vith  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads. 

Quick.   Fairies,  black,  grey,  green,  and  white. 
You  moon-shine  revellers,  and  shades  of  night, 
You  orphan  heirs  of  fixed  destiny. 

Attend  your  office,  and  your  quality. 

Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  o-yes. 

Pist.  Elves,  list  your  names;  silence,  you  airy  toys. 
Cricket,  to  Wi4idsor  chimnies  shalt  thou  leap : 
Wherefiresthou  find'stunrak'd,and  hearths unswept, 
There  pinch  the  maids  as  blue  as  bilberry : 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  sluts  and  sluttery. 

Fal.   They  are  fairies ;  he,  that  speaks  to  them, 
shall  die : 
I'll  wink  and  couch  :  No  man  their  works  must  eye. 
[Lies  down  upon  his  face. 

Eva.  Where's  Pede  ?  —  Go  you,  and  where  you 
find  a  maid. 
That,  ere  she  sleep,  lias  tlirice  her  prayers  said, 
Raise  up  the  organs  of  her  fantasy, 
Sleep  slic  as  sound  as  careless  infancy : 
But  those  as  sleep,  and  think  not  on  their  sins, 
Pinch  them,  arms,  legs,  backs,  shoulders,  sides,  and 
shins. 


Quick.    AI)Out,  about ; 
Search  Windsor  Castle,  elves,  within  and  out : 
Strew  good  luck,  ouphcs,  on  every  sacred  room  ; 
That  it  may  stand  till  the  perpetual  doom, 
In  state  as  wholesome,  as  in  state  'tis  fit ; 
Worthy  the  owner,  and  the  owner  it. 
The  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 
With  juice  of  balm,  and  every  precious  flower  ; 
Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  several  crest. 
With  royal  blazon,. evermore  be  l)lest! 
And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring : 
The  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be. 
More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see ; 
And,  Hony  soil  qui  mal  y  j)ense,  write. 
In  emerald  tufts,  flowers  purjjle,  blue,  and  white ; 
Like  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  embroidery, 
Buckled  below  fair  knighthood's  bending  knee  : 
Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery. 
Away  ;  disperse  :    But,  till  'tis  one  o'clock, 
Our  dance  of  custom,  round  about  the  oak 
Of  Heme  the  hunter,  let  us  not  forget. 

Eva.   Pray  you,  lock  hand  in  hand ;  yourselves 
in  order  set : 
And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be, 
To  guide  our  measure  round  about  the  tree. 
But,  stay ;  I  smell  a  man  of  middle  earth. 

Fal.   Heavens  defend  me  from  that  Welsh  fiiiry  ! 
lest  he  transform  me  to  a  piece  of  cheese  ! 

Pist.  Vile  worm  thou  wast  o'erlooked  even  in 
thy  birth. 

Quick.  With  trial-fire  touch  me  his  finger-end : 
If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  descend. 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain  ;  but  if  he  start. 
It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 

Pist.   A  trial,  come. 

Eva.   Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire  ? 

[  They  bum  him  wiih  their  tapers. 

Fal.   Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Quick.   Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire  ! 
About  him  fairies  ;  sing  a  scornful  rhyme  : 
And,  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time. 

Eva.   It  is  right ;  indeed  he  is  full  of  iniquity. 

SONG. 

Fye  on  sinful  fantasy  I 
Eye  on  lust  and  luxury  ! 
Lust  is  but  a  bloody  fu-e. 
Kindled  with  unchaste  desire. 
Fed  in  heart ;  tohose  flames  aspire. 
As  thoughts  do  bloiv  then},  higher  and  higlier* 
Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually  ; 
Pinch  him  for  his  villainy  ; 
Pinch  him,  and  bum  him,  and  turn  him  about. 
Till  candles,  and  starlight,  and  moonshine  be  out. 
[During  this  song,  the  fairies  pinch  FalstaflT.     Doctor 
Caius  comes  one  u<ay,  and  steals  away  a  fairy  in 
green ;   Slender  another  way,  and  takes  off  a  fairy 
in   white;   and   Fenton  comes,  and   steals   away 
Mrs.  Anne  Page.     A  noise  of  hunting  is  made 
within.     All  the  fairies  run  away.      Fal&taff  pulls 
off  his  buck's  head,  and  rises.] 
EiUer  Page,  Ford,  Mrs.  Page,  and  Mrs.  Ford. 
They  lay  hold  on  him. 
Page.   Nay,  do  not  fly ;  I  think  we  have  watch 'd 
you  now  ; 
Will  none  but  Heme  the  hunter  serve  your  turn  ? 
Mrs.  Page.   I  pray  you,  come ;  hold  up  the  jest 
no  higher :  — 

« 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Act  V. 


Now,  good  sir  John,  how  like  you  Windsor  wives? 
See  you  these,  husband  ?  do  not  these  fair  yokes  3 
Become  the  forest  better  than  the  town  ? 

Ford.  Now,  sir,  who's  a  cuckold  now?  —  Master 
Brook,  Falstaff 's  a  knave,  a  cuckoldly  knave ;  here 
are  his  horns,  master  Brook :  And,  master  Brook, 
he  hath  enjoyed  notliing  of  Ford's  but  his  buck- 
basket,  his  cudgel,  and  twenty  pounds  of  money ; 
which  must  be  paid  to  master  Brook ;  his  horses 
are  arrested  for  it,  master  Brook. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John,  we  have  had  ill  luck :  we 
could  never  meet.  I  will  never  take  you  for  my 
love  again,  but  I  will  always  count  you  my  deer. 

Fal.   I  do  begin  to  perceive  that  I  am  made  an  ass. 

Ford.  Ay,  and  an  ox  too ;  both  the  proofs  are 
extant. 

Fal.  And  these  are  not  fairies  ?  I  was  tliree  or 
four  times  in  the  thought,  they  were  not  fairies  :  and 
yet  the  guiltiness  of  my  mind,  the  sudden  surprise 
of  my  powers,  drove  the  grossness  of  the  foppery 
into  a  received  belief,  in  despite  of  the  teeth  of  all 
rhyme  and  reason,  that  they  were  fairies.  See 
now,  how  wit  may  be  made  ^  Jack-a-lent,  when  'tis 
upon  ill  employment ! 

Evn.  Sir  John  FalstafF,  serve  Got,  and  leave  your 
desires,  and  fairies  will  not  pinse  you. 

Ford.   Well  said,  fairy  Hugh. 

Eva.  And  leave  you  your  jealousies  too,  I  pray 
you. 

Ford.  I  will  never  mistrust  my  wife  again,  till 
thou  art  able  to  woo  her  in  good  English. 

Fal.  Have  I  laid  my  brain  in  the  sun,  and  dried 
it,  that  it  wants  matter  to  prevent  so  gross  o'er- 
reaching  as  this  ?  Am  I  ridden  with  a  Welsh  goat 
too  ?  Shall  I  have  a  coxcomb  of  frize  ?  4  'tis  time  I 
were  choked  with  a  piece  of  toasted  cheese. 

Eva.  Seese  is  not  good  to  give  putter ;  your 
pelly  is  all  putter. 

Fal.  Seese  and  putter  !  Have  I  lived  to  stand  at 
the  taunt  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English? 
This  is  enough  to  be  the  decay  of  late-walking, 
through  the  realm. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  sir  John,  do  you  think,  though 
we  would  have  thrust  virtue  out  of  our  hearts  by 
the  head  and  shoulders,  and  have  given  ourselves 
without  scruple  to  hell,  that  ever  the  devil  could 
have  made  you  our  delight  ? 

Ford.   What,  a  hodge-pudding  ?  a  bag  of  flax  ? 

Mrs.  Page.   A  puffed  man  ? 

Page.   Old,  and  withered  ? 

Ford.   And  one  that  is  as  slanderous  as  Satan  ? 

Page.   And  as  poor  as  Job. 

Ford.   And  as  wicked  as  his  wife  ? 

Eva.  And  given  to  taverns,  and  sack,  and  wine, 
and  metheglins,  and  to  drinkings,  and  swearings, 
and  starings,  pribbles  and  prabbles  ? 

Fal.  Well,  I  am  your  theme  :  you  have  the  start 
of  me  :  I  am  dejected ;  I  am  not  able  to  answer  the 
Welsh  flannel ;  ignorance  itself  is  a  plummet  o'er 
me  :   use  me  as  you  will. 

Ford.  Marry,  sir,  we'll  bring  you  to  Windsor,  to 
one  master  Brook,  that  you  have  cozened  of  money, 
to  whom  you  should  have  been  a  pander :  over  and 
above  that  you  have  suffered,  I  think  to  repay  that 
money  will  be  a  biting  affliction. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Nay,  husband,  let  that  go  to  make 
amends  ; 
Forgive  that  sum,  and  so  we'll  all  be  friends. 

3  Horns  which  Falstaff  had. 

•*  A  fool's  cap  of  Welsh  materials. 


Ford.  Well,  here's  my  hand ;  all's  forgiven  at  last. 

Page.   Yet  be  cheerful,  knight :   thou  shalt  eat  a 

posset  to-night  at  my  house ;  where  I  will  desire  thee 

to  laugh  at  my  wife  that  now  laughs  at  thee  :   Tell 

her,  master  Slender  hath  married  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Page.  Doctors  doubt  that :  —  If  Anne  Page 
be  my  daughter,  she  is,  by  this,  doctor  Caius's  wife. 

[Aside. 
Enter  Slender. 

Slen.   Whoo,  ho  !  ho  !  father  Page  ! 

Page.  Son  !  how  now  ?  how  now,  son  ?  have  you 
despatched  ? 

Slen.  Despatched  —  I'll  make  the  best  in  Glo- 
cestershire  know  on't ;  would  I  were  hanged,  la, 
else. 

Page.   Of  what,  son  ? 

Slen.  I  came  yonder  at  Eton  to  marry  mistress 
Anne  Page,  and  she's  a  great  lubberly  boy :  If  it 
had  not  been  i'  the  church,  I  would  have  swinged 
him,  or  he  should  have  swinged  me.  If  I  did  not 
think  it  had  been  Anne  Page,  would  I  might  never 
stir,  and  'tis  a  post-master's  boy. 

Page.   Upon  my  life  then  you  took  the  wrong. 

Slen.  What  need  you  tell  me  that?  I  think  so, 
when  I  took  a  boy  for  a  girl :  If  I  had  been  married 
to  him,  for  all  he  was  in  woman's  apparel,  I  would 
not  have  had  him. 

Page.  Why,  this  is  your  own  folly.  Did  not  I 
tell  you,  how  you  should  know  my  daughter  by  her 
garments  ? 

Sle7i.  I  went  to  her  in  white,  and  cry'd  mum,  and 
she  cry'd  budget,  as  Anne  and  I  had  appointed ; 
and  yet  it  was  not  Anne,  but  a  post-master's  boy. 

Eva.  Master  Slender,  cannot  you  see  but  marry 
boys? 

Page.  O,  I  am  vexed  at  heart :  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Good  George,  be  not  angry  :  I  knew 
of  your  purpose  ;  turned  my  daughter  into  green  ; 
and,  indeed,  she  is  now  with  the  doctor  at  the 
deanery,  and  there  married. 

Enter  Caius. 

Cains.  Vere  is  mistress  Page?  By  gar,  I  am 
cozened;  I  ha'  married  un  garqon,  a  boy ;  unpaisan, 
by  gar,  a  boy ;  it  is  not  Anne  Page  :  by  gar,  I  am 
cozened. 

Mrs.  Page.   Why,  did  you  take  her  in  green  ? 

Caius.  Ay,  by  gar,  and  'tis  a  boy :  by  gar,  I'll 
raise  all  Windsor.  [Exit  Caius. 

Ford.  This  is  strange :  Who  hath  got  the  right 
Anne? 

Page.  My  heart  misgives  me :  Here  comes 
Fenton. 

Enter  Fenton  and  Anne  Page. 

How  now,  master  Fenton  ? 

An7ie.   Pardon,  good  father !    good  my  mothe 
pardon ! 

Page.  Now,  mistress  ?  how  chance  you  went  not 
with  master  Slender  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Wliy  went  you  not  with  master  doctor, 
maid? 

Fent.   You  do  amaze  her  :   Hear  the  truth  of  it. 
You  would  have  married  her  most  shamefully, 
Where  there  was  no  proportion  held  in  love. 
The  truth  is,  she  and  I,  long  since  contracted. 
Are  now  so  sure,  that  nothing  can  dissolve  us. 
The  offence  is  holy,  that  she  hath  committed : 
And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft. 
Of  disobedience,  or  unduteous  title  ; 


Scene  V. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


63 


Since  therein  she  doth  cvitate  and  shun 
A  thousand  irreligious  cursed  hours, 
Which  forced  marriage  would  have  brought  upon 
her. 

Ford.  Stand  not  amaz'd  :  here  is  no  remedy :  — 
In  love,  the  heavens  tlicmselves  do  guide  the  state; 
Money  buys  lands,  and  wives  are  sold  by  fate. 

Fal.  I  am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a  special 
stand  to  strike  at  me,  that  your  arrow  hath  glanced. 

Page.   Well,  what  remedy  ?  Fenton,  heaven  give 
thee  joy ! 
What  cannot  be  eschew 'd  must  be  embrac'd. 


Fal.   When  night-dogs  run,  all  sorts  of  deer  arc 
chas'd. 

Eva    I  will  dance  and  eat  plums  at  your  wedding. 

Mrs.  Page.   Well,    I  will   muse   no  further : 

Master  Fenton, 
Heaven  give  you  many,  many  merry  days ! 
Good  husband,  let  us  every  one  go  home, 
And  laugh  this  sport  o'er  by  a  country  fire ; 
Sir  John  and  all. 

Ford.  Let  it  be  so  :  —  Sir  John, 

To  master  Brook  you  yet  shall  hold  your  word ; 
For  he,  to-night,  shall  lie  with  Mrs.  Ford.  \^Exeunt. 


TWELFTH    NIGHT: 

OR, 

WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


O  RSI  NO,  Duke  of  Illyria. 

Sebastian,  a  young  Gentleman,  Brot/ier  to  Viola. 
Antonio,  a  Sea-Captain,  Friend  to  Sebastian. 
A  Sea-Captain,  Friend  to  Viola. 
Valentine,  ~|    ^      ,  ^ 

Curio,  |    ^^^^"^"'  attending  on  the  Duke. 

Sir  Tobv  Belch,  Uncle  o/*  Olivia. 
Sir  Andrew  Agoe-cheek. 
Malvolio,  steward  to  Olivia. 


Fabian,  "1 
Clown,  J 


Servants  to  Olivia. 


Olivia,  a  nch  Countess. 
Viola,  in  love  with  the  Duke. 
Maria,  Olivia'5  woman. 

Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Officers,  Musicians,  and  other 
Attendants. 


SCENE,  a  city  in  Illyria  ;    and  the  Sea-  Coast  near  it. 


» 


J!         '  I  F  \  t      IV. 


OLl.  — WH«iT    la    lUE    MATTER   WITH    THEEr" 

MAL.  —  NOT  blac;k;  in  my  mind,   thoogh  tkltow  in  my  legs. 


TWELFTH     NIGHT: 

OR, 

WHAT    YOU    WILL. 


ACT  L 


SCENE  I.  —  All  Aparimeyit  in  the  Duke's  palace. 
Enter  Duke,  Curio,  Lords;  Musicians  attending. 

Duke    If  musick  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on, 
Give  me  excess  of  it;  that,  surfeiting, 

The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 

That  strain  again  ;  —  it  had  a  dying  fall : 

O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  soutli, 

That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 

Stealing,  and  giving  odour.  —  Enough  ;  no  more  , 

'Tis  not  so  sweet  now,  as  it  was  before. 

O  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou  ! 

That  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 

Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there, 

Of  what  validity  and  pitch  soever, 

But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price, 

Even  in  a  minute!  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy 

That  it  alone  is  high-fantastical. 

Cur.   Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio? 

Cur.  The  hart. 

Duke.    Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have  : 
O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Methought,  she  purg'd  the  air  of  pestilence ; 
That  instant  was  I  turned  into  a  hart ; 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 
E'er  since    pursue  me.  —  How  now  ?  wliat  news 
from  her? 


Enter  Vai.kntine. 


Val.  So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  be  admitted, 
But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer  : 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years'  heat. 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 
But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk. 
And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye  offending  brine  :   all  this,  to  season 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh. 
And  lasting,  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke.  O,  she,  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame, 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother. 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft, 
Hath  kill'd  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her  !   when  liver,  brain,  and  heart. 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and  fill'd 
( Her  sweet  perfections)  with  one  self  king  !  — 
Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers ; 
Love-thoughts  lie  rich,  when  canopied  with  bowers. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.  —  The  Sea  Coast. 
Enter  Viola,  Captain,  and  Sailors. 
Via.    What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 
Clip.  lUyria,  lady. 

Vio.    And  wiiat  should  I  do  in  Illyria? 


Act  I.   Scene  II.     TWELFTH  NIGHT :  OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


65 


My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

Perchance,  he  is  not  drown'd  :  —  What  think  you, 
sailors  ? 
Cap.   It  is   perchance,  that   you   yourself  wore 

saved. 
Vio.   O  my  poor   brother  !    and   so,  perchance, 

may  he  be. 
Cap.   True,  madam  :    and  to  comfort  you  with 
chance, 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split, 
When  you,  and  that  poor  number  saved  with  you, 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself 
(Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  practice) 
To  a  strong  mast,  that  lived  upon  the  sea ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 
I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves, 
So  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so,  there's  gold  : 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope, 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 
The  like  of  him.      Know'st  thou  this  country  ? 

Cap.  Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and  bom, 
Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 
Vio.   Who  governs  here  ? 

Cap.  A  noble  duke,  in  nature. 

As  in  his  name. 

Vio.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Orsino. 

Vio.  Orsino !  I  have  heard  my  father  name  him ! 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now, 

Or  was  so  very  late  :   for  but  a  month 
Ago  I  went  from  hence ;  and  then  'twas  fresh 
In  murmur,  (as,  you  know,  what  great  ones  do, 
The  less  will  prattle  of,)  that  he  did  seek 
The  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.  What's  she  ? 

Cap.   A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That  died  some  twelvemonth  since ;  then  leaving  her 
In  tlie  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother. 
Who  shortly  also  died :  for  whose  dear  love. 
They  say,  she  hath  abjur'd  the  company 
And  sight  of  men. 

Vio.  O,  that  I  served  that  lady  : 

And  might  not  be  delivered  to  the  world. 
Till  1  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow, 
What  my  estate  is. 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass  ; 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit. 
No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.   There  is  a  fair  behaviour  in  thee,  captain  ; 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe,  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  pray  thee,  and  I'll  pay  thee  bounteously. 
Conceal  me  what  I  am  ;  and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as,  haply,  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I'll  serve  this  duke  ; 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  a  page  to  him. 
It  may  be  worth  thy  pains ;  for  I  can  sing. 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  musick, 
That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service. 
What  else  may  hap,  to  time  I  will  commit ; 
Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.    Be  you  his  page,  and  I  your  mute  will  be : 
W'hen  my  tongue  blabs,  let  mine  eyes  not  see  ! 
Vio.   I  thank  thee,  lead  me  on. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  Olivia'a  House. 
Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take 
the  death  of  her  brother  thus?  I  am  sure,  care's 
an  enemy  to  life. 

Mar.  By  troth.  Sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in  ear- 
lier o'nights ;  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great  ex- 
ceptions to  your  ill  hours. 

Sir  To.   Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within 
the  modest  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine!  I'll  confine  myself  no  finer 
than  I  am  :  these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink 
in,  and  so  be  these  boots  too  ;  an  they  be  not,  let 
them  hang  themselves  in  their  own  straps. 

Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you  : 
I  heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday  ;  and  of  a 
foolish  knight,  that  you  brought  in  one  night  here, 
to  be  her  wooer. 

Sir  To.   Who  ?  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek  ? 

Mar.   Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.    He's  as  tall  a  man  as  any's  in  Illyria. 

Mar.   What's  that  to  the  purpose  ? 

Sir  To.  Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a  year. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  he'll  have  but  a  year  in  all  these 
ducats  ;  he's  a  very  fool,  and  a  prodigal. 

Sir  To.  Fye,  that  you'll  say  so  !  he  plays  o'  the 
viol-de  gambo,  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages 
word  for  word  without  book,  and  hatli  all  the  good 
gifts  of  nature. 

Mar.  He  hath,  indeed,  —  almost  natural :  for, 
besides  that  he's  a  fool,  he's  a  great  quarreller ; 
and  but  that  he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay 
the  gust  he  hath  in  quarrelling,  'tis  thought  among 
the  prudent,  he  would  quickly  have  the  gift  of  a  grave. 

Sir  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels,  and 
substractors,  that  say  so  of  him.     Who  are  they  ? 

Mar.  They  that  add  moreover,  he's  drunk  nightly 
in  your  company. 

Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  ;  I'll 
drink  to  her,  as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in  my 
throat,  and  drink  in  Illyria :  He's  a  coward,  and  a 
coystril ',  that  vnll  not  drink  to  my  niece,  till  his 
brains  turn  o'  the  toe  like  a  parish-top.  Here 
comes  Sir  Andrew  Ague-face. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Sir  And.  Sir  Toby  Belch !  how  now,  Sir  Toby 
Belch? 

Sir  To.  Sweet  Sir  Andrew  ! 

Sir  And.   Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 

Mar.   And  you  too,  sir. 

Sir  To.    Accost,  sir  Andrew,  accost. 

Sir  And.  What's  that? 

Sir  To.   My  niece's  chamber-maid. 

Sir  And.  Good  mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better 
acquaintance. 

Mar.   My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  And.   Good  mistress  Mary  Accost,  — — 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight:  accost,  is,  front 
her,  board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  And.   Is  that  the  meaning  of  accost? 

Mar.    Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

5^r  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  sir  Andrew,  would 
thou  might'st  never  draw  sword  again. 

Sir  And.    And  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I 

«  KeTBtril,  •  bastard  hawk. 
F 


66 


TWELFTH  NIGHT: 


Act  I. 


might  never  draw  sword  again.     FaiT  lady,  do  you 
think  you  have  fools  in  hand? 

Mar.    Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have ;  and  here's 
my  hand. 

Mar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free :  I  pray  you, 
bring  your  hand  to  the  buttery-bar,  and  let  it  drink. 

Sir  And.  Wherefore,  sweet  heart?  what's  your 
metaphor  ? 

Mar.   Its  dry,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Why,  I  think  so ;  I  am  not  such  an 
ass,  but  I  can  keep  my  hand  dry.  But  what's 
your  jest  ? 

Mar.   A  dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  And.    Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

Mar.    Ay,  sir;   I  have  them  at  my  fingers' ends. 

[Eodt  Maria. 

Sir  To.  O  knight,  thou  lack'st  a  cup  of  canary  : 
When  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  ? 

Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think ;  unless  you 
see  canary  put  me  down :  Methinks,  sometimes  I 
have  no  more  wit  than  an  ordinary  man  has :  but  I 
am  a  great  eater  of  beef,  and,  I  believe,  that  does 
harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  To.   No  question. 

Sir  And.  An  I  thought  that,  I'd  forswear  it.  I'll 
ride  home  to-morrow,  sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.   Pour  quay,  my  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  What  is  pourquoy  ?  do  or  not  do  ?  I 
would  I  had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues, 
that  I  have  in  fencing,  dancing,  and  bear-baiting : 
O,  had  I  but  followed  the  arts  ! 

Sir  To.  Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head 
of  hair. 

Sir  And.   Why,  would  that  have  mended  my  hair  ? 

Sir  To.  Past  question ;  for  thou  seest,  it  will  not 
curl  by  nature. 

Sir  And.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does't 
not? 

Sir  To.   Excellent ;  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff. 

Sir  And.  I'll  home  to-morrow,  sir  Toby :  your 
niece  will  not  be  seen ;  or,  if  she  be,  it's  four  to  one 
she'll  none  of  me  :  the  count  himself,  here  hard  by, 
wooes  her. 

Sir  To.  She'll  none  o'  the  count ;  she'll  not 
match  above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor 
wit ;  I  have  heard  her  swear  it.  Tut,  there's  life 
in't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I'll  stay  a  montli  longer.  I  am  a  fellow 
o'  the  strangest  mind  i'  the  world;  I  delight  in 
masques  and  revels  sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kick-shaws,  knight? 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he 
be,  under  the  degree  of  my  betters ;  and  yet  I  will 
not  compare  with  an  old  man. 

Sir  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.    I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.    And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to't. 

Sir  And.   Shall  we  set  about  some  revels  ? 

Sir  To.  What  s'nall  we  do  else?  —  Let  me  see 
thee  caper :  ha  !  higher :  ha,  ha  !  —  excellent ! 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV A  Room  in  the  Duke'5  Palace. 

Enter  Valentine,  and  Viola  in  mans  attire. 
Vol.   If  the  duke  continue  these  favours  towards 
you,  Cesario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  advanced;  I 


he  hath  known  you  but  three  days,  and  already  you 
are  no  stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humour,  or  my  negli- 
gence, that  you  call  in  question  the  continuance  of 
his  love  :    Is  he  inconstant,  sir,  in  his  favours? 

Vol.  No,  believe  me. 

Enter  Duke,  Cuaio,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.   I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  count. 

Duke.   Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Vio.   On  your  attendance,  my  lord  ;  here. 

Duke.   Stand  you  awhile  aloof.  —  Cesario, 
Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all ;   I  have  unclasp'd 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul : 
Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait  unto  her  ; 
Be  not  deny'd  access,  stand  at  her  doors. 
And  tell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow. 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandon'd  to  her  sorrow 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Duke.  Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds, 
Rather  than  make  unprofited  return. 

Vio.   Say,  I  do  speak  with  her,  my  lord :   What 
then? 

Duke.   O,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love, 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith  : 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes ; 
She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth. 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  grave  aspect. 

Vio.   I  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it ; 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years 
That  say,  thou  art  a  man  :    Diana's  lip 
Is  not  more  smooth  and  rubious ;  thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill,  and  sound, 
And  all  its  semblative  a  woman's  part. 
I  know,  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair :  —  Some  four,  or  five,  attend  him  ; 
All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best. 
When  least  in  company  :  —  Prosper  well  in  this, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord. 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 

Via.  I'll  do  my  best, 

To  woo  your  lady  :   yet,  [Aside.]  a  barful  «  strife ! 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V A  Room  in  Olivia'5  House. 

Enter  Maria,  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  beim, 
or  I  will  not  open  my  lips,  so  wide  as  a  bristle  may 
enter,  in  way  of  thy  excuse:  my  lady  will  hang 
thee  for  thy  absence. 

Clo.  Let  her  hang  me  :  he,  that  is  well  hanged  in 
this  world,  needs  to  fear  no  colours. 

Mar.   Make  that  good. 

Clo.   He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Mar.  A  good  lenten  3  answer :  I  can  tell  thee 
where  that  saying  was  born,  of,  I  fear  no  colours. 

Clo.   Where,  good  mistress  Mary  ? 

Mar.  In  the  wars ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold  to 
say  in  your  foolery. 

Clo.  Well,  Heaven  give  them  wisdom,  that  have 
it;  and  those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their 
talents. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hanged,  for  being  so  long 
absent :  or,  to  be  turned  away ;  is  not  that  as  good 
as  a  hanging  to  you  ? 

2  Full  of  impediments.  3  Short  and  spare. 


Scene  V. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


67 


Go.  Many  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad  mar- 
riage; and,  for  turning  away,  let  summer  bear  it  out. 

Mar.   You  are  resolute  then  ? 

Clo.  Not  so  neither ;  but  I  am  resolved  on  two 
points. 

Mar.  That,  if  one  break,  the  other  will  hold. 

do.  Apt,  in  good  faith  ;  very  apt !  Well,  go  thy 
way ;  if  sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou  wert 
as  witty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in  lUyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue,  no  more  o'  that ;  here 
comes  my  lady :  make  your  excuse  wisely,  you  were 
best.  [ExU. 

Enter  Olivia,  and  Malvolio. 

Clo.  Wit,  and't  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good 
fooling  !  Those  wits,  that  think  they  have  thee,  do 
very  oft  prove  fools ;  and  I,  that  am  sure  I  lack 
thee,  may  pass  for  a  wise  man :  For  what  says 
Quinapalus?  Better  a  witty  fool,  than  a  foolish 
wit, God  bless  thee,  lady  ! 

Oli.   Take  the  fool  away. 

Clo.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows  ?  Take  away  the 
lady. 

OIL  Go  to,  you're  a  dry  fool :  I'll  no  more  of 
you  :  besides,  you  grow  dishonest. 

Clo.  Two  faults,  madonna  4,  that  drink  and  good 
counsel  will  am.end :  for  give  the  dry  fool  drink,  then 
is  the  fool  not  dry  ;  bid  the  dishonest  man  mend 
himself;  if  he  mend,  he  is  no  longer  dishonest ;  if 
he  cannot,  let  the  botcher  mend  him.  —  The  lady 
bade  take  away  the  fool;  therefore,  I  say  again,  take 
her  away. 

Olu   Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clo-  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree  !  —  Lady, 
Cucullus  nonfacit  monachum  ;  that's  as  much  as  to 
say,  I  wear  not  motley  in  my  brain. 

Oil  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio?  doth 
he  not  mend  ? 

Mai-  Yes :  and  shall  do,  till  the  pangs  of  death 
shake  him  .  Infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth 
ever  make  the  better  fool. 

Clo.  Heaven  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity, 
for  the  better  increasing  your  folly !  sir  Toby  will 
be  sworn,  that  I  am  no  fox  ;  but  he  will  not  pass 
his  word  for  two- pence  that  you  are  no  fool. 

Oli.    How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  I  marvel  your  ladysliip  takes  delight  in  such 
a  barren  rascal  ;  I  saw  him  put  down  the  other  day 
with  an  ordinary  fool,  that  has  no  more  brain  than 
a  stone.  Look  you  now,  he's  out  of  his  guard 
already ;  unless  you  laugh  and  minister  occasion  to 
him,  he  is  gagged,  I  protest,  I  take  these  wise 
men,  tliat  crow  so  at  these  set  kind  of  fools,  no 
better  than  the  fools'  zanies.* 

Oli.  O,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and 
taste  with  a  distempered  appetite.  To  be  generous, 
guiltless,  and  of  free  disposition,  is  to  take  tliose 
things  for  bird-bofts  ^,  that  you  deem  cannon-bul- 
lets :  There  is  no  slander  in  an  allowed  fool,  though 
he  do  nothing  but  rail ;  nor  no  railing  in  a  known 
discreet  man,  though  he  do  nothing  but  reprove. 

Clo.  Now  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing  7,  for 
thou  speakest  well  of  fools. 

Itc'enter  Maria. 

Mar.   Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young  gen- 
tleman, mucli  desires  to  speak  with  you. 
Oli.    From  the  count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 


*  Ualiim,  mistress,  dama 

*  Short  arrow*. 


s  FooU*  baubleti. 
7  Lying. 


Mar.  I  know  not,  madam;  'tis  a  fair  young  man 
and  well  attended. 

OH.   Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ? 

Mar.    Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

Oli.  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you;  he  speaks  nothing 
but  madman:  Fye  on  him  !  {Exit  Maria.J  Go 
you,  Malvolio ;  if  it  be  a  suit  from  the  count,  I  am 
sick,  or  not  at  home ;  what  you  will,  to  dismiss  it. 
{^Exit  Malvolio.]  Now  you  see,  sir,  how  your 
fooling  grows  old,  and  people  dislike  it. 

Clo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if  thy 
eldest  son  should  be  a  fool :  whose  skull  Jove  cram 
with  brains,  for  here  comes  one  of  thy  kin,  has  a 
most  weak  pia  mater.  8 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch. 

Oli.  By  mine  honour,  half  drunk.  —  Wliat  is  he 
at  the  gate,  cousin  ? 

Sir  2'f).    A  gentleman. 

Oli.   A  gentleman  !   What  gentleman  ? 

Sir  To.  * Tis  a  gentleman  here — A  plague  o'  these 
pickle-herrings  !  —  How  now,  sot  ? 

Clo.    Good  sir  Toby, 

Sir  To.   There's  one  at  the  gate, 

OIL   Ay,  marry  ;  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will,  I  care 
not:   give  me  faith,  say  I.     Well,  it's  all  one.  \_Exii. 

OH.   What's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool  ? 

Clo.  Like  a  drown'd  man,  a  fool,  and  a  madman  : 
one  draught  above  heat  makes  him  a  fool ;  the  se- 
cond mads  him  :   and  a  third  drowns  him. 

OIL  Go  thou  and  seek  the  coroner,  and  let  him 
sit  o'  my  coz  ;  for  he's  in  the  third  degree  of  drink, 
he's  drown'd :  go,  look  after  him. 

Clo.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna ;  and  the  fool 
shall  look  to  the  madman.  \^Exit  Clown. 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Madam,  yond'  young  fellow  swears  he  will 
speak  with  you.  I  told  liim  you  were  sick ;  he 
takes  on  him  to  understand  so  much,  and  therefore 
comes  to  speak  with  you ;  I  told  him  you  were 
asleep ;  he  seems  to  have  a  fore-knowledge  of  that 
too,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you.  What 
is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady  ?  he's  fortified  against  any 
denial. 

OU.   Tell  him,  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  He  has  been  told  so ;  and  he  says,  he'll 
stand  at  your  door  like  a  sherifl[''s  post,  and  be  the 
supporter  of  a  bench,  but  he'll  speak  with  you. 

Oli.   What  kind  of  man  is  he  ? 

Mai.   Why,  of  man  kind. 

OIL   What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner ;  he'll  speak  with  you, 
will  you,  or  no. 

OIL   Of  what  personage,  and  years,  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young 
enough  for  a  boy,  between  boy  and  man.  He  is 
very  well  favoured,  and  he  speaks  very  shrewishly  ; 
one  would  think,  his  mother's  milk  were  scarce  out 
of  him. 

OIL   Let  him  approach  :  Call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mai.   Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Maria. 

OIL   Give  mc  my  veil :  come,  throw  it  o'er  my 
face; 
We'll  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

*  The  cover  of  the  brain. 
-      F  2 


68 


TWELFTH  NIGHT: 


Act  I.    Scene  V. 


she 


Enter  Viola. 
Vio.   The  honourable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is 


Your 


OH.   Speak  to  me,  I  shall  answer  for  her. 
will? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable 
beauty,  —  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  if  this  be  the  lady 
of  the  house,  for  I  never  saw  her  :  I  would  be  loth 
to  cast  away  my  speech ;  for,  besides  that  it  is  ex- 
cellently well  penn'd,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to 
con  it.  Good  beauties,  let  me  sustain  no  scorn  :  I 
am  very  comptible  %  even  to  the  least  sinister 
usage. 

Oli.   Whence  came  you,  sir  ? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied, 
and  that  question's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle 
one,  give  me  modest  assurance,  if  you  be  the  lady 
of  the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

Oli.    Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart :  and  yet,  by  the 
very  fangs  of  malice,  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play. 
Are  you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

Oli.   If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  T  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp 
yourself;  for  what  is  yours  to  bestow,  is  not  yours 
to  reserve.  But  this  is  from  my  commission  :  I  will 
on  with  my  speech  in  your  praise,  and  then  show 
you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

Oli.  Come  to  what  is  important  in't ;  I  forgive 
you  the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  'tis 
poetical. 

Oli.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned ;  I  pray 
you,  keep  it  in.  I  heard,  you  were  saucy  at  my 
gates ;  and  allowed  your  approach,  rather  to  won- 
der at  you  than  to  hear  you.  If  you  be  not  mad, 
be  gone  ;  if  you  have  reason,  be  brief :  'tis  not  that 
time  of  moon  with  me,  to  make  one  in  so  skipping 
a  dialogue. 

Mar.   Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your  way. 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber;  I  am  to  hull  here  a 
little  longer.  —  Some  mollification  for  your  giant ', 
sweet  lady. 

Oli.   Tell  me  your  mind. 

Vio.   I  am  a  messenger. 

Oli.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  de- 
liver, when  the  courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.  Speak 
your  office. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no 
overture  of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage  ;  I  hold  the 
olive  in  my  hand  :  my  words  are  as  full  of  peace  as 
matter. 

Oli.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you  ? 
what  would  you? 

Vio.  The  rudeness,  that  hath  appeared  in  me, 
have  I  learn'd  from  my  entertainment.  What  I 
am,  and  what  I  would,  are  to  your  ears,  divinity ; 
to  any  other's  profanation. 

OH.  Give  us  the  place  alone :  we  will  hear  this 
divinity.  [^a^  Maria.]  Now,  sir,  what  is  your 
text? 

Vio.   Most  sweet  lady,  — — 

OH.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be 
said  of  it.      Where  lies  your  text? 

Vio.    In  Orsino's  bosom. 

OH.   In  his  bosom?  In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom? 

"  Accountable. 

'  It  appears  from  several  parts  of  this  play  that  the  original 
actress  of  Maria  was  very  short 


Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his 
heart. 

OH.  O,  T  have  read  it ;  it  is  heresy.  Have  you 
no  more  to  say  ? 

Vio.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

OH.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to 
negotiate  with  my  face  ?  you  are  now  out  of  your 
text ;  but  we  will  draw  the  curtain,  and  show  you 
the  picture.  Look  you,  sir,  such  a  one  as  I  was 
this  present "  :    Is't  not  well  done  ?  [  Unveiling. 

Vio.   Excellently  done,  if  nature  did  all. 

Oli.  'Tis  in  grain,  sir;  'twill  endure  wind  and 
weather. 

Via.  'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on  : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruel'st  she  alive. 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave. 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Oli.  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted  ;  I  will 
give  out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty  :  It  shall  be 
inventoried ;  and  every  particle,  and  utensil,  la- 
belled to  my  will ;  as,  item,  two  lips  indifferent 
red ;  item,  two  grey  eyes,  with  lids  to  them ;  item, 
one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so  forth.  Were  you  sent 
hither  to  'praise  me  ? 

Vio.   I  see  you  what  you  are  :   you  are  too  proud  ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you ;   O,  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompens'd,  though  you  were  crown'd 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty  ! 

Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.   With  adorations,  with  fertile  tears. 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

Oli.    Your  lord  does  know  my  mind,   I  cannot 
love  him : 
Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youtli ; 
In  voices  well  divulg'd  ^,  free,  learn'd,  and  valiant. 
And,  in  dimension,  and  the  shape  of  nature, 
A  gracious  person  :   but  yet  I  cannot  love  him  ; 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.   If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense, 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

OH.  Wliy,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.   Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house  ; 
Write  loyal  cantons  ^  of  contemned  love. 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  liills. 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia  !   O,  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

OH.  You  might  do  much :  Whatisyour  parentage? 

Vio.   Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

Oli.  Get  you  to  your  lord ; 

I  cannot  love  him :   let  him  send  no  more  ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.      Fare  you  well : 
1  thank  you  for  your  pains :   spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.   I  am  no  fee'd  post,  lady ;  keep  your  purse  ; 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint,  that  you  shall  love ; 
And  let  your  fervour,  like  my  master's,  be 
Plac'd  in  contempt !   Farewell,  fair  cruelty.    [Eiit. 

2  Presents.  3  Well  spoken  of  by  the  world. 

4  Cantos,  verses. 


Act  11.    Scene  1. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


09r 


Oli.   What  is  your  parentage  ? 
Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 

I  am  a  gentleman. I'll  be  sworn  thou  art ; 

Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit. 
Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon  :  —  Not  too  fast :  — 

soft!  soft! 
Unless  the  master  were  the  man.  —  How  now  ? 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 
Methinks,  I  feel  this  youtli's  perfections, 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be.  — 
What,  ho,  Malvolio  !  — 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 


I       OIL    Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger. 
The  county's  man :   he  left  this  ring  behind  him. 
Would  I,  or  not ;  tell  him,  I'll  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord. 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  ;   I  am  not  for  him  • 
If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
I'll  give  him  reasons  for't.      Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 
Mai.   Madam,  I  will.  [ExU. 

Oli.   I  do  I  know  not  what :   and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 
Fate,    show    thy    force  :      Ourselves    we    do    not 

owe  ^  ; 
What  is  decreed,  must  be  ;  and  be  this  so  ! 

[ExU. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  Sea-coast. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Sebastian. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer  ?  nor  will  you  not, 
that  I  go  with  you  ? 

Scb.  By  your  patience,  no  :  my  stars  sliine  darkly 
over  me ;  the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might,  per- 
haps, distemper  yours ;  therefore  1  shall  crave  of 
you  your  leave,  that  1  may  bear  my  evils  alone : 
It  were  a  bad  recompense  for  your  love,  to  lay  any 
of  them  on  you. 
Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you,  whither  you  are  bound. 

Seb.  No,  'sooth,  sir ;  my  determinate  voyage  is 
mere  extravagancy.  But  I  perceive  in  you  so  ex- 
cellent a  touch  of  modesty,  that  you  will  not  extort 
from  me  what  I  am  willing  to  keep  in  ;  therefore  it 
charges  me  in  manners  the  rather  to  express  myself. 
You  must  know  of  me  then,  Antonio,  my  name  is 
Sebastian,  which  I  called  Rodorigo  :  my  father  was 
tliat  Sebastian  of  Messaline,  whom,  I  know,  you 
have  heard  of:  he  left  behind  him,  myself,  and  a 
sister,  both  born  in  an  hour.  If  the  heavens  had 
been  pleas'd,  would  we  had  so  ended  !  but  you,  sir, 
alter'd  that ;  for,  some  hour  before  you  took  me 
from  the  breach  of  the  sea,  was  my  sister  drowned. 

Ant.    Alas,  the  day  ! 

Seb.  A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much  re- 
sembled me,  was  yet  of  many  accounted  beautiful : 
but,  tliough  I  could  not,  with  such  estimable  won- 
der, overfar  believe  that,  yet  thus  far  I  will  boldly 
publish  her,  she  bore  a  mind  that  envy  could  not 
but  call  fair :  she  is  drowned  already,  sir,  with  salt 
water,  though  I  seem  to  drown  her  remembrance 
again  with  more. 

Ant.   Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment 

Seb.   O,  good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,  let 
me  be  your  servant. 

Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done, 
that  is,  kill  him  whom  you  have  recovered,  desire 
it  not.  Fare  ye  well  at  once  :  my  bosom  is  full  of 
kindness ;  and  I  am  yet  so  near  the  manners  of  my 
mother,  that  upon  tlie  least  occasion  more,  mine 
eyes  w  ill  tell  tales  of  me.  I  am  bound  to  the  count 
Orsino's  court :   farewell.  \^ExU. 

Ant.  The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with  tliee  : 
I  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court. 
Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  tlice  there : 
But  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so, 
That  danger  ^all  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go.   \^Exit. 


SCENE  U.— A  Street. 

Enter  Viola  j   Mai^volio  following. 

Mai.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  counttss 
Olivia? 

Via.  Even  now,  sir ;  on  a  moderate  pace  I  liave 
since  arrived  but  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir ;  you 
might  have  saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it 
away  yourself.  She  adds,  moreover,  that  you  should 
put  your  lord  into  a  desperate  assurance  she  will 
none  of  him :  And  one  tiling  more ;  that  you  be 
never  so  hardy  to  come  again  in  his  affairs,  unless  it 
be  to  report  your  lord's  taking  of  this.    Receive  it  so. 

Via.   She  took  the  ring  of  me  ;  I'll  none  of  it. 

Mai.  Come,  sir,  you  peevislily  threw  it  to  her ; 
and  her  will  is,  it  should  be  so  returned :  if  it  be 
worth  stooping  for,  tliere  it  lies  in  your  eye ;  if  not, 
be  it  his  that  finds  it.  [Exit. 

Vio.  I  left  no  ring  with  her:  Wliat  means  this  lady  ? 
Fortune  forbid,  my  outside  have  not  charm 'd  her  ! 
She  made  good  view  of  me  ;  indeed,  so  much. 
That  sure,  methought  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue, 
For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 
She  loves  me,  sure ;  the  cunning  of  her  pa.ssion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None  of  my  lord's  ring  !  why,  he  sent  her  none. 
I  am  the  man  ;  —  If  it  be  so    as  'tis). 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness. 
Wherein  the  pregnant  ^  enemy  does  much. 
How  easy  is  it,  for  the  proper-false 
In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms ! 
Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we  ; 
For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 
How  will  this  fadge  ?  7  My  master  loves  her  dearly; 
And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him  ; 
And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me : 
What  will  become  of  this  !   As  I  am  man, 
My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love ; 
As  I  am  woman,  now  alas  the  day  ! 
Wliat  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ! 
O  time,  thou  must  untangle  Uiis,  not  I ; 
It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  —  ^  Boom  in  Olivia'*  House. 

Enter SirTovvBzLCH,  and  Sir AavKKw  Acvz-cHr.r.K. 
Sir  To.   Approach,  sir  Andrew  :   not  to  be  a-bcd 

^  Own,  pwten.  *  Dexterous,  ready.  f  Suit 

F  3 


70 


TWELFTH  NIGHT: 


Act  II. 


after  midnight,  is  to  be  up  betimes ;  and  diluculo 
surgere,  thou  know'st, 

Sir  And.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not :  but  I 
know,  to  be  up  late,  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  false  conclusion  :  I  hate  it  as  an  un- 
filled can  :  To  be  up  after  midnight,  and  to  go  to 
bed  then,  is  early ;  so  that,  to  go  to  bed  after  mid- 
night, is  to  go  to  bed  betimes.  Do  not  our  lives 
consist  of  the  four  elements  ? 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  so  they  say ;  but,  I  think,  it 
rather  consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Tliou  art  a  scholar  ;  let  us  therefore  eat 
and  drink.  —  Marian,  I  say ! a  stoop  of  wine  ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Sir  And.   Here  comes  the  fool. 

Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts  ?  Did  you  never  see 
the  picture  of  we  three  ?  8 

Sir  To.  Welcome  ass.     Now  let's  have  a  catch. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent 
breast.  9  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had 
such  a  leg ;  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the 
fool  has.  In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very  gracious 
fooling  last  night,  when  thou  spokest  of  Pigrogro- 
mitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial  of 
Queubus ;  'twas  very  good,  i'faith. 

Clo.  My  lady  has  a  white  hand,  and  the  Myrmi- 
dons are  no  boltle-ale  houses. 

Sir  And.  Excellent !  Why,  this  is  the  best  fool- 
ing, when  all  is  done.     Now,  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on  ;  there  is  a  sixpence  for  you  : 
let's  have  a  song. 

Sir  And.  There's  a  testril  of  me  too  :  if  one 
knight  give  a 

Clo.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of 
good  life  ? 

Sir  To.   A  love-song,  a  love-song. 

Sir  And.   Ay,  ay  ;   I  care  not  for  good  life. 

SONG. 

Clo,    0  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  9 
0  stay  and  hear  ;  your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting  ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meetings 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

Sir  And.   Excellent  good,  i'faith  ! 
Sir  To.    Good,  good. 

Clo.    What  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter  ; 

Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What's  to  come,  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty  ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

Sir  And.  A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight. 

Sir  To.   A  contagious  breath. 

iSiV  And.   Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'faith. 

Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in 
contagion.  But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance 
indeed  ?  Shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch, 
that  will  draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver? 
Shall  we  do  that  ? 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let's  do't ;  I  am  dog 
at  a  catch. 

Clo.  By'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch  well. 

Sir  And.  Most  certain ;  let  our  catch  be,  Thou 
knave. 


Loggerheads  be. 


9  Voice. 


Clo.  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,  knight !  I  shall 
be  constrain'd  in't  to  call  thee  knave,  knight. 

Sir  And.  'Tis  not  tlie  first  time  I  have  constrain'd 
one  to  call  me  knave.  Begin,  fool ;  it  begins.  Hold 
thy  peace. 

Clo.  I  shall  never  begin,  if  I  hold  my  peace. 

Sir  And.   Good,  i'faith !   Come,  begin. 

[  They  sing  a  catch. 

Enter  Maria. 

Mar.  What  a  catterwauling  do  you  keep  here  ! 
If  my  lady  have  not  called  up  her  steward,  Mal- 
volio,  and  bid  liim  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never 
trust  me. 

Sir  To.  My  lady's  a  Catalan  ',  we  are  politicians  : 
Malvolio's  a  Peg- a- Ramsey -,  and  Three  merry  men 
we  be.  Am  not  I  consanguineous  ?  am  I  not  of  her 
blood  ?  Tilly-valley  3,  lady  !  There  dwelt  a  man  in 
liabylon,  lady,  lady!  [Singing. 

Clo.  Beshrew  me,  the  knight's  in  admirable  fooling. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough,  if  he  be  dis- 
posed, and  so  do  I  too ;  he  does  it  with  a  better 
grace,  but  I  do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  To.  0  the  twelfth  day  of  December, —  [Si7iging. 

Mar.   Peace. 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  My  masters,  are  you  mad?  or  what  are 
you  ?  Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but 
to  gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night  ?  Do  ye 
make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady's  house,  that  ye  squeak 
out  your  coziers'^  catches  without  any  mitigation 
or  remorse  of  voice  ?  Is  there  no  respect  of  place, 
persons,  nor  time,  in  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 
Sneck  up !  ^ 

Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you.  My 
lady  bade  me  tell  you,  that,  though  she  harbours 
you  as  her  kinsman,  she's  nothing  allied  to  your 
disorders.  If  you  can  separate  yourself  and  your 
misdemeanors,  you  are  welcome  to  the  house ;  if 
not,  an  it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of  her,  she 
is  very  willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  To.  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs 
be  gone. 

Mar.   Nay,  good  sir  Toby. 

Clo.   His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done. 

Mai.   Is't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.  But  I  will  never  die. 

Clo.   Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.   This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.   Shall  I  bid  him  go  ?  [^Singing. 

Clo.  What  an  if  you  do  9 

Sir  To.   Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  9 

Clo.    0  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not. 

Sir  To.  Out  o'time  ?  sir,  ye  lie.  —  Art  any  more 
than  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art 
virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ? 

Clo.   Yes,  by  saint  Anne ;   and  ginger  shall  be     'm 
hot  i'the  mouth  too.  " 

Sir  To.  Thou'rt  i'the  right.  —  Go,  sir,  rub  your 
chain  with  crums  :  —  A  stoop  of  wine,  Maria  ! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's 
favour  at  any  thing  more  than  contempt,  you  would 
not  give  means  for  this  uncivil  rule;  she  shall  know 
of  it,  by  this  hand.  [Exit, 

Mar.   Go  shake  your  ears. 

1  Romancer.  2  Name  of  an  old  song. 

3  Equivalent  to  filly-fally,  shilly-shaUy. 
'»  Cobblers.  s  Hang  yourself. 


Scene  III. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


71 


Sir  And.  'Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when 
a  man's  a  hungry,  to  challenge  him  to  the  field ;  and 
tlien  to  break  promise  with  him,  and  make  a  fool  of 
him. 

Sir  To.  Do't,  knight;  I'll  write  thee  a  chal- 
lenge :  or  I'll  deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by 
word  of  mouth. 

Mar.  Sweet  sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night : 
since  the  youth  of  the  count's  was  to-day  with  my 
lady,  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  monsieur 
Malvolio,  let  me  alone  with  him  :  if  I  do  not  gull 
him  into  a  nay-word^,  and  make  him  a  common 
recreation,  do  not  I  think  I  have  wit  enough  to  lie 
straight  in  my  bed  :    I  know,  I  can  do  it. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us ',  possess  us ;  tell  us  some- 
thing of  him. 

Mar.  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  Puritan. 

Sir  And.  O,  if  I  thought  that,  I'd  beat  him  like 
a  dog. 

Sir  To.  What,  for  being  a  Puritan  ?  thy  exqui- 
site reason,  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for't,  but  I 
have  reason  good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is,  or  any  thing 
constantly  but  a  time-pleaser ;  an  affectioned  ass, 
that  cons  state  without  book,  and  utters  it  by  great 
swartlis  ^  :  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so  cram- 
med, as  he  thinks,  with  excellencies,  that  it  is  his 
ground  of  faith,  that  all,  that  look  on  him,  love 
him  ;  and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge  find 
notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.   What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles 
of  love ;  wherein,  by  tlie  colour  of  his  beard,  the 
shape  of  his  leg,  the  manner  of  his  gait,  the  expres- 
sure  of  his  eye,  forehead,  and  complexion,  he  shall 
find  himself  most  feelingly  personated  :  I  can  write 
very  like  my  lady,  your  niece  ;  on  a  forgotten  matter 
we  can  hardly  make  distinction  of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.   Excellent !   I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  And.   I  have't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou 
wilt  drop,  that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that 
she  is  in  love  with  him. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that  colour. 

Sir  And.  And  your  horse  now  would  make  him 
an  ass. 

Mar.   Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  And.   O,  'twill  be  admirable. 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you.  I  will  plant 
you  two,  and  let  tlie  fool  make  a  third,  where  he 
shall  find  the  letter  ;  observe  his  construction  of  it. 
For  this  night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event. 
Farewell.  {Exit. 

Sir  To.   Good  night,  Penthesilea,  9 

Sir  And.   Before  me,  she's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She's  a  beagle,  true  bred,  and  one  that 
adores  me  :   What  o'that  ? 

Sir  And.   I  was  adored  once  too. 

Sir  To.  Let's  to  bed,  knight.  —  Thou  hadst  need 
send  for  more  money. 

Sir  And.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am  a 
foul  way  out. 

Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight ;  if  thou  hast 
her  not  i'the  end,  call  me  Cut.  > 

Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  it 
liow  you  will. 


•  Bvc-word. 

'•  The  row  of  grass  left  by  a  mower. 

'  Amazon. 


7  Inform  u«. 
FooL 


Sir  To,  Come,  come;  I'll  go  bum  some  sack, 
'tis  too  late  to  go  to  bed  now  :  come,  knight ;  come, 
knight.  \_Exexint. 

SCENE  lY.—A  Room  in  Vie  Duke'«  Palace. 


Viola,  Curio,  and  others. 

musick  :  —  Now,    good 


Enter  Dui 

Duke.    Give   me    some 

morrow,  friends :  — 
Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song. 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night  ; 
Methought,  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much  ; 
More  than  light  airs,  and  recollected  terms 
Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times :  — — 
Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  that 
should  sing  it. 

Duke.  Who  was  it? 

Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord  ;  a  fool,  that  the 
lady  Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in :  he  is 
about  the  house. 

Duke.   Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while. 
[Exit  Curio.  —  Musick. 
Come  hither,  boy  :   If  ever  thou  shalt  love. 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it,  remember  me  : 
For,  such  as  I  am,  all  true  lovers  are ; 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save,  in  that  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  belov'd.  —  How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Via.   It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  thron'd. 

DuJce.   Thou  dost  speak  masterly : 
My  life  upon't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favour  that  it  loves  j 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.   What  kind  of  woman  is't  ? 

Via.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.   She  is  not  worth  thee,  then.    What  years, 
i'faith  ? 

Vio.   About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old,  by  heaven ;  Let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself;  so  wears  she  to  him. 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves. 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm. 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn. 
Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself. 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent : 
For  women  are  as  roses ;  whose  fair  flower. 
Being  once  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Via.   And  so  they  are  :   alas,  that  they  are  so ; 
To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  ! 

Re-enter  Cuaio,  and  Clown. 
Duke.   O  fellow,  come,   the  song  we   had   last 
night :  — 
Mark  it,  Cesario  ;  it  is  old,  and  plain  : 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And  the  free  maids  that  weave  their  tliread  with 

bones. 
Do  use  to  chaunt  it ;  it  is  silly  sooth  % 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love, 
Like  the  old  age. 

Clo.    Are  you  ready,  sir? 

Duke.   Ay  ;  pr'ythee,  sing.  {Muack, 

4  Simple  truth. 
F  4 


72 


TWELFTH  NIGHT: 


Act  n, 


SONG. 

Clo.   Come  away,  come  away,  death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid  ; 

Fly  away,jiy  away,  breath; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yewy 

0,  "prepare  it  ; 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 
Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown  ; 

N^ot  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  0,  where 
Sad  true  lover  ne'er  find  my  grave, 
2'o  weep  there. 

Duke.   There's  for  thy  pains. 

Clo.   No  pains,  sir ;  I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 

Duke.   I'll  pay  thy  pleasure,  then. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid,  one 
time  or  another. 

Duke.    Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee. 

Clo.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee ;  and 
the  tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taffata, 
for  thy  mind  is  a  very  opal.  —  I  would  have  men  of 
such  constancy  put  to  sea,  that  their  business  might 
be  every  thing,  and  their  intent  every  where ;  for 
that's  it,  that  always  makes  a  good  voyage  of  no- 
thing  Farewell.  [Exit  Clown. 

Duke.   Let  all  the  rest  give  place.  — — 

[Exeunt  Curio  and  Attendants. 
Once  more,  Cesario, 
Get  thee  to  yon'  same  sovereign  cruelty : 
Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world. 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands  ; 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune ; 
But  'tis  that  miracle,  and  queen  of  gems, 
That  nature  pranks  3  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.   But,  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.   I  cannot  be  so  answer'd. 

Vio.  'Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say,  that  some  lady,  as,  perhaps,  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia  :   you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so ;  Must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 

Duke.   There  is  no  woman's  sides. 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart :   no  woman's  heart 
So  big,  to  hold  so  much ;  they  lack  retention. 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea. 
And  can  digest  as  much  :   make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me. 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know,  — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Via.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe : 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  lov'd  a  man. 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what's  her  history  ? 

Vio.   A  blank,  my  lord  :   She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'the  bud. 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek  :    she  pin'd  in  thought : 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 

3  Decks. 


She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more :   but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.   But  died  tliy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy? 

Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  too  ;  —  and  yet  I  know  not :  — 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste ;  give  her  this  jewel ;  say, 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay.  * 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  V.  —  OHvia'5  Garden. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir  Akdrew  Ague-cheek, 
and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.    Come  thy  ways,  signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,  I'll  come ;  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this 
sport,  let  me  be  boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  To.  Would'st  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the 
niggardly  rascally  sheep-biter  come  by  some  notable 
shame  ? 

Fab.  I  would  exult,  man :  you  know,  he  brought 
me  out  of  favour  with  my  lady,  about  a  bear-baiting 
here. 

Sir  To.  To  anger  him,  we'll  have  the  bear  again ; 
and  we  will  fool  him  black  and  blue  :  —  Shall  we 
not,  sir  Andrew? 

Sir  And.   An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain :  —  How 
now,  my  nettle  of  India  ? 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree :  Mal- 
volio's  coming  down  this  walk  ;  he  has  been  yonder 
i'the  sun,  practising  behaviour  to  his  own  shadow 
this  half  hour :  observe  him,  for  the  love  of  mockery  • 
for,  I  know,  this  letter  will  make  a  contemplative 
idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name  of  jesting  !  [The 
men  hide  themselves.]  Lie  thou  there;  [Throws 
down  a  letter,']  for  here  comes  the  trout  that  must 
be  caught  with  tickling.  [Exit  Maria. 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  'Tis  but  fortune  ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria 
once  told  me,  she  did  affect  me  :  and  I  have  heard 
herself  come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy,  it 
should  be  one  of  my  complexion.  Besides,  she  uses 
me  with  a  more  exalted  respect  than  any  one  else 
that  follows  her.      What  should  I  think  on't  ? 

Sir  To.   Here's  an  overweening  rogue  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace  !  Contemplation  makes  a  rare 
turkey-cock  of  him ;  how  he  jets  ^  under  his  ad- 
vanced plumes ! 

Sir  And.   'Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue  :  — 

Sir  To.    Peace,  I  say. 

Mai.   To  be  count  Malvolio ;  — 

Sir  To.  Ah,  rogue  ! 

Sir  And.   Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 

Sir  To.   Peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  There  is  example  for't ;  the  lady  of  the 
strachy  married  the  yeoiifian  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  And.    Fie  on  him,  Jezebel ! 

Fab.  O,  peace !  now  he's  deeply  in,  look,  how 
imagination  blows  him. 

Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her, 
sitting  in  my  state,  — 

4  Denial.  *  Struts 


Scene  V. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


73 


iSiV  To.   O,  for  a  stone-bow,  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  ! 

Mai.  Calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branched 
velvet  gown  ;  having  come  from  a  day-bed,  where  I 
left  Olivia  sleeping. 

Sir  To.    Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.    O,  peace,  peace  ! 

Med.  And  then  to  have  the  humour  of  state  :  and 
after  a  demure  travel  of  regard,  —  telling  them,  I 
know  my  place,  as  I  would  they  should  do  theirs, — 
to  ask  for  my  kinsman  Toby  : 

Sir  To.   Bolts  and  shackles  ! 

Fab.   O,  peace,  peace,  peace  !  now,  now. 

Mai.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient  start, 
make  out  for  him :  I  frown  the  while ;  and,  per- 
chance, wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  some  rich 
jewel.     Toby  approaches ;  court 'sies  there  to  me : 

Sir  To.   Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  with 
cars,  yet  peace. 

Mai.  1  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching 
my  familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control : 

Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow  o'the 
lips  then  ? 

Mai.  Saying,  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  having  cast 
me  on  your  niece,  give  me  this  prerogative  of  speech  :  — 

Sir  To.   What,  what? 

Mai.    You  must  amend  your  drunkenness. 

Sir  To.    Out,  scab  ! 

Fab.  Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  of 
our  plot. 

Mai.  Besides,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your  time 
with  a  foolish  knight ; 

Sir  And.   That's  me,  I  warrant  you. 

Mai.    One  Sir  Andrew  : 

Sir  And.  I  knew,  'twas  I ;  for  many  do  call  me  fool. 

Mai.   What  employment  have  we  here  ? 

^Taking  up  the  letter. 

Fab.   Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 

Sir  To.  O,  peace  !  and  the  spirit  of  humours  in- 
timate reading  aloud  to  him  ! 

Mai.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand :  these 
be  her  very  P's  her  C7"s  and  her  T's,  and  thus  makes 
she  her  great  C's.  It  is,  in  contempt  of  question, 
her  hand. 

Sir  And.  Her  P's,  her  U%  and  her  Ts :  Why  that? 

Mai.  [^Reads.j  To  the  unknoum  beloved,  this,  and 
my  good  u'ishes  :  her  very  phrases  !  —  By  your  leave, 
wax.  —  Soft !  —  and  the  impressure  her  Lucrece, 
with  which  she  uses  to  seal :  'tis  my  lady  :  To  whom 
should  this  be  ? 

Fab.   This  wins  him,  liver  and  all. 

Mai.    \Reads.^  Jove  knows,  I  love : 
But  who? 
Lips  do  not  move. 
No  man  must  know. 
No  man  must  know.  — What  follows  ?  the  numbers 
altered  !  —  No  man  mu^  know :  —  If  this  should  be 
thee,  Malvolio  ? 

Sir  To.   Marry,  hang  thee,  brock !  ^ 

Mai.   /  may  command,  where  I  adore : 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife. 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore  ; 
M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sivay  my  life. 

Fab.   A  fustian  riddle  ! 

Sir  To.   Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

Mai.  M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sivay  my  life.  —  Nay,  but 
first,  let  me  see,  —  let  me  see,  —  let  me  see. 

Fab.  What  a  dish  of  poison  has  she  d  essed  him  ! 

*  Badger. 


Sir  To.  And  wdth  what  wing  the  stannyel  7  checks 
at  it !  8 

Mai.  I  may  command  where  I  adore.  Why,  she 
may  command  me ;  I  serve  her,  she  is  my  Jady. 
Why,  this  is  evident  to  any  formal  capacity.  There 
is  no  obstruction  in  this ;  —  And  the  end,  —  What 
should  that  alphabetical  position  portend  ?  If  I 
could  make  that  resemble  something  in  me, — 
Softly  \  —  M,0,  A,  L  — 

Sir  To.  O,  ay !  make  up  that :  —  he  is  now  at  a 
cold  scent. 

Fab.  Sowter  ^  will  cry  upon't  for  all  this,  though 
it  be  as  rank  as  a  fox. 

Mai.  M,  —  Malvolio  ;  —  M,  —  why,  that  begins 
my  name. 

Fab.  Did  not  I  say,  he  would  work  it  out  ?  the 
cur  is  excellent  at  faults. 

Mai.  M,  —  But  then  there  is  no  consonancy  in 
the  sequel :  that  suffers  under  probation  :  A  should 
follow,  but  0  does. 

Fab.   And  0  shall  end,  I  hope. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I'll  cudgel  him,  and  make  him 
cry,  0. 

Mai.   And  then  /  comes  behind  ;  — 

Fab.  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you 
might  see  more  detraction  at  yoiu-  heels,  than  for- 
tunes before  you. 

Mai.  M,  0,  A,  I;  —  This  simulation  is  not  as  the 
former :  —  and  yet,  to  crush  this  a  little,  it  would 
bow  to  me,  for  every  one  of  these  letters  are  in  my 
name.  Soft ;  here  follows  prose.  —  If  this  fall  into 
thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars  I  am  above  thee; 
but  be  not  afraid  of  greatness  :  Some  are  bom  great, 
some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness 
thrust  upon  them.  Thy  fates  open  their  hands;  let 
thy  blood  and  spirit  embrace  t/iem.  And,  to  inure 
thyself  to  what  thou  art  like  to  be,  cast  thy  hximble 
slough  ',  and  appear  fresh.  Be  opposite  with  a 
kinsman,  surly  with  servants :  let  thy  tongue  tang 
argumeiUs  of  state ;  put  thyself  into  the  trick  of 
singularity :  she  thus  advises  thee,  that  sighs  for 
thee.  Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow  stock- 
ings; and  unshed  to  see  thee  ever  cross- gartered :  I 
say,  remember.  Go  to;  thou  art  made,  if  thou 
desirest  to  be  so ;  if  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  steward 
still,  the  fellow  <f  servants,  and  not  worthy  to  touch 
fortune's  fngtrs.  Farewell.  S/ie  that  would  alter 
services  with  thee.  The  fortunate-unhappy. 

Day-light  and  champian  «  discovers  not  more  :  this 
is  open.  I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read  politick 
authors,  I  will  baffle  Sir  Toby,  I  will  wash  off  gross 
acquaintance,  I  will  be  point-de-vice  3,  the  very 
man.  I  do  not  now  fool  myself,  to  let  imagination 
jade  me ;  for  every  reason  excites  to  this,  that  my 
lady  loves  me.  She  did  commend  my  yellow 
stockings  of  late,  she  did  praise  my  leg  being  cross- 
gartered  ;  and  in  this  she  manifests  herself  to  my 
love,  and,  with  a  kind  of  injunction,  drives  me  to 
these  habits  of  her  liking.  I  thank  my  stars,  I  am 
happy.  I  will  be  strange,  stout,  in  yellow  stock- 
ings, and  cross-gartered,  even  with  the  swiftness  of 
putting  on.  Jove,  and  my  stars  be  praised !  — 
Here  is  yet  a  postscript.  Thou  canst  not  choose  but 
know  who  lam.  If  thou  erUertainest  my  loi^,  let  it 
appear  in  thy  smiling;  thy  smiles  become  thee  well: 
therefore  in  my  presence  still  smile,  dear  my  sweet, 
Ipr'ythee.  Jove,  I  thank  thee.  —  I  will  smile  ;  I 
will  do  every  tiling  that  thou  wilt  have  me.  [Exit. 
1  Hawk.  '  Flyi  at  it  »  Name  of  a  hound. 

»  SkiD  of  »  anake.       •  Open  country.        3  Utmost  exactness. 


74. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT: 


Act  ni 


Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a 
pension  of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophy. 

Sir  To.  I  could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device. 

Sir  And.  So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her,  but 
such  another  jest. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  And.   Nor  I  neither. 
Fab.    Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 
Sir  To.   Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'my  neck  ? 
Sir  And.  Or  o'mine  either  ? 
Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip  4, 
and  become  thy  bond  slave  ? 
Sir  And.    Ffaith,  or  I  either. 
Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a  dream, 


that,  when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him,  he  must  run 
mad. 

Mar.   Nay,  but  say  true ;  does  it  work  upon  him  ? 

Sir  To.   Like  aqua  vitae. 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport, 
mark  his  first  approach  before  my  lady :  he  will 
come  to  her  in  yellow  stockings,  and  'tis  a  colour 
she  abhors ;  and  cross-gartered,  a  fashion  she  de- 
tests ;  and  he  will  smile  upon  her,  which  will  now 
be  so  unsuitable  to  her  disposition,  being  addicted 
to  a  melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn 
him  into  a  notable  contempt :  if  you  will  see  it, 
follow  me. 

iSir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most  excel- 
lent devil  of  wit ! 

Sir  And.  I'll  make  one  too.  [ExeunU 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  Viola,  and  Clown  with  a  tabor. 

Vio.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  musick :  Dost 
tliou  live  by  thy  tabor  ? 

Clo.   No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church. 

Vio.   Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir ;  I  do  live  by  the  church : 
for  I  do  live  at  my  house,  and  my  house  doth  stand 
by  the  church. 

Vio.  So  thou  may'st  say,  the  king  lies*  by  a 
beggar,  if  a  beggar  dwell  near  him :  or,  the  church 
stands  by  thy  tabor,  if  thy  tabor  stand  by  the  church. 

Clo.  You  have  said,  sir.  —  To  see  this  age  !  —  A 
sentence  is  but  a  cheveril  ^  glove  to  a  good  wit ; 
How  quickly  the  wrong  side  may  be  turned  out- 
ward! 

Vio.  I  warrant  thou  art  a  merry  fellow,  and  carest 
for  nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir,  I  do  care  for  something  :  but  in 
my  conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you ;  if  that  be 
to  care  for  nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would  make  you 
invisible. 

Vio.   Art  not  thou  the  lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir ;  the  lady  Olivia  has  no  folly : 
she  wall  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be  married ;  and 
fools  are  as  like  husbands  as  pilchards  are  to  herrings, 
the  husband's  the  bigger;  I  am,  indeed,  not  her 
fool,  but  her  corrupter  of  words. 

Vio.   I  saw  thee  late  at  the  count  Orsino's. 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb,  like 
tlie  sun  ;  it  shines  every  where.  I  would  be  sorry, 
sir,  but  the  fool  should  be  as  oft  with  your  master,  as 
with  my  mistress  :  I  think,  I  saw  your  wisdom  there. 

Via.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I'll  no  more 
with  thee.  Hold,  there's  expences  for  thee.  Is  thy 
lady  within  ? 

Clo.  My  lady  is  within,  sir.  I  will  construe  to 
her  whence  you  come  :  who  you  are,  and  what  you 
would,  are  out  of  my  welkin  :  I  might  say,  element ; 
but  the  word  is  over-worn.  \_Eodt. 

Vio.   This  fellow's  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool ; 
And,  to  do  that  well,  craves  a  kind  of  wit. 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time  ; 


A  boy's  diversion,  three  and  trip. 
Dwells. 


6  Kid. 


And,  like  the  haggard  ',  check  at  every  feather 

That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice, 

As  full  of  labour  as  a  wise  man's  art : 

For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 

But  wise  men,  folly-fallen,  quite  taint  their  wit. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Sir  Andrew  Aoue- 

CHEEK. 

Sir  To.   Save  you,  gentleman. 

Vio.   And  you,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 

Vio.   Et  vous  aussi ;  voire  serviteur. 

Sir  And.   1  hope,  sir,  you  are  ;  and  I  am  yours. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my  niece 
is  desirous  you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be  to  her. 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir  ;  I  mean,  she 
is  the  list  8  of  my  voyage. 

Sir  To.  Taste  your  legs,  sir,  put  them  to  motion. 

Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than 
I  understand  what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste 
my  legs. 

Sir  To.   I  mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance  : 
But  we  are  prevented. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Most  excellent  accomplished  lady,  the  heavens  rain 
odours  on  you  ! 

Sir  And.  That  youth's  a  rare  courtier!  Rain 
odours  !  well. 

Via.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your 
own  most  pregnant  9  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir  And.  Odours,  pregnant,  and  vouchsafed  :  — 
I'll  get  'em  all  three  ready. 

OH.  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me 
to  my  hearing. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Maria.  HI 
Give  me  your  hand,  sir.  ^  j 

Vio.  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service. 

on.   What  is  your  name  ? 

Vio.  Cesario  is  your  servant's  name,  fair  princess. 

OH.   My  servant,  sir !    'Twas  never  merry  world. 
Since  lowly  feigning  was  call'd  compliment : 
You  are  servant  to  the  count  Orsino,  youth; 

Vio.  And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be  yours : 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

I 


A  hawk  not  well  trained. 
Ready. 


8  Bound,  limit 


Scene  I. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


75 


OH.  For  him,  I  think  not  on  him :  for  his  thoughts, 
'Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  fill'd  with  me ! 
Vio.  Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 
On  his  behalf : 

Oli,  O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you ; 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him  : 
But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that, 
Than  musick  from  the  spheres. 

rU).  I^ear  lady, 

OH.   Give  me  leave,  I  beseech  you  :   I  did  send. 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you  :  so  did  1  abuse 
Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I  fear  me,  you  : 
Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit, 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning. 
Which  you  knew  none  of  yours  :    What  might  you 

tliink? 
Have  you  not  set  mine  honour  at  the  stake, 
And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?    To  one  of  your 

receiving  • 
Enough  is  shown  ;  a  Cyprus,  not  a  bosom, 
Hides  my  poor  heart :   So  let  me  hear  you  speak. 
Vio.  I  pity  you. 
Oli.  That's  a  degree  to  love. 
Vio.  No,  not  a  grise  '2 ;  for  'tis  a  vulgar  proof. 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

Oli.  Why,  then,  methinks,  'tis  time  to  smile  again ; 
O,  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud ! 
If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 
To  fall  before  the  lion,  than  the  wolf?  iClock  strikes. 
The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time,  — 
Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I  will  not  have  you  : 
And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest. 
Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man  : 
There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

yio.  Then  westward-hoe  : 

Grace,  and  good  disposition  'tend  your  ladyship ! 
You'll  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

Oli.   Stay: 
I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 
Vio.  That  you  do  think,  you  are  not  what  you  are. 
Oli.   If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 
Vio.  Then  think  you  right ;  I  am  not  what  I  am. 
Oli.   I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be  ! 
Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am, 
I  wish  it  might ;  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 

OU.   O,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 
A  murd'rous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid  :  love's  night  is  noon. 
Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honour,  truth,  and  every  thing, 
I  love  thee  so,  that,  maujgre  all  thy  pride. 
Nor  wit,  nor  reason,  can  my  passion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause. 
For,  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause  : 
But,  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter  : 
Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought  is  better. 

Vio.   By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth. 
And  that  no  woman  has  ;  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam  ;  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

Oli.  Yet  come  again :  for  thou,  perhaps,  may'st  move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love. 

\^Exeunt. 
'  Ready  apprehencion.  '  Step. 


SCENE  II.  — ui  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek, 
and  Fabian. 
Sir  And.   No,  faith,  I'll  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 
Sir  To.  Thy  reason,  dear  venom,  give  thy  reason. 
Fab.   You  must  needs  yield  your  reason,  sir  An- 
drew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  I  saw  your  niece  do  more  favours 
to  the  count's  serving  man,  than  ever  she  bestowed 
upon  me  :   I  saw't  i'the  orchard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  ?  tell 
me  that. 

Sir  And.  As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 
Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her 
toward  you. 

Sir  And.  'Slight!  will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me? 
Fab.  I  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths 
of  judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand  jury-men, 
since  before  Noah  was  a  sailor. 

Fai.  She  did  show  favour  to  the  youth  in  your 
sight,  only  to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dor- 
mouse valour,  to  put  fire  in  your  heart,  and  brim- 
stone in  your  liver :  You  should  then  have  accosted 
her ;  and  with  some  excellent  jests,  fire-new  from 
the  mint,  you  should  have  banged  the  youth  into 
dumbness.  This  was  looked  for  at  your  hand,  and 
this  was  baulked:  the  double  gilt  of  this  oppor- 
tunity you  let  time  wash  off,  and  you  are  now 
sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion  ;  where 
you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's  beard, 
unless  you  do  redeem  it  by  some  laudable  attempt, 
either  of  valour,  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  And't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with 
valour;  for  policy  I  hate;  I  had  as  lief  be  a 
Brownist  3,  as  a  politician. 

Sir  To.  Why  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon 
the  basis  of  valour.  Challenge  me  the  count's  youth 
to  fight  with  him ;  hurt  him  in  eleven  places  ;  my 
niece  shall  take  note  of  it :  and  assure  thyself,  there 
is  no  love-broker  in  the  world  can  more  prevail  in 
man's  commendation  with  woman,  than  report  of 
valour. 

Fab.   There  is  no  way  but  this.  Sir  Andrew. 
Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge 
to  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Go,  vmte  it  in  a  martial  hand  ;  be  curst  * 
and  brief;  it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  elo- 
quent, and  full  of  invention :  taunt  him  with  the 
licence  of  ink :  if  thou  thou'st  him  some  thrice,  it 
shall  not  be  amiss ;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie  in 
thy  sheet  of  paper,  although  the  sheet  were  big 
enough  for  the  bed  of  Ware  ^  in  England,  set  'em 
down  ;  go,  about  it.  Let  tlicre  be  gall  enough  in 
thy  ink :  though  thou  write  with  a  goose-pen,  no 
matter :   About  it. 

Sir  And.   Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.   We'll  call  tliee  at  the  cubictilo  6  .•   Go. 

[Exit  Sir  Andrew. 
Fab.   Tliis  is  a  dear  manakin  to  you.  Sir  Toby. 
Sir  To.   1  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad  ;  some  two 
thousand  strong,  or  so. 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him  :  but 
you'll  not  deliver  it  ? 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me  then  ;  and  by  all  means 

3  ScparatitU  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign.  *  Crabbed. 

»  In  Hertfordshire,  which  held  forty  persons.    6  chamber. 


76 


TWELFTH  NIGHT: 


Act  hi. 


stir  on  the  youth  to  an  answer.  I  think,  oxen  and 
wainropes  cannot  hale  them  together.  For  Andrew, 
if  he  were  opened,  and  you  find  so  much  blood  in 
his  liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea,  I'll  eat  the 
rest  of  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his 
visage  no  great  presage  of  cruelty. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Look,  wherp  the  youngest  wren  of  nine 
comes. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh 
yourselves  into  stitches,  follow  me  :  yon'  gull  Mal- 
voHo  is  in  yellow  stockings. 

Sir  To.    And  cross-gartered  ? 

Mar.  Most  villainously  ;  like  a  pedant  that  keeps 
a  school  i'the  church.  —  I  have  dogged  him,  like 
his  murderer:  He  does  obey  every  point  of  the 
letter  that  I  dropped  to  betray  him.  He  does 
smile  his  face  into  more  lines,  than  are  in  the  new 
map,  with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies:  you 
have  not  seen  such  a  thing  as  'tis ;  I  can  hardly 
forbear  hurling  things  at  him.  I  know,  my  lady 
will  strike  him ;  if  she  do,  he'll  smile,  and  take't 
for  a  great  favour. 

Sir  To.   Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he  is. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Street. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Sebastian. 

Seb.   I  would  not,  by  my  will,  have  troubled  you  ; 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
1  will  no  further  chide  you. 

Ant.   I  could  not  stay  behind  you ;  my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth : 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you,  (though  so  much, 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage,) 
But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel, 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts  ;  which  to  a  stranger, 
Unguided,  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable :   My  willing  love. 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Seb.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make,  but,  thanks. 
And  thanks,  and  ever  thanks  :    Often  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay  : 
But,  were  my  worth,  as  is  my  conscience,  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.      What's  to  do  ? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Ant.   To-morrow,  sir ;   best,  first,  go   see   your 
lodging. 

Seb.   I  am  not  weary,  and  'tis  long  to  night ; 
I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials,  and  the  things  of  fame. 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  'Would  you'd  pardon  me  ; 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets  : 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight,  'gainst  the  Count  his  gallies, 
I  did  some  service  ;  of  such  note,  indeed. 
That,  were  I  ta'en  here,  it  would  scarce  be  answer'd. 

Seb.  Belike,  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.  The  oflfence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody  nature  ; 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time  and  quarrel. 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answer'd  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them ;  which  for  traffick's  sake 
Most  of  our  city  did  :   only  myself  stood  out : 


For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  7  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

Seb.  Do  not  then  walk  too  open. 

Ant.   It  doth  not  fit  me.      Hold,  sir,  here's  my 
purse  ; 
In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge  :    I  will  bespeak  our  diet. 
Whiles  you  beguile  the  time,  and  feed  your  know- 
ledge, 
With  viewing  of  the  town  ;  there  shall  you  have  me. 

Seb.   Why  I  your  purse  ? 

Ant.   Haply,  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase ;  and  your  store, 
I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 

Seb.  I'll  be  your  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you  for 
An  hour. 

Ant.         To  the  Elephant.  — 

Seb.  I  do  remember. 

\^Exeunt» 

SCENE  IV.  —  Olivia'5  Garden. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

OH.   I  have  sent  after  him  :  He  says,  he'll  come ; 
How  shall  I  feast  him  ?  what  bestow  on  him  ? 
For  youth  is  bought  more  oft,  than  begg'd,  or  bor- 

row'd. 
I  speak  too  loud.         ■ 
Where  is  Malvolio  ?  —  he  is  sad,  and  civil. 
And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes  ;  — 
TVhere  is  Malvolio  ? 

Mar.  He's  coming,  madam  ; 

But  in  strange  manner.      He  is  sure  possess'd. 

Oil.   Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 

Mar.  No,  madam. 

He  does  nothing  but  smile  ;  your  ladyship 
Were  best  have  guard  about  you  if  he  come  ; 
For,  sure,  the  man  is  tainted  in  his  wits. 

Oil.   Go  call  him  hither.      I'm  as  mad  as  he, 
If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be.  — 

Enter  Malvolio. 
How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.   Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho.       [Smiles  fantasticalli/. 

Oli.    Smil'st  thou  ? 
I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  8  occasion. 

Mai.  Sad,  lady  ?  I  could  be  sad :  This  does 
make  some  obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross-gar- 
tering :  But  what  of  that,  if  it  please  the  eye  of 
one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very  true  sonnet  is :  Please 
one,  and  please  aU. 

Oli.  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man  ?  what  is  the 
matter  with  thee  ? 

Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in 
my  legs :  It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and  commands 
shall  be  executed.  I  think,  we  do  know  the  sweet 
Roman  hand. 

Oli.   Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  To  bed?  ay,  sweet-heart;  and  I'll  come 
to  thee. 

Oli.  God  comfort  thee  !  Why  dost  thou  smile  so, 
and  kiss  thy  hand  so  oft  ? 

Mar.   How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  At  your  request  ?  Yes ;  Nightingales  an- 
swer daws. 

Mar.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  bold- 
ness before  my  lady  ? 

Mai.   Be  not  afraid  of  greatness :  'Twas  well  writ. 

Oli.   What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 


7  Caught. 


8  Grave. 


Scene  IV. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


77 


Mai. 
OIL 
Mai. 
OIL 
Mai. 
OIL 
Mai. 
ings ; — 

on. 

Mai. 

OIL 

Mai. 

SOS  — 

OIL 

Mai. 

0/t. 


Sonic  are  born  great,  — 
Ha? 

Some  ac/iieve  greatness,  — 
What  say'st  thou  ? 

j47id  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them. 
Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

lieniember  who  commended  thy  yeUow  stock- 

Thy  yellow  stockings  ? 

And  wished  to  see  thee  cross-gartered. 
Cross-gartered  ? 

Go  to :  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be 


Am  I  made  ? 

If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still. 
hy,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness. 

Enter  Servant. 


Wh 


Serv.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  count 
Orsino's  is  returned  ;  I  could  hardly  entreat  him 
back  :  he  attends  your  ladyship's  pleasure. 

OIL  I'll  come  to  him.  [Exit  Servant.]  Good 
Maria,  let  this  fellow  be  looked  to.  Where's  my 
cousin  Toby  ?  Let  some  of  my  people  have  a  special 
care  of  him  ;  I  would  not  have  him  miscarry  for  the 
half  of  my  dowry.        [Exeunt  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Mai.  Oh,  ho !  do  you  come  near  me  now  ?  no 
worse  man  than  sir  Toby  to  look  to  me  ?  This  con- 
curs directly  witli  the  letter :  she  sends  him  on 
purpose,  that  I  may  appear  stubborn  to  him  ;  for 
she  incites  me  to  that  in  the  letter.  Cast  thy  hum- 
ble sloughy  says  she  :  be  opposite  with  a  kinsman, 
surly  unth  servants,  —  let  thy  tongue  tang  with  ar- 
guments  of  state,  —  put   thyself  into   the   trick   of 

singularity  ; and,  consequently,  sets  down  the 

manner  how ;  as,  a  sad  face,  a  reverend  carriage,  a 
slow  tongue,  in  the  habit  of  some  sir  of  note,  and 
so  forth.  I  have  limed  her ;  but  it  is  Jove's  doing, 
and  Jove  make  me  thankful !  And,  when  she  went 
away  now.  Let  this  fellow  be  looked  to  :  Fellow  !  9 
not  Malvolio,  nor  after  my  degree,  but  fellow. 
Why,  every  thing  adheres  together ;  that  no  dram 
of  a  scruple,  no  scruple  of  a  scruple,  no  obstacle, 
no  incredulous  or  unsafe  circumstance,  —  What 
can  be  said  ?  Nothing,  that  can  be,  can  come  be- 
tween me  and  the  full  prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well, 
Jove,  not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this,  and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 

Re-enter  Maria,  with  Sir  Toby  Belch,  and 
Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanctity  ? 
I'll  speak  to  him. 

Fab.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is :  —  How  is't  with  you, 
sir  ?  how  is't  with  you,  man  ? 

MaL  Go  off;  I  discard  you,  let  me  enjoy  my 
private ;  go  off. 

Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within 
him  !  did  not  I  tell  you  ?  —  Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays 
you  to  have  a  care  of  him. 

Mai.   Ah,  ha  !  does  she  so  ? 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to ;  peace,  peace,  we  must 
deal  gently  with  him ;  let  me  alone.  How  do  you, 
Malvolio  ?  how  is't  with  you  ?  What,  man  !  defy  the 
devil :   consider  he's  an  enemy  to  mankind. 

Mai.   Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 

Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil,  how 
he  takes  it  at  heart !  Pray  heaven,  he  be  not  be- 
witched !  My  lady  would  not  lose  him  for  more 
than  I'll  say. 

•  Companion. 


Mai.   How  now,  mistress? 

Mar.    O  lord  ! 

Sir  To.  Pr'ythee,  hold  tihy  peace :  this  is  not  the 
way  :  Do  you  not  see,  you  move  him  ?  let  me  alone 
■with  him. 

Fab.  No  way  but  gentleness ;  gently,  gently :  the 
fiend  is  rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.  Why  how  now,  my  bawcock  ?  '  how  dost 
thou,  chuck? 

Mai.    Sir? 

Sir  To.  Ay,  Biddy,  come  with  me.  What,  man  ! 
'tis  not  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit «  with  Satan  ; 
Hang  him,  foul  collier  ! 

Mai.  Go  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle  shal- 
low things  :  I  am  not  of  your  element ;  you  shall 
know  more  hereafter.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.   Is't  possible  ? 

Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now,  I 
could  condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection 
.  of  the  device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now  j  lest  the  device  take 
air,  and  taint. 

Fab.   Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad,  indeed. 

Mar.   The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we'll  have  him  in  a  dark  room, 
and  bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that 
he  is  mad  ;  we  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure, 
and  his  penance,  till  our  very  pastime,  tired  out  of 
breath,  prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on  him  :  at  which 
time,  we  will  bring  the  device  to  the  bar,  and  crown 
thee  for  a  finder  of  madmen.      But  see,  but  see. 

En^er  Sir  Andrew  Aooe-cheek. 

Fab.   More  matter  for  a  May  morning. 

Sir  And.  Here's  the  challenge,  read  it ;  I  warrant, 
there's  vinegar  and  pepper  in't. 

Fab.   Is't  so  sawcy  ? 

Sir  And.    Ay,  is  it,  I  warrant  him ;  do  but  read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  [Reads.]  Youtli,  whatsoever 
thou  art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow. 

Fab.   Good  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy  mind, 
why  I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee  no  reason 
fort. 

Fab.  A  good  note :  that  keeps  you  from  the  blow 
of  the  law. 

Sir  To.-  Thou  comest  to  the  lady  Olivia,  and  in  my 
sight  she  uses  thee  kindly  :  but  thou  liest  in  thy  throat, 
that  is  not  the  matter  I  challenge  thee  for. 

Fab.  Very  brief,  and  exceeding  good  sense-less. 

Sir  To.  /  will  way-lay  t/iee  going  home  ;  where  if  it 
be  thy  chance  to  kill  me, 

Fab.   Good. 

Sir  To.    Thou  killest  me  Wee  a  roguf  and  a  tnllain. 

Fab.  Still  you  keep  o'the  windy  side  of  the  law : 
Good. 

Sir  To.   Fare  thee  u^U :    And  God  have  mercy 

upon  one  of  our  souls/  He  may  have  mercy  upon 

mine ;  bui  my  hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself. 

Thy  friend,  as  thou  usest  him,  and  thy  sworn  enemy. 

Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Sir  To.  If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  can- 
not :    I'll  giv't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for't ;  he 
is  now  in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and  will 
by  and  by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  sir  Andrew;  scout  me  for  him  at 
the  comer  of  the  orchard,  like  a  bailiff:  so  soon  as 
»  Jolly  cock,  beau  and  eoq.  '  A  play  among  boys. 


78 


TWELFTH  NIGHT 


ActHI.    Scene  IV. 


over  tliou  seest  him,  draw ;  and,  as  thou  drawest, 
swear  liorrible ;  for  it  comes  to  pass  oft,  that  a  ter- 
rible oath,  with  a  swaggering  accent  sharply  twanged 
off,  gives  manhood  more  approbation  than  ever  proof 
itself  would  have  earned  him.      Away. 

Sir  And.   Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.    [ErU. 

Sir  To.  Now  will  not  I  deliver  his  letter  :  for  the 
behaviour  of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out  to 
be  of  good  capacity  and  breeding ;  liis  employment 
between  his  lord  and  my  niece  confirms  no  less ; 
therefore  this  letter,  being  so  excellently  ignorant, 
will  breed  no  terror  in  the  youth ;  he  will  find  it 
comes  from  a  clodpole.  But,  sir,  I  will  deliver  his 
challenge  by  word  of  mouth ;  set  upon  Ague-cheek 
a  notable  report  of  valour ;  and  drive  the  gentle- 
man, (as,  I  know  his  youth  will  aptly  receive  it,) 
into  a  most  hideous  opinion  of  his  rage,  skill,  fury, 
and  impetuosity.  This  will  so  frighten  them  both, 
that  tliey  will  kill  one  another  by  the  look,  like 
cockatrices. 

Unter  Olivia  and  Viola. 

Fab.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece :  give  them 
way,  till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  him. 

Sir  To.  I  will  meditate  the  while  upon  some 
horrid  message  for  a  challenge. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Fabian,  and  Maria. 

OH.   I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  out : 
There's  something  in  me,  that  reproves  my  fault ; 
But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 

Vio.  With  the  same  'haviour  that  your  passion  bears. 
Go  on  my  master's  griefs. 

Oli.  Here,  wear  this  jewel  for  me,  'tis  my  picture; 
Refuse  it  not,  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you : 
And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me,  that  I'll  deny ; 
That  honour,  sav'd,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Via.  Nothing  but  this,  your  true  love  for  my  master. 

Oli.  How  with  mine  honour  may  I  give  him  that 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

OIL  Well,  come  again  to-morrow :  Fare  thee  well. 

[ExU. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.   Gentleman,  heaven  save  thee. 

Vio.   And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee  to't : 
of  what  nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast  done  him, 
I  know  not ;  but  thy  intercepter,  full  of  despight, 
bloody  as  the  hunter,  attends  thee  at  the  orchard 
end  :  dismount  thy  tuck  3,  be  yare  ^  in  thy  prepar- 
ation, for  thy  assailant  is  quick,  skilful,  and  deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir;  I  am  sure,  no  man  Jiath 
any  quarrel  to  me ;  my  remembrance  is  very  free 
and  clear  from  any  image  of  offence  done  to  any 
man. 

Sir  To.  You'll  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure  you  : 
therefore,  if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake 
you  to  your  guard;  for  your  opposite  hath  in  him 
what  youth,  strength,  skill  and  wrath,  can  furnish 
man  withal. 

Vio.   I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he? 

Sir  To.  He  is  knight,  dubbed  with  unbacked 
rapier,  and  on  carpet  consideration ;  but  he  is  a 
devil  in  private  brawl :  souls  and  bodies  hath  he 
divorced  three :  and  his  incensement  at  this  moment 


Rapier 


Ready. 


is  so  implacable,  that  satisfaction  can  be  none  but 
by  pangs  of  death  and  sepulchre  :  hob,  nob,  is  his 
word ;  give't  or  tak't. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house,  and  de- 
sire some  conduct  of  the  lady.  I  am  no  fighter.  I 
have  heard  of  some  kind  of  men,  that  put  quarrels 
purposely  on  others,  to  taste  tlieir  valour :  belike, 
this  is  a  man  of  that  quirk. 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no ;  his  indignation  derives  itself  out 
of  a  very  competent  injury ;  therefore  get  you  on, 
and  give  him  his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not  to  the 
house,  unless  you  undertake  that  with  me,  which 
with  as  much  safety  you  might  answer  him :  there- 
fore, on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark  naked :  for  meddle 
you  must,  that's  certain,  or  forswear  to  wear  iron 
about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil,  as  strange.  I  beseech 
you,  do  me  this  courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  the 
knight  what  my  offence  to  him  is :  it  is  something 
of  my  negligence,  nothing  of  my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay  you 
by  this  gentleman  till  my  return.      lExit  Sir  Toby. 

Vio.   Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Eab.  I  know  the  knight  is  incensed  against  you, 
even  to  a  mortal  arbitrement ;  but  nothing  of  the 
circumstance  more. 

Vio.   I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Fab.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to  read 
him  by  his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him  in  the 
proof  of  his  valour.  He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the  most 
skilful,  bloody,  and  fatal  opposite  that  you  could 
possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of  lUyria:  Will 
you  walk  towards  him  ?  I  will  make  your  peace 
with  him,  if  I  can. 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for't :  I  am 
one,  that  would  rather  go  with  sir  priest,  than  sir 
knight :  I  care  not  who  knows  so  much  of  my 
mettle.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby,  with  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he's  a  very  devil ;  I  have  not 
seen  such  a  virago.  I  had  a  pass  with  him,  rapier, 
scabbard,  and  all,  and  he  gives  me  the  stuck-in  5, 
with  such  a  mortal  motion,  that  it  is  inevitable; 
and  on  the  answer,  he  pays  you  as  surely  as  your 
feet  hit  the  ground  they  step  on :  They  say  he  has 
been  fencer  to  the  Sophy. 

Sir  And.   I'll  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified : 
Fabian  can  scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And.  Plague  on't ;  an  I  thought  he  had  been 
valiant,  and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I'd  have  seen  him 
hanged  ere  I'd  have  challenged  him.  Let  him  let 
the  matter  slip,  and  I'll  give  him  my  horse,  grey 
Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I'll  make  the  motion  :  Stand  here,  make 
a  good  show  on't ;  this  shall  end  without  the  per- 
dition of  souls.  Marry,  I'll  ride  your  horse  as  well 
as  I  ride  you.  [Aside. 

Re-enter  Fabian  and  Viola. 
I  have  his  horse  [To  Fab.]  to  take  up  the  quarrel ; 
I  have  persuaded  liim,  the  youth's  a  devil. 

Fab.  He  is  as  horribly  conceited  of  him;  and 
pants,  and  looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at  his  heels. 

Sir  To.  There's  no  remedy,  sir ;  he  will  fight  with 
you  for  his  oath's  sake :  marry,  he  hath  better  be- 
thought him  of  his  quarrel,  and  he  finds  that  now- 
scarce  to  be  worth  talking  of:  therefore  draw,  for 

5  Stoccato,  an  Italian  term  in  fencing. 


Act  IV.    Scene  I. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


79 


the  supportance  of  his  vow;  he  protests,  he  will 
not  hurt  you. 

Vio.  Pray  heaven  defend  me !  A  little  thing 
would  make  me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of  a 
man.  \_Aside. 

Fab.    Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious.. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir  Andrew,  there's  no  remedy ; 
the  gentleman  will,  for  his  honour's  sake,  have  one 
bout  with  you  :  he  cannot  by  the  duello  ^  avoid  it : 
but  he  has  promised  me,  as  he  is  a  gentleman  and 
a  soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you.      Come  on ;  to't. 

Sir  And.  Pray  heaven,  he  keep  his  oath !    [Draws. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Vio.  I  do  assure  you,  'tis  against  my  will.  {Draws. 

Ant.  Put  up  your  sword; — if  this  young  gentleman 
Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me ; 
If  you  offend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you.     [Drawing. 

Sir  To.   You,  sir  ?  why,  what  are  you  ? 

Ant.  One,  sir,  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do  more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,  I  am  for 
you.  \_Draws. 

Enter  two  Officers. 

Fab.  O  good  sir  Toby,  hold ;  here  come  the  officers. 

Sir  To.    I'll  be  with  you  anon.        [To  Antonio. 

Vio.   Pray,  sir,  put  up  your  sword  if  you  please. 
[To  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  vrill  I,  sir ;  —  and,  for  that  I 
promised  you,  I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word :  He  will 
bear  you  easily,  and  reins  well. 

1  Off.   ITiis  is  the  man,  do  thy  office. 

2  Off.   Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
Of  Count  Orsino. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

1  Off.  No,  sir,  no  jot ;  1  know  your  favour  well. 
Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  head.  — 
Take  liim  away ;  he  knows,  I  know  him  well. 

Ant.  I  must  obey. — This  comes  with  seeking  you; 
But  there's  no  remedy ;  I  shall  answer  it. 
"What  will  you  do  ?  Now  my  necessity 
""^.lakes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse :   It  grieves  me 
Much  more,  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you, 
ITian  what  befalls  myself.      You  stand  amaz'd ; 
But  be  of  comfort. 

2  Off.   Come,  sir,  away. 

Ant.   I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money. 

Via.   What  money,  sir  ? 
For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  show'd  me  here, 
And,  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  trouble, 
Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 
I'll  lend  you  something  :   my  having  is  not  much  ; 
1*11  make  division  of  my  present  with  you  : 
Hold,  there  is  half  my  coffer. 

Ant.  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 


Is't  possible,  that  my  deserts  to  you 

Can  lack  persuasion  ?  Do  not  tempt  my  misery, 

Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man, 

As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 

That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Vio.  I  know  of  none  ; 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice,  or  any  feature  : 
I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man. 
Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling,  drunkenness. 
Or  any  taint  of  vice,  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  O  heavens  themselves ! 

2  Off.   Come,  sir,  I  pray  you,  go. 

Ant.  Let  me  speak  a  little.    This  youth  that  you 
see  here, 
I  snatch'd  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death  ; 

Reliev'd  him  with  such  sanctity  of  love, 

And  to  his  image,  which,  methought,  did  promise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I  devotion. 

1  Off.  "What's  that  to  us?  The  time  goes  by;  away. 

Ant.  But,  O,  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god !  — 
Thou  hast,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame.  — 
In  nature  there's  no  blemish,  but  the  mind ; 
None  can  be  call'd  deform'd,  but  the  unkind  : 
"Virtue  is  beauty ;  but  the  beauteous  evil 
Are  empty  trunks,  o'erflourish'd  by  the  devil. 

1  Off.  The  man  grows  mad ;  away  with  him. 
Come,  come,  sir. 

Ant.  Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt  Officers,  unth  Antonio. 

Vio.  Methinks,  his  words  do  from  such  passions  fly, 
That  he  believes  himself;  so  do  not  I. 
Prove  true,  imagination,  O,  prove  true, 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  ! 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight ;  come  hither, 
Fabian  ;  we'll  whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of  most 
sage  saws. 

Vio.   He  nam'd  Sebastian ;  I  my  brother  know 
Yet  living  in  my  glass ;  even  such,  and  so. 
In  favour  was  my  brother ;  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  colour,  ornament, 
For  him  I  imitate  :    O,  if  it  prove. 
Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love !  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest  paltry  boy,  and  more 
a  coward  than  a  hare :  his  dishonesty  appears  in 
leaving  his  friend  here  in  necessity,  and  denying 
him ;  and  for  his  cowardship,  ask  Fabian. 

Fab.  A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  religious 
in  it. 

Sir  And.  'Slid,  I'll  after  him  again,  and  beat  him. 

Sir  To.  Do,  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw 
thy  sword. 

Sir  And.    An  I  do  not,  —  [Exit, 

Fab.   Come,  let's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money,  'twill  be  nothing 
yet.  [Exeunt* 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  Tlie  Street  before  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Sebastian  and  Clown. 

Clo.   "Will  you  make  me  believe,  that  I  am  not 
sent  for  you  ? 

Seb.   Go  to,  go  to,  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow  ; 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

6  Law3  of  duel 


Clo.  Well  held  out,  i 'faith  !  No,  I  do  not  know 
you  ;  nor  1  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady,  to  bid 
you  come  speak  with  her;  nor  your  name  is  not 
master  Cesario ;  nor  this  is  not  my  nose  neither.  — 
Nothing,  that  is  so,  is  so. 

Seb.  1  pr'ythee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else  j 
Tliou  know'st  not  me. 

Clo.  "Vent  my  folly  !    He  has  heard  that  word  of 


80 


TWELFTH  NIGHT 


Act  IV. 


some  great  man,  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool.  Vent 
iny  folly  !  I  am  afraid  this  great  lubber,  the  world, 
will  prove  a  cockney.  —  I  pr'ythee  now  ungird  thy 
strangeness,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall  vent  to  my 
lady  :    Shall  I  vent  to  her,  that  thou  art  coming  ? 

Seb.    I  pr'ythee,  foolish  Greek,  depart  from  me ; 
There's  money  for  thee  ;  if  you  tarry  longer, 
1  shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand :  — 
These  wise  men,  that  give  fools  money,  get  them- 
selves a  good  report  after  fourteen  years'  purchase. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew,  Sir  Toby,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again?  there's 
for  you.  [Striking  Sebastian. 

Seb.  Why,  there's  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there  : 
Are  all  the  people  mad  ?        [Beating  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I'll  throw  your  dagger  o'er 
the  house. 

Clo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight :  I  would 
not  be  in  some  of  your  coats  for  two-pence. 

[Exit  Clown. 

Sir  To.  Come  on,  sir ;  hold.    [Holding  Sebastian. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone,  I'll  go  another  way 
to  work  with  him;  I'll  have  an  action  of  battery 
against  him,  if  there  be  any  law  in  lUyria  :  though 
I  struck  him  first,  yet  it's  no  matter  for  that. 

Seb.   Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.  Come, 
my  young  soldier,  put  up  your  iron :  you  are  well 
fleshed ;  come  on. 

Seb.  I  will  be  free  from  thee.    What  wouldst  thou 
know? 
If  thou  dar'st  tempt  me  further,  draw  thy  sword. 

[Draws. 

Sir  To.  What,  what  ?  Nay,  then  I  must  have  an 
ounce  or  two  of  this  malapert  blood  from  you.  [Draws. 

Enter  Olivia. 

OH.  Hold,  Toby ;  on  thy  life,  I  charge  thee  hold. 

Sir  To.   Madam? 

Oli.   Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?   Ungracious  wretch. 
Fit  for  the  mountains,  and  the  barbarous  caves. 
Where  manners  ne'er  were  preach'd !  out  of  my  sight. 

Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario  : 

Rudesby  7,  be  gone  !  —  I  pr'ythee,  gentle  friend, 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent  8 
Against  thy  peace.      Go  with  me  to  my  house  ; 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
Tliis  ruffian  hath  botch'd  up,  that  thou  thereby 
May'st  smile  at  this  :  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go ; 
Do  not  deny  :   Beshrew  his  soul  for  me. 
He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 

Seb.  What  relish  is  in  this  ?  how  runs  the  stream  ? 
Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream :  — 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep  ; 
If  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep  ! 

Oli.   Nay,  come,  I  pr'ythee  :  'Would  thou'dst  be 
rul'd  by  me  ! 

Seb.   Madam,  I  will. 

OIL  O,  say  so,  and  so  be  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 
Mar.   Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  put  on  this  gown,  and  this 
beard ;  make  him  believe,  thou  art  sir  Topas,  the 
7  Rude  fellow.  8  Violence. 


curate  ;    do    it    quickly  :     I'll    call   sir    Toby   the 
whilst.  [Exit  Maria. 

Clo.  Well,  I'll  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble 
myself  in't ;  I  am  not  tall  enough  to  become  the 
function  well :  nor  lean  enough  to  be  thought  a 
good  student :  but  to  be  said,  an  honest  man,  and 
a  good  housekeeper,  goes  as  fairly,  as  to  say,  a 
careful  man,  and  a  great  scholar.  The  competitors  » 
enter. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  a7id  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Jove  bless  thee,  master  parson. 

Clo.  Bonos  dies,  sir  Toby :  for  as  the  old  hermit 
of  Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very  wittily 
said  to  a  niece  of  king  Gorboduc,  That,  that  is,  is ; 
so  I,  being  master  parson,  am  master  parson ;  For 
what  is  that,  but  that  ?  and  is,  but  is  ? 

Sir  To.   To  him,  sir  Topas. 

Clo.   What,  hoa,  I  say,  —  Peace  in  this  prison  ! 

Sir  To.  The  knave  counterfeits  well ;  a  good  knave. 

Mai.    [In  an  inner  chamber.']      Who  calls  there  ? 

Clo.  Sir  Topas,  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit 
Malvolio  the  lunatick. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  sir  Topas,  good  sir  Topas,  go 
to  my  lady. 

Clo.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  !  how  vexest  thou 
this  man  ?  talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 

Sir  To.   Well  said,  master  parson. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  a  man  thus  wronged : 
good  sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I  am  mad ;  they  have 
laid  me  here  in  hideous  darkness. 

Clo.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Sathan  !  I  call  thee  by 
the  most  modest  terms;  for  I  am  one  of  those 
gentle  ones,  that  will  use  the  devil  himself  with 
courtesy  :    Say'st  thou,  that  house  is  dark  ? 

Mai.  As  hell,  sir  Topas. 

Clo.  Why,  it  hath  bay-windows  transparent  as 
barricadoes,  and  the  clear  stones  towards  the  south- 
north  are  as  lustrous  as  ebony ;  and  yet  complainest 
thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad,  sir  Topas  ;  I  say  to  you,  this 
house  is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest :  I  say,  there  is  no 
darkness,  but  ignorance ;  in  which  thou  art  more 
puzzled  than  the  Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mai.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance, 
though  ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell ;  and  I  say, 
there  was  never  man  thus  abused :  I  am  no  more 
mad  than  you  are  ;  make  the  trial  of  it  in  any  con- 
stant question.  ' 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras,  con- 
cerning wild-fowl  ? 

Mai.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply 
inhabit  a  bird. 

Clo.   What  think  est  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way 
approve  his  opinion  ? 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well :  Remain  thou  still  in  dark- 
ness :  thou  shalt  hold  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras, 
ere  I  will  allow  of  thy  wits  ;  and  fear  to  kill  a  wood- 
cock, lest  thou  dispossess  the  soul  of  thy  grandam. 
Fare  thee  well. 

Mai.   Sir  Topas,  sir  Topas,  — 

Sir  To.   My  most  exquisite  sir  Topas  ! 

Clo.   Nay,  I  am  for  all  .waters.  2 

Mar.  Thou  might'st  have  done  this  without  thy 
beard,  and  gown  ;  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring  me 

9  Confederates.  '  Regular  conversation. 

2  Any  other  Gem  as  well  ai  a  Topaz. 


Scene  II. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


81 


word  how  thou  findest  him  :  I  would,  we  were  well 
rid  of  this  knavery.  If  he  may  be  conveniently 
delivered,  I  would  he  were ;  for  I  am  now  so  far  in 
offence  with  my  niece,  that  I  cannot  pursue  with 
any  safety  this  sport  to  the  upshot  Come  by  and 
by  to  my  chamber.       [Exeunt  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Clo.   Hei/  Robin,  jolly  Jiobin. 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does.  [Singing. 

Mai.   Fool.  —  . 

Clo.   My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy. 

Mai.    Fool. — 

Clo.   j4las,  why  is  she  so  ? 

Mai.   Fool,  I  say  ;  — 

Clo.  She  loves  another  —  Who  calls,  ha  ? 

Mai.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wait  deserve  well  at 
my  hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink,  and 
paper  ;  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will  live  to  be  thank- 
ful to  thee  for't. 

Clo.   Master  Malvolio ! 

Mai.   Ay,  good  fool. 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  besides  your  five  wits? 

Mai.  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notoriously 
{U}used :    I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as  thou  art. 

Clo.  But  as  well  ?  then  you  are  mad,  indeed,  if 
you  be  no  better  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 

Mai.  They  have  here  propertied  me ;  keep  me 
in  darkness,  send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all 
they  can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say ;  the  minister  is 
here.  —  Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  vvdts  the  heavens 
rt^tore !  endeavour  thyself  to  sleep,  and  leave  thy 
vain  bibble  babble. 

Mai.    Sir  Topas 

Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow. — 
Who,  I,  sir?  not  I,  sir.  God  b'wi'you,  good  sir 
Topas.  —  Marry,  amen.  —  I  will,  sir,  I  will. 

Mai.   Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say,  — 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  be  patient.  What  say  you,  sir?  I 
am  shent  3  for  speaking  to  you. 

Mai.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light,  and  some 
paper;  I  tell  thee,  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  as  any 
man  in  Illyria. 

Clo.   Well-a-day,  —  that  you  were,  sir  ! 

Mai.  By  this  hand  I  am  :  Good  fool,  some  ink, 
paper,  and  light,  and  convey  what  I  will  set  down 
to  my  lady  ;  it  shall  advantage  thee  more  than  ever 
the  bearing  of  letter  did. 

Clo.  I  will  help  you  to't.  But  tell  me  true,  are 
you  not  mad  indeed  ?  or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ? 

Mai.   Believe  me,  I  am  not ;   I  tell  thee  true. 

Clo.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  a  madman,  till  I  see 
his  brains.   I  will  fetch  you  light,  and  paper,  and  ink. 

Mai.  Fool,  I'll  requite  it  in  the  highest  degree : 
I  pr'ythee,  be  gone. 

Clo.  /  am  gone,  sir, 

.And  ancnh  sir, 


[ExU. 


rU  be  with  you  again. 

In  a  trice  ; 

Like  to  the  old  vice  ^ 
Your  need  to  sustain. 

Who  with  dagger  of  lath. 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath. 

Cries,  ah,  ha  !   to  the  devil  : 
Like  a  mad  lad. 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad. 

Adieu,  goodman  drival. 

SCENE  HI.  —  OUvia'«  Garden. 
Enter  Sebastian. 
Seb.   Thfs'is  the  air ;  that  is  the  glorious  sun  ; 
This  pearl  she  gave  me,  1  do  feel't  and  see't : 
And  though  'tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus. 
Yet  'tis  not  madness.     Where's  Antonio  then  ? 
I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant : 
Yet  there  he  was  ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit ', 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service : 
For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness. 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse. 
That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes, 
And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  me 
To  any  other  trust,  but  that  I  am  mad. 
Or  else  the  lady's  mad  ;  yet,  if  'twere  so. 
She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command  her  fol- 
lowers. 
Take,  and  give  back,  affairs  and  their  despatch. 
With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  l)earing, 
As,  I  perceive,  she  does  :  there's  something  in't. 
That  is  deceivable.      But  here  comes  the  lady. 

E7iter  Olivia  ajid  a  Priest. 

Oli.  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine  :   If  you  mean 
well,    ' 
Now  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  man, 
Into  the  chantry  by  :   there,  before  him. 
And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith ; 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace  :   He  shall  conceal  it, 
Wliiles  6  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note  ; 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth.  —  What  do  you  say  ? 

Seb.   I'll  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with  you  ; 
And,  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 

Oli.   Then  lead  the  way,  good  father ; And 

heaven  to  shine. 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  Street  before  OUvia's  House. 

Enter  Clown  and  Fabian. 
Fab.  Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  see  his  letter. 
Clo.  Good  master  Fabian,  grant  me  another  re- 
quest. 

FeUf.   Any  thing. 

3  Scolded,  reprimanded. 


Clo.   Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 
Fab.   That  is,  to  give  a  dog,  and,  in  recompense, 
desire  my  dog  again. 

Enter  Duke,  Viola,  and  Attendants. 
Duke.   Belong  you  to  the  lady  Olivia,  friends? 

*  A  buflbon  character  in  the  old  plajg,  and  father  of  the 
modem  harlequin.  *  Account  6  Until 

G 


82 


TWELFTH  NIGHT 


Act  V. 


Clo.   Ay,  sir  ;  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.  I  know  thee  well  ;  How  dost  thou,  my 
good  fellow  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes,  and  the 
worse  for  my  friends. 

Duke.  Just  the  contrary  j  the  better  for  thy 
friends. 

Clo.  No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.   How  can  that  be  ? 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make  an  ass 
of  me  ;  now  my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I  am  an  ass  :  so 
that  by  my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  in  the  knowledge  of 
myself;  and  by  my  friends  I  am  abused:  so  tliat, 
conclusions  to  be  as  kisses,  if  your  four  negatives 
make  your  two  affirmatives,  why,  then  the  worse  for 
my  friends,  and  the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.   Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no  ;  though  it  please  you 
to  be  one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me  ;  there's 
gold. 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I 
would  you  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.   O,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  this 
once,  and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner  to  be  a 
double-dealer ;  there's  another. 

Clo.  Primo,  secundo,  terlio,  is  a  good  play  ;  and 
the  old  saying  is,  the  third  pays  for  all :  the  triplex, 
sir,  is  a  good  tripping  measure  ;  or  the  bells  of 
St.  Bennet,  sir,  may  put  you  in  mind  :  One,  two, 
three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me  at 
this  throw  :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know,  I  am 
here  to  speak  with  her,  and  bring  her  along  with 
you,  it  may  awake  my  bounty  further. 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty  till  I  come 
again.  I  go,  sir ;  but  I  would  not  have  you  to 
think,  that  my  desire  of  having  is  the  sin  of  covetous- 
ness :  but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let  your  bounty  take  a 
nap,  I  will  awake  it  anon.  \_ExU  Clown. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Officers. 

Vio.  Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did  rescue  me. 

Duke.   That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well ; 
Yet,  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmear'd 
As  black  as  Vulcan,  in  the  smoke  of  war  : 
A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of. 
For  shallow  draught,  and  bulk,  unprizable  ; 
AVith  which  such  scathful  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet. 
That  very  envy,  and  the  tongue  of  loss, 
Cry'd  fame  and  honour  on  him. — What's  the  matter? 

1  Off.    Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio, 
That  took   the    Phoenix,   and   her  fraught?    from 

Candy ; 
And  this  is  he,  that  did  the  Tiger  board. 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg : 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame,  and  state. 
In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vio.  He  did  me  kindness,  sir  ;  drew  on  my  side  ; 
But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me, 
I  know  not  what  'twas,  but  distraction. 

Duke.   Notable  pirate  !  thou  salt-water  thief ! 
What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies, 
Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody,  and  so  dear, 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

Ant.  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

7  Freight. 


Be  pleas'd  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give  me ; 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief,  or  pirate. 
Though,  I  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 
Orsino's  enemy.      A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither  : 
That  most  ingrateful  boy  there,  by  your  side. 
From  the  rude  sea's  enrag'd  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I  redeem ;  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was  : 
His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add  • 

My  love,  without  retention,  or  restraint, 
All  his  in  dedication  :  for  his  sake. 
Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love. 
Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town  j 
Drew  to  defend  him,  when  he  was  beset ; 
Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning, 
(Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger,) 
Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance, 
And  grew  a  twenty-years-removed  thing. 
While  one  would  wink ;  denied  me  mine  own  purse. 
Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 
Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Vio.  *  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.   When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Ant.   To-day,  my  lord;   and  for  three   months 
before, 
(No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy,) 
Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Attendants. 

Duke.   Here  comes  the  countess ;   now  heaven 

walks  on  earth. 

But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness  : 
Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me  ; 
But  more  of  that  anon. Take  him  aside. 

on.  What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not 
have, 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ?  — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Via..   Madam  ? 

Duke.    Gracious  Olivia,  — — 

OH.   What  do  you  say,  Cesario  ? Good  my 

lord, 

Vio.   My  lord  would  speak,  my  duty  hushes  me. 

Oli.   If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord. 
It  is  as  fat  8  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear, 
As  howling  after  musick. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel? 

Oli.   Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.   What !  to  perverseness  ?  you  uncivil  lady. 
To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 
My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offiirings  hath  breath 'd  out. 
That  e'er  devotion  tender'd  !   What  shall  I  do  ? 

Oli.   Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  be- 
come him. 

Dxike.  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 
Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief,  at  point  of  death. 
Kill  what  I  love  ;  a  savage  jealousy, 
That  sometime  savours  nobly? —  But  hear  me  this  : 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faitli. 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favour. 
Live  you,  the  marble-breasted  tyrant,  still ; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom,  I  know,  you  love. 
And  whom,  by  heaven,  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly. 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye. 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite.  — 
Come  boy,  with  me  ;  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mis- 
chief : 
I'll  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love. 
To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.  [Going. 

^  Dull,  gross. 


Scene  1. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


83 


Vio.   And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

[Follotving, 

OIL   Wliere  goes  Cesario  ? 

;7o.  After  him  I  love, 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife  : 
If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above. 
Punish  my  life,  for  tainting  of  my  love ! 

OH.    Ah  me,  detested  !  how  am  I  beguil'd  ! 

Vio.   Who  does  beguile  you  ?  who  does  do  you 
wrong  ? 

Oti.  Hast  thou  forgot  thyself !  Is  it  so  long  !  -^ 
Call  forth  the  holy  father.  [Exit  an  Attendant. 

Duke.  Come  away.    [To  Viola. 

OH.  Wliither,  my  lord  ?  —  Cesario,  husband,  stay. 

Duke.    Husband  ? 

OH.  Ay,  husband ;   Can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.   Her  husband,  sirrah  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

OH.   Alas,  it  is  tlie  baseness  of  thy  fear, 
Tliat  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety  : 
Fear  not,  Cesario,  take  thy  fortunes  up  ; 
Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fcar'st.  —  O,  welcome,  father  !■ 

Re-enter  Attendant  and  Priest. 
Father,  I  charge  thee,  by  tliy  reverence. 
Here  to  unfold  (though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness,  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  'tis  ripe,)  what  thou  dost  know 
Hath  newly  past  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.   A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love. 
Confirm 'd  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands. 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  rings  ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Seal'd  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 
Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my 

grave, 
I  have  travell'd  but  two  hours. 

Duke.  O,  thou  dissembling  cub !  what  wilt  thou  be. 
When  time  hath  sow'd  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ? 
Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow. 
That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 
Farewell,  and  take  her  ;  but  direct  thy  feet. 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Vio.   My  lord,  I  do  protest,  — 

OH.  O,  do  not  swear ; 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek,  vMh  his  head 
broke. 

Sir  And.  For  the  love  of  heaven,  a  surgeon  ; 
send  one  presently  to  sir  Toby. 

OH.   What's  the  matter  ? 

Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across,  and  has 
given  sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too :  for  the  love 
of  heaven,  your  help :  I  had  rather  than  forty 
pound,  I  were  at  home. 

OH.  Who  has  done  this,  sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  The  count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario  : 
we  took  him  for  a  coward,  but  he's  the  very  devil 
incardinate. 

Dtike.   INfy  gentleman,  Cesario ! 

Sir  And.  Od's  lifelings,  here  he  is  :  —  You  broke 
my  hcatl  for  nothing  ;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was  set 
on  to  do't  by  sir  Toby, 

Vio.  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?  I  never  hurt  you  : 
You  drew  your  sword  upon  me,  without  cause ; 
But  I  bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  noU 


Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you 
have  hurt  me  j  I  think,  you  set  notliing  by  a  bloody 
coxcomb. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  drunk,  led  by  the  Clown. 

Here  comes  sir  Toby  halting,  you  shall  hear  more : 
but  if  he  had  not  been  in  drink,  he  would  have 
tickled  you  othergates  9  than  he  did. 

Duke.  How  now,  gentleman  ?  how  is't  with  you  ? 

Sir  7'o.  Tliat's  all  one;  he  has  hurt  me,  and 
there's  the  end  on't.  —  Sot,  did'st  see  Dick  surgeon, 
sot? 

Clo.  O  he's  drunk,  sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone ;  his 
eyes  were  set  at  eight  i'the  morning. 

Sir  To.  Then  he's  a  rogue,  and  a  passy-measures 
pavin  ' ;  I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 

Olu  Away  with  him  :  Who  hath  made  tliis  havock 
with  them? 

Sir  And.  I'll  help  you,  sir  Toby,  because  we'll 
be  dressed  together. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  help  an  ass-head,  and  a  cox- 
comb, and  a  knave?  a  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull? 

OH.  Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  look'd  to. 
[Exeunt  Clown,  Sir  Toby,  and  Sir  Andrew. 

Ejiter  Sebastian. 

Seb.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  hurt  your  kins- 
man ; 
But  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 
I  must  have  done  no  less,  with  wit,  and  safety. 
You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and 
By  that  I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you ; 
Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 
We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 

Duke.    One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and  two 
persons ; 
A  natural  perspective,  that  is,  and  is  not. 

Seb.   Antonio,  O  my  dear  Antonio  ! 
How  have  the  hours  rack'd  and  tortur'd  me, 
Since  1  have  lost  thee  ! 

Ant.   Sebastian  are  you  ? 

Seb.  Fcar'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant.  How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself  ? — 
An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures.      Which  is  Sebastian  ? 

OH.   Most  wonderful ! 

Seb.   Do  I  stand  there  ?   I  never  had  a  brother : 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature, 
Of  here  and  every  where.      I  had  a  sister. 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devour'd  :  — 
Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me?       [To  Viola. 
What  countryman  ?   what  name  ?  what  iiarentagc  ? 

Vio.   Of  Messaline  :    Sebastian  was  my  father  ; 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too. 
So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb : 
If  spirits  can  assume  both  fonn  and  suit. 
You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seb.  A  spirit  I  am,  indeed  ; 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad. 
Which  from  the  womb  I  did  particijjate. 
Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  teai-s  let  foil  upon  your  check, 
And  say  — Tlirice  welcome,  diown'd  Viola! 

Ho.   My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

Seb.    And  so  had  mine. 

Vio.  And  died  that  day  when  Viola  from  her  birth 
Had  namber'd  thirteen  years. 

Seb.    O,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 


9  Otherways. 


Serious  dances. 


G  2 


84 


TWELFTH  NIGHT: 


Act  \ 


He  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act. 

That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

Vio.   If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both, 
But  this  my  masculine  usurp'd  attire. 
Do  not  embrace  me,  till  each  circumstance 
Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  and  jump. 
That  I  am  Viola :   which  to  confirm, 
I'll  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town, 
Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds ;  by  whose  gentle  help 
I  was  preserv'd,  to  serve  this  noble  count : 
All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 
Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

Sel)>    So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been  mistook  : 

[To  Olivia. 
But  nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that. 
You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid ; 
Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceived. 
You  are  betroth'd  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.  Be  not  amaz'd  ;  right  noble  is  his  blood 

If  tliis  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 

I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck : 

Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand  times, 

[To  Viola. 
Thou  never  should'st  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.    And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear ; 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul. 
As  doth  tliat  orbed  continent  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand  ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.  The  captain,  that  did  bring  me  first  on  shore. 
Hath  my  maid's  garments  :   he,  upon  some  action. 
Is  now  in  durance  ;  at  Malvolio's  suit, 
A  gentleman,  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

on.   He  shall  enlarge  him ;  —  Fetch    Malvolio 
hither :  — 
And  yet,  alas,  now  I  remember  me, 
They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he's  much  distract. 

Re-enter  Clown,  with  a  Letter. 
A  most  extracting  frenzy  of  mine  own 
From  my  remembrance  clearly  banish'd  his.  — 
How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Belzebub  at  the 
stave's  end,  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may  do  :  he 
lias  here  writ  a  letter  to  you ;  I  should  have  given 
it  to  you  to-day  morning ;  but  as  a  madman's  epis- 
tles are  no  gospels,  so  it  skills  not  much,  when  they 
are  delivered. 

Oli.    Open  it,  and  read  it. 

Clo.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified,  when  the  fool 
delivers  the  madman  :  —  By  the  Lord,  madam,  — 

Oli.   How  now  !  art  thou  mad  ? 

Clo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness  :  an  your 
ladyship  will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  must 
allow  vox.'^ 

Oli.   Pr'ythee,  read  i'thy  right  wits. 

Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right 
wits,  is  to  read  thus  :  therefore  perpend  %  my  prin- 
cess, and  give  ear. 

Oli.    Read  it  you,  sirrah.  [To  Fabian. 

Fab.  [Reads,]  By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  wrong 
me,  and  the  world  shall  know  it :  thotigh  you  have 
put  me  into  darkness,  and  given  your  drunkeri  cousin 
rule  over  me,  yet  have  I  the  benefit  of  m-y  senses  as 
ivell  as  your  ladyship.  I  have  your  oxvn  letter  that 
induced  me  to  the  semblance  I  put  on ;  with  the 
which  I  doubt  not  but  to  do  myself  much  right,  or 


*  Voice. 


3  Attend. 


you  much  shame.  Think  of  me  as  you  please.  I 
leave  my  duty  a  little  unthought  of,  and  speak  out  of 
my  injury.  The  madly  used  Malvolio. 

Oli.    Did  he  write  this  ? 

Clo.   Ay,  madam. 

Duke.   This  savours  not  much  of  distraction. 

OIL   See  him  deliver'd,  Fabian ;  bring  him  hither. 

{Exit  Fabian. 
My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  things  further  thought 

on. 
To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife. 
One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on't,  so  please  you, 
Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.   Madam,  I  am  most  apt  to  embrace  your 
offer.  — 
Your  master  quits  you  :  [  To  Viola]  and,  for  your 

service  done  him. 
So  much  against  the  mettle  ^  of  your  sex, 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  call'd  me  master  for  so  long, 
Here  is  my  hand ;  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 

Oli.  A  sister  ?  —  you  are  she. 

Re-enter  Fabian,  with  Malvolio. 

Duke.   Is  this  the  madman  ? 

Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  the  same : 

How  now,  Malvolio? 

Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 

Notorious  wrong. 

Oli.  Have  I  Malvolio  ?  no. 

Mai.  Lady,  you  have.  Pray  you  peruse  that  letter : 
You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand. 
Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand,  or  phrase ; 
Or  say,  'tis  not  your  seal,  nor  your  invention  : 
You  can  say  none  of  this  :   Well,  grant  it  then. 
And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honour. 
Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favour ; 
Bade  me  come  smiling,  and  cross-garter'd  to  you. 
To  put  on  yellow  stockings,  and  to  frown 
Upon  sir  Toby,  and  the  lighter  people : 
And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope. 
Why  have  you  suffer'd  me  to  be  imprison'd, 
Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest. 
And  made  the  most  notorious  geek  ^,  and  gull. 
That  e'er  invention  play'd  on  ?  tell  me  why. 

Oli.    Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing. 
Though  I  confess  much  like  the  character : 
But  out  of  question,  'tis  Maria's  hand. 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 
First  told  me,  thou  wast  mad ;  then  cam'st  in  smiling. 
And  in  such  foratis  which  here  were  presuppos'd 
Upon  thee  in  the  letter.      Pr'ythee,  be  content : 
This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass'd  upon  thee  ; 
But  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it. 
Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  thine  own  cause. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak  j 

And  let  no  quarrel,  nor  no  brawl  to  come. 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour. 
Which  I  have  wonder'd  at.      In  hope  it  shall  not. 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself,  and  Toby, 
Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here, 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceived  against  him  :    Maria  writ 
The  letter,  at  sir  Toby's  great  importance  ^  ; 
In  recompense  whereof,  he  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  follow'd. 


4  Frame  and  constitution. 
6  Importunity. 


*  Fool. 


Scene  I. 


OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


85 


May  ratlier  pluck  on  lauglitur  than  revenge ; 
If  that  the  hijuries  be  justly  weigh'd, 
That  have  on  both  sides  past. 

OIL   Alas,  poor  fool !  how  have  tiiey  baffled  thee .' 

Clo.  Why,  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve  great- 
ness, and  some  have  greatness  thrown  upon  thern.  I 
was  one,  sir,  in  tliis  interlude;  one  sir  Topas,  sirj 
but  that's  all  one  :  —  By  the  Lord,  fool,  I  am  not 
mud ;  —  But  do  you  remember  ?  Madam,  why  laugh 
you  at  such  a  barren  rascal  f  an  you  smile  not,  he's 
gaggd:  And  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brings  in 
his  revenges. 

Mat,   I'll  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  you. 

[ExU. 

OIL  He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abus'd. 

D  ike.  Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace ;  — 
He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet ; 
When  that  is  known  and  golden  time  convents,' 
A  solemn  conibinatix)n  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls —  Mean  time,  sweet  sister. 
We  w  ill  not  part  from  hence.  —  Cesario,  come, 

1  Shall  serve. 


For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man  : 

But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 

Orsino's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen.    \^Exeunt. 

SONG. 
Clo.    When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy, 

For  the  rain  it  raitwth  every  day. 

But  when  I  come  to  mans  estate. 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

*  Gainst  knave  and  thief  men  shut  their  gate, 
For  tlie  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  caine,  alas  I  to  wive. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive. 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun. 
With  hey,  ho,  the  unnd  and  the  rain, 

But  that's  all  one,  our  jAay  is  done. 

And  xue'U  strive  to  please  you  every  day. 

[Exit. 


G3 


i 


MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


ViNCENTio,  Duke  o/*  Vienna. 

Angelo,  Lord  Deputy  in  the  Duke'5  absence. 

EscALus,  an  ancient  Lordt  joined  with  Angelo  in  llie 

deputation. 
Claudio,  a  young  Gentleman. 
Lucio,  a  Fantastic. 
Two  other  like  Gentlemen. 
Varrius,  a  Gentleman^  Servant  to  tfie  Onke. 
Provost. 

Thomas,    ]  y^  ^^,,. 
Pkter,      J 
Elbow,  a  simple  ComtatfUi. 

SCENE, 


Clown,  Servant  to  Mrs.  Overdone. 
Abhorson,  an  Executioner. 
Barnardine,  a  dissolute  Prisoner. 

Isabella,  Sister  to  Claudio. 
Mariana,  betrotlied  to  Angelo. 
Juliet,  beloved  by  Claudio. 
Francisca,  a  Nun. 
Mistress  Overdone. 

Lords,  Gentlemen,  Guards,  OJJicers,  and  other 
Attendants. 

—  Vienna. 


iSUOB,  O    ROYAL   UDKE  ! 


MEASURE    FOR   MEASURE. 


'RE FACE  TO  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


L 


This  comedy  contains  scenes  which  are  truly 
worthy  of  the  first  of  dramatic  poets.  Isabella 
pleading  with  Angelo  in  behalf  of  mercy  to  her 
brother,  and  afterwards  insisting  that  his  life  must 
not  be  purchased  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  chastity, 
is  an  object  of  such  interest,  as  to  make  the  reader 
desirous  of  overlooking  the  many  great  defects 
which  are  to  be  found  in  other  parts  of  this  play. 
The  story  is  little  suited  to  a  comedy.  The  wicked- 
ness of  Angelo  is  so  atrocious,  that  I  recollect  only 
one  instance  of  a  similar  kind  being  recorded  in 
history  * ;  and  that  is  considered  by  many  persons 
;is  of  doubtful  authority.  His  crimes,  indeed,  are 
not  completed,  but  lie  supposes  them  to  be  so ; 
and  his  guilt  is  as  great  as  it  would  have  been,  if 
the  person  of  Isabella  had  been  violated,  and  the 
head  of  Ragozine  had  been  Claudio's  This  mon- 
ster of  iniquity  appears  before  the  Duke,  defending 
his  cause  with  unblushing  boldness ;  and  after  the 
detection  of  his  crimes,  he  can  scarcely  be  said  to 
receive  any  punishment.  A  hope  is  even  expressed 
that  he  will  prove  a  good  husband,  but  for  no  good 
reason  —  namely,  because  he  has  been  a  little  bad. 
Angelo  abandoned  his  contracted  wife  for  the  most 
despicable  of  all  reasons,  the  loss  of  her  fortune. 
He  added  to  his  guilt  not  only  insensibility  to  her 
afliiction,  but  the  detestable  aggravation  of  injuring 
her  reputation  by  an  unfounded  slander ;  ascribing 
his  desertion  of  Mariana  to  levity  in  her  conduct, 
of  which  she  never  was  guilty.  He  afterwards 
betrayed  the  trust  reposed  in  him  by  the  Duke. 
He  threatened  Isabella  that  if  she  would  not  sur- 
render her  virtue,  he  would  not  merely  put  her 
brother  to  death,  but  make 

'  His  death  draw  out  to  lingering  suttcrancc. " 
•  Kirk. 


And,  finally,  when  he  thought  his  object  accom- 
plished, he  ordered  Claudio  to  be  murdered,  in 
violation  of  his  most  solemn  engagements. 

These  are  the  crimes,  which,  in  the  language  ot 
Mariana,  are  expressed  by  the  words  a  little  bad; 
and  with  a  perfect  knowledge  of  Angelo's  having 
committed  them,  she 


Craves  no  other,  nor  no  better  man.' 


(^audio's  life  having  been  preserved  by  the  Pr 
vost,  it  would  not,  perhaps,  have  been   lawful 
have  put   Angelo  to  death ;  but  the  Duke  might 
with  great  propriety   have   addressed   him   in    the 
words  of  Bolingbroke  to  Exton  :  — 

••  Go,  wander  through  the  shades  of  night, 
"  And  never  show  thj-  head  by  day  nor  light' 

Other  parts  of  the  play  are  not  without  faults.] 
The  best  characters  act  too  much  upon  a  system 
duplicity  and  falsehood ;  and  the  Duke,  in  the  firsi 
act,  trifles  cruelly  with  the  feelings  of  Isabella/ 
allowing  her  to  suppose  her  brother  to  be  dead 
much  longer  than  the  story  of  the  play  required. 
Lucio  is  inconsistent  as  well  as  profligate.  He 
appears,  in  the  first  act,  as  the  friend  of  Claudio, 
and  in  the  fifth  he  assists  the  cause  of  Angelo, 
whom  he  supposes  to  be  his  murderer.  Lastly, 
the  indecent  expressions  with  which  many  of  the 
scenes  abound  are  so  interwoven  with  the  story, 
that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  separate  the  one 
from  the  other. 

I  trust,  however,  that  I  have  succeeded  in  doing 
it,  and  I  should  not  be  sorry  if  the  merit  or  demerit 
of  the  whole  work  were  to  be  decided  by  the  exa- 
mination of  this  very  extraordinary  Play,  as  it  is 
now  printed  in  the  Family  Shakspeare. 


Jl 


Act  I.    Scene  I. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


87 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  — Ati  Apartment  in  tlie  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  Duke,  Escalus,  and  Lords. 

DvJce.  Escalus,  — 

Esc.   My  lord. 

Duke.   Of  government  the  properties  to  unfold, 
Would  seem  in  me  t'affect  speech  and  discourse, 
Since  I  am  put  to  know,  that  your  own  science 
Exceeds  in  that  the  lists  of  all  advice 
My  strength  can  give  you :   Then  no  more  remains 
But  that  to  your  sufficiency,  as  your  worth  is  able, 
And  let  them  work.     The  nature  of  our  people, 
Our  city's  institutions,  and  the  terms 
For  common  justice,  y'are  as  pregnant  in 
As  art  and  practice  hath  enriched  any 
That  we  remember  :    There  is  our  commission, 
From  which  we  would  not  have  you  warp.  Call  hither, 
I  say,  bid  come  before  us  Angelo.  — 
What  figure  of  us  tliink  you  he  will  bear? 
For  you  must  know,  we  have  with  special  soul 
Elected  him  our  absence  to  supply ; 
Lent  him  our  terror,  drest  him  with  our  love, 
And  given  his  deputations  all  tlie  organs 
Of  our  own  power :   What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Esc.   If  any  in  Vienna  be  of  worth 
To  undergo  such  ample  grace  and  honour. 
It  is  lord  Angelo. 

Enter  Angelo. 

Duke.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Ang.   Always  obedient  to  your  grace's  will, 
I  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Duke.  Angelo, 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life, 
That,  to  th'  observer,  doth  thy  history 
Fully  unfold  :  —  Thyself,  and  thy  belongings. 
Are  not  tliine  own  so  proper,  as  to  waste 
Tliyself  upon  thy  virtues,  them  on  thee. 
Heaven  doth  with  us,  as  we  with  torches  do. 
Not  light  tliem  for  themselves  :   for  if  our  virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  had  them  not.   Spirits  are  not  finely  touch'd 
But  to  fine  issues :  nor  nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence. 
But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 
Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor. 
Both  tlianks  and  use ;  but  I  do  bend  my  speech 
To  one  that  can  my  part  in  him  advertise ; 
Hold,  therefore,  Angelo : 
In  our  remove,  be  thou  at  full  ourself ; 
Mortality  and  mercy  in  Vienna 
Live  in  thy  tongue  and  heart:    Old  Escalus, 
Though  first  in  question,  is  thy  secondary. 
Take  thy  commission. 

Aiifi,.  Now,  good  my  lord, 

Let  there  be  some  more  test  made  of  my  mettle, 
Before  so  noble  and  so  great  a  figure 
Be  stamp'd  upon  it. 

Duke.  No  more  evasion  : 

We  h.ive  with  a  leavcn'd  and  prepared  choice 
Proceeded  to  you  ;  therefore  take  your  honours. 
Our  haste  from  "hence  is  of  so  quick  condition, 
Tliat  it  prefers  itself,  and  leaves  unquestion'd 
Matters  of  needful  value.      We  sliall  write  to  you. 
As  time  and  our  couccmings  sliall  importune, 


How  it  goes  with  us,  and  do  look  to  know 
What  dotli  befall  you  here.      So,  fare  you  wel! : 
To  th'  hopeful  execution  do  I  leave  you 
Of  your  commissions. 

Ang.  Yet,  give  leave,  my  lord, 

That  we  may  bring  you  something  on  the  way. 

Duke.   My  haste  may  not  admit  it ; 
Nor  need  you,  on  mine  honour,  have  to  do 
With  any  scruple :   your  scope  is  as  mine  own, 
So  to  enforce  or  qualify  the  laws 
As  to  your  soul  seems  good  :  —  Give  me  your  hand  ; 
I'll  privily  away  :    I  love  the  people, 
But  do  not  like  to  stage  me  to  their  eyes : 
Though  it  do  well,  I  do  not  relish  well 
Their  loud  applause,  and  aves  vehement : 
Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion 
That  does  affect  it.      Once  more,  fare  you  well. 

Ang.   The  heavens  give  safety  to  your  jjurposos  ! 

Esc.  Lead  forth,  and  bring  you  back  in  happiness  ! 

Duke.   I  thank  you.  —  Fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Esc.   I  shall  desire  you,  sir,  to  give  me  leave 
To  have  free  speech  with  you ;  and  it  concerns  me 
To  look  into  the  bottom  of  my  place  : 
A  power  I  have,  but  of  what  strength  and  nature, 
I  am  not  yet  instructed. 

Ang.  'Tis  so  with  me : — Let  us  withdraw  together. 
And  we  may  soon  our  satisfaction  have 
Touching  that  point 

Esc.  I'll  wait  upon  your  honour. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  U.— A  Street. 

Enter  Lucio,  and  two  Gentlemen. 

Lucio.  If  the  duke,  with  the  other  dukes,  come 
not  to  composition  with  the  king  of  Hungary,  why 
then  all  the  dukes  fall  upon  the  kiflg. 

1st  Gent.  Heaven  grant  us  its  peace  j  but  not  the 
king  of  Hungary's ! 

2d  Gent.   Amen. 

Lucio.  Thou  concludest  like  the  sanctimonious 
pirate,  that  went  to  sea  with  the  ten  command- 
ments, but  scraped  one  out  of  the  table. 

2d  Gent.   Thou  shalt  not  steal  ? 

Lucio.   Ay,  that  he  razed. 

1st  Gent.  Why,  'twas  a  commandment  to  com- 
mand the  captain  and  all  the  rest  from  tlieir  func- 
tions ;  they  put  forth  to  steal :  there's  not  a  soldier 
of  us  all,  that,  in  the  thanksgiving  before  meat, 
doth  relish  the  petition  well  that  prays  for  peace. 

2d  Gent.   I  never  heard  any  soldFer  dislike  it. 

Lncio.  i  believe  thee  ;  for,  I  tliink,  thou  never 
wast  where  grace  was  said.  But  see,  where  j^adam 
Mitigation  comes. 

Enter  Mrs.  Overdone. 

Overdone.  There's  one  yonder,  arrested  and  car- 
ried to  prison,  was  worth  five  thousand  of  you  all. 

Is/.    Gent.   Who's  that,  I  pray  tliee? 

Overd,  Marry  sir,  that's  Claudio,  Signior  Claudio. 

\st  Gent.   Claudio  to  prison  !   'tis  not  so. 

Overd.  Nay,  but  I  know  'tis  so :  I  saw  him  ar- 
rested ;  saw  him  carried  away ;  and,  which  is  more, 
witliin  these  three  days  his  head's  to  be  chopped  oiV. 

Lucio.    But,  after  all  tin's  fooling,  I   would  not 
liave  it  so  :  art  thou  sure  of  this  ? 
G  4 


1 


88 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  I. 


Overd.  I  am  too  sure  of  it ;  and  it  is  on  account 
of  Madam  JuHetta. 

Lucio.  Believe  me,  this  may  be :  he  promised 
to  meet  me  two  hours  since ;  and  he  was  ever  pre- 
cise in  promise-keeping. 

2d  Gent.  Besides,  you  know,  it  draws  something 
near  to  the  speech  we  had  to  such  a  purpose. 

1st  Gent.  But  most  of  all,  agreeing  with  the 
proclamation. 

Lucio.   Away  ;  let's  go  learn  the  truth  of  it. 

[Exeunt  Lucio  and  Gentlemen. 

Overd.  Thus,  what  witli  the  war,  what  with  the 
gallows,  and  what  with  poverty,  I  am  custom- 
shrunk.      How  now  !  what's  the  news  with  you  ? 

Enter  Clown. 

Cloivn.  You  have  not  heard  of  the  proclamation, 
have  you  ? 

Overd.   What  proclamation,  man  ? 

Clown.  All  houses  in  the  suburbs  of  Vienna  must 
be  pluck'd  down. 

Overd.  And  what  shall  become  of  those  in  the 
city? 

Clown.  They  had  gone  down  too,  but  that  a  wise 
burgher  put  in  for  them. 

Overd.  But,  shall  all^our  houses  of  resort  in  the 
suburbs  be  pulled  down  ? 

Clown.   To  the  ground,  mistress. 

Overd.  Why,  here's  a  change  indeed  in  tlie  com- 
monwealth :   what  shall  become  of  me  ? 

Clown.  Come,  fear  not  you ;  good  counsellors 
lack  no  clients.  Though  you  change  your  place ; 
you  need  not  change  your  trade  ;  I'll  be  your 
tapster  still. 

Overd.  What's  to  do  here  ?  Thomas  Tapster  let's 
withdraw. 

Clown.  Here  comes  Signior  Claudio,  led  by  the 
provost  to  prison  :   and  there's  Madam  Juliet. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Provost,  Claudio,  Juliet,  and  Officers. 

Claud.  Fellow,  why  dost  thou  show  me  thus  to 
;  the  world.  Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  com- 
mitted. 

1      Prov.   I  do  it  not  in  evil  disposition, 
}  But  from  lord  Angelo  by  special  charge. 
I      Claud.   Thus  can  the  demigod.  Authority, 
j  Make  us  pay  down  for  our  offence  by  weight.  — 
I  The  words  of  heaven ;  on  whom  it  will,  it  will  j 
On  whom  it  will  not,  so ;  yet  still  'tis  just. 

Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Why,  how  now,  Claudio  ?  whence  comes 
I  this  restraint  ? 

Claud.  From  too  much  liberty,  my  Lucio, 
\  liberty : 

As  surfeit  is  the  father  of  much  fast. 
So  every  scope  by  the  immoderate  use 
Turns  to  restraint :    Our  natures  do  pursue, 
(Like  rats  that  ravin  down  their  proper  bane,) 
A  thirsty  evil ;  and  when  we  drink,  we  die. 

Lucio.  If  I  could  speak  so  wisely  under  an  arrest, 
1  would  send  for  certain  of  my  creditors  :  And  yet, 
to  say  the  truth,  I  had  as  lief  have  the  foppery  of 
freedom,  as  the  morality  of  imprisonment.  —  What's 
thy  offence,  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  What,  but  to  speak  of  would  offend  again. 

Lucio.   What  is  il  ?  murder? 


Gaud.   No. 

Prov.    Away,  sir  ;  you  must  go. 

Claud.   One  word,  good  friend  :  —  Lucio,  a  word 
with  you.  [  Takes  him  aside. 

Lticio.    A  hundred,  if  they'll  do  you  any  good. 

Claud.   Thus  stands  it  with  me  :  —  Upon  a  true 
contract, 
I  got  possession  of  Julietta's  bed  ; 
You  know  the  lady ;  she  is  fast  my  wife, 
Save  that  we  do  the  denunciation  lack 
Of  outward  order  :   this  we  came  not  to, 
Only  for  propagation  of  a  dower 
Remaining  in  the  coffer  of  her  friends  ; 
From  whom  we  thought  it  meet  to  hide  our  love. 
Till  time  had  made  them  for  us.      But  it  chances, 
The  stealth  of  our  most  taift^ial  intercourse. 
With  character  too  gross,  is  writ  on  Juliet. 

Lucio.    With  child,  perhaps? 

Claud.   IJnhappilyJ  eieiL^o. 
And^the  new  deputy  now  for  the  duke,  — 
Whether  it  be  the  fault  and  glimpse  of  newness ; 
Or  whether  that  the  body  public  be 
A  horse  whereon  the  governor  d6th  ride. 
Who,  newly  in  the  seat,  that  it  may  know 
He  can  command,  let's  it  straight  feel  the  spur : 
Whether  the  tyranny  be  in  his  place, 
Or  in  his  eminence  that  fills  it  up, 
I  stagger  in  :  —  But  this  new  governor 
Awakes  me  all  the  enrolled  penalties. 
Which  have,  like  unscour'd  armour,  hung  by  the  wall 
So  long,  that  nineteen  zodiacs  have  gone  round. 
And  none  of  them  been  worn  ;  and,  for  a  name, 
Now  puts  the  drowsy  and  neglected  act 
Freshly  on  me  :  —  'tis  surely,  for  a  name. 

Lucio.  I  warrant,  it  is  :  and  thy  head  stands  so 
tickle  on  thy  shoulders,  that  a  milk-maid,  if  she  be 
in  love,  may  sigh  it  off.  Send  after  the  duke,  and 
appeal  to  him. 

Claud.    I  have  done  so,  but  he's  not  to  be  found. 
I  pr'ythee,  Lucio,  do  me  this  kind  service  : 
This  day  my  sister  should  the  cloister  enter, 
And  there  receive  her  approbation  : 
Acquaint  her  with  the  danger  of  my  state  ; 
Implore  her,  in  my  voice,  that  she  make  friends 
To  the  strict  deputy  :   bid  herself  assay  him  ; 
I  have  great  hope  in  that :   for  in  her  youth 
There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect. 
Such  as  moves  men  :  beside,  she  hath  prosperous  art 
When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse. 
And  well  she  can  persuade. 

Lucio.  I  pray,  she  may  :  as  well  for  the  encou- 
ragement of  the  like,  which  else  would  stand  under 
grievous  imposition  ;  as  for  the  enjoying  of  thy  life, 
who  I  would  be  sorry  should  be  thus  foolishly  lost. 
I'll  to  her. 

Claud.   I  thank  you,  good  friend  Lucio. 

Lucio.   Within  two  hours,  — 

Claud.   Come,  oflficer,  away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Monastery. 

Enter  Duke  and  Friar  Thomas. 
Duke.  No ;  holy  father ;  throw  away  that  thought ; 
Believe  not  that  the  dribbling  dart  of  love 
Can  pierce  a  complete  bosom  :   why  I  desire  thee 
To  give  me  secret  harbour,  hath  a  purpose 
More  grave  and  wrinkled  than  the  aims  and  ends 
Of  burning  youth. 

Fri.  May  your  grace  speak  of  it. 

Duke.   My  holy  sir,  none  better  knows  than  you 


Scene  V. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


89 


How  I  have  ever  lov'd  the  life  remov'd ; 

And  held  in  idle  price  to  haunt  assemblies, 

Where  youth  and  cost,  and  witless  bravery  keeps. 

I  have  deliver'd  to  lord  Angelo 

(A  man  of  stricture  and  firm  abstinence) 

My  absolute  power  and  place  here  in  Vienna, 

And  he  supposes  me  travell'd  to  Poland  ; 

For  so  I  have  strew'd  it  in  the  common  ear, 

And  so  it  is  receiv'd  :    Now,  pious  sir. 

You  will  demand  of  me,  why  I  do  this  ? 

Fri.    Gladly,  my  lord. 

Duke.   We  have  strict  statutes,  and  most  biting 
laws, 
(The  needful  bits  and  curbs  for  head-strong  steeds,) 
Which  for  these  fourteen  years  we  have  let  sleep ; 
Even  like  an  o'ergrown  lion  in  a  cave, 
That  goes  not  out  to  prey :   Now,  as  fond  fathers 
Having  bound  up  the  threat'ning  twigs  of  birch. 
Only  to  stick  it  in  their  children's  sight. 
For  terror,  not  to  use ;  in  time  the  rod 
Becomes  more  mock'd  than  fear'd  :  so  our  decrees, 
Dead  to  infliction,  to  themselves  are  dead  ; 
And  liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose  ; 
The  baby  beats  the  nurse,  and  quite  athwart 
Goes  all  decorum. 

Fri.  It  rested  in  your  grace 

To  unloose  tliis  tied-up  justice,  when  you  pleas'd  : 
And  it  in  you  more  dreadful  would  have  seem'd. 
Than  in  lord  Angelo. 

Duke.  I  do  fear,  too  dreadful : 

Sith  'twas  my  fault,  to  give  the  people  scope, 
'Twould  be  my  tyranny  to  strike,  and  gall  them 
For  what  I  bid  them  do :   For  we  bid  this  be  done. 
When  evil  deeds  have  their  permissive  pass, 
And  not  the  punishment.     Therefore,  indeed,  my 

father, 
I  have  on  Angelo  impos'd  the  office  ; 
Who  may,  in  the  ambush  of  my  name,  strike  home, 
And  yet  my  nature  never  in  the  sight. 
To  do  it  slander :    And  to  behold  his  sway, 
I  will,  as  'twere  a  brother  of  your  order, 
Visit  both  prince  and  people :  therefore,  I  pr'ythee, 
Supply  me  with  the  habit,  and  instruct  me 
How  I  may  formally  in  person  bear  me 
Like  a  true  friar.     More  reasons  for  this  action. 
At  our  more  leisure  shall  I  render  you ; 
Only,  this  one  :  —  Lord  Angelo  is  precise  ; 
Stands  at  a  guard  with  envy ;  scarce  confesses 
Tliat  his  blood  flows,  or  that  his  appetite 
Is  more  to  bread  than  stone :   Hence  shall  we  see, 
If  power  change  purpose,  what  our  scemers  be. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  y.—A  Nunnery. 

Enter  Isabella  and  Francisca. 

Itab.   And  have  you  nuns  no  further  privileges  ? 

jPron.    Are  not  these  large  enough  ? 

Iiab.   Yes,  truly  :    I  speak  not  as  desiring  more  ; 
But  ratlier  wishing  a  more  strict  restraint 
Upon  the  sistertiood,  the  votarists  of  saint  Clare. 

Lucio.   Ho !   Peace  be  in  this  place  !        [Within. 

Ifob.  WTio's  that  which  calls  ? 

Fran.   It  is  a  man's  voice  :    Gentle  Isabella, 
Turn  you  the  key,  and  know  his  business  of  him  ; 
You  may,  I  may  not ;  you  are  yet  unsworn : 
When  you  have  vow'd,  you  must  not  speak  with 

But  in  the  presence  of  the  prioress  : 

Tlicn,  if  you  speak,  you  must  not  show  your  face ; 


Or  if  you  show  your  face,  you  must  not  speak. 
He  caJls  again ;   I  pray  you  answer  him. 

[Exit  Francisca. 
Isab.   Peace  and  prosperity  !  Who  is't  that  calls? 

Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Hail,  virgin,  if  you  be  ;  as  those  cheek-roses 
Proclaim  you  are  no  less  !   Can  you  so  stead  me, 
As  bring  me  to  the  sight  of  Isabella, 
A  novice  of  this  place,  and  the  fair  sister 
To  her  unhappy  brother  Claudio? 

Isab.   Why  her  unhappy  brother  ?  let  me  ask  ; 
The  rather,  for  I  now  must  make  you  know 
I  am  that  Isabella,  and  his  sister. 

Lucio.  Gentle  and  fair,  your  brother  kindly  greets 
you  : 
Not  to  be  weary  with  you,  he's  in  prison. 

Isab.   Woe  me  !   For  what  ? 

Lucio.   For  that  which  if  myself  might  be  his 
judge. 
He  should  receive  his  punishment  in  thanks  : 

Isab.   Sir,  make  me  not  your  story.  ^ 

Lucio.  It  is  truei    " 

I  hold  you  as  a  thing  ensky'd,  and  sainted ; 
By  your  renouncement  an  immortal  spirit ; 
And  to  be  talk'd  with  in  sincerity. 
As  with  a  saint. 

7506.  You  do  blaspheme  the  good,  in  mocking  me 

Lucio.   Do  not  believe  it.     Fewness  and  truth  *, 
'tis  thus : 
Your  brother  and  his  lover  have  embrac'd  : 
~i?c(ftr  My  cousin  Juhety    ~  "* 

Lucio.   Is  she  your  cousin  ? 

Isab.  Adoptedly:  as  school-maids  change  their 
names. 
By  vain  though  apt  affection. 

Lucio.  She  it  is. 

Isab.  O,  let  him  marry  her ! 

Lucio.  This  is  the  point. 

The  duke  is  very  strangely  gone  from  hence ; 
Bore  many  gentlemen,  myself  being  one. 
In  hand,  and  hope  of  action  :  but  we  do  learn 
By  those  that  know  the  very  nerves  of  state. 
His  givings  out  were  of  an  infinite  distance 
From  his  true-meant  design.     Upon  his  place, 
And  with  full  line  of  his  authority, 
Governs  lord  Angelo  ;  a  man,  whose  blood 
Is  very  snow-broth  ;  one  who  never  feels 
The  wanton  stings  and  motions  of  the  sense  ; 
But  doth  rebate  and  blunt  his  natural  edge 
With  profits  of  the  mind,  study  and  fast. 
He  (to  give  fear  to  use  and  liberty. 
Which  have,  for  long,  run  by  the  hideous  law. 
As  mice  by  lions,)  hath  pick'd  out  an  act. 
Under  whose  heavy  sense  your  brother's  life 
Falls  into  forfeit !  he  arrests  him  on  it ; 
And  follows  close  the  rigour  of  the  statute. 
To  make  him  an  example :  all  hope  is  gone, 
Unless  you  have  the  grace  by  your  fair  prayer 
To  soften  Angelo :   And  that's  my  pith 
Of  business  'twixt  you  and  your  poor  brother. 

Isab.   Doth  he  so  seek  liis  life  ? 

Lucio.  Has  censur'ds  him 

Already ;  and,  as  I  hear,  the  provost  hath 
A  warrant  for  his  execution. 

Isab.  Alas !  what  poor  ability's  in  me 
To  do  liim  good  ? 


>  Do  not  make  a  Jest  of  me. 
2  In  few  and  true  words. 


»  Sentenced. 


90 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Lucio.  Assay  the  power  you  have. 

Isab.  My  power  !  Alas !   I  doubt,  — 

Lueio.  Our  doubts  are  traitors, 

And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win, 
By  fearing  to  attempt :    Go  to  lord  Angelo, 
And  let  him  learn  to  know,  when  maidens  sue, 
Men  give  like  gods ;  but  when  they  weep  and  kneel. 
All  their  petitions  are  as  freely  theirs 
As  they  themselves  would  owe  "*  them. 

Isab.   I'll  see  what  I  can  do. 


Act  II. 

But  speedily. 


Lucio. 

Isab.   I  will  about  it  straight ; 
No  longer  staying  but  to  give  the  mother 
Notice  of  my  affair.      I  humbly  thank  you  : 
Commend  me  to  my  brother :   soon  at  night 
I'll  send  him  certain  word  of  my  success. 

Lucio.  I  take  my  leave  of  you. 

Isab.  Good  sir,  adieu. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Hall  in  Angela's  House. 

Enter  Angelo,  Escalus,  Provost,  Officers,  and 
other  Attendants. 

Ang.  We  must  not   make  a  scare-crow  of  the 
law, 
Setting  it  up  to  fear  the  birds  of  prey, 
And  let  it  keep  one  shape,  till  custom  make  it 
Their  perch  and  not  their  terror. 

Escal.  Ay,  but  yet 

Let  us  be  keen,  and  rather  cut  a  little, 
Than  fall,  and  bruise  to  death  :    Alas  !  this  gentle- 
man. 
Whom  I  would  save,  had  a  most  noble  father. 
Let  but  your  honour  know, 
(Whom  I  believe  to  be  most  straight  in  virtue,) 
That,  in  the  working  of  your  own  affections. 
Had  time  coher'd  with  place,  or  place  with  wishing, 
Or  that  the  resolute  acting  of  your  blood 
Could  have  attain'd  the  effect  of  your  own  purpose, 
Whether  you  had  not  some  time  in  your  life 
Err'd  in  tliis  point  which  now  you  censure  him, 
And  pull'd  the  law  upon  you. 

Ang.   'Tis  one  thing  to  be  tempted,  Escalus, 
Another  thing  to  fall.      I  not  deny, 
The  jury,  passing  on  the  prisoner's  life, 
May,  in  the  sworn  twelve,  have  a  thief  or  two 
Guiltier  than  him  they  try  :   What's  open  made  to 

justice. 
That  justice  seizes.     What  know  the  laws. 
That  thieves  do  pass  on  tliieves  ?  'Tis  very  pregnant, 
The  jewel  that  we  find,  we  stoop  and  take  it, . 
Because  we  see  it ;  but  what  we  do  not  see. 
We  tread  upon,  and  never  think  of  it. 
You  may  not  so  extenuate  his  offence, 
For  ^  I  have  had  such  faults ;  but  rather  tell  me, 
When  I  that  censure  him,  do  so  offend, 
Let  mine  own  judgment  pattern  out  my  death. 
And  nothing  come  in  partial.      Sir,  he  must  die. 

Escal.   Be  it  as  your  wisdom  will. 

j4ng.  Where  is  the  provost  ? 

Prov.   Here,  if  it  like  your  honour. 

Ang.  See  that  Claudio 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  morning  : 
Bring  him  his  confessor,  let  him  be  prepared  :. 
For  that's  the  utmost  of  his  pilgrimage. 

[Exeunt  Angelo  and  Provost. 

Escal  Well,  heaven   forgive  him ;    and  forgive 
us  all ! 
]Mcrcy  is  not  itself  that  oft  looks  so, 
Pardon  is  still  the  nurse  of  second  woe. 
But  yet,  poor  Claudio  !  —  there's  no  remedy. 

[Exit. 
*  Have.  5  Because. 


SCENE  II.  —  Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Provost  and  a  Servant. 

Serv.   He's  hearing  of  a  cause  j    he  will  come 
straight. 
I'll  tell  him  of  you. 

Prov.   Pray  you,  do.    [Edt  Servant.]    I'll  kupwl 
his  pleasure  ;  may  be,  he  will  relent : 

Enter  Angelo. 

Ang.  Now,  what's  the  matter.  Provost  ? 

Prov.    Is    it   your  will    Claudio    shall    die    to-j 
morrow  ? 

Ang.   Did  I  not  tell  thee,  yea  ?  hadst  thou  not  ■■ 
order  ? 
Why  dost  thou  ask  again  ? 

Prov.  Lest  I  might  be  too  rash  ; ' 

Under  your  good  correction,  I  have  seen. 
When,  after  execution,  judgment  hath 
Repented  o'er  his  doom. 

Ang.  Go  to  ;  let  that  be  mine  ; 

Do  you  your  office,  or  give  up  your  place. 
And  you  shall  well  be  spar'd. 

Prov.  I  crave  your  honour's  pardon.  — 

What  shall  be  done,  sir,  witjijhegroamng  Juliet ? 

Shft's  vpfy  ppf^r  l]pr  hour. 

Atig.  Dispose  of  her 

To  some  more  fitter  place ;  and  that  with  speed. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.   Here  is  the  sister  of  the  man  condemn'd 
Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.  Hath  he  a  sister  ? 

Prov.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  a  very  virtuous  maid, 
And  to  be  shortly  of  a  sisterhood, 
If  not  already. 

Ang.  Well,  let  her  be  admitted. 

[Exit  Servant. 
See  you,  that  Julietta  be  remov'd  ; 
Let  her  have  needful,  but  not  lavish,  means  ; 
There  shall  be  order  for  it. 

Enter  Lucio  and  Isabella. 

Prov.   Save  your  honour  !  [Offering  to  retire. 

Ang.   Stay  a  little  wliile. —  [To  Isab.]    You  are 
welcome  :   What's  your  will  ? 

Isab.   I  am  a  woeful  suitor  to  your  honour : 
Please  but  your  honour  hear  me. 

Ang.  Well ;  what's  your  suit  ? 

Isab.   There  is  a  vice  that  most  I  do  abhor. 
And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice ; 
For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must  j 
For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  opx 
At  war,  'twixt  will,  and  will  not. 


Scene  II. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


91 


Ang.  Well;  the  matter? 

fsab.    I  have  a  brother  is  condemn'd  to  die  : 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault, 
And  not  my  brother. 

Prov.  Heaven  give  tliee  moving  graces  ! 

Ang.   Condemn  the  fault  and  not  the  actor  of  it ! 
Why,  every  fault's  condemn'd,  ere  it  be  done  : 
Mine  were  the  very  cipher  of  a  function, 
To  find  the  faults,  vjrhose  fine  stands  in  record, 
And  let  go  by  the  actor. 

IscA.  O  just,  but  severe  law  ! 

I  had  a  brother  then.  —  Heaven  keep  your  honour ! 

[Retiring- 
Lucio.   [To  IsAB.]  Give't  not  o'er   so:    to  him 
again,  intreat  him  ; 
Kneel  down  before  him,  hang  upon  his  gown ; 
You  are  too  cold  :  if  you  should  need  a  pin, 
You  could  not  with  more  tame  a  tongue  desire  it : 
To  him,  I  say. 

Isab.   Must  he  needs  die  ? 

A7ig.  Maiden,  no  remedy, 

Isab.  Yes ;  I  do  tliink  that  you  might  pardon  him. 
And  neither  heaven,  nor  man,  grieve  at  the  mercy. 
Aug.   1  will  not  do't. 

Isab.  But  can  you,  if  you  would  ? 

Ang.   Look,  what  I  will  not,  that  I  cannot  do. 
Isab.   But  might  you  do't,  and  do  the  world  no 
wrong  ? 
If  so,  your  heart  were  touch'd  with  that  remorse 
As  mine  is  to  him. 

ying.  He's,  sentenc'd  :   'tis  too  late. 

Lucio.    You  are  too  cold.  [To  Isabella. 

Isab.  Too  late  ?  why,  no ;  I,  that  do  speak  a  word. 
May  call  it  back  again  :   Well  believe  this. 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe, 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace. 
As  mercy  does.     If  he  had  been  as  you. 
And  you  as  he,  you  would  have  slipt  like  him ; 
But  he  like  you,  would  not  have  been  so  stem. 
Ang.   Pray  you,  begone. 
Isab.   I  would  to  heaven  I  had  your  potency, 
And  you  were  Isabel !  should  it  then  be  thus  ? 
No  ;  I  would  tell  what  'twere  to  be  a  judge. 
And  what  a  prisoner. 

Lucio.   Ay,  touch  him  :   there's  the  vein.    [Aside. 
Aiig.   Your  brother  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law, 
And  you  but  waste  your  words. 

Isdb.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once ; 
And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took. 
Found  out  the  remedy :   How  would  you  be, 
If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judg«?  you  as  you  are  ?   O,  think  on  that ; 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips. 
Like  man  new  made. 

Ang.  Be  you  content,  fair  moid  ; 

It  is  the  law,  not  I  condemns  your  brother  : 
Were  he  my  kinsman,  brother,  or  my  son, 
It  should  be  thus  with  him; — he  must  die  to-morrow. 
IstU).  To-morrow  ?  O,  that's  sudden  !  Spare  him, 
spare  him  : 
He's  not  prepar'd  for  death  ! 
Gootl,  good  my  lord,  bethink  you  : 
Who  is  it  tlrnt  hath  die<l  for  this  ofl'ence  ? 
There's  many  have  committed  it. 

Lucio.  Ay,  well  said. 

^ng.   The  law  hath  not   been   dead,  though  it 
hath  slept : 


Those  many  had  not  dar'd  to  do  that  evil. 
If  the  first  man  that  did  the  edict  infringe, 
Had  answer'd  for  his  deed  :   now,  'tis  awake  ; 
Takes  note  of  what  is  done ;  and,  like  a  prophet. 
Looks  in  a  glass,  that  shows  what  future  evils, 
(Either  now,  or  by  remissness  new-conceiv'd, 
And  so  in  progress  to  be  hatch'd  and  bom,) 
Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees, 
But,  where  they  live,  to  end. 

Isab.  Yet  show  some  pity. 

Ang.   I  show  it  most  of  all,  when  I  show  justice; 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know. 
Which  a  dismiss'd  offence  would  after  gall ; 
And  do  him  right,  that  answering  one  foul  wrong, 
Lives  not  to  act  another.     Be  satisfied ; 
Your  brother  dies  to-morrow  :  be  content. 

Isab.  So  you  must  be  the  first  that  gives  this  sen- 
tence ; 
And  he,  that  suffers  :   O,  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength  ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

Lucio.  That's  well  said. 

Isab.    Could  great  men  thunder 
As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet. 
For  every  pelting  6,  petty  oflScer, 
Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder ;   nothing  but 

thunder.  — 
Merciful  heaven  ! 

Thou  rather,  with  tliy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 
Split'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  ^  oak. 
Than  the  soft  myrtle  ;  —  O,  but  man,  proud  man  ! 
Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority  ; 
Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assur'd, 
His  glassy  essence,  —  like  an  angry  ape, 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  betore  high  heaven. 
As  make  the  angels  weep; 

Luc.   O,  to  him,  to  him,  wench  :  he  will  relent ; 
He's  coming,  I  perceive't. 

Prov.  Pray  heaven  she  win  him  ! 

Isab.  We  cannot  weigh  our  brother  with  yourself: 
Great  men  may  jest  with  saints  :  'tis  wit  in  them  ; 
But,  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 

Lucio.   Thou'rt  in  the  right,  girl ;  more  o'  that. 

Isab.   That  in  the  captain's  but  a  choleric  word. 
Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Lucio.   Art  advis'd  o'that?  more  on't. 

Ang.   Why  do  you  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 

Isab.  Because  authority,  though  it  err  like  others, 
Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself. 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top :    Go  to  your  bosom ; 
Knock  there ;  and  ask  your  heart,  what  it  doth  know 
That's  like  my  brother's  fault :  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness,  such  as  is  his. 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 

Ang.  Slie  speaks,  and  'tis 

Such  sense,  that  my  sense  breeds  witli  it.  —  Fare 
you  well. 

Isab.    Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.   I   will   bethink   me :  —  Come   again  to- 
morrow. 

Isab.  Hark,  how  I'll  bribe  you :   Good  my  lord, 
turn  back. 

Ang.   How,  bribe  me  ? 

Isab.   Ay,  with  such  gifU,  tliat  heaven  shall  share 
with  you. 

Lucio.   You  had  marr'd  all  else. 

Isab,  Not  with  fond  shekels  of  tlie  tested  8  gold. 


Paltry. 


Knotted. 


»*  Stamped, 


92 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  II. 


Or  stones,  whose  rates  are  either  rich  or  poor. 
As  fancy  values  them  :  but  with  true  prayers, 
That  shall  be  up  at  heaven,  and  enter  there, 
Ere  sun-rise  ;  prayers  from  preserved  9  souls. 
From  fasting  maids,  whose  minds  are  dedicate 
To  nothing  temporal. 

A7ig.  Well :  come  to  me 

To-morrow. 

Lucio.    Go  to  ;  it  is  well ;  away.    [Aside  to  Isab. 

Isab.   Heaven  keep  your  honour  safe ! 

Ang.  Amen :  for  I 

Am  that  way  going  to  temptation,  [Aside. 

Where  prayers  cross. 

Isab.  At  what  hour  to-morrow 

Shall  I  attend  your  lordship  ? 

Ang.  At  any  time  'fore-noon. 

Isab.   Save  your  honour ! 

[Exeunt  Lucio,  Isabella,  and  Provost. 

Ang.  From  thee  ;  even  from  thy  virtue  !  — 

What's  this  ?  what's  this  ?    Is  this  her  fault  or  mine  ? 
The  tempter,  or  the  tempted,  who  sins  most  ?  ha  ! 
Not  she ;  nor  doth  she  tempt :  but  it  is  I, 
That  lying  by  the  violet,  in  the  sun. 
Do,  as  the  carrion  does,  not  as  the  flower. 
Corrupt  with  virtuous  season.      Can  it  be. 
That  modesty  may  more  betray  our  sense 
Than  woman's  lightness?     Having  waste  ground 

enough. 
Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary. 
And  pitch  our  evils  there  ?     O,  fye,  fye,  fye  ! 
What  dost  thou  ?  or  what  art  thou,  Angelo  ? 
O,  let  her  brother  live  : 
Thieves  for  their  robbery  have  authority. 
When  judges  steal  themselves.  What?  do  I  love  her. 
That  I  desire  to  hear  her  speak  again, 
And  feast  upon  her  eyes  ?     What  is't  I  dream  on  ? 

0  cunning  enemy,  that,  to  catch  a  saint. 

With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook  !     Most  dangerous 
Is  that  temptation,  that  doth  goad  us  on 
To  sin  in  loving  virtue ;  never  could  the  strumpet 
Once  stir  my  temper ;  but  this  virtuous  maid 
Subdues  me  quite  ;  —  Ever,  till  now. 
When  men  were  fond,  I  smil'd,  and  wonder'd  how. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III A  Room  in  a  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  habited  like  a  Friar,  and  Provost. 
Duke.   Hail  to  you,  provost !  so  I  think  you  are. 
Prov.   I  am  the  provost :   What's  your  will,  good 

friar  ? 
Duke.  Bound  by  my  charity,  and  my  bless'd  order, 

1  come  to  visit  the  afflicted  spirits 

Here  in  the  prison  :   do  me  the  common  right 
To  let  me  see  them  ;  and  to  make  me  know 
The  nature  of  their  crimes,  that  I  may  minister 
To  them  accordingly. 

Prov.   I  would  do  more  than  that,  if  more  were 
needful. 

Enter  Juliet. 
Look,  here  comes  one  ;  a  gentlewoman  of  mine. 
Who,  falling  in  the  flames  of  her  own  youth, 
Hath  blister'd  her  report :    Shejsjxjthlchild ; 
^nd  he  that  owns  it  sentencMT 

Duke.  "  When  must  he  die  ? 

Prov.   As  I  do  think,  to-morrow.  — 
I  have  provided  for  you;  stay  awhile,   [To  Juliet. 
And  you  shall  be  conducted. 

3  Preserved  from  the  corruption  of  the  world. 


Duke.    Repent  you,  fair  one,  of  the  sin  you  carry  ? 

Jtdiet.  I  do ;  and  bear  the  shame  most  patiently. 

Duke.   I'll  teach  you  how  you  shall  arraign  your 
conscience. 
And  try  your  penitence,  if  it  be  sound. 
Or  hollowly  put  on. 

Juliet.  I'll  gladly  learn. 

Duke.  Love  you  the  man  tliat  wrong'd  you  ? 

Juliet.  Yes,  as  I  love  the  woman  that  wrong'd  him. 

Duke.   So  then,  it  seems,  your  most  offenceful  act 
Was  mutually  committed  ? 

Juliet.  Mutually. 

Duke.   Then  was  your  sin  of  heavier  kind  than  his. 

Juliet.   I  do  confess  it,  and  repent  it,  father. 

Duke.  'Tis  meet  so,  daughter :    But  lest  you  do 
repent, 
As  that  the  sin  hath  brought  you  to  this  shame,  — 
Which   sorrow   is   always    toward    ourselves,    not 

heaven ; 
Showing,  we'd  not  spare  heaven,  as  we  love  it. 
But  as  we  stand  in  fear. 

Juliet.   I  do  repent  me,  as  it  is  an  evil ; 
And  take  the  shame  with  joy. 

Duke.  There  rest. 

Your  partner,  as  I  hear,  must  die  to-morrow, 
And  I  am  going  with  instruction  to  him.  — 
Grace  go  with  you  !  Benedicite  !  [Exit. 

Juliet.  Must  die  to-morrow  !   O,  injurious  love. 
That  respites  me  a  life,  whose  very  comfort 
Is  still  a  dying  horror ! 

Prov.  'Tis  pity  of  him.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  ~-A  Room  in  Angelo's  House. 

Enter  Angelo. 
Ang.   When  I  would  pray  and  think,  I  think  and 
pray 
To  several  subjects :  heaven  hath  my  empty  words  ; 
Whilst  my  invention,  hearing  not  my  tongue. 
Anchors  on  Isabel :    Heaven  in  my  mouth. 
As  if  I  did  but  only  chew  his  name ; 
And  in  my  heart,  the  strong  and  swelling  evil 
Of  my  conception  :    The  state,  whereon  I  studied. 
Is  like  a  good  thing,  being  often  read, 
Grown  fear'd  and  tedious ;  yea,  my  gravity. 
Wherein  (let  no  man  hear  me)  I  take  pride. 
Could  I,  with  boot ',  change  for  an  idle  plume. 
Which  the  air  beats  for  vain.      O  place !   O  form  ! 
How  often  dost  thou  with  thy  case,  thy  habit. 
Wrench  awe  from  fools,  and  tie  the  wiser  souls 
To  thy  false  seeming  ? 

Enter  Servant. 
How  now,  who's  there  ? 

Serv.  One  Isabel,  a  sister, 

Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.  Teach  her  the  way.    [Exit  Serv. 

O  heavens ! 

Why  does  my  blood  thus  muster  to  my  heart ; 
Making  both  it  unable  for  itself,  y 
A  nd  dispossessing  all  the  other  parts 
Of  necessary  fitness  ? 

So  play  the  foolish  throngs  with  one  that  swoons  ;| 
Come  all  to  help  him,  and  so  stop  the  air 
By  which  he  should  revive  :  and  even  so 
The  general  2,  subject  to  a  well-wish'd  king, 
Quit  their  own  part,  and  in  obsequious  fondness 
Crowd  to  his  presence,  where  their  untaught  love 
Must  needs  appear  offence. 


1 


Profit. 


'■  The  people. 


Scene  IV. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


93 


Entei'  Isabella. 


How  now,  fair  maid  ? 

Isab.  I  am  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Jtng.   That  you   might    know   it,   would   much 
better  please  me, 
Tlian  to  demand  what  'tis.    Your  brotlier  cannot  live. 

Isab.   Even  so  ?  —  Heaven  keep  your  honour ! 

[Retiring. 

^ng.   Yet  may  he  live  a  while  ;  and,  it  may  be 
As  long  as  you  or  I  :    Yet  he  must  die. 

Isab.   Under  your  sentence  ? 

Ang.    Yea. 

Isab.   When,  I  beseech  you  ?  that  in  his  reprieve. 
Longer,  or  shorter,  he  may  be  so  fitted. 
This  his  soul  sicken  not. 

y{jig.   Ha !  fye,  these  filthy  vices !  It  were  as  good 
To  pardon  him,  that  hath  from  nature  stolen 
A  man  already  made,  as  to  remit 
Their  saucy  sweetness,  that  do  coin  heaven's  image, 
In  stamps  that  are  forbid. 

Isab.   'Tis  set  down  so  in  heaven,  but  not  in  earth. 

Aug.   Say  you  so  ?  then  I  shall  pose  you  quickly. 
Which  had  you  rather,  that  the  most  just  law 
Now  took  your  brother's  life ;  or,  to  redeem  him, 
Give  up  your  person  U)  s''^^*  giy<^p»  i]nr»1o^pppc^Cj 

As  shft  that  hp  jmth  ct^WrpH  ? 

^Jsab.  Sir,  believe  this, 

I  had  rather  give  my  body  than  my  soul. 

Ang.   I  talk  not  of  your  soul ;  our  compell'd  sins 
Stand  more  for  number  than  accompt. 

Isab.  How  say  you  ? 

Ayig.    Nay,  I'll  not  warrant  that ;  for  I  can  speak 
Against  the  tiling  I  say.      Answer  to  this ;  — 
I,  now  the  voice  of  the  recorded  law. 
Pronounce  a  sentence  on  your  brother's  life  : 
Might  there  not  be  a  charity  in  sin. 
To  save  tliis  brother's  life  ? 

Isab.  Please  you  to  do't, 

I'll  take  it  as  a  peril  to  my  soul. 
It  is  no  sin  at  all,  but  charity. 

Ang.   Pleas'd  you  to  do't,  at  peril  of  your  soul. 
Were  equal  poise  of  sin  and  charity. 

Isab.   That  I  do  beg  his  life,  if  it  be  sin. 
Heaven,  let  me  bear  it !  you  granting  of  my  suit. 
If  that  be  sin,  I'll  make  it  my  morn  prayer 
To  have  it  added  to  the  faults  of  mine, 
And  nothing  of  your  answer. 

Ang.  Nay,  but  hear  me  : 

Your  sense  pursues  not  mine  :  either  you  are  igno- 
rant. 
Or  seem  so,  craftily  ;  and  that's  not  good. 

Isab.   Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good. 
But  graciously  to  know  I  am  no  better. 

Ang.   Thus  wisdom  wishes  to  appear  most  bright. 
When  it  doth  tax  itself :   as  these  black  masks 
Proclaim  an  enshield  3  Ixjauty  ten  times  louder 
Than  beauty  could  displayed.  —  But  mark  me  ; 
To  be  received  plain,  I'll  speak  more  gross : 
Your  brother  is  to  die. 

Isab.    So. 

ytng.   And  his  offence  is  so,  as  it  appears 
Accountant  to  the  law  upon  that  pain. 

Isab.   True. 

■Ang.    Admit  uo  other  way  to  save  his  life, 
(As  I  subscribe  not  tnat,  nor  any  other, 
But  in  the  loss  of  question,)  that  you,  his  sister, 
Finding  yourself  desir'd  of  such  a  person, 

'  Covered. 


Whose  credit  with  the  judge,  or  own  great  place, 
Could  fetch  your  brother  from  the  manacles 
Of  t+ie  all-binding  law  ;  and  that  there  were 
No  earthly  mean  to  save  him,  but  that  either 
Y9U  must  lay  down  tha  traaeuran  of  jour  pm-ua 
'lo  this  supposed,  or  else  let  Iiim  sufl'erj^ 
W  hat  would  you  do  /  ~ 

Isab.   As  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  myself: 
That  is,  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death. 
The  impression  of  keen  whips  I'd  wear  as  rubies, 
And  strip  myself  to  death,  as  to  a  bed 
That  longing  I  have  been  sick  for,  ere  I'd  yield 
My  honour  up  to  shame. 

Ang.  Then  must  your  brother  die 

Isab.  And  'twere  the  cheaper  way  : 
Better  it  were,  a  brother  died  at  once. 
Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  him. 
Should  die  for  ever. 

Ang.   Were  not  you  then  as  cruel  as  the  sentence 
That  you  have  slander'd  so  ? 

Isab.   Ignomy  in  ransom,  and  free  pardon, 
Are  of  two  houses  :   lawful  mercy  is 
Nothing  akin  to  foul  redemption. 

■Ang.   You  seem'd  of  late  to  make  the  law  a  tyrant  ; 
And  rather  prov'd  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A  merriment  than  a  vice. 

Isab.   O,  pardon  me,  my  lord  ;  it  oft  falls  out, 
To  have  what  we'd  have,  we  speak  not  what  we  mean : 
I  something  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate, 
For  his  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 

j4ng.   We  are  all  frail. 

Isab.  Else  let  my  brother  die. 

If  not  a  feodary  *,  but  only  he. 
Owe  ^,  and  succeed  by  weakness. 

Aug.  Nay,  women  are  frail  too. 

Isab.  Ay,  as  the  glasses  where  they  view  themselves; 
Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  tliey  make  forms. 
Women  !  —  Help  heaven  !  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.      Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frail ; 
For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are. 
And  credulous  to  false  prints.  6 

Ang.  I  tliink  it  well : 

And  from  this  testimony  of  your  own  sex, 
(Since,  I  suppose,  we  are  made  to  be  no  stronger 
Than  faults  may  shake  our  frames,)  let  me  be  bold  ; 
I  do  arrest  your  words  ;  be  tliat  you  are. 
That  is,  a  woman  ;  if  you  be  more,  you're  none  ; 
If  you  be  one,  (as  you  are  well  express'd 
By  all  external  wan-ants,)  show  it  now. 
By  putting  on  the  destin'd  livery. 

Isab.    I  have  no  tongue  but  one  :   gentle  my  lord. 
Let  me  entreat  you,  speak  the  former  language. 

Ang.    Plainly  conceive,  I  love  you. 

Isab.  My  brother  did  love  Juliet ;  and  you  tell  me. 
That  he  shall  die  for  it. 

yl7}g.   He  shall  not,.  Isal)el,  if  you  givejneJoga.  - 

Isab.   I  know  your  virtue  TiaHrffTimice  in't. 
Which  seems  a  little  fouler  than  it  is. 
To  pluck  on  otliers. 

A  fig.  Believe  me,  on  mine  honour. 

My  words  express  my  purpose. 

Isab.   Ha !  little  honour  to  be  much  believ'd, 
And  most  pernicious  purpose !  —  Seeming,  seeming ! 
I  will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo  ;  look  for't : 
Sign  me  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother. 
Or,  with  an  outstretch'd  throat,  I'll  tell  the  world 
Aloud,  what  man  thou  art. 

j4ng.  Who  will  believe  tliee,  Isabel  ? 

My  unsoil'd  name,  the  austereness  of  my  life, 
^  Own.  s  Impressiona. 


94? 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  III. 


My  vouch  against  you,  and  my  place  i'the  state 
Will  so  your  accusation  overweigli, 
That  you  shall  stifle  in  your  own  report, 
And  smell  of  calumny.      I  have  begun  ; 
And  now  I  give  my  sensual  race  the  rein : 
Lay  by  all  nicety ;  redeem  thy  brother 
By  yielding  up  tliy  perspjj  4o  my  will ; 
Or  else  he  musFltiot  only  die  the  death, 
But  thy  unkindness  shall  his  death  draw  out 
To  lingering  sufferance :   answer  me  to-morrow, 
Or,  by  the  affection  that  now  guides  me  most, 
I'll  prove  a  tyrant  to  him  :    As  for  you. 
Say  what  you  can,  my  false  o'erweighs  your  true. 

[ExU. 
Isab.  To  whom  shall  I  complain  ?   Did  I  tell  this, 
Who  would  believe  me  ?  O  perilous  mouths, 


That  bear  in  them  one  and  the  self-same  tongue, 

Either  of  condemnation  or  approof! 

Bidding  the  law  make  court'sy  to  their  will ; 

Hooking  both  right  and  wrong  to  the  appetite. 

To  follow  as  it  draws !    I'll  to  my  brother : 

Though  he  hath  fallen  by  prompture  of  the  blood, 

Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honour, 

That  had  he  twenty  heads  to  tender  down 

On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he'd  yield  them  up, 

Before  his  sister  should  her  person  stoop 

To  such  abhorr'd  pollution. 

Then,  Isabel,  live  chaste,  and,  brother,  die : 

More  than  our  brother  is  our  chastity. 

I'll  tell  him  yet  of  Angelo's  request, 

And  fit  his  mind  to  death,  for  his  soul's  rest. 

[Exit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  ^  Room  in  the  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  Claudio,  and  Provost. 

Duke.   So,  then  you  hope  of  pardon  from  lord 
Angelo  ? 

Claud.   The  miserable  have  no  other  medicine. 
But  only  hope : 
I  have  hope  to  live,  and  am  prepar'd  to  die. 

Duke.  Be  absolute  for  death  :  either  death,  or  life, 
Shal  1  thereby  be  the  sweeter.  Reason  thus  with  life,— 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep  ;  a  breath  thou  art, 
(Servile  to  all  the  skiey  influences,) 
That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st. 
Hourly  afflict :   merely,  thou  art  death's  fool ; 
For  him  thou  labour'st  by  thy  flight  to  shun. 
And  yet  run'st  toward  him  still :  Thou  art  not  noble ; 
For  all  the  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st, 
A  re  nurs'd  by  baseness:  Thou  art  by  no  means  valiant; 
For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  worm  :   Thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep, 
And  that  thou  oft  provok'st ;  yet  grossly  fear'st 
Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.   Thou  art  not  thyself; 
For  thou  exist'st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust :    Happy  thou  art  not : 
For  what  thou  hast  not,  still  thou  striv'st  to  get ; 
And  what  thou  hast,  forget'st :  Thou  art  not  certain ; 
For  thy  complexion  shifts  to  strange  effects  7, 
After  the  moon  :    If  thou  art  rich,  thou  art  poor ; 
For,  like  an  ass,  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  riches  but  a  journey, 
And  death  unloads  thee  :    Friend  hast  thou  none ; 
For  thine  own  bowels,  which  do  call  thee  sire. 
The  mere  efiusion  of  thy  proper  loins. 
Do  curse  the  gout,  serpigo  ?,  and  the  rheum. 
For  ending  thee  no  sooner :   Thou  hast  nor  youth, 

nor  age ; 
But,  as  it  were,  an  after-dinner's  sleep, 
Dreaming  on  both  :   for  all  thy  blessed  youth 
Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 
Of  palsied  eld ;  and  when  thou  art  old,  and  rich, 
Thou  hast  neither  heat,  affection,  limb,  nor  beauty, 
To  make  tliy  riches  pleasant.      What's  yet  in  this. 
That  bears  the  name  of  life  ?  Yet  in  this  life 
Lie  hid  more  thousand  deaths :   yet  death  we  fear, 
That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 


7  Affects,  affections. 


Leprous  eruptions. 


Claud.  1  humbly  thank  you. 

To  sue  to  live,  I  find,  I  seek  to  die ; 
And  seeking  death,  find  life :   Let  it  come  on. 

Enter  Isabella. 
Isab.   What,  ho  !    Peace  here ;   grace  and  good 


company 


Prov.   Who's  there  ?  come  in  :  the  wish  deserves 
a  welcome. 

Duke.    Dear  sir,  ere  long  I'll  visit  you  again. 

Claud.   Most  holy  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Isab.  My  business  is  a  word  or  two  with  Claudio. 

Prov.   And  very  welcome.     Look,  signior,  here's 
your  sister. 

Duke.    Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.  As  many  as  you  please. 

Duke,   Bring  them  to  speak,  where  I  may  be 
conceal'd. 
Yet  hear  them.  [Exeunt  Duke  and  Provost. 

Claud.  Now,  sister,  what's  the  comfort? 

Isab.  Why,  as  all  comforts  are;  most  good  in  deed: 
Lord  Angelo,  having  affairs  to  heaven. 
Intends  you  for  his  swift  embassador. 
Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  lieger  9  : 
Therefore  your  best  appointment  make  with  speed  ; 
To-morrow  you  set  on. 

Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Isab.   None,  but  such  remedy,  as  to  save  a  head, 
To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 

Claud.  But  is  there  any  ? 

Isab.    Yes,  brother,  you  may  live ; 
There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge. 
If  you'll  implore  it,  that  will  free  your  life. 
But  fetter  you  till  death. 

Claud.  Perpetual  durance  ? 

Isab.    Ay,  just,  perpetual  durance;  a  restraint. 
Though  all  the  world's  fastidity  you  had. 
To  a  determined  scope. 

Claud.  But  in  what  nature  ? 

Isab.   In  such  a  one  as  (you  consenting  to't) 
Would  bark  your  honour  from  that  trunk  you  beat 
And  leave  you  naked. 

Claud.  Let  me  know  the  point. 

Isab.   O,  I  do  fear  thee,  Claudio ;  and  I  quake, 
Lest  thou  a  feverous  life  should'st  entertain. 
And  six  or  seven  winters  more  respect 


Scene  I. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


9^ 


Tlian  a  perpetual  honour.      Dar'st  thou  die  ? 
The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension ; 
And  tlie  poor  beetle  that  we  treaid  upon, 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies. 

Claud.  Why  give  you  me  this  shaine  ? 

Think  you  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness  ?   If  I  must  die, 
I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride, 
And  hug  it  in  mine  arms. 

hub.   There  spake  my  brother ;  there  my  fatlier's 
grave 
Did  utter  forth  a  voice  !   Yes,  thou  must  die  : 
ITiou  art  too  noble  to  conserve  a  life 
In  base  appliances.  This  outward-sainted  deputy,— 
Whose  settled  visage  and  deliberate  word 
Nips  youth  i'the  head,  and  follies  doth  enmew, 
As  falcon  doth  the  fowl.  —  is  yet  a  devil ; 

Claud.  Ulie  princely  Angelo  ? 

Isab.   O,  'tis  the  cunning  livery  of  hell, 
The  vilest  body  to  invest  and  cover 
In  princely  guards !   Dost  thou  tliink,  Claudio, 
if  I  would  yip)fl  Hi'm  my  virginity, 
Thou  might'stjje  freed? 

"'XTatair  O,  heavens !  it  cannot  be. 

Isab.   Yes,  he  would  give  it  thee,  from  this  rank 
offence. 
So  to  offend  him  still :   This  night's  the  time, 
That  I  should  do  what  I  abhor  to  name, 
Or  else  thou  diest  to-morrow. 

Claud.  Thou  shalt  not  do't. 

Isab.   O,  were  it  but  my  life, 
I'd  throw  it  down  for  your  deliverance 
As  frankly  as  a  pin. 

Claud.  Thanks,  dear  Isabel. 

Isab.  lie  ready,  Claudio,  for  your  death  to-morrow. 
Claud.   Yes.  —  Has  he  affections  in  him. 
That  thus  can  make  him  bite  the  law  by  tlie  nose, 
When  he  would  force  it  ?   Sure  it  is  no  sin ; 
Or  of  tlie  deadly  seven  it  is  the  least. 
Isab.   Wliich  is  the  least  ? 
Claud.   If  it  were. dajnnable^^  he,  being  so  wise, 
Why,  would  he  for  the  momentary  trick 
Be  perdurably  fin'd?  —  O  Isabel  ! 
Isab.   What  says  my  brother  ? 
Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  tiling. 

Isab.   And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 
Claud.  Ay,  but  to  die.  and  go  we  know  not  where; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot : 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice; 
To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world  ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling  !  —  'tis  too  horrible  ! 
I'he  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life, 
'ITiat  age,  ach,  penury,  and  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death. 
Isab.   Alas  !  alas ! 

Clauil.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live  : 

What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far, 
riiat  it  becomes  a  virtue. 

Isab.   O,  faithless  coward  !   O,  dishonest  wretch  ! 
^\  ilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice? 
li^'t  not  a  kind  of  incest,  to  take  life 


From  thine  own  sister's  shame  ? 

Take  my  defiance : 

Die ;  perish  !  might  but  my  bending  down 

Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed : 

I'll  pray  a  thousjind  prayers  for  thy  death. 

No  word  to  save  thee. 

Claud.   Nay,  hear  me,  Isabel. 

Isab.  O,  fye,  fye,  fye  ." 

Thy  sin's  not  accidental,  but  a  trade : 
'Tis  best  that  thou  diest  quickly.  {Going. 

Claud.  O  hear  me,  Isabella. 

Re-enter  Duke. 

Duke.  Vouchsafe  a  word,  young  sister,  but  one 
word. 

Isab.   What  is  your  will  ? 

Duke.  Might  you  dispense  with  your  leisure,  I 
would  by  and  by  have  some  speech  with  you  :  the 
satisfaction  I  would  require,  is  likewise  your  own 
benefit. 

Isab.  I  have  no  superfluous  leisure;  my  stay 
must  be  stolen  out  of  other  affairs;  but  I  will 
attend  you  awhile. 

Duke.  {To  Claudio,  aside.'\  Son,  I  have  over- 
heard what  hath  past  between  you  and  your  sister. 
Angelo  had  never  the  purpose  to  corrupt  her;  only 
he  hath  made  an  essay  of  her  virtue,  to  practise 
his  judgment  with  the  disposition  of  natures;  she, 
having  the  truth  of  honour  in  her,  hath  made  him 
that  gracious  denial  which  he  is  most  glad  to  receive: 
I  am  confessor  to  Angelo,  and  I  know  this  to  be 
true ;  therefore  prepare  yourself  to  death  :  Do  not 
satisfy  your  resolution  with  hopes  that  are  fallible : 
to-morrow  you  must  die;  go  to  your  knees,  and 
make  ready. 

Claud.  Let  me  ask  my  sister  pardon.  I  am  so 
out  of  love  with  life,  that  I  will  sue  to  be  rid  of  it. 

Duke.  Hold  you  there :  Farewell.  [iJxff  Claudio. 

He-enter  Provost. 
Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Vrov.   What's  your  will,  father  ? 

Duke.  That  now  you  are  come  you  will  be  gone  -, 
Leave  me  a  while  with  tlie  maid ;  my  mind  pro- 
mises with  my  habit,  no  loss  shall  touch  her  by  my 
company. 

Prov.   In  good  time.  {Exit  Provost. 

Duke.  The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fair,  hath 
made  you  good :  the  goodness  that  is  cheap  in 
beauty,  makes  beauty  brief  in  goodness :  but  grace, 
being  the  soul  of  your  complexion,  should  keep 
the  body  of  it  ever  fair.  Tlie  assault  that  Angelo 
hath  made  to  you,  fortune  hath  convey'd  to  my 
understanding  ;  and,  but  that  frailty  hath  examples 
for  his  falling,  I  should  wonder  at  Angelo.  How 
would  you  do  to  content  this  substitute,  and  to 
save  your  brother  ? 

Isab.  I  am  now  going  to  resolve  him :  I  had 
rather  my  brother  die  by  the  law,  than  my  son 
should  be  unlawfully  born.  But  O,  how  much  is 
the  good  duke  deceived  in  Angelo !  If  ever  he 
return,  and  I  can  speak  to  him,  I  will  open  my 
lips  in  vain,  or  discover  his  government. 

Duke.  That  shall  not  be  much  amiss :  Yet,  as 
the  matter  now  stands,  he  will  avoid  your  accus- 
ation ;  he  made  trial  of  you  only.  —  Therefore, 
fasten  your  ear  on  my  advisings :  to  the  love  I 
have  in  doing  good,  a  remedy  presents  itself.  I 
do  make  myself  believe,  that  you  may  most  up- 
righteously  do  a   ytoor   wronged    lady  a   merited 


96 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  III. 


benefit ;  redeem  your  brother  from  the  angry  law ; 
do  no  stain  to  your  own  gracious  person ;  and 
much  please  the  absent  duke,  if,  peradventure,  he 
shall  ever  return  to  have  hearing  of  tills  business. 

Isab.  Let  me  hear  you  speak  further;  I  have 
spirit  to  do  any  tiling  that  appears  not  foul  in  the 
truth  of  my  spirit. 

Duke.  Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fear- 
ful. Have  you  not  heard  speak  of  Mariana  the 
sister  of  Frederick,  the  great  soldier,  who  miscar- 
ried at  sea  ? 

Isab.  I  have  heard  of  the  lady,  and  good  words 
went  with  her  name. 

Duke.  Her  should  this  Angelo  have  married ;  was 
affianced  to  her  by  oath,  and  the  nuptial  appointed  : 
between  which  time  of  the  contract,  and  limit  of 
tlie  solemnity,  her  brother  Frederick  was  vrrecked 
at  sea,  having  in  that  perish'd  vessel  the  dowry  of 
his  sister.  But  mark,  how  heavily  this  befel  to  the 
poor  gentlewoman  :  there  she  lost  a  noble  and  re- 
nowned brother,  in  his  love  toward  her  ever  most 
kind  and  natural ;  with  him  the  portion  and  sinew 
of  her  fortune,  her  marriage-dowry  ;  v*dth  both,  her 
combinate  •  husband,  this  well  seeming  Angelo. 

Isab.   Can  this  be  so  ?  Did  Angelo  so  leave  her  ? 

Duke.  Left  her  in  her  tears,  and  dry'd  not  one  of 
them  with  his  comfort ;  swallowed  his  vows  whole, 
pretending  in  her  discoveries  of  dishonour  :  in  few, 
bestowed  her  on  her  own  lamentation,  which  she 
yet  wears  for  his  sake  ;  and  he,  a  marble  to  her  tears, 
is  washed  with  them,  but  relents  not. 

Isab.  What  a  merit  were  it  in  death,  to  take  this 
poor  maid  from  the  world  !  What  corruption  in  this 
life,  that  it  will  let  this  man  live  !  —  but  how  out  of 
this  can  she  avail  ? 

Duke.  It  is  a  rupture  that  you  may  easily  heal : 
and  the  cure  of  it  not  only  saves  your  brother,  but 
keeps  you  from  dishonour  in  doing  it. 

Isab.   Show  me  how,  good  father. 

Duke.  This  fore-named  maid  hath  yet  in  her  the 
continuance  of  her  first  affection  ;  his  unjust  un- 
kindness,  that  in  all  reason  should  have  quenched 
her  love,  hath,  like  an  impediment  in  the  current, 
made  it  more  violent  and  unruly.  Go  you  to  Angelo ; 
answer  his  requiring  with  a  plausible  obedience; 
agree  with  his  demands  to  the  point :  only  refer 
yourself  to  tliis  advantage,  —  first,  that  your  stay 
with  him  may  not  be  long  ;  that  the  time  may  have 
all  shadow  and  silence  in  it ;  and  the  place  answer 
to  convenience  :  this  being  granted  in  course,  now 
follows  all.  We  shall  advise  this  wronged  maid  to 
stead  up  your  appointment,  go  in  your  place  ;  if  the 
encounter  acknowledge  itself  hereafter,  it  may 
compel  him  to  her  recompense :  and  here,  by  this, 
is  your  brother  saved,  your  honour  untainted,  the 
poor  Mariana  advantaged,  and  the  corrupt  deputy 
scaled.  ^  The  maid  will  I  frame,  and  make  fit  for 
his  attempt.  If  you  think  well  to  carry  this  as  you 
may,  the  doubleness  of  the  benefit  defends  the  deceit 
from  reproof.      What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Isab.  The  image  of  it  gives  me  content  already ;  and 
I  trust  it  will  grow  to  a  most  prosperous  perfection. 

Duke.  It  lies  much  in  your  holding  up  :  Haste 
you  speedily  to  Angelo  ;  if  for  this  night  he  entreat 
you  to  his  bed,,  give  him  promise  of  satisfaction.  I 
will  presently  to  St.  Luke's  ;  there,  at  the  moated 
grange,  resides  this  dejected  Mariana:  At  that 
place  call  upon  me ;  and  despatch  with  Angelo,  that 
it  may  be  quickly. 

'  Betrothed.  2  Over-reached. 


Isab.  I  thank  you  for  this  comfort :  Fare  you  well, 
good  father.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  Street  before  the  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  as  a  Friar ;  to  him  Elbow,   Clown, 
and  Officers. 

Elb.   '^2iy,  if  there  be  no  remedy  of  it,  but  that 
you  will  needs  buy  and  fiffll  men  nndwomen  like 
beasts,  we  shall  have  all  the  world  drink^browiTahd"" 
"white  bastard.  3 

Duke.   O,  heavens !   what  stuff  is  here  ? 

Clo.  'Twas  never  merry  world,  since,  of  two 
usuries,  the  merriest  was  put  down,  and  the  worser 
allow'd  by  order  of  law  a  furr'd  gown  to  keep  him 
warm  ;  and  furr'd  with  fox  and  lamb  skins  too,  to 
signify,  that  craft,  being  richer  than  innocency, 
stands  for  the  facing. 

Elb.  Come  your  way,  sir ;  —  Bless  you,  good 
father  friar. 

Duke.  And  you,  good  brother  father  :  What 
offence  hath  this  man  made  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  he  hath  oflTended  the  law  ;  and, 
sir,  we  take  him  to  be  a  thief  too,  sir :  for  we  have 
found  upon  him,  sir,  a  strange  pick-lock,  which  we 
have  sent  to  the  deputy. 

Duke.   Fye,  sirrah. 
Take  him  to  prison,  officer ; 
Correction  and  instruction  must  both  work. 
Ere  this  rude  beast  will  profit. 

Elb.  He  must  before  the  deputy,  sir ;  he  has 
given  him  warning. 

Duke.  That  we  were  all,  as  some  would  seem  to  be. 
Free  from  our  faults,  as  faults  from  seeming  free  ! 

Enter  Lucio. 

Elb.  His  neck  will  come  to  your  waist,  a  cord,  sir. 

Clo.  I  spy  comfort ;  I  cry  bail :  Here's  a  gentle- 
man, and  a  friend  of  mine. 

Lucio.  How,  now,  noble  Pompey  ?  What,  at  the 
heels  of  Caesar?  Art  thou  led  in  triumph?  Art 
going  to  prison,  Pompey  ? 

Clo.   Yes,  faith,  sir. 

Lucio.  Why,  'tis  not  amiss,  Pompey  :  Farewell : 
Go;  say, 'I  sent  thee  thither. 

Clo.  I  hope,  sir,  your  good  worship  will  be  my  bail. 

Lucio.  No,  indeed,  will  I  not,  Pompey ;  it  is  not 
the  wear.  I  will  pray,  Pompey,  to  increase  your 
bondage :    if  you  take  it  not  patiently,  why  your 

mettle  is  the  more  :  Adieu,  trusty  Pompey Bless 

you,  friar. 

Duke.    And  you. 

Lucio.    Does  Bridget  paint  still,  Pompey  ?   Ha  ? 

Elb.    Come  your  ways,  sir  ;  come. 

Clo.   You  will  not  bail  me  then,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Then,  Pompey  ?  nor  now  —  What  news 
abroad,  friar  ?  What  news  ? 

Elb.   Come  your  ways,  sir;  come. 

Lucio.    Go,  —  to  kennel,  Pompey,  go  : 

[Exeunt  Elbow,  Clown,  and  Officers. 
What  news,  friar,  of  the  duke  ? 

Duke.   I  know  none  :    Can  you  tell  me  of  any  ? 

Lucio.  Some  say,  he  is  vdth  the  emperor  of 
Russia  ;  other  some,  he  is  in  Rome  :  But  where  is 
he,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  I  know  not  where :  But  wheresoever,  I 
wish  him  well. 

Lucio.   It  was  a  mad  fantastical  trick  of  him,  to 

3  A  sweet  wine. 


SCEKE  II. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


97 


steal  from  the  state,  and  usurp  the  beggary  he  was 
never  born  to.  Lord  Angelo  dukes  it  well  in  his 
absence  ;  he  puts  transgression  to't. 

Duke.    He  does  well  in't. 

Ludo.  A  little  more  lenity  to  wenching  would  do 
no  harm  in  him  :  something  too  crabbed  that  way, 
friar. 

Duke.  It  is  too  general  a  vice,  and  severity  must 
cure  it. 

Ludo.  Yes,  in  good  sooth,  the  vice  is  of  a  great 
kindred  ;  it  is  well  ally'd. 

Duke.   You  are  pleasant,  sir ;  and  speak  apace. 

Lucio.  Why,  what  a  ruthless  thing  is  it  in 
Angelo  to  take  away  the  life  of  a  man  thus  ?  Would 
the  duke  that  is  absent  have  done  this  ?  He  knew 
the  service,  and  tliat  instructed  him  to  mercy. 

Duke.  I  never  heard  the  absent  duke  much 
detected  for  women ;  he  was  not  inclined  that  way. 

Lucio.   O,  sir,  you  are  deceived. 

Duke.   'Tis  not  possible. 
f    Lricb.   Who?   not  the  duke?  yes,  your  beggar 
jcf  fifty ;  —  and  his  use  was,  to  put  a  ducat  in  her 
/clack-dish  ^  :   the  duke  had  crotchets  in  him  :    He 
'  would  be  drunk  too  ;  that  let  me  inform  you. 

Duke.   You  do  him  wrong,  surely. 

Ludo.  Sir,  I  was  an  inward  of  his  :  a  shy  fellow 
was  the  duke :  and  I  believe  I  know  the  cause  of 
his  withdrawing. 

Duke.   What,  I  pr'ythee,  might  be  the  cause  ? 

Lucio.  No,  —  pardon  ;  —  'tis  a  secret  must  be 
lock'd  within  the  teeth  and  the  lips :  but  this  I  can 
let  you  understand, —  The  greater  file  of  the  sub- 
ject held  the  duke  to  be  wise. 

Duke.   Wise  ?  why,  no  question  but  he  was. 

Ludo.  A  very  superficial,  ignorant,  unweighing 
fellow. 

Duke.  Either  this  is  envy  in  you,  folly,  or  mis- 
taking ;  the  very  stream  of  his  life,  and  the  business 
he  hath  helmed  *,  must,  upon  a  warranted  need,  give 
him  a  better  proclamation.  Let  him  be  but  testi- 
monied  in  his  own  bringings  forth,  and  he  shall 
appear  to  the  envious,  a  scholar,  a  statesman,  and  a 
soldier :  Therefore,  you  speak  unskilfully  ;  or,  if 
your  knowledge  be  more,  it  is  much  darken'd  in 
your  malice. 

Lucio.   Sir,  I  know  him,  and  I  love  him. 

Duke.  Love  talks  with  better  knowledge,  and 
knowledge  with  dearer  love. 

Lucio.   Come,  sir,  I  know  what  I  know. 

Duke.  I  can  hardly  believe  that,  since  you  know 
not  what  you  speak.  But,  if  ever  the  duke  return, 
(as  our  prayers  are  he  may,)  let  me  desire  you  to 
make  your  answer  before  him  :  If  it  be  honest  you 
have  spoke,  you  have  courage  to  maintain  it :  I  am 
bound  to  call  upon  you;  and,  I  pray  you,  your  name  ? 

Lucio.  Sir,  my  name  is  Lucio,  well  known  to 
the  duke. 

Duke.  He  shall  know  you  better,  sir,  if  I  may 
live  to  report  you. 

Lucio.    I  fear  you  not. 

Duke.  O,  you  hope  the  duke  will  return  no  more  ; 
or  you  imagine  me  too  unhurtful  an  opposite.  But, 
indeed,  I  can  do  you  little  harm :  you'll  forswear 
this  again. 

Ludo.  I'll  be  hanged  first  :  thou  art  deceived  in 
mc,  friar.      But  no  more  of  this  :  1  would  the  duke 

*  Clack.di$h  :  ThebegRars,  two  or  three  centuries  ago,use<l 
to  pr<Hi;um  their  want  bv  a  wooden  dish  with  a  moveable 
cover,  which  they  clacked,  to  show  that  their  vessel  was 
empty. 

""  Ouided. 


we  talk  of  were  retum'd  again :  tliis  agent  will 
unpeople  the  province.  Farewell,  good  friar :  I 
pr'ythee  pray  for  me.  The  duke,  I  say  to  thee 
again,  would.  eatmulioUL-iMi  Fridays:  say,  that  I 
said  so.      Farewelir  [Exit. 

Duke.   No^ittight  nor  greatness  in  mortality 
Can  censure  'scape  ;  back-wounding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strikes  :   What  king  so  strong, 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderous  tongue  ? 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Escalus,  Provost,  Overdone,  and  Officers. 

Escal.   Go,  away  with  her  to  prison. 

Over.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me  ;  your  honour 
is  accounted  a  merciful  man  :   good  my  lord. 

Escal.  Double  and  ti^le  admonition,  and  still 
forfeit^  in  the  same  kind  !   This  would  make  mercy 

swear,  and   play  the   tyrant Away  with  her  to 

prison  :  Go  to  ;  no  more  words.  [Exeunt  Overdone 
and  Officers.'\  Provost,  my  brother  Angelo  will  not 
be  altered  ;  Claudio  must  die  to-morrow  :  let  him 
be  furnished  with  divines,  and  have  all  charitable 
preparation  :  if  my  brother  wrought  by  my  pity,  it 
should  not  be  so  with  him. 

Prov.  So  please  you,  this  friar  hath  been  with  him, 
and  advised  him  for  the  entertainment  of  death. 

Escal.  Good  even,  good  father. 

Duke.   Bliss  and  goodness  on  you  ! 

Escal.    Of  whence  are  you  ? 

Duke.  Notof  this  country,  though  my  chance  is  now 
To  use  it  for  my  time :   I  am  a  brother 
Of  gracious  order,  late  come  from  the  see, 
In  special  business  from  his  holiness. 

Escal.   What  news  abroad  i'  the  world  ? 

Duke.  None,  but  that  there  is  so  great  a  fever  on 
goodness  that  the  dissolution  of  it  must  cure  it : 
novelty  is  only  in  request;  and  it  is  as  dangerous 
to  be  aged  in  any  kind  of  course,  as  it  is  virtuous  to 
be  constant  in  any  undertaking.  There  is  scarce 
truth  enough  alive,  to  make  societies  secure ;  but 
security  enough,  to  make  fellowships  accurs'd:  much 
upon  this  riddle  runs  the  wisdom  of  the  world. 
This  news  is  old  enough,  yet  it  is  every  day's  news. 
I  pray  you,  sir,  of  what  disposition  was  the  duke  ? 

Escal.  One,  that,  above  all  other  strifes,  con- 
tended especially  to  know  himself. 

Duke.   What  pleasure  was  he  given  to  ? 

Escal.  Rather  rejoicing  to  see  another  merry, 
than  merry  at  any  thing  which  profess'd  to  make 
him  rejoice  :  a  gentleman  of  all  temperance.  But 
leave  we  him  to  his  events,  with  a  prayer  they  may 
prove  prosperous :  and  let  me  desire  to  know  how 
you  find  Claudio  prepared.  I  am  made  to  under- 
stand, that  you  have  lent  him  visitation. 

Duke.  He  professes  to  have  received  no  sinister 
measure  from  his  judge,  but  most  willingly  humbles 
himself  to  the  determination  of  justice  :  yet  hati  he 
framed  to  himself,  by  the  instruction  of  his  frailty, 
many  deceiving  promises  of  life ;  which  I,  by  my 
good  leisure,  have  discredited  to  him,  and  now  is  he 
resolved  to  die. 

Escal.  You  have  paid  the  heavens  your  function, 
and  the  prisoner  the  very  debt  of  your  calling.  I 
have  labour'd  for  the  poor  gentleman,  to  the 
extremest  shore  of  my  modesty  ;  but  my  brother 
justice  have  I  found  so  severe,  that  he  hath  forced 
me  to  tell  him,  he  is  indeed  —justice. 

Duke.  If  his  own  life  answer  the  straitness  of  his 


TransgreM. 
H 


98 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  IV. 


proceeding,  it  shall  become  him  well ;  wherein,  if 
he  chance  to  fail,  he  liath  sentenced  himself. 

Escal.   I  am  going  to  visit  the  prisoner :    Fare 
you  well. 

Duke.   Peace  be  with  you  ! 

[Exeunt  Escalus  and  Provost. 
He,  who  the  sword  of  heaven  would  bear, 
Sliould  be  as  holy  as  severe ; 
Pattern  in  himself  to  know, 
Grace  to  stand,  and  virtue  go ; 
More  nor  less  to  others  paying, 
Than  by  self-offences  weighing. 
Shame  to  him,  whose  cruel  striking 
Kills  for  faults  of  his  own  liking  ! 


Twice  treble  shame  on  Angelo, 
To  weed  my  vice,  and  let  his  grow  ! 
O,  what  may  man  within  him  hide. 
Though  angel  on  the  outward  side  ! 
How  may  likeness,  made  in  crimes, 
Making  practice  on  the  times. 
Draw  with  idle  spiders'  strings 
Most  pond'rous  and  substantial  things 
Craft  against  vice  1  must  apply  : 
With  Angelo  to-night  shall  lie 
His  old  betrothed,  but  despis'd  ; 
So  disguise  shall,  by  the  disguis'd. 
Pay  with  falsehood  false  exacting. 
And  perform  an  old  contracting. 


[Rvit. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  Mariana's  House. 

Mariana  discovered  sitting ;  a  Boy  singing- 
SONG. 
Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

bring  again, 
Seals  of  love,  but  seaVd  in  vain, 

seaVd  in  vain. 

Mari.   Break  off  thy  song,  and  haste  thee  quick 
away  ; 
Here  comes  a  man  of  comfort,  whose  advice 

Hath  often  still'd  my  brawling  discontent 

[Exit  Boy. 
Enter  Duke. 
I  cry  you  mercy,  sir  ;  and  well  could  wish 
You  had  not  found  me  here  so  musical : 
Let  me  excuse  me,  and  believe  me  so,  — 
IVIy  mirth  it  much  displeas'd,  but  pleas'd  my  woe. 
Duke.  'Tis  good :  though  music  oft  hath  such  a 
charm, 
To  make  bad  good,  and  good  provoke  to  harm. 
I  pray^you,  tell  me,  hath  any  body  enquired  for  me 
here  to-day  ?  much  \ipon  this  time  have  I  promis'd 
here  to  meet. 

Mari.  You  have  not  been  inquired  after  :  I  have 
sat  here  all  day. 

Enter  Isabella. 

Duke.  I  do  constantly  believe  you  :  —  The  time 
is  come,  even  now.  I  shall  crave  your  forbearance 
a  little :  may  be,  I  will  call  upon  you  anon,  for 
some  advantage  to  yourself. 

Mari.   I  am  always  bound  to  you.  [Exit. 

Duke.   Very  well  met,  and  welcome. 
What  is  the  news  from  this  good  deputy  ? 

Isab.    He  hath  a  garden  circummur'd?  with  brick, 
Whose  western  side  is  with  a  vineyard  back'd ; 
And  to  that  vineyard  is  a  planched  8  gate, 
That  makes  his  opening  with  this  bigger  key  : 
This  other  doth  command  a  little  door, 
Which  from  the  vineyard  to  the  garden  leads : 
There  have  I  made  my  promise  to  call  on  him, 
Upon  the  heavy  middle  of  the  night. 


Walled  round. 


Planked,  wooden. 


Duke.   But  shall  you  on  your  knowledge  find  this 
way? 

Isab.   I  have  ta'en  a  due  and  wary  note  upon't ; 
With  whispering  and  most  guilty  diligence, 
In  action  all  of  precept,  he  did  show  me 
The  way  twice  o'er. 

Duke.  Are  there  no  other  tokens 

Between  you  'greed,  concerning  her  observance  ? 

Isab.   No,  none,  but  only  a  repair  i'  the  dark  ; 
And  that  I  have  possess'd  him,  my  most  stay 
Can  be  but  brief :   for  I  have  made  him  know, 
I  have  a  servant  comes  with  me  along, 
That  stays  upon  me ;  whose  persuasion  is, 
I  come  about  my  brother. 

Duke.  'Tis  well  borne  up. 

I  have  not  yet  made  known  to  Mariana 
A  word  of  this  :  —  What  ho  !  within  !  come  forth  ! 

Re-enter  Mariana. 

I  pray  you,  be  acquainted  with  this  maid  j 
She  comes  to  do  you  good. 

Isdb.  I  do  desire  the  like. 

Duke.  Do  you  persuade  yourself  that  I  respect  you  ? 

Mai-i.   Good  friar,    I  know  you  do ;    and  have 
found  it. 

Duke.  Take  then  this  your  companion  by  the  hand. 
Who  hath  a  story  ready  for  your  ear  : 
I  shall  attend  your  leisure  ;  but  make  haste ; 
The  vaporous  night  approaches. 

Mari.  Will't  please  you  walk  aside  ? 

[Exeunt  Mariana  and  Isabella. 

Duke.  O  place  and  greatness,  millions  of  false  eyes 
Are  stuck  upon  thee  !  volumes  of  report 
Run  with  these  false  and  most  contrarious  quests  9 
Upon  thy  doings  !  thousand  'scapes  '  of  wit 
Make  thee  the  father  of  their  idle  dream, 
And  rack  thee  in  tlieir  fancies  !  —  Welcome  !   Ho\^ 
agreed? 

Re-enter  Mariana,  and  Isabella. 

Isab.   She'll  take  the  enterprise  upon  her,  father, 
If  you  advise  it. 

Duke.  It  is  not  my  consent. 

But  my  intreaty  too.  _ 

Isab.  Little  have  you  to  say, 

When  you  depart  from  him,  but,  soft  and  low. 
Remember  now  my  brother.  . 

Mari.  Fear  me  not. 


Inquisitions,  inquiries. 


1  SalUes. 


Scene  II. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


99 


Duke.  Nor,  gentle  daughter,  fear  you  not  at  all : 
He  is  your  husband  on  a  pre-contract : 
To  bring  you  thus  together,  'tis  no  sin ; 
Sith  tliat  the  justice  of  your  title  to  him 
IDoth  flourish-  the  deceit.      Coine,  let  us  go  ; 
Oiu"  corn's  to  reap,  for  yet  our  tithe's  3  to  sow. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  Provost  and  Clown. 

Prov.  Come  hither,  sirrah :  Can  you  cut  off  a 
man's  head  ? 

Clo.  If  the  man  be  a  batchelor,  sir,  I  can  :  but  if 
he  be  a  married  man,  he  is  his  wife's  head,  and  I  can 
never  cut  off  a  woman's  head. 

Prov.  Coirte,  sir,  leave  me  your  snatches,  and 
yield  me  a  direct  answer.  To-morrow  morning  are 
to  die  Claudio  and  Bamardine :  here  is  in  our  pri- 
son a  common  executioner,  who  in  his  office  lacks 
a  helper :  if  you  will  take  it  on  you  to  assist  him, 
it  shall  redeem  you  from  your  gyves  ** ;  if  not,  you 
shall  have  your  full  time  of  imprisonment,  and  your 
deliverance  with  an  unpitied  whipping. 

Clo.  Sir,  I  will  be  content  to  be  a  lawful  hangman. 
I  would  l)e  glad  to  receive  some  instruction  from  my 
fellow-partner. 

Prov.  What  ho,  Abhorson !  Where's  Abhorson, 
there? 

Enter  Abhorsok. 

Abhor.   Do  you  call,  sir? 

Prov.  Sirrah,  here's  a  fellow  will  help  you  to- 
morrow in  your  execution  :  If  you  think  it  meet, 
compound  with  him  by  the  year,  and  let  him  abide 
here  with  you  ?  if  not,  use  him  for  the  present,  and 
dismiss  him. 

Abhor.  Fye  upon  him,  he  will  discredit  our  mys- 
tery. 5 

Prov.  Go  to,  sir  j  you  weigh  equally  ;  a  feather 
will  turn  the  scale.  [Erit. 

Clo.  Pray,  sir,  by  your  good  favour,  (for,  surely, 
sir,  a  good  favour  you  have,  but  that  you  have  a 
hanging  look,)  do  you  call,  sir,  your  occupation  a 
mystery  ? 

Abhor.   Ay,  sir  ;  a  mystery. 

Clo.  Painting,  sir,  I  have  heard  say,  is  a  mystery, 
but  what  mystery  there  should  be  in  hanging,  if  I 
should  be  hanged,  I  cannot  imagine. 

Abhor.    Sir,  it  is  a  mystery. 

C7o.    Proof. 

Abhor.  Every  true  man's  apparel  fits  your  thief : 
if  it  be  too  little  for  your  thief,  your  true  man  thinks 
it  big  enough ;  if  it  be  too  big  for  your  thief,  your 
tliief  thinks  it  little  enough:  so  every  true  man's 
apparel  fits  your  thief. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.   Arc  you  agreed? 

Clo.  Sir,  I  will  serve  him ;  for  I  do  find,  your 
hangman  is  a  penitent  trade ;  he  doth  often  ask  for- 
giveness. 

Prov.  You,  sirrah,  provide  your  block  and  your 
axe,  to-morrow,  four  o'clock. 

Abhor.  Come  on  ;  I  will  instruct  thee  in  my 
trade;  follow. 

Clo.  I  do  desire  to  learn,  sir  ;  and,  I  hope,  if  you 
have  occasion  to  use  me  for  your  own  turn,  you 


'  Oild,  or  varnish  over. 

'  Tilth,  land  prepared  for  sowing. 

*  Fetters. 


>  Trade. 


shall  find  me  yare  C  :  for  truly,  sir,  for  your  kindness, 
I  owe  you  a  good  turn. 

Prov.    Call  hither  Barnardine  and  Claudio  : 

[ExeuTit  Clown  and  Abhorson. 
One  has  my  pity ;   not  a  jot  the  other, 
Being  a  murderer,  tliough  he  were  my  brother. 

Enter  Claudio. 
Look,  here's  the  warrant,  Claudio,  for  thy  death  : 
'Tis  now  dead  midnigiit,  and  by  eight  to-morrow 
Thou  must  be  made  immortal.    Where's  Barnardine? 
Claud.   As  fast  lock'd  up  in  sleep,  as  guiltless 
labour 
When  it  lies  starkly  in  the  traveller's  bones : 
He  will  not  wake. 

Prov.  Who  can  do  good  on  him  ? 

Well,  go,  prepare  youi-self.      But  liark,  \\'hat  noise  ? 

[^Knocking  within. 
Heaven  give  your  spirits  comfort !    [Exit  Claudio. 

By  and  by  :  — 
I  hope  it  is  some  pardon  or  reprieve. 
For  the  most  gentle  Claudio Welcome,  father. 

Enter  Duke. 

Duke.  The  best  and  wholsomest  spirits  of  the  night 
Envelope  you,  good  provost!    Who  call'd  here  of 
late? 

Prov.   None,  since  the  curfew  rung. 

Duke.  Not  Isabel? 

Prov.   No. 

Duke.  They  will  then,  ere't  be  long. 

Prov.   What  comfort  is  for  Claudio  ? 

Duke.  There's  some  in  hope. 

Prov.   It  is  a  bitter  deputy. 

Duke.   Not  so,  not  so  ;  his  life  is  parallel'd 
Even  with  the  stroke  and  line  of  his  great  justice  ; 
He  doth  with  holy  abstinence  subdue 
That  in  himself,  which  he  spurs  on  his  power 
To  qualify  in  others  :   were  he  meal'd  7 
With  that  which  he  corrects,  then  were  he  tyrannous ; 
But  this  being  so,  he's  just,  —  Now  are  they  come. 
{^Knocking  within.  —  Provost  goes  out* 
This  is  a  gentle  provost :    Seldom,  when 
The  steel'd  gaoler  is  the  friend  of  men.  — 
How  now  ?  what  noise  ?  That  spirit's  possess'd  with 

haste. 
That  wounds  the  unsisting  postern  with  these  strokes. 

Provost  returns,  speaking  to  one  at  the  door. 

Prov.   Tliere  he  must  stay  until  the  officer 
Arise  to  let  him  in ;  he  is  call'd  up. 

Duke.  Have  you  no  countermand  for  Claudio  yet, 
But  he  must  die  to-morrow  ? 

Prov.  None,  sir,  none. 

Duke.   As  near  the  dawning,  provost,  as  it  is, 
You  shall  hear  more  ere  morning. 

Prov.  Happily", 

You  something  know  ;  yet,  I  believe,  there  comes 
No  countermand  ;  no  such  example  have  we : 
Besides,  upon  the  very  siege  9  of  justice. 
Lord  Angelo  hath  to  the  public  ear 
Profess'd  the  contrary. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Duke.   Tliis  is  his  lordship's  man. 
l*rov.   And  here  comes  Claudio's  pardon. 
Mess.   My  lord  hath  sent  you  this  note ;  and  by 
me  tliis  further  charge,  tliat  you  swerve  not  from 


'  Ready. 
"  Perhapc 


H  2 


7  Defiled. 
"Soat 


100 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  IV. 


the  smallest  article  of  it,  neither  in  time,  matter,  or 
other  circumstance.  Good  morrow  j  for,  as  1  take 
it,  it  is  almost  day. 

Prov.   I  shall  obey  him.  [Exit  Messenger. 

Duke.   This  is  his  pardon  ;  purchas'd  by  such  sin, 

[^  Aside. 
For  which  the  pardoner  himself  is  in  : 
Hence  hath  offence  his  quick  celerity, 
When  it  is  borne  in  high  authority  : 
When  vice  makes  mercy,  mercy's  so  extended. 
That  for  the  fault's  love,  is  the  offender  friended. — 
Now,  sir,  wliat  news  ? 

Prov.  I  told  you  :  Lord  Angelo,  belike,  thinking 
me  remiss  in  mine  office,  awakens  me  with  this  un- 
wonted putting  on  :  methinks,  strangely ;  for  he 
hath  not  used  it  before. 

Duke.   Pray  you,  let's  hear. 

Prov.  [Reads.]  Whatsoever  you  may  hear  to  the 
contrary,  let  Claudia  be  executed  by  four  of  the  clock  : 
and,  in  the  afternoon,  Barnardine :  for  my  belter 
salisfdclion,  let  me  have  Clatidiu's  head  sent  me  by  five. 
Let  this  be  duly  performed  :  uith  a  thought,  that  more 
depends  on  it  than  we  must  yet  deliver.  Thus  fail  not 
to  do  your  office,  as  you  will  answer  it  at  your  jieril. 
What  say  you  to  this,  sir  ? 

Duke.  What  is  that  Barnardine,  who  is  to  be 
executed  in  the  afternoon  ? 

Prov.  A  Bohemian  born ;  but  here  nursed  up 
and  bred  :   one  that  is  a  prisoner  nine  years  old.  • 

Duke.  How  came  it,  that  the  absent  duke  had 
not  either  delivered  him  to  his  liberty,  or  executed 
him  ?  I  have  heard,  it  was  ever  his  manner  to  do  so. 

Prov.  His  friends  still  wrought  reprieves  for  him  : 
And,  indeed,  his  fact,  till  now  in  the  government 
of  lord  Angelo,  came  not  to  an  undoubtful  proof. 

Duke.   Is  it  now  apparent  ? 

Prov.   Most  manifest,  and  not  denied  by  himself. 

Duke.  Hath  he  borne  himself  penitently  in  prison? 
How  seems  he  to  be  touch'd  ? 

Prov.  A  man  that  apprehends  death  no  more, 
dreadfully,  but  as  a  drunken  sleep  ;  careless,  reck- 
less, and  fearless  of  what's  past,  present,  or  to  come ; 
insensible  of  mortality,  and  desperately  mortal. 

Duke.   He  wants  advice. 

Prov.  He  will  hear  none :  he  hath  evermore  had 
the  liberty  of  the  prison  ;  give  him  leave  to  escape 
hence,  he  would  not :  drunk  many  times  a  day,  if 
not  many  days  entirely  drunk.  We  have  very 
often  awaked  him,  as  if  to  carry  him  to  execution, 
and  showed  him  a  seeming  warrant  for  it :  it  hath 
not  moved  him  at  all. 

Duke.  More  of  him  anon.  There  is  written  in 
your  brow,  provost,  honesty  and  constancy :  if  I 
read  it  not  truly,  my  ancient  skill  beguiles  me  ;  but 
in  the  boldness  of  my  cunning,  I  will  lay  myself  in 
hazard.  Claudio,  whom  here  you  have  a  warrant 
to  execute,  is  no  greater  forfeit  to  the  law  than 
Angelo  who  hath  sentenc'd  him :  To  make  you 
imderstand  this  in  a  manifested  effect,  I  crave  but 
four  days'  respite  ;  for  the  which  you  are  to  do  me 
both  a  present  and  a  dangerous  courtesy. 

Prov.    Pray,  sir,  in  what? 

Duke.   In  the  delaying  death. 

Prov.  Alack  !  how  may  I  do  it  ?  having  the  hour 
limited  ;  and  an  express  command,  under  penalty, 
to  deliver  his  head  in  the  view  of  Angelo  ?  I  may 
make  my  case  as  Claudio's,  to  cross  this  in  the 
smallest. 

Duke.   By  the  vow  of  mine  order,  I  warrant  you, 

1  Nine  years  in  prison. 


if  my  instructions  may  be  your  guide.  I/Ct  this 
Barnardine  be  this  morning  executed,  and  his  head 
borne  to  Angelo. 

Prov.  Angelo  hath  seen  them  both,  and  will  dis- 
cover the  favour.* 

Duke.  O,  death's  a  great  disguiser:  and  you 
may  add  to  it.  Shave  the  head,  and  tie  the  beard ; 
and  say,  it  was  tlie  desire  of  the  penitent  to  be  so 
bared  before  his  death :  you  know,  the  course  is 
common.  If  any  thing  fall  to  you  upon  this,  more 
than  thanks  and  good  fortune,  by  the  saint  whom  I 
profess,  I  will  plead  against  it  with  my  life, 

Prov.  Pardon  me,  good  father  j  it  is  against  my 
oatli. 

Duke.  Were  you  sworn  to  the  duke,  or  to  the 
deputy  ? 

Prov.   To  him,  and  to  his  substitutes. 

Duke.  You  will  think  you  have  made  no  offence, 
if  the  duke  avouch  the  justice  of  your  dealing  ? 

Prov.    But  what  likelihood  is  in  that? 

Duke.  Not  a  resemblance,  but  a  certainty.  Yet 
since  I  see  you  fearful,  that  neither  my  coat,  in- 
tegrity, nor  my  persuasion,  can  with  ease  attempt 
you,  I  will  go  further  than  I  meant,  to  pluck  all 
fears  out  of  you.  Look  you,  sir,  here  is  the  hand 
and  seal  of  the  duke.  You  know  the  character,  I 
doubt  not ;  and  the  signet  is  not  strange  to  you. 

Prov.    I  know  them  both. 

Duke.  The  contents  of  this  is  the  return  of  the 
duke  ;  you  shall  anon  over-read  it  at  your  pleasure ; 
where  you  shall  find,  within  these  two  days  he  will 
be  here.  This  is  a  thing  that  Angelo  knows  not : 
for  he  this  very  day  receives  letters  of  strange  tenor ; 
perchance,  of  the  duke's  death  :  perchance,  entering 
into  some  monastery ;  but,  by  chance,  nothing  of 
what  is  writ.  Look,  the  unfolding  star  calls  up  the 
shepherd :  put  not  yourself  into  amazement,  how 
these  things  should  be  :  all  difficulties  are  but  easy 
when  they  are  known.  Call  your  executioner,  and 
off"  with  Barnardine's  head :  I  will  give  him  a  pre- 
sent shrift,  and  advise  him  for  a  better  place.  Yet 
you  are  amazed ;  but  this  shall  absolutely  resolve 
you.      Come  away,  it  is  almost  clear  dawn. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  Another  Room  m  the  same. 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.   I  am  as  well  acquainted  here,  as  I  was  ii 

our  house  of  profession :   one  would  think,  it  wen 

mistress  Overdone's  own  house,  for  here  be  manj 

of  her  old  customers.  s|^ 

Enter  Abhorson. 

Abhoi\   Sirrah,  bring  Barnardine  hithen 

Clo.  Master  Barnardine !  you  must  rise  and  be 
hang'd,  master  Barnardine  ! 

Abhor.   What,  ho,  Barnardine  ! 

Bamar.  [  Within.  ]  A  plague  o'  your  throats ! 
Who  makes  that  noise  there  ?  What  are  you  ? 

Clo.  Your  friends,  sir ;  the  hangmen :  You  must 
be  so  good,  sir,  to  rise  and  be  put  to  death. 

Barnar.  [Within.^  Away,  you  rogue,  away  ;  I  am 
sleepy. 

Abhor.  Tell  him,  he  must  awake,  and  that  quickly 
too. 

Clo.  Pray  master  Barnardine,  awake  till  you  are 
executed,  and  sleep  afterwards. 

Abhor.    Go  in  to  him,  and  fetch  him  out. 

2  Countenance. 


Scene  III. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


101 


Clo.  He  is  coming  sir,  he  is  coining ;  I  hear  his 
straw  rustic. 

Enter  Barnakiune. 

Abhor.   Is  the  axe  upon  tlie  block,  sirrah? 

Clo.   Very  ready,  sir. 

Barnar.  How  now,  Abhorson  ?  what's  the  news 
with  you  ? 

Abhor.  Truly,  sir,  I  would  desire  you  to  clap 
into  your  prayers :  for,  look  you,  the  warrant's 
come. 

liarnar.  You  rogue,  I  have  been  drinking  all 
night ;    I  am  not  fitted  for't. 

Clo.  O,  the  better,  sir;  for  he  that  drinks  all 
night,  and  is  hang'd  betimes  in  the  morning,  may 
sleep  the  sounder  all  the  next  day. 

Jknter  Duke. 

Abhor.  Look  you,  sir,  here  comei  your  ghostly 
father :    Do  we  jest  now,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  Sir,  induced  by  my  charity,  and  hearing 
how  hastily  you  are  to  depart,  I  am  come  to  advise 
you,  comfort  you,  and  pray  with  you. 

liarnar.  Friar,  not  I  j  I  have  been  drinking  hard 
all  night,  and  I  will  have  more  time  to  prepare  me, 
or  they  shall  beat  out  my  brains  with  billets  :  I  will 
not  consent  to  die  this  day,  that's  certain. 

Duke.  O,  sir,  you  must :  and  therefore  I  beseech 
you. 
Look  forwarcl  on  the  journey  you  shall  go. 

Barjiar.  I  swear,  1  will  not  die  to-day  for  any 
man's  persuasion. 

Duke.   But  hear  you 

Barnar.  Not  a  word ;  if  you  have  any  thing  to 
say  to  me,  come  to  my  ward ;  for  thence  will  not 
I  to-day.  \^Exit. 

Enter  Provost. 

Diike.  Unfit  to  live,  o)c  die  :  O,  gravel  heart !  — 
After  him,  fellows  ;  bring  him  to  the' block 

[Exeunt  Abhorson  and  Clown. 

Prov.   Now,  sir,  how  do  you  find  the  prisoner  ? 

Duke.  A  creature  unprepar'd,  unmeet  for  death  ; 
And,  to  transport  him  in  the  mind  he  is, 
Were  horrible. 

Prov.  Here,  in  the  prison,  father. 

There  died  this  morning  of  a  cruel  fever 
One  Ragozine,  a  most  notorious  pirate, 
A  man  of  Claudio's  years  ;  his  beard  and  head, 
Just  of  his  colour  -.   What  if  we  do  omit 
This  reprobate,  till  he  were  well  inclined ; 
And  satisfy  tlie  deputy  with  the  visage 
Of  Ragozine,  more  like  to  Claudio  ? 

Duke.   O,  'tis  an  accident  that  heaven  provides  ! 
Despatch  it  presently ;  the  hour  draws  on 
Prefix'd  by  Angelo  :    See  this  bedone, 
And  sent  according  to  command  ;  whiles  I 
Persuade  this  rude  wretch  willingly  to  die. 

Prov.  This  shall  be  done,  good  father,  presently. 
But  Bamardine  must  die  this  afternoon  : 
A  fid  how  shall  we  continue  Claudio, 
To  save  me  from  the  danger  that  might  come, 
If  he  were  known  alive  ? 

Duke.  Let  this  be  done :  put  them  in  secret  holds, 
Botli  Bamardine  and  Claudio  :   Ere  twice 
Tlie  sun  hath  made  his  journal  greeting  to 
Tlie  under  generation  %  you  shall  find 
Your  safety  manifested. 

Prov.   I  am  your  free  dependant. 

3  The  antlpodca. 


Duke.  Quick,  despatch, 

And  send  the  head  to  Angelo.  [Exit  Provost. 

Now  win  I  write  letters  to  Angelo,  — 
Tlie  provost,  he  shall  bear  them,  whose  contents 
Shall  witness  to  him,  I  am  near  at  home  ; 
And  that  by  great  injunctions  I  am  bound 
To  enter  publickly.:   him  I'll  desire 
To  meet  me  at  the  consecrated  fount, 
A  league  below  the  city  ;  and  from  thence, 
By  cold  gradation  and  weal-balanced  form. 
We  shall  proceed  with  Angelo. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.    Here  is  the  head  ;   I'll  carry  it  myself. 

Duke.    Convenient  is  it :    Make  a  swift  return  ; 
For  I  would  commune  with  you  of  such  things, 
That  want  no  ear  but  yours. 

Prov.  I'll  make  all  speed.    [E.iit. 

Isab,   [Within.']    Peace,  ho,  be  here  ! 

Duke.   The  tongue  of  Isabel :  —  She's  come  to 
know. 
If  yet  her  brother's  pardon  be  come  hither : 
But  I  will  keep  her  ignorant  of  her  good. 
To  make  her  heavenly  comforts  of  despair. 
When  it  is  least  expected. 

Enter  Isabella. 

Isab.   Ho,  by  your  leave. 

Duke.    Good  morning  to  you,  fair  and  gracious 
daughter.  - 

Isab.   The  better,  given  me  by  so  holy  a  man. 
Hath  yet  the  deputy  sent  my  brother's  pardon  ? 

Duke.   He  hath  relcas'd  him,   Isabel,  from  tlie 
world  J 
His  head  is  off,  and  sent  to  Angelo. 

Isab.   Nay,  but  it  is  not  so. 

Duke.  .  It  is  no  other : 

Show  your  wisdom,  daughter,  in  your  close  patience. 

Isab.   Unhappy  Claucho  '   Wretched  Isabel  ! 
Injurious  world  !   A<^ur^  Angelo  ! 

Duke.   This  nor  hurts  him,  nor  profits  you  a  jot ; 
Forbear  it  therefore  ;  give  your  cause  to  heaven. 
Mark  what  I  say  ;  which  you  shall  find 
By  every  syllable,  a  faithful  verity  : 
The  duke  comes  home  to-morrow ;  —  nay,  dry  your 

eyes; 
One  of  our  convent,  and  his  confessor. 
Gives  me  this  instance  :    Already  he  hath  carried 
Notice  to  Escalus  and  Angelo  ; 
Who  do  prepare  to  meet  him  at  the  gates. 
There  to  give  up  their  power.     If  you  can,  pace 

your  wisdom 
In  that  good  path  that  I  would  wish  it  go  ; 
And  you  shall  have  your  bosom  •*  on  ttjjs  wretch, 
Grace  of  the  duke,  revenges  to  your  heart. 
And  general  honour. 

Isab.  I  am  directed  by  you. 

Duke.   This  letter  then  to  friar  Peter  give  ; 
'Tis  that  he  sent  me  of  the  duke's  return  : 
Say,  by  this  token,  I  desire  his  company 
At  Mariana's  house  to-night.    Iler  cause,  and  yours, 
I'll  perfect  him  withal ;  and  he  shall  bring  you 
Before  the  duke  ;  and  to  the  head  of  Angelo 
Accuse  him  home,  and  home.      For  my  poor  self, 
I  am  combined  by  a  sacred  vow. 
And  shall  be  absent.     Wend  ^  you  with  tliis  letter  : 
Command  these  fretting  waters  from  your  eyes 
With  a  light  heart ;  trust  not  my  holy  order, 
If  I  pervert  your  course.  —  Who's  here  ? 


«  Your  heul't  desire. 


H  3 


»  Go. 


10^ 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  IV.    Scene  VI. 


Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Good  even  ! 

Friar,  where  is  the  provost  ? 

Duke.  Not  within,  sir. 

Lucio.  O,  pretty  Isabella,  I  am  pale  at  mine  heart, 
to  see  thine  eyes  so  red  :  thou  must  be  patient :  But 
they  say  the  duke  will  be  here  to-morrow.  By  my 
troth,  Isabel,  I  lov'd  thy  brother:  if  the  old  fantas- 
tical duke  of  dark  corners  had  been  at  home,  he 
had  lived.  \^Exit  Isabella. 

Duke.  Sir,  the  duke  is  marvellous  little  beholden 
to  your  reports ;  but  the  best  is,  he  lives  not  in  them. 

Lucio.  Friar,  thou  knowest  not  the  duke  so  well 
as  I  do :  he's  a  better  woodman  than  thou  takest 
him  for. 

Duke.  Well,  you'll  answer  this  one  day.  Fare 
ye  well. 

Lucio.  Nay,  tarry ;  I'll  go  along  with  thee ;  I 
can  tell  thee  pretty  tales  of  the  duke. 

Duke.  You  have  told  me  too  many  of  him 
already,  sir,  if  they  be  true ;  if  not  true,  none  were 
enough ;  but,  sir,  your  company  is  fairer  than 
honest :    Rest  you  well. 

Lucio-  By  my  troth,  I'll  go  with  thee  to  the 
lane's  end  :  Nay,  friar,  I  am  a  kind  of  burr,  I  shall 
stick.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  in  Angelo's  House. 

Enter  Angelo  and  Escalus. 

Escal.  Every  letter  he  hath  writ  hath  disvouch'd 
other. 

Ang.  In  most  uneven  and  distracted  manner. 
His  actions  show  much  like  to  madness :  pray, 
heaven,  his  wisdom  be  not  tainted !  And  why  meet 
him  at  the  gates,  and  re-deHver  our  authorities  there? 

Escal.   I  guess  not. 

Ang.  And  why  should  we  proclaim  it  in  an  hour 
before  his  entering,  that,  if  any  crave  redress  of 
injustice,  they  should  exhibit  their  petitions  in  the 
street  ? 

Escal.  He  shows  his  reason  for  that :  to  have  a 
despatch  of  complaints;  and  to  deliver  us  from 
devices  hereafter,  which  shall  then  have  no  power 
to  stand  against  us. 

Ang.  Well,  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  proclaim'd : 
Betimes  i'  the  morn,  I'll  call  you  at  your  house ; 
Give  notice  to  such  men  of  sort  and  suite 
As  are  to  meet  him. 

Escal.  I  shall,  sir  :   fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 

Ang.    Good  night.  — 
This  deed  unshapes  me  quite,  makes  me  unpregnant, 
And  dull  to  all  proceedings.      A  deflower'd  maid  ! 

And  by  an  eminent  body,  that  enToTC*d 

The  law  against  it !  —  But  that  her  tender  shame 
Will  not  proclaim  against  her  maiden  loss. 
How  might  she  tongue  me  ?  Yet  reason  dares  her  ? 
—  no : 

6  Figure  and  rank. 


For  my  authority  bears  a  credent  bulk, 

TJiat  no  particular  scandal  once  can  touch. 

But  it  confounds  the  breather.    He  should  have  liv'd. 

Save  that  his  riotous  youth,  with  dangerous  sense. 

Might,  in  the  times  to  come,  have  ta'en  revenge, 

By^so  receiving  a  dishonour'd  life, 

With  ransome  of  such  shame.     'Would  yet  he  had 

liv'd, 
Alack,  when  once  our  grace  we  have  forgot, 
Nothing  goes  right ;  we  would,  and  we  would  not. 

[ExU. 

SCENE  V.  —  Fields  without  the  town. 

Enter  Duke  in  his  own  habit,  and  Friar  Peter. 
Duke.   These  letters  at  fit  time  deliver  me. 

[Giving  letters. 
The  provost  knows  our  purpose,  and  our  plot. 
The  matter  being  afoot,  keep  your  instruction. 
And  hold  you  ever  to  our  special  drift ; 
Though  sometimes  you  do  blench  7  from  this  to  that. 
As  cause  doth  minister.    Go,  call  at  Flavins'  house, 
And  tell  him  where  I  stay  :   give  the  like  notice 
To  Valentinus,  Rowland,  and  to  Crassus, 
And  bid  them  bring  the  trumpets  to  the  gate ; 
But  send  me  Flavins  first. 

F.  Peter.  It  shall  be  speeded  well. 

[Exit  Friar. 
Enter  Varrius. 

Duke.   I  thank  thee,  Varrius ;  thou  hast  made 
good  haste : 
Come,  we  will  walk  :   There's  other  of  our  friends 
Will  greet  us  here  anon,  my  gentle  Varrius.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  Street  near  the  city  gate. 

Enter  Isabella  and  Mariana. 

Isah.   To  speak  so  indirectly,  I  am  loath  ; 
I  would  say  the  truth  ;  but  to  accuse  him  so. 
That  is  your  part :  yet  I'm  advis'd  to  do  it ; 
He  says,  to  veil  full  s  purpose. 

Mari.  Be  rul'd  by  him. 

Isab.   Besides,  he  tells  me,  that  if  peradventure 
He  speak  against  me  on  the  adverse  side, 
I  should  not  think  it  strange  ;  for  'tis  a  physick 
That's  bitter  to  sweet  end. 

Mari.   I  would,  friar  Peter  — 

Isab,  O,  peace ;  the  friar  is  come. 

Enter  Friar  Peter. 

F.  Peter.   Come,  I  have  found  you  out  a  stand 

most  fit, 
Where  you  may  have  such  vantage  on  the  duke. 
He  shall  not  pass  you;   Twice  have  the  trumpets - 

sounded ; 
The  generous  9  and  gravest  citizens 
Have  hent '  the  gates,  and  veiy  near  upon  , 

Thedukeisent'ring;  therefore  hence,  away.  [Exeunt. 


7  Start  off 
s  Most  noble. 


8  Av^ful 
1  Seized. 


Acr  V.    Scene  I. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


103 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  A  public  Place  near  the  City  Gate. 

Mariana  {veiCd),  Isabella,  and  Peter,  at  a 
distance.  Enter  at  opposite  doors,  Duke,  Varrius, 
Lords:  Anoelo,  Escalus,  Lucio,  Provost, 
Officers,  and  Citizens. 

Du/ce.   My  very  worthy  cousin,  fairly  met :  — 
Our  old  and  faithful  friend,  we  are  glad  to  see  you. 
Ang.  and  Escal.   Happy  return  be  to  your  royal 

grace  ! 
Duke.  Many  and  hearty  thankings  to  you  both. 
We  have  made  inquiry  of  you  ;  and  we  hear 
Such  goodness  of  your  justice,  that  our  soul 
Cannot  but  yield  you  forth  to  public  thanks, 
Forerunning  more  requital. 

Arig.  You  make  my  bonds  still  greater, 

Duke.  O,  your  desert  speaks  loud  j  and  I  should 
wrong  it. 
To  lock  it  in  the  wards  of  covert  bosom, 
When  it  deserves  with  characters  of  brass 
A  forted  residence,  'gainst  the  tooth  of  time, 
And  razure  of  oblivion  :    Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  the  subject  see,  to  make  them  know 
That  outward  courtesies  would  fain  proclaim 

Favours  that  keep  within Come,  Escalus ; 

You  must  walk  by  us  on  our  other  hand ;  — 
And  good  supporters  are  you. 

Peter  and  Isabella  come  forward. 

F.  Peter.   Now  is  your  time;   speak  loud,  and 
kneel  before  him. 

Isab.  Justice,  O  royal  duke  !  Vail  2  your  regard 
Upon  a  wrong'd,  I'd  fain  have  said,  a  maid  ! 
O  worthy  prince,  dishonour  not  your  eye 
By  throwing  it  on  any  other  object. 
Till  you  have  heard  me  in  my  true  complaint. 
And  given  me  justice,  justice,  justice,  justice  ! 

Duke.   Relate  your  wrongs:  In  what?  By  whom? 
Be  brief: 
Here  is  lord  Angelo  shall  give  you  justice ; 
Reveal  yourself  to  him. 

Isab.  O,  worthy  duke, 

You  bid  me  seek  redemption  of  the  devil : 
Hear  me  yourself;  for  that  which  t  must  speak 
Must  either  punish  me,  not  being  believ'd. 
Or  wring  redress  from  you :  hear  me,  O,  hear  me,  here. 

Ang.   My  lord,  her  wits,  I  fear  me,  are  not  firm  : 
She  hath  been  a  suitor  to  me  for  her  brother 
Cut  oft*  by  course  of  justice. 

Isab.  By  course  of  justice  ! 

Ang.  And  she  will  speak  most  bitterly  and  strange. 

Isab.  Most  strange,  but  yet  most  truly  will  I  speak : 
That  Angelo's  forsworn,  is  it  not  strange  ? 
That  Angelo's  a  muifderei*,  isVirot  strange  ? 
That  Angelo  is  an  adultereus-thief^  . 
An  hypocrite,  a  virgih-violator'c 
Is  it  not  straAge,  and  sfcrengeT 

Duke.  Nay,  ten  times  strange. 

Isab.   It  is  not  truer  he  is  Angelo, 
Than  this  is  all  as  true  as  it  is  strange  : 
Nay,  it  is  ten  times  true  :   for  truth  is  truth 
To  the  end  of  reckoning. 

Duke.  Away  with  her:   Poor  soul. 

She  speaks  tliis  in  the  infirmity  of  sense. 

Isab.   O  prince,  I  conjure  thee,  as  tliou  belicv'st 
'  Lower. 


There  is  another  comfort  than  this  world. 

That  tliou  neglect  me  not,  with  that  opinion 

That  I  am  touch'd  with  madness :  make  not  impossible 

That  which  but  seems  unlike :   'tis  not  impossible. 

But  one  the  wicked'§t  caitiff'  on  the  ground, 

May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute. 

As  Angelo  ;  even  so  may  Angelo, 

In  all  his  dressings  %  characts,  titles,  forms. 

Be  an  arch-villain :   believe  it,  royal  prince. 

If  he  be  less,  he's  nothing  ;  but  he's  more. 

Had  I  more  name  for  badness. 

Duke.  By  mine  honesty, 

If  she  be  mad,  (as  I  believe  no  other,) 
Her  madness  hath  the  oddest  frame  of  sense. 
Such  a  dependency  of  thing  on  thing, 
As  e'er  I  heard  in  madness. 

Isab,  O,  gi-acious  duke. 

Harp  not  on  that,  nor  do  not  banish  reason 
For  inequality  :   but  let  your  reason  serve 
To  make  the  truth  appear,  where  it  seems  hid ; 
And  hide  the  false,  seems  true. 

Duke.  Many  that  are  not  mad, 

Have  sure  more  lack  of  reason.  What  would  you  say? 

Isab.   I  am  the  sister  of  one  Claudio, 
Condemn'd  upon  the  {^  of  fornication, 
To  lose  his  head  ;  condemn'd  by  AngClo  1 
I,  in  probation  of  a  sisterhood. 
Was  sent  to  by  my  brother  :  one  Lucio 
Was  then  the  messenger  ;  — 

Lucio.  That's  I,  an't  like  your  grace : 

I  came  to  her  from  Claudio,  and  desir'd  her 
To  try  her  gracious  fortune  with  lord  Angelo, 
For  her  poor  brother's  pardon. 

Isab.  That's  he,  indeed. 

Duke.   You  were  not  bid  to  speak. 

Lucio.  No,  my  good  lord ; 

Nor  wish'd  to  hold  my  peace. 

Duke.  I  wish  you  now  tlien  ; 

Pray  you,  take  note  of  it ;  and  when  you  have 
A  business  for  yourself,  pray  heaven  you  then 
Be  perfect. 

Lucio.         I  warrant  your  honour. 

Duke.  The  warrant's  for  yourself ;  take  heed  to  it! 

Isab.   This  gentleman  told  somewhat  of  my  tale. 

Lucio.    Right. 

Duke.   It  may  be  right ;  but  you  are  in  the  wrong 
To  speak  before  your  time.  —  Proceed. 

Isab.  I  went 

To  this  pernicious  caitiflf  deputy. 

Duke.   That's  somewhat  madly  spoken. 

Isab.  Pardon  it ; 

The  phrase  is  to  the  matter. 

Duke.   Mended  again  :   the  matter  ?  —  Proceed. 

Isab.   In  brief,  —  to  set  the  needless  process  by, 
How  I  persuaded,  how  I  pray'd  and  kneel'd. 
How  he  refell'd  ■»  me,  and  how  I  reply'd  ; 
(For  this  was  of  much  length,)  the  vile  conclusion 
I  now  begin  with  grief  and  shame  to  utter ; 
He  would  not  but  by  gift  of  my  chaste  person 
Helease  my  brother  ;anrt^afte'riTiuch  debatement 
"MyTJsferly  remorse  *  confutes  mine  honour. 
And  I  did  yield  to  him:  But  the  next  morn  betimes, 
His  purpose  surfeiting,  he  sends  a  warrant 
For  my  poor  brother's  head. 


3  UabiU  and  characters  of  office. 
H   4 


*  Refuted. 


Pity. 


104. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  V. 


Duke.  This  is  most  likely. 

Jsab.  O,  that  it  were  as  like,  as  it  is  true ! 

Duke.  By  heaven,  fond  6  wretch,  thou  know'st  not 
what  thou  speak'st ; 
Or  else  thou  art  suborn'd  against  his  honour, 
In  hateful  practice  :    First,  his  integrity 
Stands  without  blemish:  — next,  it  imports  no  reason. 
That  with  such  vehemency  he  should  pursue 
Faults  proper  to  himself:   if  he  had  so  offended, 
He  would  have  weigh'd  thy  brother  by  himself, 
And  not  have  cut  him  off:  Some  one  hath  set  you  on : 
Confess  the  truth,  and  say  by  whose  advice 
Thou  cam'st  here  to  complain. 

Isab.  And  is  this  all  ? 

Then,  oh,  you  blessed  ministers  above, 
Keep  me  in  patience ;  and,  with  ripen'd  time. 
Unfold  the  evil  which  is  here  wrapt  up 
In  countenance  !  —  Heaven  shield  yoiu*  grace  from 

woe, 
As  I,  thus  wrong'd,  hence  unbelieved  go. 

Duke.   I  know  you'd  fain  be  gone  :  —  An  officer  ! 
To  prison  with  her  :  —  Shall  we  thus  permit 
A  blasting  and  a  scandalous  breath  to  fall 
On  him  so  near  us  ?  This  needs  must  be  a  practice. 
—  Who  knew  of  your  intent,  and  coming  hither  ? 

Isab.  One  that  I  would  were  here,  friar  Lodowick. 

Duke.   A  ghostly  father,  belike.  —  Who  knows 
that  Lodowick  ? 

Lucio.  My  lord,  I  know  him;  'tis  a  meddling  friar; 
I  do  not  like  the  man :   had  he  been  lay,  my  lord, 
For  certain  words  he  spake  against  your  grace 
In  your  retirement,  I  had  swing'd  him  soundly. 

Duke.  Words  against  me?  This' a  good  friar,  belike! 
And  to  set  on  this  wretched  woman  here 
Against  our  substitute  !  —  Let  this  friar  be  found. 

Lucio.  But  yesternight,  my  lord,  she  and  that  friar 
I  saw  them  at  the  prison  :   a  saucy  friar, 
A  very  scurvy  fellow. 

F.  Peter.  Blessed  be  yom-  royal  grace  ! 

I  have  stood  by,  my  lord,  and  I  have  heard 
Your  royal  ear  abus'd :    First,  hath  this  woman 
Most  wrongfully  accus'd  your  substitute  : 
Who  is  as  free  from  touch  or  guilt  with  her 
As  she  from  one  unborn. 

Duke.  We  did  believe  no  less. 

Know  you  that  friar  Lodowick,  that  she  speaks  of? 

F.  Peter.   1  know  him  for  a  man  divine  and  holy : 
Not  scurvy,  nor  a  temporary  medler. 
As  he's  reported  by  this  gentleman ; 
And,  on  my  trust,  a  man  that  never  yet, 
Did,  as  he  vouches,  misreport  your  grace. 

Lucio.   My  lord,  most  villainously  !  believe  it. 

F.  Peter.  Well,  he  in  time  may  come  to  clear  him- 
self; 
But  at  this  instant  he  is  sick,  my  lord. 
Of  a  strange  fever  :    Upon  his  mere  request, 
(Being  come  to  knowledge  that  there  was  complaint 
Intended  'gainst  lord  Angelo,)  came  I  hither. 
To  speak,  as  from  his  mouth,  what  he  doth  know 
Is  true,  and  false ;  and  what  he  with  his  oath. 
And  all  probation,  will  make  up  full  clear, 
Wliensoever  he's  convented.  7  First,  for  this  woman ; 
(To  justify  this  worthy  nobleman, 
So  vulgarly  8  and  personally  accus'd,) 
Her  shall  you  hear  disproved  to  her  eyes. 
Till  she  herself  confess  it. 

Duke.  Good  friar,  let's  hear  it. 

[Isabella  is  carried  off",  guarded ;  and 
Mariana  comes  forward. 
« Foolish.  7  Convened.  »  Publickly. 


,„™../ 


Do  you  not  smile  at  this,  lord  Angelo  ?  — 

0  heaven  !  the  vanity  of  wretched  fools ! 
Give  us  some  seats.  —  Come,  cousin  Angelo, 
In  tliis  I'll  be  impartial ;  be  you  judge 

Of  your  own  cause.  —  Is  this  the  witness,  friar  ? 
First,  let  her  show  her  face  ;  and,  after,  speak. 

Marl.   Pardon,  my  lord  ;   I  will  not  show  my  face, 
Until  my  husband  bid  me. 

Duke.  Wliat,  are  you  married  ? 

Mari.   No,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Are  you  a  maid  ? 

Mari.  No,  my  lord. 

Duke.    A  widow  then  ? 

Mari.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Why,  you 

Are  nothing  then :  —  Neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife? 

Mari.   My  lord,  I  do  confess  I  ne'er  was  married ; 
And,  I  confess,  besides,  I  am  no  maid: 

1  have  known  my  husband  ;  yet  my  husband  knowi 

not, 
That  ever  he  knew  me. 

Lucio.  He  was  drunk,  then,  my  lord : 
better. 

Duke.   For  the  benefit  of  silence,  'would  thou  wert 
so  too ! 

Lucio.   Well,  my  lord. 

Duke.   This  is  no  witness  for  lord  Angelo. 

Mari.    Now  I  come  lo't,  my  lor^  : 
She  that  accuses  him  of  fornicatio^, 
In  self-same  manner  doth  accu^  my  husband: 
And  charges  him,  my  lord,  with  such  a  time, 
When  I'll  depose  I  had  him  in  mine  arms. 

Ang.  Cliarges  she  more  than  me  ? 

Mari.   Not  that  I  know. 

Duke.  No  ?  you  say  your  husband  ? 

Mari.   Why,  just,  my  lord,  and  that  is  Angelo. 

Ang.  This  is  a  strange  abuse  9 :  —  Let's  see  thy  face. 

Mari.   My  husband  bids  me  ;  now  I  will  unmask. 

[  Unveiling. 
This  is  that  face,  thou  cruel  Angelo, 
Which  once  thou  swor'st  was  worth  the  looking  on  ; 
This  is  the  hand,  which,  with  a  vow'd  contract, 
Was  fast  belock'd  in  thine  :  and  this  is  she 
That  took  away  the  match  from  Isabel, 
And  did  supply  thee  at  thy  garden-house, 
In  her  imagin'd  person. 

Duke.  Know  you  this  woman  ? 

Ang.  My  lord,  I  must  confess,  I  know  this  woman ; 
And,  five  years  since,  there  was  some  speecli  of  mar- 
riage 
Betwixt  myself  and  her ;  which  was  broke  off. 
Partly,  for  that  her  promised  proportions 
Came  short  of  composition  ;  but  in  chief. 
For  that  her  reputation  was  disvalued 
In  levity  :   since  which  time,  of  five  years, 
I  never  spake  with  her,  saw  her,  nor  heard  from  her. 
Upon  my  faith  and  honour. 

Mari.  Noble  prince, 

As  there  comes  light  from  heaven,  and  words  from 

breath. 
As  there  is  sense  in  truth,  and  truth  in  virtue, 
I  am  affianc'd  this  man's  wife,  as  strongly 
As  words  could  make  up  vows  ;  and,  my  good  lord. 
But  Tuesday  night  last  gone,  in  his  garden-house. 
He  knew  me  as  a  wife  :    As  this  is  true 
Let  me  in  safety  raise  me  from  my  knees. 
Or  else  for  ever  be  confixed  here, 
A  marble  monument ! 

9  Deception. 


Scene  I. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


105 


jliig.  I  did  but  smile  till  now  : 

Now,  good  my  lord,  give  me  the  scope  of  justice ; 
My  patience  here  is  touch'd  :    I  do  perceive, 
These  poor  informal  '  women  are  no  more 
IJut  instruments  of  some  more  mightier  member, 
That  sets  them  on  :   Let  me  have  way,  my  lord. 
To  find  this  practice  2  out. 

Duke.  Ay,  with  my  heart ; 

And  punish  them  unto  your  height  of  pleasure.  — 
Thou  foolish  friar  ;  and  thou  pernicious  woman, 
Compact  with  her  that's  gone!  think'stthou  thy  oaths, 
Though  they  would  swear  down  each  particular  saint. 
Were  testimonies  against  his  worth  and  credit. 
That's  seal'd  in  approbation  ?  —  You,  lord  Escalus, 
Sit  with  my  cousin  ;  lend  him  your  kind  pains 
To  find  out  this  abuse,  whence  'tis  derived.  — 
There  is  another  friar  that  set  them  on  j 
Let  him  be  sent  for. 

F.  Peter.  Would  he  were  here,  my  lord  ;  for  he, 
indeed. 
Hath  set  the  women  on  to  this  complaint : 
Your  provost  knows  the  place  where  he  abides, 
And  he  may  fetch  him. 

Duke.   Go  do  it  instantly.  —  \_Exit  Provost. 

And  you,  my  noble,  and  well-warranted  cousin. 
Whom  it  concerns  to  hear  this  matter  forth, 
Do  witli  your  injuries  as  seems  you  best. 
In  any  chastisement :   I  for  a  while 
Will  leave  you  ;  but  stir  not  you,  till  you  have  well 
Determined  upon  these  slanderers. 

Escal.  My  lord,  we'll  do  it  thoroughly.  —  [^Exit. 
Duke.]  Signior  Lucio,  did  not  you  say,  you  knew 
that  friar  Lodowick  to  be  a  dishonest  person  ? 

Lucio.  CucuUus  nonfacit  monachum  :  honest  in 
nothing  but  in  his  clothes  ;  and  one  that  hath  spoke 
most  villainous  speeches  of  the  duke. 

Escal.  We  shall  entreat  you  to  abide  here  till  he 
come,  and  enforce  them  against  him  :  we  shall  find 
this  friar  a  notable  fellow. 

Lucio.  As  any  in  Vienna,  on  my  word. 

Escal.  Call  that  same  Isabel  here  once  again; 
[To  an  Attendant.}  I  would  speak  with  her:  Pray 
you,  my  lord,  give  me  leave  to  question;  you  shall 
see  how  I'll  handle  her. 

Re-enter  Officers^  tmth  Isabella  ;  the  Duke,  in  the 
Friar's  habity  and  Provost. 

Escal.  Come  on,  mistress  :    [To  Isabella.]  here's 
«i gentlewoman  denies  all  that  you  have  said. 
^  Lucio.   My  lord,  here  comes  tlie  rascal  I  spoke  of; 
here  with  the  provost. 
:  -   Escal.   In  very  good  time  :  —  speak  not  you  to 
liim,  till  we  call  upon  you. 

Lucio.   Mum. 

Escal.  Come,  sir  :  Did  you  set  these  women  on 
to  slander  lord  Angelo  ?  they  have  confess'd  you  did. 

Duke.   'Tis  false. 
x^  EscqI.   How  !  know  you  where  you  are  ? 

Duke.  Where  is  the  duke  ?  'tis  he  should  hear  me 
speak. 

Escal.   The  duke's  in  us ;  and  we  will  hear  you 
speak  : 
Look,  you  speak  justly. 

Duke.         Boldly,  at  least :  —  But,  O,  poor  souls. 
Come  you  to  seek  the  lamb  here  of  the  fox  ? 
Good  night  to  your  redress.      Is  the  duke  gone  ? 
Then  is  your  cause  gone  too.      The  duke's  unjust. 
Thus  to  retort  your  manifest  appeal, 
And  put  your  trial  in  the  villain's  mouth. 
Which  here  you  come  to  accuse. 

'  Crazy.  a  CoMpiracy. 


Lucio.   This  is  tlie  rascal ;  tlus  is  he  I  spoke  of. 

Escal.  Why,  thou  unreverend  and unhallow'd  friar ! 
Is'tnot  enough,  that  thou  hast  suborn'd  these  women. 
To  accuse  this  worthy  man  ;  but  in  foul  mouth, 
And  in  the  witness  of  his  proper  ear, 
To  call  him  villain  ? 

And  then  to  glance  from  him  to  the  duke  liimself ; 
To  tax  him  with  injustice  ?  —  Take  him  hence  ; 
To  the  rack  with  him : — We'll  touze  you  joint  byjoint, 
But  we  will  know  this  purpose  :  —  What !  unjust? 

Duke.   Be  not  so  hot ;  the  duke 
Dare  no  more  stretch  this  finger  of  mine,  than  he 
Dare  rack  his  own  :   his  subject  am  I  not. 
Nor  here  provincial :   My  business  in  this  state 
Made  me  a  looker-on  here  in  Vienna, 
Where  I  have  seen  corruption  boil  and  bubble. 
Till  it  o'er-run  the  stew  :   laws  for  all  faults  ; 
But  faults  so  countenanc'd,  that  the  strong  statutes 
Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  barber's  shop, 
As  much  in  mock  as  mark. 

Escal.  Slander  to  the  state  !  Away  with  him  to 
prison. 

Ang.   What  can  you  vouch  against  him^  signior 
Lucio  ? 
Is  this  the  man  that  you  did  tell  us  of? 

Lucio.  'Tis  he,  my  lord.  Come  hither,  good- 
man  bald-pate  :    Do  you  know  me  ? 

Duke.  I  remember  you,  sir,  by  the  sound  of  your 
voice  :  I  met  you  at  the  prison  in  the  absence  of  the 
duke. 

Lucio.  O,  did  you  so  ?  And  do  you  remember 
what  you  said  of  the  duke  ? 

Duke.   Most  notedly,  sir. 
,,,Lucii).   Do  you  so,  sir  ?  And  was  the  duke  a^flesh- 
mongeiv  a  fool,  and  a  coward,  as  you  then  reporteX 
him  to  be  ? 

Duke.  You  must,  sir,  change  persons  with  me, 
ere  you  make  that  my  report :  you,  indeed,  spoke 
so  of  him  ;  and  much  more,  much  worse. 

Lucio.  O  thou  abominable  fellow  !  Did  not  I 
pluck  thee  by  the  irose,  fbr  thy  speeches  ? 

Duke.   I  protest  I  love  the  duke  as  I  love  myself. 

Aug.  Hark !  how  the  villain  would  close  now, 
after  his  treasonable  abuses. 

Escal.  Such  a  fellow  is  not  to  ho  ♦nikcd  withal :  — 
Away  with  him  to  prison.  Wliere  is  tlie  provost  ?  — 
Away  with  him  to  prison  ;  lay  bolts  enough  upon 
him :  let  him  speak  no  more.  Away  with  those  giglots  3 
too,  and  with  the  other  confederate  companion. 

[The  Provost  lays  hands  on  the  Duke. 

Duke.   Stay,  sir ;  stay  awhile. 

Ang.  What !  resists  he  ?     Help  him,  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir ;  come,  sir ;  come  sir ;  foh,  sir : 
Why,  you  bald-pated,  lying  rascal !  you  must  be 
hooded,  must  you  ?  Show  your  knave's  visage  ! 
Show  your  sheep-biting  face,  and  be  hang'd  an  hour! 
Will't  not  off?  [PuUs  off  the  Friar'5  Aoorf,  and 

discovers  the  Duke. 

Duke.   Thou  art  tlie  first  knave  that  e'er  made  a 

duke. 

First,  provost,  let  me  bail  these  gentle  three  :         - 
Sneak  not  away,  sir;   [To  Lccio.]  for  the  friar  and 

you 
Must  have  a  word  anon  :  —  Lay  hold  on  him. 

Lucio.   This  may  prove  worse  than  hanging. 

Duke.   What  you  have  spoke,  I  pardon  ;  sit  you 

down.  — —  [To  Escalus. 

We'll  borrow  place  of  him  :  —  Sir,  by  your  leave  : 

[To  Angelo. 
3  Wantons. 


106 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Act  V. 


Hast  thou  or  word,  or  wit,  or  impudence, 
That  yet  can  do  thee  office  ?     If  thou  hast, 
Rely  upon  it  till  my  tale  be  heard, 
And  hold  no  longer  out. 

Ang.  O  my  dread  lord, 

I  should  be  guiltier  than  my  guiltiness, 
To  think  I  can  be  undiscernible. 
When  I  perceive  your  grace,  like  power  divine, 
Hath  look'd  upon  my  passes  '' :    Then,  good  prince, 
No  longer  session  hold  upon  my  shame. 
But  let  my  trial  be  mine  own  confession ; 
Immediate  sentence  then,  and  sequent  ^  death. 
Is  all  the  grace  I  beg. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  Mariana :  — 

Say,  wast  thou  e'er  contracted  to  this  woman  ? 

Ang.  I  was,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Go,  take  her  hence,  and  marry  her  in- 
stantly. — 
Do  you  the  office,  friar ;  which  consummate, 
Return  him  here  again :  —  Go  with  him,  provost. 
\_Exeunt  Angelo,  Mariawa,  Peter, 
and  Provost. 

Escal.  My  lord,  I  am  more  amazed  at  his  dis- 
honour. 
Than  at  tlie  strangeness  of  it. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  Isabel : 

Your  friar  is  now  your  prince  :    As  I  was  then 
Advertising  6,  and  holy  to  your  business. 
Not  changing  heart  with  habit,  I  am  still 
Attorney'd  at  your  service. 

Isab.  O  give  me  pardon. 

That  I,  your  vassal,  have  employ'd  and  pain'd 
Your  unknown  sovereignty. 

Duke.  You  are  pardon'd,  Isabel : 

And  now,  dear  maid,  be  you  as  free  to  us. 
Your  brother's  death,  I  know,  sits  at  your  heart ; 
And  you  may  marvel  why  I  obscur'd  myself. 
Labouring  to  save  liis  life  ;  and  would  not  rather 
Make  rash  remonstrance  of  my  hidden  power. 
Than  let  him  be  so  lost :    O,  most  kind  maid. 
It  was  the  swift  celerity  of  his  death. 
Which  I  did  think  with  slower  foot  came  on. 
That  brain'd  my  purpose  :    But  peace  be  with  him  ! 
That  life  is  better  life,  past  fearing  death. 
Than  that  which  lives  to  fear :  make  it  your  comfort. 
So  happy  is  your  brother. 

Re-enter  Angelo,  Mariana,  Peter,  and  Provost. 

Isab.  I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.   For   this  new-married  man,  approaching 
here. 
Whose  foul  imagination  yet  hath  wrong'd 
Your  well-defended  honour,  you  must  pardon 
For  Mariana's  sake :  but  as  he  adjudged  your  brother, 
(  Being  criminal,  in  double  violation 
Of  sacred  chastity,  and  of  promise-breach. 
Thereon  dependent  for  your  brother's  life,) 
The  very  mercy  of  the  law  cries  out 
Most  audible,  even  from  his  proper  tongue, 
"An  Angelo  for  Claudio,  death  for  death." 
Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure  ; 
Like  doth  quit  like,  and  "  Measure  still  for  Mea- 
sure ! " 
Then,  Angelo,  thy  fault's  thus  manifested  ; 
Which  though  thou  would'st  deny,  denies  thee  van- 
tage : 
We  do  condemn  thee  to  the  very  block 
Where  Claudio  stoop'dtodeath,andwithlikehaste:  — 
Away  with  him. 


4  Devices. 


Following. 


«  Attentive. 


Mari.  O  my  most  gracious  lord, 

I  liope  you  will  not  mock  me  with  a  husband  ! 

Duke.   It  is  your  husband  mock'd  you  with  a  hus- 
band : 
Consenting  to  the  safeguard  of  your  honour, 
I  thought  your  marriage  fit ;  else  imputation, 
For  that  he  knew  you,  might  reproach  your  life, 
And  choke  your  good  to  come :  for  his  possessions. 
Although  by  confiscation  they  are  ours. 
We  do  instate  and  widow  you  withal. 
To  buy  you  a  better  husband. 

Mari.  O,  my  dear  lord, 

I  crave  no  other  nor  no  better  man. 

Duke.   Never  crave  him  ;  we  are  definitive. 

Mari.   Gentle,  my  liege,  —  [Kneeling. 

Duke.  You  do  but  lose  your  labour  ; 

Away  with  him  to  death.  —  Now,  sir,  [Tb  Lucio.] 
to  you. 

Mari.   O,  my  good  lord !  —  Sweet  Isabel,  take  my 
part; 
Lend  me  your  knees,  and  all  my  life  to  come 
I'll  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 

Duke.   Against  all  sense  you  do  importune  her : 
Should  she  kneel  down,  in  mercy  of  this  fact. 
Her  brother's  ghost  his  paved  bed  would  break, 
And  take  her  hence  in  horror. 

Mari.  Isabel, 

Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me  ; 
Hold  up  your  hands  ;  say  nothing  ;   I'll  speak  all. 
They  say,  best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults ; 
And,  for  the  most,  become  much  more  the  better 
For  being  a  little  bad :   so  may  my  husband. 
O,  Isabel !  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 

Duke.   He  dies  for  Claudio's  death. 

Isab.  Most  bounteous  sir, 

\^Kneeling. 
Look,  if  it  please  you,  on  this  man  condemn'd. 
As  if  my  brother  liv'd  :    I  partly  think, 
A  due  sincerity  govern'd  his  deeds. 
Till  he  did  look  on  me ;  since  it  is  so. 
Let  him  not  die  :   My  brother  had  but  justice, 
In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died : 
For  Angelo, 

His  act  did  not  o'ertake  his  bad  intent. 
And  must  be  buried  but  as  an  intent 
That  perish'd  by  the  way  :  thoughts  are  no  subjects  ; 
Intents  but  merely  thoughts. 

Mari.  Merely,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Your  suit's  unprofitable ;  stand  up,  I  say. — 
I  have  bethought  me  of  another  fault :  ^ 
Provost,  how  came  it,  Claudio  was  beheaded 
At  an  unusual  hour  ? 

Prov.  It  was  commanded  so. 

Duke.   Had  you  a  special  warrant  for  the  deed  ? 

Prov.   No,  my  good  lord ;  it  was  by  private  mes- 
sage. 

Duke.  For  which  I  do  discharge  you  of  your  office : 
Give  up  your  keys. 

Prov.  Pardon  me,  noble  lord  : 

I  thought  it  was  a  fault,  but  knew  it  not ; 
Yet  did  repent  me  after  more  advice  7  : 
For  testimony  whereof,  one  in  the  prison. 
That  should  by  private  order  else  have  died, 
I  have  reserv'd  alive. 

Duke.  What's  he? 

Prov.  His  name  is  Bamardine. 

Duke.  I  would  thou  hadst  done  so  by  Claudio. — 
Go,  fetch  him  hither ;  let  me  look  upon  him. 

[Exit  Provost. 
7  Consideration. 


Scene  1. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


107 


Esctd.   I  am  sorry,  one  so  learned  and  so  wise 
As  yoii,  lord  Angelo,  have  still  appear'd, 
Should  sh'p  so  grossly,  both  in  the  heat  of  blood, 
And  lack  of  temper'd  judgment  afterward. 

^Ing.    I  am  sorry,  that  such  sorrow  I  procure  : 
And  so  deep  sticks  it  in  my  penitent  heart, 
'lliat  I  crave- death  more  willingly  than  mercy  ; 
"fis  my  deserving,  and  I  do  entreat  it. 

Re-enier    Provost,    Barnarwne,    Claudio,    and 
Juliet. 
Duke.  Which  is  that  Bamardine  ? 
Prov.  This,  my  lord. 

Duke.   There  was  a  friar  told  me  of  this  man. 
Sirrali,  thou  art  said  to  have  a  stubborn  soul, 
That  apprehends  no  further  than  this  world, 
And  squar'st  thy  life  according.  Thou'rt  condemned; 
But,  for  those  earthly  faults  I  quit  them  all ; 
And  pray  thee,  take  this  mercy  to  provide 
For  better  times  to  come :  —  Friar  advise  him  ; 
I  leave  him  to  your  hand.  —  What  muffled  fellow's 
that  ? 
Prov.   Tills  is  another  prisoner,  that  I  sav'd. 
That  should  have  died  when  Claudio  lost  his  head  j 
As  like  almost  to  Claudio  as  himself. 

[Unmuffies  Claudio. 
Duke.   If  he  be  like  your  brother,  [  To  Isabella.] 
for  his  sake 
Is  he  pardon'd ;  and  for  your  lovely  sake. 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  say  you  will  be  mine. 
He  is  my  brother  too :    But  fitter  time  for  that. 
By  this  lord  Angelo  perceives  he's  safe ; 
Methinks,  I  see  a  quick'ning  in  his  eye :  — 
Well,  Angelo,  your  evil  quits  8  you  well : 
Look  that  you  love  your  wife;  her  worth,  worth 

yours.  — 
I  find  an  apt  remission  in  myself: 
And  yet  here's  one  in  place  I  cannot  pardon  : 
You,  sirrah,  {To  Lucio.]  that  knew  me  for  a  fool, 

a  coward,      .        ^ 
One  all  of  luxury,  an  ass,  a  madman  ; 
8  Requites. 


Wherein  have  I  so  deserved  of  you. 
That  you  extol  me  thus  ? 

Lucia-  'Faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  it  but  according 
to  the  trick  9 :  If  you  will  hang  me  for  it,  you  may, 
but  I  had  rather  it  would  please  you,  I  might  be 
whipp'd. 

Duke.   Whipp'd  first,  sir,  and  hang'd  after.  — 
Proclaim  it,  provost,  round  about  the  city ; 
If  ^ny  woman's  wrong'd  by  this  lewd  fellow, 
(As  I  have  heard  him  swear  himself,  there's  one 
Whom  he  hath  injured  thus,)  let  her  appear. 
And  he  shall  marry  her  :  the  nuptial  finish'd, 
Let  him  be  whipp'd  and  hang'd. 

Ludo.  I  beseech  your  highness,  do  not  marry  me 
so.  Your  highness  said  even  now,  I  made  you  a 
duke;  good  my- iord,  do  not  recompense  me,  in 
making  me  2^  cuckold 

Duke.   UpolT'mine  honour,  thou  shalt  marry  her. 
Thy  slanders  I  forgive  ;  and  therewithal 
Remit  thy  other  forfeits  :  —  Take  him  to  prison  : 
And  see  our  pleasure  herein  executed. 

Lucio.  Marrying  me  so,  my  lord,  is  pressing  to 
death,  whipping,  and  hanging. 

Duke.   Sland'ring  a  prince  deserves  it.  — 
She,  Claudio,  that  you  wrong'd  look  you  restore. 
Joy  to  you,  Mariana !  —  love  her,  Angelo ; 
I  have  confess'd  her,  and  I  know  her  virtue.  — 
Thanks,  good  friend  Escal  us,  for  thy  much  goodness: 
There's  more  behind,  that  is  more  gratulate. 
Thanks,  provost,  for  thy  care  and  secrecy  ; 
We  shall  employ  thee  in  a  worthier  place :  — 
Forgive  him,  Angelo,  that  brought  you  home 
The  head  of  Ragozine  for  Claudio's ; 
The  offence  pardons  itself.  —  Dear  Isabel, 
I  have  a  motion  much  imports  your  good  ; 
Whereto  if  you'll  a  willing  ear  incline, 
What's  mine  is  yours,  and  what  is  yours  is  mine  : 
So  bring  us  to  our  palace ;  where  we'll  show 
What's  yet  behind,  that's  meet  you  all  should  know. 

{Exeunt. 

>  Thoughtless  practice. 


v? 


/ 


MUCH   ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Don  Pedro,  Prince  of  Arragon. 

Don  John,  his  Bastard  Brother. 

Claudio,  a  young  Lord  of  Florence,  Favourite  to 
Don  Pedro. 

Benedick,  a  young  Lord  of  Padua,  Favourite  like- 
wise of  Don  Pedro. 

Leo  NATO,  Governor  of  Messina. 

Antonio,  his  Brother. 

Balthazar,  Servant  to  Don  Pedro. 


Conk aX  }  -^^^^^'^''^  of  Don  John. 


>  two  foolish  Office 


Dogberry, 
Verges, 
^  Sexton. 
A  Friar. 
J  Boy. 

Hero,  Daughter  to  Leonato. 
Beatrice,  Niece  to  Leonato. 

ARC  A  RET,  I  Q^jjjigjji^jjigji  attending  on  He 

Messengerst  Watchy  and  Attendants. 


SCENE,  Messina. 


OOME,   BINlJ    lUEM  : 


THOn   NA.T3GHT5    VARLEl 


MUCH    ADO    ABOUT    NOTHING, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  Before  Leonato's  House. 


Enter  Leonato,  Hero,  Beatrice,  and  others,  witli 
a  Messenger. 

Leonato.  I  learn  in  this  letter,  that  don  Pedro  of 
Arragon  comes  this  night  to  Messina. 

Mess.  He  is  very  near  by  this ;  he  was  not  three 
leagues  ofT,  when  I  left  him. 

Leon.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this 
action  ? 

Mess.   But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself,  when  the  achiever 
brings  home  full  numbers.  I  find  here,  that  don 
Pedro  hath  bestowed  much  honour  on  a  young 
Florentine,  called  Claudio. 

Mess.  Much  deserved  on  his  part,  and  equally 
remembered  by  don  Pedro :  He  hath  borne  him- 
self beyond  the  promise  of  his  age ;  doing,  in  the 
figure  of  a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a  lion  :  he  hath,  indeed, 
better  bettered  expectation,  than  you  must  expect  of 
me  to  tell  you  how. 

Leon.  He  hath  an  uncle  here  in  Messina  will  be 
very  much  glad  of  it. 

Mess.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and 
there  appears  much  joy  in  him  ;  even  so  much,  that 
joy  could  not  show  itself  modest  enough,  without  a 
badge  of  bitterness. 

Leon.   Did  he  break  out  into  tears  ? 

Mess.r  In  great  measure. ' 

Leon.   A  kind  overflow  of  kindness  :    There  are 


no  faces  truer  than  those  that  are  so  washed.  How 
much  better  is  it  to  weep  at  joy,  than  to  joy  at 
weeping  ? 

Beat.  I  pray  y'ou,  is  signior  Montanto  returned 
from  the  wars,  or  no  ? 

Mess.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady  ;  there 
was  none  such  in  the  army  of  any  sort. 

Leon.   What  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ?  ^^  > 

Hero.    My  cousin   means   signior    Benedick   of|^|j 
Padua.  VI 

Mess.  O,  he  is  returned  ;  and  as  pleasant  as  ever 
he  was. 

Beat.  He  set  up  his  bills  here  in  Messina,  and 
challenged  Cupid  at  the  flight :  and  my  uncle's  fool, 
reading  the  challenge,  subscribed  for  Cupid,  and 
challenged  him  at  the  bird-bolt.  —  I  pray  you,  how 
many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in  these  wars  ?  But 
how  many  hath  he  killed  ?  for,  indeed,  I  promised 
to  eat  all  of  his  killing. 

Leon.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  signior  Benedick  too 
much  ;  but  he'll  be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Mess.  He  hath  done  good  service,  lady,  in  these 
wars. 

Beat.  You  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath  holp 
to  eat  it :  he  is  a  very  valiant  trencher-man,  he  hath  j 
an  excellent  stomach. 

Mess.    And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 

Beat.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady  :  —  But  what 
is  he  to  a  lord  ? 

Mess.    A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  man. 

Beat.   Well,  we  are  all  mortal. 

Leon.    You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece  :   thcrv 


41 


Acfl.    Sce^teI. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


109 


is  a  kind  of  merry  war  betwixt  signior  Benedick 
an<i  her  :  they  never  meet,  but  there  is  a  skirmish 
of  wit  between  them. 

Beat.  Alas,  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In  our  last 
conflict,  four  of  his  five  wits  went  halting  off,  and 
now  is  the  whole  man  governed  with  one  :  so  tliat 
if  he  have  wit  enough  to  keep  liimself  warm,  let  him 
bear  it  for  a  difference  between  himself  and  his 
liorse :  for  it  is  all  the  wealth  that  he  hath  left,  to 
be  known  a  reasonable  creature. — Who  is  his  com- 
panion now  ?  He  hath  every  month  a  new  sworn 
brother. 

Mess.   Is  it  possible  ? 

Beat.  Very  easily  possible:  he  wears  his  faith 
but  as  the  fashion  of  his  hat,  it  ever  changes  with 
the  next  block. 

Mess.  I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman  is  not  in  your 
books. 

Beat.  No :  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study. 
But,  I  pray  you,  who  is  his  companion  ?  Is  there  no 
young  squarer  ^  now,  that  will  make  a  voyage  with 
him  to  the  devil  ? 

Mess.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the  right 
noble  Claudio. 

Beat.  O  Lord !  he  will  hang  upon  him  like  a 
disease :  he  is  sooner  caught  than  the  pestilence, 
and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad.  Heaven  help 
the  noble  Claudio  !  if  he  have  caught  the  Benedick, 
it  will  cost  him  a  thousand  pound  ere  he  be  cured. 

Mess.   I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Beat.   Do,  good  friend. 

Leon.   You  will  never  run  mad,  niece. 

Beat.   No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Mess.    Don  Pedro  is  approached. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  attended  by  Balthazar  and 
others,  Don  John,  Claudio,  and  Benedick. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  signior  Leonato,  you  are  come 
to  meet  your  trouble :  the  fashion  of  the  world  is  to 
avoid  cost,  and  you  encounter  it. 

Leon.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the 
likeness  of  your  grace:  for  trouble  being  gone, 
comfort  should  remain  ;  but,  when  you  depart  from 
me,  sorrow  abides,  and  happiness  takes  his  leave. 

D.  Pedro.  You  embrace  your  charge  too  willing- 
ly. —  I  think,  this  is  your  daughter. 

Leon.   Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me  so. 

Bene.  Were  you  in  doubt,  sir,  that  you  asked  her  ? 

Leon.  Signior  Benedick,  no ;  for  then  were  you 
a  child. 

D.  Pedro.  You  have  it  full,  Benedick :  we  may 
guess  by  this  what  you  are,  being  a  man.  Truly, 
the  lady  fathers  herself :  Be  happy,  lady !  for  you 
are  like  an  honourable  father. 

Bene.  If  signior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she  would 
not  have  his  head  on  her  shoulders,  for  all  Messina, 
as  like  him  as  she  is. 

Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking, 
signior  Benedick  ;  no  body  marks  you. 

Bene.  What,  my  dear  lady  Disdain  !  are  you  yet 
living  ? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible,  disdain  should  die,  while  she 
hath  such  meet  food  to  feed  it,  as  signior  Benedick  ? 
Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come 
in  her  presence. 

Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turn-coat :  —  But  it  is 
certain,  I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted  : 
and  I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not 
a  hard  heart ;  for,  truly,  I  love  none. 

'  Quarrelsome  fellow. 


Beat.  A  dear  happiness  to  women  ;  they  would 
else  have  been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor. 
I  am  of  your  humour  for  that ;  I  had  rather  hear  my 
dog  bark  at  a  crow,  than  a  man  swear  he  loves  me. 

Bene.  Heaven  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that 
mind !  so  some  gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a 
predestinate  scratched  face. 

Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an 
'twere  such  a  face  as  yours  were. 

Bene.   Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast 
of  yours. 

Bene.  I  would,  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your 
tongue ;  and  so  good  a  continuer  :  But  keep  your 
way  ;   I  have  done. 

Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick ;  I 
know  you  of  old. 

D.  Pedro.  This  is  the  sum  of  all  :  Don  John, — 
signior  Claudio,  and  signior  Benedick,  —  my  dear 
friend  Leonato  hath  invited  you  all.  I  tell  him, 
we  shall  stay  here  at  the  least  a  month ;  and  he 
heartily  prays,  some  occasion  may  detain  us  longer : 
I  dare  swear  he  is  no  hypocrite,  but  prays  from  his 
heart. 

Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  l>c 
forswora.  —  Let  me  bid  you  welcome,  my  lord  : 
being  reconciled  to  the  prince  your  brother,  I  owe 
you  all  duty. 

D.  John.  I  thank  you  :  I  am  not  of  many  words, 
but  I  thank  you. 

Leon.   Please  it  your  grace  lead  on  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Your  hand,  Leonato ;  we  will  go  to- 
gether.        [Exeunt  all  but  Benedick  and  Claudio. 

Claud.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  tlie  daughter  of 
signior  Leonato  ? 

Bene.   I  noted  her  not ;  but  I  looked  on  her. 

Claud.   Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me,  as  an  honest  man 
should  do,  for  my  simple  true  judgment ;  or  would 
you  have  me  speak  ailter  my  custom,  as  being  a 
professed  tyrant  to  their  sex  ? 

Claud.   No,  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  sober  judgment. 

Bene.  Why,  i'faith,  methinks  she  is  too  low 
for  a  high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and 
too  little  for  a  great  praise:  only  this  commend- 
ation I  can  afford  her  ;  that  were  she  other  than  she 
is,  she  were  unhandsome  ;  and  being  no  other  but 
as  she  is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

Claud.  Thou  thinkest,  I  am  in  sport;  I  pray 
thee,  tell  me  truly  how  thou  likest  her. 

Bene.  Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inquire  after 
her? 

Claud.   Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel  ? 

Bene.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into.  But  spe.nk 
you  this  witli  a  sad  brow  ?  or  do  you  play  the  flout- 
ing Jack  ;  to  tell  us  Cupid  is  a  gootl  hare-finder, 
and  Vulcan  a  rare  carpenter?  Come,  in  what  key 
shall  a  man  take  you,  to  go  in  the  song  ? 

Claud.  In  mine  eye,  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that 
ever  I  look'd  on. 

Bene,  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  see 
no  such  matter:  there's  her  cousin,  an  she  were 
not  possessed  with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in 
beauty,  as  the  first  of  May  doth  the  last  of  Decem- 
ber. But  I  hope,  you  have  no  intent  to  turn 
husband ;  have  you  ? 

Claud.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I  liad 
sworn  the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 

Bene*  Is  it  come  to  this?  Hath  not  the  world 
one  man,  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  suspicion  ? 


110 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  I.    Scene  II. 


Shall  I  never  see  a  baclielor  of  tliree-score  again? 
Go  to ;  an  thou  wilt  needs  thrust  thy  neck  into  a 
yoke,  wear  the  print  of  it,  and  sigh  away  Sundays. 
Look,  don  Pedro  is  returned  to  seek  you. 

Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

D.  Pedro.  What  secret  hath  held  you  here,  that 
you  followed  not  to  Leonato's? 

Bene.  I  would,  your  grace  would  constrain  me 
to  tell. 

D.  Pedro,   I  charge  thee,  on  thy  allegiance. 

Bene.  You  hear,  count  Claudio  :  T  can  be  secret 
as  a  dumb  man,  I  would  have  you  think  so  ;  but  on 
my  allegiance,  —  mark  you  this,  on  my  allegiance  : 
—  He  is  in  love.  With  who  ?  —  now  that  is  your 
grace's  part.  —  Mark,  how  short  his  answer  is  :  — 
With  Hero,  Leonato's  short  daughter. 

Claud.   If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 

Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord :  it  is  not  so, 
nor  'twas  not  so ;  but,  indeed,  heaven  forbid  it 
should  be  so. 

Claud.  If  my  passion  change  not  shortly,  heaven 
forbid  it  should  be  otherwise. 

D.  Pedro.  Amen,  if  you  love  her ;  for  the  lady 
is  very  well  worthy. 

Claud.   You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.   By  my  troth,  I  speak  my  thought. 

Claud.    And,  in  faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Bene.  And,  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  my 
lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Claud.   That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 

D.  Pedro.   That  she  is  worthy,  I  know. 

Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be 
loved,  nor  know  how  she  should  be  worthy,  is  the 
opinion  that  fire  cannot  melt  out  of  me  j  I  will  die 
in  it  at  the 'stake. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  heretic  in 
the  despite  of  beauty. 

Claud.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part,  but  in 
the  force  of  his  will. 

Bene.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  her ; 
that  she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most 
humble  thanks:  but  that  I  will  have  a  recheat  3 
winded  in  my  forehead,  all  women  shall  pardon 
me.  Because  I  will  not  do  them  the  wrong  to 
mistrust  any,  I  will  do  myself  the  right  to  trust 
none ;  and  the  fine  is,  (for  the  which  I  may  go  the 
finer,)  I  will  live  a  bachelor. 

D.  Pedro.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale 
with  love. 

Bene.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger, 
my  lord !  not  with  love:  prove,  that  ever  I  lose  more 
blood  with  love,  than  I  will  get  again  with  drink- 
ing, pick  out  mine  eyes  with  a  ballad-maker's  pen, 
and  hang  me  up  for  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from  this 
faith,  thou  wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

Bene.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,  and 
shoot  at  me  ;  and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapped 
on  the  shoulder,  and  called  Adam."* 

B.  Pedro.   Well,  as  time  shall  try  : 
In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  Ike  yoke. 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may ;  but  if  ever  the  sen- 
sible Benedick  bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bull's  horns,  and 
set  them  in  my  forehead :  and  let  me  be  vilely  paint- 
ed ;  and  in  such  great  letters  as  they  write.  Here  is 
good  horse  to  hire,  let  them  signify  under  my  sign, 
—  Here  you  may  see  Benedick,  the  married  man. 

3  The  tune  sounded  to  call  off  the  dogs. 
*  The  name  of  a  faraoug  archer. 


Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  wouldst 
be  horn-mad. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his 
quiver  in  Venice,  thou  wilt  quake  for  this  shortly. 

Bene.   I  look  for  an  earthquake  too  then. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  you  will  temporize  with  the 
hours.  In  the  mean  time,  good  signior  Benedick, 
repair  to  Leonato's  ;  commend  me  to  him,  and  tell 
him,  I  will  not  fail  him  at  supper ;  for,  indeed,  he 
hath  made  great  preparation. 

Bene.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me  for 
such  an  embassage  ;  and  so  I  commit  you  — 

Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  heaven :  From  my 
house,  (if  I  had  it,)  — 

D.  Pedro.  The  sixth  of  July :  Your  loving  friend, 
Benedick. 

Bene.  Nay,  mock  not,  mock  not :  The  body  of 
your  discourse  is  sometime  guarded  with  fragments, 
and  the  guards  are  but  slightly  basted  on  neither ; 
ere  you  flout  old  ends  any  further,  examine  your 
conscience  ;  and  so  I  leave  you.     ^Exit  Benedick. 

Gaud.   My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do  me 
good. 

D,  Pedro.   My  love  is  thine  to  teach  j  teach  it 
but  how. 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 

Claud.   Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord  ? 

D.  Pedro.  No  child  but  Hero,  she's  his  only  heir : 
Dost  thou  aflfect  her,  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  O  my  lord. 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  look'd  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye. 
That  lik'd,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love  : 
But  now  I  am  return'd,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is. 
Saying,  I  lik'd  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

D.  Pedro.   Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently, 
And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words : 
If  thou  dost  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it ; 
And  I  will  break  with  her,  and  with  her  father. 
And  thou  shalt  have  her  :   Was't  not  to  this  end 
That  thou  began'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story  ? 

Claud.   How  sweetly  do  you  minister  to  love. 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  complexion  ! 
But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salv'd  it  wdth  a  longer  treatise. 

D.  Pedro.   What  need  the  bridge  much  broader 
than  the  flood  ? 
The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity : 
Look,  what  will  serve,  is  fit :  'tis  once  s,  thou  lov'st ; 
And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy. 
I  know,  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night; 
I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise. 
And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio  ; 
And  in  her  bosom  I'll  unclasp  my  heart, 
And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 
And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale  : 
Then,  after,  to  her  father  will  I  break  ; 
And,  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine  : 
In  practice  let  us  put  it  presently.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio. 
Leon.   How  now,  brother  ?  Where  is  my  cousin, 
your  son  ?  Hath  he  provided  this  musick  ? 
*  Once  for  all. 


Act  II.    Scene  I. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Ill 


Jnt.  He  is  very  busy  about  it.  But,  brother, 
I  can  tell  you  strange  news  that  you  yet  dreamed 
not  of. 

Leon.   Are  they  good  ? 

Ant.  As  the  event  stamps  them  ;  but  tliey  have 
a  good  cover,  they  show  well  outward.  The  prince 
and  count  Claudio,  walking  in  a  thick.plcached*^ 
alley  in  my  orchard,  were  thus  much  overheard  by 
a  man  of  mine  :  The  prince  discovered  to  Claudio, 
that  he  loved  my  niece  your  daughter,  and  meant 
to  acknowledge  it  this  night  in  a  dance ;  and,  if  he 
found  her  accordant,  he  meant  to  take  the  present 
time  by  the  top,  and  instantly  break  with  you  of  it. 

I^eon.  Hath  the  fellow  any  wit,  that  told  you  this  ? 

A7U.  A  good  sharp  fellow  :  I  will  send  for  him, 
and  question  him  yourself. 

Leon.  No,  no ;  we  will  hold  it  as  a  dream,  till  it 
appear  itself :  —  but  I  will  acquaint  my  daughter 
withal,  that  she  may  be  the  better  prepared  for  an 
answer,  if  peradventure  this  be  true.  Go  you,  and 
tell  her  of  it.  {^Several  persons  cross  the  stage.'\ 
Cousins,  you  know  what  you  have  to  do.  —  O,  I 
cry  you  mercy,  friend ;  you  go  with  me,  and  I  will 
use  your  skill :  —  Good  cousins,  have  a  care  this 
busy  time.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Don  John  and  Conrade. 

Con,  My  lord !  why  are  you  thus  out  of  measure 
sad? 

D.  John.  There  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion  that 
breeds  it,  therefore  the  sadness  is  without  limit. 

Con.   You  should  hear  reason. 

D.  John.  And  when  I  have  heard  it,  what  blessing 
bringeth  it  ? 

Con.  If  not  a  present  remedy,  yet  a  patient  suf- 
ferance. 

D.  John.  I  wonder,  that  thou  being  (as  thou 
say'st  tliou  art)  born  under  Saturn,  goest  about  to 
apply  a  moral  medicine  to  a  mortifying  mischief. 
I  cannot  hide  what  I  am  :  I  must  be  sad  when  I 
have  cause,  and  smile  at  no  man's  jests ;  eat  when  I 
have  stomach,  and  wait  for  no  man's  leisure  ;  sleep 
when  I  am  drowsy,  and  tend  to  no  man's  business; 
laugh  when  I  am  merry,  and  claw  7  no  man  in  his 
humour. 

Con.  Yea,  but  you  must  not  make  the  full  show 
of  this,  till  you  may  do  it  without  controlment.  You 
have  of  late  stood  out  against  your  brother,  and  he 
hath  ta'en  you  newly  into  his  grace ;  where  it  is 
impossible  you  should  take  true  root,  but  by  the  fair 


weather  that  you  make  yourself:  it  is  needful  that 
you  frame  the  season  for  your  own  harvest. 

D.  John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker  in  a  hedge, 
than  a  rose  in  his  grace;  and  it  better  fits  my  blood 
to  be  disdained  of  all,  than  to  fashion  a  carriage  to 
rob  love  from  any  :  in  this,  though  I  cannot  be  said 
to  be  a  flattering  honest  man,  it  must  not  be  denied 
that  I  am  a  plain-dealing  villain.  I  am  trusted  with 
a  muzzle,  and  enfranchised  with  a  clog  ;  therefore  I 
have  decreed  not  to  sing  in  my  cage  :  If  1  had  my 
mouth,  I  would  bite  ;  if  I  had  my  liberty,  I  would 
do  my  liking ;  in  the  mean  time,  let  me  be  that  I 
am,  and  seek  not  to  alter  me. 

Con.   Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent  ? 

D.  John.  I  make  all  use  of  it,  for  I  use  it  only. 
Who  comes  here  ?  What  news,  Borachio  ? 

Enter  Borachio. 

Bora.  I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper ;  the 
prince,  your  brother,  is  royally  entertained  by  Leo- 
nato ;  and  I  can  give  you  intelligence  of  an  intended 
marriage. 

L>.  John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model  to  build 
mischief  on  ?  What  is  he  for  a  fool,  tliat  betroths 
himself  to  unquietness  ? 

Bora.   Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

D.  John.   Who  ?  (he  most  exquisite  Claudio  ? 

Bora.   Even  he. 

D.  John.  A  proper  squire  !  And  who,  and  who  ? 
which  way  looks  he  ? 

Bora.  Marry,  on  Hero,  the  daughter  and  heir  of 
Leonato. 

J).  John.  A  very  forward  March-chick  !  How 
came  you  to  this  ? 

Bora.  Being  entertained  for  a  perfumer,  as  I  was 
smoking  a  musty  room,  comes  me  the  prince  and 
Claudio,  hand  in  hand,  in  sad  conference  :  I  whipt 
me  behind  the  arras ;  and  there  heard  it  agreed 
upon,  that  the  prince  should  woo  Hero  for  himself, 
and  having  obtained  her,  give  her  to  count  Claudio. 

L>.  John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither ;  this  may 
prove  food  to  my  displeasure ;  that  young  start-up 
hath  all  the  glory  of  my  overthrow ;  if  I  can  cross 
him  any  way,  I  bless  myself  every  way :  You  are 
both  sure,  and  will  assist  me  ? 

Con.   To  the  death,  my  lord. 

L>.  John.  Let  us  to  the  great  supper  j  their  cheer 
is  the  greater,  that  I  am  subdued  :  'Would  the  cook 
were  of  my  mind !  —  Shall  we  go  prove  what's  to 
be  done  ? 

Bora.  We'll  wait  upon  your  lordship.    [Exeunt. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.  —  ^  HaU  in  Leonato'*  House. 

Enter  Lbokato,  Antonio,  Hero,  Beatrice,  and 
others. 
Leon.  Was  not  count  John  here  at  supper  ? 
Ant.   I  saw  him  not. 

Beat.   How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks  !  I  never 

can  see  him,  but  I  am  heart-bunicd  an  hour  after. 

Hero.   He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Beat.   He  were  an  excellent  man,  that  were  made 

just  in  the  mid-way  between  him  and  Benedick  : 

«  Thickly.intcrwoTea  ?  Flatter. 


the  one  is  too  like  an  image,  and  says  nothing ;  and 
the  other,  too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore 
tattling. 

Leon.  Then  half  signior  Benedick's  tongue  in 
count  John's  mouth,  and  half  count  John's  melan- 
choly in  signior  Benedick's  face,  — 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg,  and  a  good  foot,  uncle, 
and  money  enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would 
win  any  woman  in  tlie  world, — if  he  could  get  her 
good  will. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get 
thee  a  husband,  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 


112 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  II. 


Ant.  Well,  niece,  [To  Hero.]  I  trust,  you  will 
be  ruled  by  your  father. 

Beat.  Yes,  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  courtesy, 
and  say,  Father,  as  it  please  j/ou  :  —  but  yet  for  all 
that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or  else 
make  another  courtesy,  and  say.  Father,  as  it  please 
me. 

Leon.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day 
fitted  with  a  husband. 

Beat.  Not  till  men  are  made  of  some  other  metal 
than  earth.  Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be 
ovemiaster'd  with  a  piece  of  valiant  dust  ?  to  make 
an  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl  ? 
No,  uncle,  I'll  none:  Adam's  sons  are  my  brethren ; 
and  truly,  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  match  in  my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you  :  if 
the  prince  do  solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know 
your  answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  musick,  cousin,  if 
you  be  not  woo'd  in  good  time  :  if  the  prince  be 
too  important  s  tell  him,  there  is  measure  in  every 
thing,  and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For  hear  me. 
Hero ;  Wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a 
Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque-pace  :  the  first 
suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as 
fantastical ;  the  wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a 
measure  full  of  state  and  ancientry;  and  then 
comes  repentance,  and,  with  his  bad  legs,  falls  into 
the  cinque-pace  faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  into 
his  grave. 

Leon.    Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beat.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle ;  I  can  see  a 
church  by  day-light. 

Leon.  The  revellers  are  entering ;  brother,  make 
good  room. 

Enter   Don    Pedro,     Claudio,    Benedick,    Bal- 
thazar ;    Don  John,    Borachio,    Margaret, 

Ursula,  and  others,  masked. 

D.  Pedro.  Lady,  will  you  walk  about  with  your 
friend? 

Hero.  So  you  walk  softly,  and  look  sweetly,  and 
say  nothing,  1  am  yours  for  the  walk :  and,  espe- 
cially, when  I  walk  away. 

D.  Pedro.   With  me  in  your  company  ? 

Hero.   I  may  say  so,  when  I  please. 

D.  Pedro.   And  when  please  you  to  say  so  ? 

Hero.  When  I  like  your  favour;  for  heaven 
forbid  the  lute  should  be  like  the  case  ! 

D.  Pedro.  My  visor  is  Philemon's  roof;  within 
the  house  is  Jove. 

Hero.   Why,  then  your  visor  should  be  thatch'd. 

D.  Pedro.   Speak  low,  if  you  speak  love. 

[  Takes  her  aside. 

Urs.  I  know  you  well  enough  ;  you  are  signior 
Antonio. 

Ayit.   At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.   I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  head. 

Ant.   To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 

Urs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  ill-well,  unless 
you  were  the  very  man  :  Here's  his  dry  hand  up  and 
down ;  you  are  he,  you  are  he. 

Ant.   At  a  word,  I  am  not, 

Urs.  Come,  come  ;  do  you  think  I  do  not  know 
you  by  your  excellent  wit?  Can  virtue  hide  itself? 
Go  to,  mum,  you  are  he  :  graces  will  appear,  and 
there's  an  end. 

Beat.   Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

Bene.   No,  you  shall  pardon  me. 

s  Importunate. 


Beat.   Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 

Bene.   Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful,— and  that  I  had  my 
good  wit  out  of  the  Hundred  Merry  Tales; —  Well, 
this  was  signior  Benedick  that  said  so. 

Bene.  What's  he  ? 

Beat.   I  am  sure,  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.   Not  I,  believe  me. 

Beat.   Did  he  never  make  you  laugh  ?  ">. 

Bene.   I  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? 

Beat.  Why,  he  is  the  prince's  jester  :  a  very  dull 
fool ;  only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible  slanders : 
none  but  libertines  delight  in  him  ;  and  the  com- 
mendation is  not  in  his  vnt,  but  in  his  villainy ;  for 
he  both  pleaseth  men,  and  angers  them,  and  then 
they  laugh  at  him,  and  beat  him. 

Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I'll  tell  him 
what  you  say. 

Beat.  Do,  do ;  he'll  but  break  a  comparison  or 
two  on  me ;  which,  peradventure,  not  marked,  or 
not  laughed  at,  strikes  him  into  melancholy  ;  and 
then  there's  a  partridge'  wing  saved,  for  the  fool  will 
eat  no  supper  that  night.  [Musick  within.^  We 
must  follow  the  leaders. 

Bene.   In  every  good  thing. 

Beat.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave 
them  at  the  next  turning. 

[Dance.      Then  exeunt  all  hut  Don  John, 
Borachio,  and  Claudio. 

D.  John.  Sure,  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero,  and 
hath  withdrawn  her  father  to  break  with  him  about 
it :  The  ladies  follow  her,  and  but  one  visor  remains. 

Bora.  And  that  is  Claudio ;  I  know  him  by  his 
bearing.  9 

D.  John.   Are  not  you  signior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  You  know  me  well ;  I  am  he. 

D.  John.  Signior,  you  are  very  near  my  brotlier 
in  his  love  ;  he  is  enamoured  on  Hero;  I  pray  you, 
dissuade  him  from  her,  she  is  no  equal  for  his  birth ; 
you  may  do  the  part  of  an  honest  man  in  it, 

Claud.   How  know  you  he  loves  her? 

D.  John.    I  heard  him  swear  his  affection. 

Bora.  So  did  I  too ;  and  he  swore  he  would  marry 
her  to  night. 

D.  John.   Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

[Exeunt  Don  John  and  Borachio. 

Claud.   Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  ill  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio,  — 
'Tis  certain  so;  —  the  prince  wooes  for  himself. 
Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things, 
Save  in  the  oflSce  and  affairs  of  love  : 
Therefore,  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues ; 
Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself, 
And  trust  no  agent :  for  beauty  is  a  witch. 
Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood.  ' 
This  is  an  accident  of  hourly  proof. 
Which  I  mistrusted  not:  Farewell  therefore,  Hero! 

Re-enter  Benedick. 

Bene.   Count  Claudio? 

Claud.   Yea,  the  same. 

Bene.    Come,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Claud.    Whither? 

Bene.  Even  to  the  next  willow,  about  your  own 
business,  count.  What  fashion  will  you  wear  the 
garland  of?  About  your  neck,  like  an  usurer's 
chain  ?  or  under  your  arm,  like  a  lieutenant's  scarf? 
You  must  wear  it  one  way,  for  the  prince  hath  got 
your  Hero. 

9  Carriage,  demeanour  '  Passion. 


Scene  I. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


113 


I 


Claud.   I  wish  him  joy  of  her.  . 

Bene.  Why,  that's  spoken  like  an  honest  drover, 
so  they  sell  bullocks.  But  did  you  think,  the  prince 
would  have  served  you  thus. 

Claud.   I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Bene.  Ho  !  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man  ; 
'twas  the  boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  you'll  beat 
the  post. 

Gaud.   If  it  will  not  be,  I'll  leave  you.        [Exit. 

Bene.    Alas,  poor  hurt  fowl  !   Now  will  he  creep 

into  sedges.  But,  that  my  lady  Beatrice  should 

know  me,  and  not  know  me  !  The  prince's  fool  !  — 
Ha,  it  may  be,  I  go  under  that  title,  because  I  am 
merry.  —  Yea ;  but  so ;  I  am  apt  to  do  myself  wrong : 
I  am  not  so  reputed  :  it  is  the  base,  the  bitter  dis- 
position of  Beatrice,  that  puts  the  world  into  her 
person,  and  so  gives  me  out.  Well,  I'll  be  re- 
venged as  I  may. 

Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

D.  Pedro.  Now,  signior,  where's  the  count  ?  Did 
you  see  him  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  plfyed  the  part  of 
lady  Fame.  I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a 
lodge  in  a  wai-ren  ;  I  told  him,  and,  I  tliink,  I  told 
him  true,  that  your  grace  had  got  the  good  will  of 
this  young  !ady ;  and  I  offered  him  my  company  to 
a  willow-tree,  either  to  make  him  a  garland,  as  being 
forsaken,  or  to  bind  him  up  a  rod,  as  being  worthy 
to  be  whipped. 

D.  Pedro.   To  be  whipped  !   What's  his  fault  ? 

Bene.  The  flat  transgression  of  a  school-boy;  who, 
being  overjoyed  with  finding  a  bird's  nest,  shows  it 
his  companion,  and  he  steals  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression? 
The  transgression  is  in  the  stealer. 

Bene.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss,  the  rod  had  been 
made,  and  the  garland  too;  for  the  garland  he  might 
have  worn  himself ;  and  the  rod  he  might  have  be- 
stow'd  on  you,  who,  as  I  take  it,  have  stol'n  his 
bird's  nest. 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  but  teach  them  to  sing,  and  re- 
store them  to  the  owner. 

Bene.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying,  by  my 
faith,  you  say  honestly. 

D.  Pedro.  The  lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  to 
you  ;  the  gentleman  that  danced  with  her,  told  her, 
she  is  much  wronged  by  you. 

Bene.  O,  she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of  a 
block  ;  an  oak,  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it,  would 
have  answ^ered  her ;  my  very  visor  began  to  assume 
life,  and  scold  with  her.  She  told  me,  not  thinking  I 
had  been  myself,  that  I  was  the  prince's  jester;  that 
I  was  duller  than  a  great  thaw;  huddling  jest  upon 
jest,  with  such  impossible  conveyance,  upon  me, 
that  I  stood  like  a  man  at  a  mark,  with  a  whole  army 
shooting  at  me ;  She  speaks  poniards,  and  every 
word  stabs :  she  would  have  made  Hercules  have 
turned  spit ;  yea,  and  have  cleft  his  club  to  make 
the  fire  too.     Come,  talk  not  of  her. 

Re-enter  Claudio,  Beatrice,  Leovato,  anef  Hbro. 

/>.  Pedro.   Look,  here  she  comes. 

Bene.  Will  your  grace  command  me  any  service 
to  the  world's  end?  I  will  go  on  the  slightest  errand 
now  to  the  Antipotles,  tliat  you  can  devise  to  send 
me  on  :  I  will  fetch  you  a  toothpicker  now  from  the 
farthest  inch  of  Asia :  bring  you  the  length  of  Prester 
John's  foot ;  fetch  you  a  hair  off  the  great  Cham's 
beard ;  do  you  any  embassage  to  the  Pigmies,  rather 


than  hold  three  words'  conference  with  this  harpy  : 
You  have  no  employment  for  me  ? 

D.  Pedro.  None,  but  to  desire  your  good  company. 

Bene.  O  sir,  here's  a  dish  I  love  not ;  I  cannot 
endure  my  lady  Tongue.  [Exit. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  lady,  come ;  you  have  lost  tlie 
heart  of  signior  Benedick. 

Beat.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  a  while;  and 
I  give  him  use '-'  for  it,  a  double  heart  for  his  single 
one  :  marry,  once  before,  he  won  it  of  me  with  false 
dice,  therefore  your  grace  may  well  say  I  have  lost 
it.  I  have  brought  count  Claudio,  whom  you  sent 
me  to  seek. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  how  now,  count  ?  wherefore  are 
you  sad  ? 

Claud.   Not  sad,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.   How  then  ?  Sick  ? 

Claud.   Neither,  my  lord. 

Beat.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor 
merry,  nor  well :  but  civil,  count ;  civil  as  an 
orange,  and  something  of  that  jealous  complexion. 

D.  Pedro.  I'faith,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to  be 
true  ;  though,  I'll  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his  conceit 
is  false.  Here,  Claudio,  I  have  wooed  in  thy  name, 
and  fair  Hero  is  won  ;  I  have  broke  with  her  father, 
and  his  good  will  obtained:  name  the  day  of  mar- 
riage, and  God  give  thee  joy  ! 

Leon.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with 
her  my  fortunes :  his  grace  hath  made  tlie  match, 
and  all  grace  say  Amen  to  it ! 

Beat.   Speak,  count,  'tis  your  cue.  3 

Claud.  Silence  is  the  perfectest  herald  of  joy  :  I 
were  but  little  happy,  if  I  could  say  how  much.  — 
Lady,  as  you  are  mine,  I  am  yours ;  I  give  away 
myself  for  you,  and  dote  upon  the  exchange. 

Beat.  Speak,  cousin  ;  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop  his 
mouth  with  a  kiss,  and  let  him  not  speak,  neither. 

D.  Pedro.   In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry  heart. 

Beat.  Yea,  my  lord,  I  thank  it,  poor  fool,  it  keeps 
on  the  windy  side  of  care  :  —  My  cousin  tells  him 
in  his  ear,  that  he  is  in  her  heart. 

Claud.   And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  lord,  for  alliance !  —  Thus  goes  every 
one  to  the  world  but  I,  and  I  am  sun-burned ;  I 
may  sit  in  a  comer,  and  cry,  heigh  ho  !  for  a  hus- 
band. 

D.  Pedro.   Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

Beat.   Hath  your  grace  ne'er  a  brother  like  you  ? 

D.  Pedro.   Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beat.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another 
for  working  days  ;  your  grace  is  too  costly  to  wear 
every  day :  —  But,  I  beseech  your  grace,  pardon 
me  :  I  was  born  to  speak  all  mirth  and  no  matter. 
D.  Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to 
be  merry  best  becomes  you ;  for  out  of  question, 
you  were  bom  in  a  merry  hour. 

Beat.  No,  sure,  my  lord,  my  mother  cry'd  ;  but 
then  there  wao  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  was  I 
bom.  —  Cousins,  God  give  you  joy  ! 

Leon.  Niece,  will  you  look  to  those  things  I  told 
you  of? 

Beat.   I  cry  you  mercy,  uncle.  —  By  your  grace's 

pardon.  [Exit  Beatrice. 

D.  Pedro.   By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited  lady. 

Leon.   There's  little  of  the  melancholy  element 

in  her,  my  lord  :   she  is  never  sad,  but  when  she 

sleeps :   and  not  ever  sad  then  ;  for  I  have  heard 

my  daughter  say,  she  hath  often  dreamed  of  un- 

happiness,  and  waked  herself  with  laughing. 

«  Interett  '  Turn  :  a  phraw  among  the  playen. 


1]4. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  II. 


D.  Pedro.  She  cannot  endure  to  hear  tell  of  a 
husband. 

Leon.  O,  by  no  means  ;  she  mocks  all  her  wooers 
out  of  suit. 

D.  Pedro.  She  were  an  excellent  wife  for  Be- 
nedick. 

Leon.  O,  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a  week  mar- 
ried, they  would  talk  themselves  mad. 

D.  Pedro.  Count  Claudio,  when  mean  you  to  go 
to  church  ? 

Claud.  To-morrow,  my  lord:  Time  goes  on 
crutches,  till  love  have  all  his  rites. 

Leon.  Not  till  Monday,  my  dear  son,  which  is 
hence  a  just  seven-night;  and  a  time  too  brief  too, 
tc  have  all  things  answer  my  mind. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  you  shake  the  head  at  so  long 
a  breathing ;  but,  I  warrant  thee,  Claudio,  the  time 
shall  not  go  dully  by  us ;  I  will,  in  the  interim, 
undertake  one  of  Hercules'  labours  ;  wliich  is,  to 
bring  signior  Benedick  and  the  lady  Beatrice  into 
a  mountain  of  affection,  the  one  with  the  other.  I 
would  fain  have  it  a  match ;  and  1  doubt  not  but 
to  fashion  it,  if  you  three  will  but  minister  such  as- 
sistance as  I  shall  give  you  direction. 

Leon.  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost  me 
ten  nights'  watchings. 

Claud.    And  I,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.   And  you  too,  gentle  Hero  ? 

Hero.  I  will  do  any  modest  office,  my  lord,  to 
help  my  cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

D.  Pedro.  And  Benedick  is  not  the  unhopefullest 
husband  that  I  know  :  thus  far  can  I  praise  him ; 
he  is  of  a  noble  strain  *,  of  approved  valour,  and 
confirmed  honesty.  I  will  teach  you  how  to  humour 
your  cousin,  that  she  shall  fall  in  love  with  Bene- 
dick :  —  and  I,  with  your  two  helps,  will  so  practise 
on  Benedick,  that,  in  despite  of  his  quick  wit  and 
his  queasy  ^  stomach,  he  shall  fall  in  love  with  Bea- 
trice. If  we  can  do  this,  Cupid  is  no  longer  an 
archer ;  his  glory  shall  be  ours,  for  we  are  the  only 
love-gods.  Go  in  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  my 
dnft.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Don  John  and  Borachio. 

D,  John.  It  is  so  ;  the  count  Claudio  shall  marry 
the  daughter  of  Leonato. 

Bora.    Yea,  my  lord ;  but  I  can  cross  it. 

D.  John.  Any  bar,  any  cross,  any  impediment 
will  be  medicinable  to  me :  I  am  sick  in  displeasure 
to  him  ;  and  whatsoever  comes  athwart  his  affection, 
ranges  evenly  with  mine.  How  canst  thou  cross 
this  marriage  ? 

Bora.  Not  honestly,  my  lord ;  but  so  covertly 
that  no  dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me. 

D.  John.    Show  me  briefly  how. 

Bora.  I  think,  I  told  your  lordship,  a  year  since, 
how  much  I  am  in  the  favour  of  Margaret,  the 
waiting -gentlewoman  to  Hero. 

D.  John.    1  remember. 

Bora.  I  can,  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the 
night,  appoint  her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's  chamber- 
window. 

D.  John.  What  life  is  in  that,  to  be  the  death  of 
this  marriage  ? 

Bora.  Ttie  poison  of  that  lies  in  you  to  temper. 
Go  you  to  the  prince  your  brother ;  spare  not  to  tell 
him,  that  he  hath  wronged  his  honour  in  marrying 


■*  Lineage. 


'  Fastidious. 


the  renowned  Claudio  (whose  estimation  do  you 
mightily  hold  up)  to  a  contaminated  person,  such  a 
one  as  Hero. 

I).  John.    What  proof  shall  I  make  of  that? 

Bora  Proof  enough  to  misuse  the  prince,  to  vex 
Claudio,  to  undo  Hero,  and  kill  Leonato  :  Look 
you  for  any  other  issue  ? 

D.  John*  Only  to  despite  them,  I  will  endeavour 
any  thing. 

Bora.  Go  then,  find  me  a  meet  hour  to  draw  don 
Pedro  and  the  count  Claudio,  alone :  tell  them, 
that  you  know  that  Hero  loves  me  ;  intend  6  a  kind 
of  zeal  both  to  the  prince  and  Claudio,  as  — in  love 
of  your  brother's  honour  who  hath  made  this  match; 
and  his  friend's  reputation,  who  is  thus  like  to  be 
cozened  with  the  semblance  of  a  maid,  —  that  you 
have  discovered  thus.  They  will  scarcely  believe 
this  without  trial :  cffer  them  instances;  which  shall 
bear  no  less  likelihood,  than  to  see  me  at  her  cham- 
ber-window ;  hear  me  call  Margaret,  Hero ;  hear 
Margaret  term  me  Borachio  ;  and  bring  them  to 
see  this,  the  very  night  before  the  intended  wed- 
ding :  for,  in  the  mean  time,  I  will  so  fashion  the 
matter,  that  Hero  shall  be  absent ;  and  there  shall 
appear  such  seeming  truth  of  Hero's  disloyalty,  that 
jealousy  shall  be  call'd  assurance,  and  all  the  pre- 
paration overthrown. 

I).  John.  Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it  can, 
I  will  put  it  in  practice  :  Be  cunning  in  the  work- 
ing this,  and  thy  fee  is  a  thousand  ducats. 

Bora.  Be  you  constant  in  the  accusation,  and  my 
cunning  shall  not  shame  me. 

D.  John.  I  will  presently  go  learn  their  day  of 
man'iage.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  Leonato's  Garden. 
Enter  Benehick  and  a  Boy. 

Bene.   Boy, — 

Boy.    Signior. 

Bene.  In  my  chamber- window  lies  a  book  ;  bring 
it  hither  to  me  in  the  orchard. 

Boy.   I  am  here  already,  sir. 

Bene.  I  know  that ;  —  but  I  would  have  thee 
hence,  and  here  again.  {ExU  Boy.]  — I  do  much 
wonder,  that  one  man,  seeing  how  much  another 
man  is  a  fool  when  he  dedicates  his  behaviours  to 
love,  will,  after  he  hath  laughed  at  such  shallov^ 
follies  in  others,  become  the  argument  of  his  own 
scorn  by  falling  in  love  :  And  such  a  man  is  Clau- 
dio. I  have  known,  when  there  was  no  musick 
with  him  but  the  drum  and  fife ;  and  now  had  he 
rather  hear  the  tabor  and  the  pipe  :  I  have  known, 
when  he  would  have  walked  ten  mile  afoot,  to  see 
a  good  armour ;  and  now  will  he  lie  ten  nights 
awake  carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet.  He 
was  wont  to  speak  plain,  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an 
honest  man,  and  a  soldier ;  and  now  is  he  turn'd 
orthographer ;  his  words  are  a  very  fantastical  ban- 
quet, just  so  many  strange  dishes.  May  I  be  so 
converted,  and  see  with  these  eyes  ?  I  cannot  tell ; 
I  think  not :  I  wall  not  be  sworn,  but  love  may 
transform  me  to  an  oyster ;  but  I'll  take  my  oath 
on  it,  till  he  have  made  an  oyster  of  me,  he  shall 
never  make  me  such  a  fool.  One  woman  is  fair ; 
yet  I  am  well :  another  is  wise ;  yet  I  am  well : 
another  virtuous  ;  yet  I  am  well :  but  till  all  graces 
be  in  one  woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come  in  my 
grace.  Rich  she  shall  be,  that's  certain  ;  wise,  or  ■ 
<>  Pretend. 


Scene  III. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


115 


I'll  none  ;  virtuous,  or  I'll  never  cheapen  her  ;  fair, 
or  I'll  never  look  on  her  ;  mild,  or  come  not  near ; 
noble,  or  not  I  for  an  angel ;  of  good  discourse,  an 
excellent  musician,  and  her  hair  shall  be  of  what 
colour  it  pleases.  Ha  !  the  prince  and  monsieur 
love  !   I  will  liide  me  in  the  arbour.        [  Withdraws. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Leonato,  and  Claudio. 
D.  Pedro.    Come,  shall  we  hear  this  musick  ? 
Claud.   Yea,   my   good   lord :  —  How   still   the 
evening  is. 
As  hush'd  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony  1 
D.  Pedro.   See  you  where  Benedick  hath  liid  liim- 

self? 
Claud.   O,  very  well,  my  lord  :  the  musick  ended, 
We'll  fit  the  kid-fox  with  a  penny-worth. 

Enter  Balthazar  with  musick. 

D.  Pedro.   Come,  Balthazar,  we'll  hear  tliat  song 
again. 

Balth.    O  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a  voice 
To  slander  musick  any  more  than  once. 

D.  Pedro.  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency, 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection  :  — 
I  pray  thee,  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 

Balth.   Because  you  talk  of  wooing,  I  will  sing  : 
Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 
To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy ;  yet  he  wooes ; 
Yet  will  he  swear,  he  loves. 

1).  Pedro.  Nay,  pray  thee,  come  : 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 
Do  it  in  notes. 

Balth.  Note  this  before  my  notes, 

There's  not  a  note  of  mine  that's  worth  the  noting. 

D.  Pedro.   Why  these  are  very  crotchets  that  he 
speaks ; 
Note,  notes,  forsootli,  and  noting  !  [Miisick. 

Bene.  Now,  Divine  air!  now  is  his  soul  ravish 'd  ! 
—  Is  it  not  strange,  that  sheep's  guts  should  hale 
souls  out  of  men's  bodies  ?  —  Well,  a  horn  for  my 
money,  when  all's  done. 

Balthazar  sings. 
I. 
Balth.  Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more. 
Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore  ; 
To  one  thing  constant  never  : 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go. 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny  : 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

II. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo'' 

Ofdtnnps  so  dull  and  heavy; 
The  fraud  of  men  was  et>er  so. 
Since  summer  first  was  leafy. 
Then  sigh  not  so,  ^c 
D.  Pedro.   By  my  troth,  a  good  song. 
Balth.   And  an  ill  singer,  my  lord. 
D.  Pedro.    Ha  ?  no  ;  no,  faith ;  tliou  singest  well 
enough  for  a  shift. 

Bene.  [Aside.]  An  he  had  been  a  dog,  that 
should  have  howled  thus,  tliey  would  have  hanged 
him ;  and,  I  pray  heaven,  his  bad  voice  bode  no 
mischief!  I  had  as  lief  have  heard  the  night-raven, 
come  what  plague  could  have  come  after  it. 
'  More. 


D.  Pedro.  Yea,  marry;  [To  Claudio.]  —  Dost 
thou  hear,  Balthazar  ?  I  pray  thee,  get  us  some  ex- 
cellent musick  ;  for  to-morrow  night  we  would  have 
it  at  the  lady  Hero's  chamber-window. 

Balth.   The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Do  so:  farewell,  [^j-^mh^  Balthazar 
and  musick.]  Come  hither,  Leonato  :  What  was  it 
you  told  me  of  to-day  ?  that  your  niece  Beatrice 
was  in  love  with  signior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  O,  ay ;  —  Stalk  on,  stalk  on  ;  the  fowl 
sits.  [Aside  to  Pedro.]  I  did  never  think  that 
lady  would  have  loved  any  man. 

Leon.  No,  nor  I  neither ;  but  most  wonderful, 
that  she  should  so  dote  on  signior  Benedick,  whom 
she  hath  in  all  outward  behaviours  seemed  ever  to 
abhor. 

Bene.  Is't  possible  ?  Sits  the  wind  in  that  comer  ? 

[Aside. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  ray  lord,  I  cannot  tell  what  to 
think  of  it;  but  that  she  loves  him  with  an  enraged 
alfection,  —  it  is  past  the  infinite  of  thought. 

D.  Pedro.    May  be,  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Claud.  'Faith,  like  enough. 

Leon.  Counterfeit!  There  never  was  counterfeit 
of  passion  came  so  near  the  life  of  passion,  as  she 
discovers  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  what  effects  of  passion  shows  she  ? 

Claud.  Bait  the  hook  well ;  this  fisli  will  bite. 

[Asiile. 

Leon.  What  effects,  my  lord  !  She  will  sit  you  — 
You  heard  my  daughter  tell  you  how. 

Claud.    She  did,  indeed. 

D.  Pedro.  How,  how,  I  pray  you?  You  amaze 
me  :  I  would  have  thought  her  spirit  had  been  in- 
vincible against  all  assaults  of  affection. 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord ;  es- 
pecially against  Benedick. 

Bene.  [Aside.]  I  should  tliink  this  a  gull,  but 
that  the  white-bearded  fellow  speaks  it :  knavery 
cannot,  sure,  hide  itself  in  such  reverence. 

Clatid.   He  hath  ta'en  the  infection  ;  hold  it  up. 

[Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known 
to  Benedick? 

Leon.  No ;  and  swears  she  never  will :  that's  her 
torment. 

Claud.  'Tis  true,  indeed  ;  so  your  daughter  says  : 
Shall  I,  says  she,  that  have  so  oft  encounter  d  him 
with  scorn,  un-ile  to  him  that  I  love  him  ? 

I^eon.  This  says  she  now  when  she  is  beginning 
to  write  to  him :  for  she'll  be  up  twenty  times  a 
night ;  and  there  will  she  sit  till  she  have  writ  a 
sheet  of  paper:  — my  daughter  tells  us  all.  Then 
will  she  tear  the  letter  into  a  thousand  lialf-pence  ; 
rail  at  herself,  that  slie  should  write  to  one  that  she 
knew  would  flout  her  :  /  measure  him,  says  she,  hy 
my  own  spirit ;  for  I  should  flout  him,  if  he  writ  to 
me  ;  yea,  though  I  love  him,  I  should. 

Claud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls, 
weeps,  sobs,  beats  her  heart,  tears  her  hair,  and 
cries,  0  siveet  Benedick  ! 

Leon.  She  doth,  indeed  ;  my  daughter  says  so : 
and  the  ecstasy  hath  so  much  overborne  her,  that 
my  daughter  is  sometime  afraid  she  will  do  a  des- 
perate outrage  to  herself :   It  is  very  true. 

D.  Pedro.  It  were  good,  that  lienedick  knew  of 
it  by  some  otlier,  if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Claud.  To  what  end?  He  would  but  make  a 
sport  of  it,  and  torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

D,  Pedro,  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms  to  hang 
I  2 


116 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  III 


him  :  She's  an  excellent  sweet  lady  ;  and,  out  of  all 
suspicion,  she  is  virtuous. 

Claud.   And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  In  everything,  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leon.  I  am  sorry  for  her,  as  I  have  just  cause, 
being  her  uncle  and  her  guardian. 

-D.  Pedro.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage 
on  me ;  I  would  have  daff 'd  8  all  other  respects, 
and  made  her  half  myself :  I  pray  you,  tell  Benedick 
of  it,  and  hear  what  he  will  say. 

Leon.   Were  it  good,  think  you  ? 

Claud.  Hero  thinks  surely,  she  will  die  :  for  she 
says,  she  will  die  if  he  love  her  not ;  and  she  will 
die  ere  she  makes  her  love  known ;  and  she  will  die 
if  he  woo  her,  rather  than  she  will  bate  one  breath 
of  her  accustomed  crossness. 

D.  Pedro.  She  doth  well :  if  she  should  make 
tender  of  her  love,  'tis  very  possible  he'll  scorn  it ; 
for  the  man,  as  you  know  all,  hath  a  contemptuous 
spirit. 

Claud.    He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

D.  Pedro.  He  hath  indeed  a  good  outward  hap- 
piness. 

Claud.   And  in  my  mind,  very  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  He  doth,  indeed,  show  some  sparks 
that  are  like  wit 

Leo7i.    And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

D.  Pedro.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you  :  and  in  the 
managing  of  quarrels  you  may  say  he  is  wise  ;  for 
either  he  avoids  them  with  great  discretion,  or  un- 
dertakes them  with  a  most  Christian-like  fear. 

Leon.  If  he  do  fear  God,  he  must  necessarily  keep 
peace  ;  if  he  break  the  peace,  he  ought  to  enter  into 
a  quarrel  with  fear  and  trembling. 

B.  Pedro.  And  so  will  he  do;  for  the  man  doth 
fear  God.  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  your  niece  :  Shall 
we  go  see  Benedick,  and  tell  him  of  her  love  ? 

Claud.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord ;  let  her  wear  it 
out  with  good  counsel. 

Leon-  Nay,  that's  impossible  ;  she  may  wear  her 
heart  out  first. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  we'll  hear  further  of  it  by  your 
daughter  ;  let  it  cool  the  while.  I  love  Benedick 
well ;  and  I  could  wish  he  would  modestly  examine 
himself,  to  see  how  much  he  is  unworthy  so  good  a 
lady. 

Leon.   My  lord,  will  you  walk  ?  dinner  is  ready. 

Claud.  If  he  do  not  dote  on  her  upon  this,  I  will 
never  trust  my  expectation.  [Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Let  thei'e  be  the  same  net  spread  for 
her ;  and  that  must  your  daughter  and  her  gentle- 
woman carry.  The  sport  will  be,  when  they  hold 
one  an  opinion  of  another's  dotage,  and  no  such 


matter ;  tliat's  the  scene  that  I  would  see,  which 

will  be  merely  a  dumb  show.     Let  us  send  her  to 

call  him  in  to  dinner.  [Aside. 

[Exeunt  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  Leonato. 

Benepick  advances  from  the  Arbour. 

Bene.  This  can  be  no  trick  :  The  conference  wa-^ 
sadly  borne. '  —  They  have  the  truth  of  this  from 
Hero.  They  seem  to  pity  the  lady ;  it  seems,  her 
affections  have  their  full  bent.  Love  me  !  why,  it 
must  be  requited.  I  hear  how  I  am  censured  :  they 
say,  I  will  bear  myself  proudly,  if  I  perceive  the 
love  come  from  her ;  they  say  too,  that  she  will  ra- 
ther die  than  give  any  sign  of  affection.  —  I  did 
never  think  to  marry  :  —  I  must  not  seem  proud  : 
—  Happy  are  they  that  hear  their  detractions,  and 
can  put  them  to  mending.  They  say,  the  lady  is 
fair  ;  'tis  a  truth  I  can  bear  them  witness  :  and  vir- 
tuous ;  —  'tis  so,  I  cannot  reprove  it ;  and  wise,  but 
for  loving  me :  —  By  my  troth,  it  is  no  addition  to 
her  wit ;  —  nor  no  great  argument  of  her  folly,  for 
I  will  be  horribly  in  love  with  her.  —  I  may  chance 
have  some  odd  quirks  and  remnants  of  wit  broken 
on  me,  because  I  have  railed  so  long  against  mar- 
riage:  —  But  doth  not  the  appetite  alter?  A  man 
loves  the  meat  in  his  youth,  that  he  cannot  endure 
in  his  age :  Shall  quips,  and  sentences,  and  these 
paper  bullets  of  the  brain,  awe  a  man  from  the 
career  of  his  humour  ?  No  :  The  world  must  be 
peopled.  When  I  said,  I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I 
did  not  think  I  should  live  till  I  were  mamed.  — 
Here  comes  Beatrice  :  By  this  day,  she's  a  fair  lady  ; 
I  do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Beat.  Against  my  will,  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come 
in  to  dinner. 

Bene.   Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Bent.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than 
you  take  pains  to  thank  me ;  if  it  had  been  painful 
I  would  not  have  come. 

Bene.   You  take  pleasure  in  the  message  ?  ' 

Beat.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  may  take  upon  a 
knife's  point,  and  choke  a  daw  withal :  —  You  have 
no  stomach,  signior  ;  fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Bene.  Ha  !  Against  my  will,  I  am  sent  to  bid  you 
come  to  dinner  —  there's  a  double  meaning  in  that, 
/  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than  you  took 
pains  to  thank  me  —  that's  as  much  as  to  say.  Any 
pains  that  I  take  for  you  is  as  easy  as  thanks :  —  If 
I  do  not  take  pity  of  her,  I  am  a  villain  ;  if  I  do  not 
love  her,  I  am  a  Jew :    I  will  go  get  her  picture. 

[Exit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I Leonato'5  Garden. 

Enter  Hero,  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 
Hero.  Good  Margaret,  run  thee  into  the  parlour  ; 
There  shalt  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice 
Proposing  9  with  the  prince  and  Claudio  i 
Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursula 
Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 
Is  all  of  her ;  say,  that  thou  overheard 'st  us  ; 
And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 

8  Thrown  ofF.  9  Discoursing. 


Where  honey-suckles,  ripen'd  by  the  sun. 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter  ;  —  like  favourites. 
Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 
Against  that  power  that  bred  it :  —  there  will  she 

hide  her, 
To  listen  our  propose :    This  is  thy  office. 
Bear  thee  well  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

Marg.   I'll  make  her  come,  I  warrant  you,  pre- 
sently. [Exit. 
Hero.   Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come, 
1  Seriously  carried  on. 


Scene  I. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


117 


As  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down, 

Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick  : 

When  I  do  name  liim,  let  it  be  thy  part 

To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit : 

My  talk  to  thee  m'ust  be,  how  Benedick 

Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice  :    Of  this  matter 

Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 

That  only  wounds  by  hearsay.     Now  begin  ; 

Enter  Beatrice,  behind. 
For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 

Urs.   The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  vvitli  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream. 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait : 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice ;  who  even  now 
Is  couch'd  in  the  woodbine  coverture : 
Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Hero.   Then  go  we  near  her,  that  her  ear  lose 
nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  lay  for  it.  — 

[Thei/  advance  to  the  bower. 
No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful ; 
I  know,  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
As  haggards  of  the  rock. 2 

Urs.  But  are  you  sure, 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely  ? 

Jlero.   So  says  the  prince,  and  my  new-trothed 
lord. 

Urs.  And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it,  madam? 

Hero.   They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it : 
But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  loved  Benedick, 
To  wish  liim  wrestle  with  aiFection, 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 

Urs.   Wliy  did  you  so  ?  Doth  not  the  gentleman 
Deserve  as  full,  as  fortunate  a  bed. 
As  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon  ? 

Hero.   O  God  of  love  !   I  know,  he  doth  deserve 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man  : 
But  nature  never  fram'd  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff'  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes. 
Misprising  what  they  look  on  ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak  :   she  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Urs.  Sure,  I  think  so  ; 

And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.  Why,  you  speak  truth :  I  never  yet  saw  man. 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featur'd, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward  :   if  fair-faced. 
She'd  swear,  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister ; 
If  black,  why,  nature,  drawing  of  an  antick, 
Made  a  foul  blot :  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed  j 
If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut : 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  wind  : 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out ; 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue,  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 

Hero.  No:  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable  : 
But  wlio  dare  tell  her  so  ?  If  I  should  speak, 
She'd  mock  me  into  air  ;  O,  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  cover'd  fire, 
'  A  species  of  hawks. 


Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly  : 
It  were  a  better  deatli  than  die  with  mocks. 

Urs.    Yet  tell  her  of  it ;  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.   No  ;  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion  : 
And,  truly,  I'll  devise  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with  :    One  doth  not  know. 
How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Urs.    O,  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, 
(Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit. 
As  she  is  priz'd  to  have,)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  signior  Benedick. 

Hero.    He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.   I  pray  you,  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam. 
Speaking  my  fancy  ;  signior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,  and  valour. 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.    Indeed  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 

Urs.   His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  had  it 

When  are  you  married,  madam  ? 

Hero.   Why,   every   day  ;  —  to-morrow  :    Come 
go  in ; 
I'll  show  thee  some  attires  ;  and  have  thy  counsel, 
Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 

Urs.    She's  lim'd,  I  warrant  you ;  we  have  caught 
her,  madam. 

Hero.   If  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by  haps  : 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 

[Exeunt  Hero  and  Ursula. 

Beatrice  advances. 

Bent.  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears?  Can  this  be  true  ? 

Stand  I  condemn 'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much? 
Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu  ! 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on,  I  will  requite  thee  ; 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand  ; 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  tliee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band  : 
For  others  say,  thou  dost  deserve  ;  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  \^ExU. 

SCENE  II.  — A  Room  in  Leonato'*  House. 

Enter  Don   Pedro,   Claudio,   Benedick,  ayid 
Leonato. 

D.  Pedro.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be 
consummate,  and  then  I  go  toward  Arragon. 

Claud.  I'll  bring  you  thitlier,  my  lord,  if  you'll 
vouchsafe  me. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in 
the  new  gloss  of  your  marriage,  as  to  show  a  child 
his  new  coat,  and  forbid  him  to  wear  it.  I  will  only 
be  bold  with  Benedick  for  his  company ;  for,  from 
the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  he  is 
all  mirth ;  he  hath  twice  or  thrice  cut  Cupid's  bow- 
string, and  the  little  hangman  dare  not  shoot  at 
him :  he  hath  a  heart  as  sound  as  a  bell,  and  his 
tongue  is  the  clapper ;  for  what  his  heart  thinks, 
his  tongue  speaks. 

Bene.   Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  been. 

Leon.   So  say  I  ;  methinks  you  are  sadder. 

Claud.   I  hoiie,  he  be  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  Hang  him,  truant ;  there's  no  true 
drop  of  blood  in  him,  to  be  truly  touch'd  with  love  : 
if  he  be  sad,  he  \vants  money. 

Bene.    I  have  the  tooth-ach. 

D.  Pedro.    Draw  it. 

I  3 


118 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  III. 


Bene.   Hang  it ! 

Claud.  You  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it  after- 
wards. 

D.  Pedro.   What  ?  sigh  for  the  tooth-ach  ? 

Leon.   Where  is  but  a  humour,  or  a  worm  ? 

Bene.  Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief,  but 
he  that  has  it. 

Claud.   Yet  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy  in 
him,  \inless  it  be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to  strange 
disguises ;  as,  to  be  a  Dutchman  to-day  ;  a  French- 
man to-morrow  ;  or  in  the  shape  of  two  countries 
at  once.  Unless  he  have  a  fancy  to  this  foolery, 
as  it  appears  he  hath,  he  is  no  fool  for  fancy,  as 
you  would  have  it  appear  he  is. 

Claud.  If  he  be  not  in  love  with  some  woman, 
there  is  no  believing  old  signs :  he  brushes  his  hat 
o'  mornings  ;   What  should  that  bode  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the  barber's  ? 

Claud.  No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been  seen 
with  him ;  and  the  old  ornament  of  his  cheek  hath 
already  stuffed  tennis-balls. 

Leon.  Indeed,  he  looks  younger  than  he  did  by 
the  loss  of  a  beard. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  he  rubs  himself  with  civet :  Can 
you  smell  him  out  by  that  ? 

Claud.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  The  sweet 
youth's  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his  melancholy. 

Claud.  And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face? 

Z>.  Pedro.  Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the 
which,  I  hear  what  they  say  of  him. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit ;  which  is  now 
crept  into  a  lutestring,  and  now  governed  by  stops. 

D.  Pedro.  Indeed,  that  tells  a  heavy  tale  for  him  : 
Conclude,  conclude,  he  is  in  love. 

Claud.   Nay,  but  I  know  who  loves  him. 

D.  Pedro.  That  would  I  know  too ;  I  warrant, 
one  that  knows  him  not. 

Claud.  Yes,  and  his  ill  conditions;  and,  in  despite 
of  all,  dies  for  him. 

Bene,  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  tooth-ach.  — 
Old  signior,  walk  aside  with  me  :  I  have  studied 
eight  or  nine  wise  words  to  speak  to  you,  which 
these  hobby-horses  must  not  hear. 

[Exeunt  Benedick  and  Leonato. 

D.  Pedro.  For  my  life,  to  break  with  him  about 
Beatrice. 

>  Claud.  'Tis  even  so  :  Hero  and  Margaret  have 
by  this  played  their  parts  with  Beatrice ;  and  then 
the  two  bears  will  not  bite  one  another,  when  they 
meet. 

Enter  Don  John. 

D.  John.   My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you. 

L>.  Pedro.    Good  den,  brother. 

D.  John.  If  your  leisure  served,  I  would  speak 
with  you. 

D.  Pedro.    In  private? 

D.  Pedro.  If  it  please  you  ;  —  yet  count  Claudio 
may  hear ;  for  what  I  would  speak  of,  concerns  him. 

Z).  Pedro.   What's  the  matter? 

D.  John.  Means  your  lordship  to  be  married  to- 
morrow? [To  Claudio. 

D.  Pedro.    You  know,  he  does. 

D.  Johii.  I  know  not  that,  when  he  knows  what 
I  know. 

Claud.  If  there  be  any  impediment,  I  pray  you, 
discover  it. 

D.  John.  You  may  think  I  love  you  not;  let  that 


appear  hereafter,  and  aim  better  at  me  by  that  I 
now  will  manifest :  For  my  brother,  I  think  he 
holds  you  well ;  and  in  dearness  of  heart  hath  holp 
to  effect  your  ensuing  marriage :  surely,  suit  ill 
spent,  and  labour  ill  bestowed  ! 

n.  Pedro.   Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

D.  John.  I  came  hither  to  tell  you  ;  and,  cir- 
cumstances shortened,  (for  she  hath  been  too  long 
a  talking  of,)  the  lady  is  disloyal. 

Claud.   Who?   Hero? 

I).  John.  Even  she  ;  Leonato's  Hero,  your  Hero, 
every  man's  Hero. 

Claud.   Disloyal? 

B.  John.  The  word  is  too  good  to  paint  out  her 
wickedness ;  I  could  say,  she  were  worse  ;  think 
you  of  a  worse  title,  and  I  will  fit  her  to  it.  Wonder 
not  till  further  warrant :  go  but  with  me  to-night, 
you  shall  see  her  chamber- window  entered;  even 
the  night  before  her  wedding-day  :  if  you  love  her 
then,  to-morrow  wed  her ;  but  it  would  better  fit 
your  honour  to  change  your  mind. 

Claud.   May  this  be  so  ? 

D.  Pedro.   I  will  not  think  it. 

D.  John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see,  con- 
fess not  that  you  know :  if  you  will  follow  me,  I 
will  show  you  enough  ;  and  when  you  have  seen 
more  and  heard  more,  proceed  accordingly. 

Claud.  If  I  see  any  thing  to  night  why  I  should 
not  marry  her  to-morrow ;  in  the  congregation, 
where  I  should  wed,  there  will  I  shame  her. 

Z>.  Pedro.  And  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  obtain 
her,  I  will  join  with  thee  to  disgrace  her. 

D.  John.  1  will  disparage  her  no  farther,  till  you 
are  my  witnesses  :  bear  it  coldly  but  till  midnight, 
and  let  the  issue  show  itself. 

D.  Pedro.    O  day  untowardly  turned  ! 

Claud.    O  mischief  strangely  thwarting  ! 

D.  John-    O  plague  right  well  prevented  ! 
So  will  you  say,  when  you  have  seen  the  sequel. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  III. —^Street. 

Enter  Dogberry  and  Verges,  with  the  Watch. 

Dogb.   Are  you  good  men,  and  true  ? 

Ve7-g.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should 
suffer  salvation. 

Dogb.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for 
them,  if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in  them, 
being  chosen  for  the  prince's  watch. 

Verg.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbour 
Dogberry. 

Dogb.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  disheartless 
man  to  be  constable  ? 

1  Watch.  Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal ; 
for  they  can  write  and  read. 

Dogb.  Come  hither,  neighbour  Seacoal.  Heaven 
hath  blessed  you  with  a  good  name :  to  be  a  well- 
favoured  man  is  the  gift  of  fortune ;  but  to  write 
and  read  comes  by  nature. 

2  Watch.    Botli  which,  master  constable, 

Dogb.    You  have  ;   I  knew  it  would  be  your  an- 
swer.     Well,  for  your  favour,  sir,  make  no  boast  of 
it ;  and  for  your  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear 
when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity.      You  are 
thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit  man  for   ,^ 
the  constable  of  the  watch  ;  therefore  bear  you  the    \ 
lantern:  This  is  your  charge ;  You  shall  comprehend 
all  vagrom  men  ;  you  are  to  bid  any  man  stand,  ia    .> 
the  prince's  name. 

2  Watch.   How,  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 


Scene  III. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


119 


Dogb.  Why  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let 
hhn  go ;  and  presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  to- 
gether, and  Uiank  heaven  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verg.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he 
is  none  of  the  prince's  subjects. 

Dogb.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none 
but  the  prince's  subjects  :  —  You  shall  also  make  no 
noise  in  tlie  streets  ;  for,  for  the  watcli  to  babble  and 
talk  is  most  tolerable  and  not  to  be  endured. 

2  Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk  ;  we 
know  what  belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dogb.  AVhy,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most 
quiet  watchman ;  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping 
should  offend  :  only,  have  a  care  that  your  bills  3 
be  not  stolen  :  —  Well,  you  are  to  call  at  all  the 
ale-houses,  and  bid  those  tliat  are  drunk  get  them  to 
bed. 

2  JFatch.   How,  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dogb.  Why  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are 
sober;  if  they  make  you  not  then  the  better  an- 
swer, you  may  say,  tliey  are  not  the  men  you  took 
them  for. 

2  iratch.   Well,  sir. 

Dogb.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him, 
by  virtue  of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man ;  and, 
for  such  kind  of  men,  the  less  you  meddle  or  make 
with  them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty, 

2  Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we 
not  lay  hands  on  him  ? 

Dogb.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may ;  but,  I 
think,  they  that  touch  pitch  will  be  defiled ;  the 
most  peaceable  way  for  you,  if  you  do  take  a  thief, 
is,  to  let  him  show  himself  what  he  is,  and  steal  out 
of  your  company. 

Verg.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful 
man,  partner. 

Dogb.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will ; 
much  more  a  man  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Verg.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night,  you 
must  call  to  tlie  nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2  Watch.  How,  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will 
not  hear  us  ? 

Dogb.  Why,  then  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the 
child  wake  her  with  crying ;  for  the  ewe  that  will 
not  hear  her  lamb  when  it  baes,  will  never  answer 
a  calf  when  he  bleats. 

Verg.   *Tis  very  true. 

Dogb.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You,  con- 
stable, are  to  present  the  prince's  own  person  :  if 
you  meet  the  prince  in  the  night,  you  may  stay  him. 

Verg.   Nay  by'r  lady,  tliat,  I  think,  he  cannot. 

Dogb.  Five  sliillings  to  one  on't,  with  any  man 
that  knows  the  statues,  he  may  stay  him  :  marry, 
not  without  the  prince  be  willing  :  for,  indeed,  the 
watch  ought  to  offend  no  man ;  and  it  is  an  offence 
to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 

Verg.   By'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogb.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Well,  masters,  good  night : 
an  there  be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up 
me  :  keep  your  fellows'  counsels  and  your  own,  and 
good  night.  —  Come,  neighbour. 

2  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge:  let 
us  go  sit  here  upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and 
then  all  to-bed. 

Dogb.   One   word   more,  honest   neighbours :    I 

pray  you,  watch  about  signior  Leonato's  door ;  for 

the  wedding  being  tliere  to-morrow,  tliere  is  a  great 

coil  to-night:   Adieu,  be  vigitant,  I  beseech  you. 

[Exeunt  Dogberry  and  Verges. 

3  Weapons  of  the  w  atchraaj. 


Enter  Borachio  and  Conrade. 


Bora.   What !   Conrade,  — 

Watch.    Peace,  stir  not.  \^Aside. 

Bora.    Conrade,  I  say  ! 

Con.    Here,  man,  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bora.  Stand  thee  close  then  under  this  pent- 
house, for  it  drizzles  rain ;  and  I  will,  like  a  true 
drunkard,  utter  all  to  thee. 

Watch  \^Aside.'\  Some  treason,  masters ;  yet 
stand  close. 

Bora.  Therefore  know,  I  have  earned  of  don 
John  a  thousand  ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villainy  should  be  so 
dear? 

Bora.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible any  villainy  should  be  so  rich  ;  for  when  rich 
villains  have  need  of  poor  ones,  poor  ones  may  make 
what  price  they  will. 

Con.   I  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shows  thou  art  unconfirmed  ^  :  Thou 
knowest  that  tlie  fashion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or  a 
cloak,  is  notliing  to  a  man. 

Con.  Yes,  it  is  apparel. 

Bora.   I  mean  the  fashion. 

Con.   Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 

Bora.  Tush  !  I  may  as  well  say,  the  fool's  the 
fool.  But  see'st  thou  not  what  a  deformed  thief 
tliis  fashion  is  ? 

Watch.  I  know  that  Deformed;  he  has  been  a 
vile  thief  this  seven  year ;  he  goes  up  and  down  like 
a  gentleman  :   I  remember  his  name. 

Bora.   Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  ? 

Co7i.   No  ;  'twas  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformeil 
thief  this  fashion  is?  how  giddily  he  turns  about 
all  the  hot  bloods,  between  fourteen  and  five-and- 
thirty  ? 

Con.  All  tills  I  see  ;  and  see,  that  the  fashion 
wears  out  more  apparel  than  the  man  :  But  art  not 
thou  thyself  giddy  with  the  fashion  too,  that  thou 
hast  shifted  out  of  thy  tale  into  telling  me  of  the 
fashion  ? 

Bora.  Not  so,  neither:  but  know,  that  I  have 
to-night  wooed  Margaret,  the  lady  Hero's  gentle- 
woman, by  tlie  name  of  Hero  ;  she  leans  me  out  at 
her  mistress'  chamber-window,  bids  me  a  thousand 
times  good  night,  —  I  tell  this  tale  vilely :  —  I 
should  first  tell  tliee,  how  the  prince,  Claudio,  and 
my  master,  planted,  and  placed,  and  possessed  by 
my  master  don  John,  saw  afar  off"  in  the  orchard 
this  amiable  encounter. 

Con.   And  thought  they,  Margaret  was  Hero? 

Bora.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudio  ; 
but  the  devil  my  master  knew  she  was  IMargaret ; 
and  partly  by  his  oaths,  which  first  possessed  them, 
partly  by  the  dark  night,  which  did  deceive  tJieni, 
but  chiefly  by  my  villainy,  which  did  confirm  any 
slander  that  don  John  had  made,  away  went  Claudio 
enraged ;  swore  he  would  meet  her  as  he  was  aji- 
pointed,  next  morning  at  the  temple,  and  there, 
before  the  whole  congregation,  shame  her  with  what 
he  saw  over-night,  and  send  her  home  again  without 
a  husband. 

1  Watch.  We  charge  you  in  the  prince's  name, 
stand. 

2  Watch.  Call  up  the  right  master  constable  :  We 
have  here  recovered  the  most  dangerous  piece  t>f 
lechery  that  ever  was  known  in  tlic  commonwealth. 

<  Unpractiaed  in  the  ways  of  the  world. 
I  4 


120 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.      Act  HI.   Scene  IV. 


1  Watch.  And  one  Deformed  is  one  of  them  ;  I 
know  him,  he  wears  a  lock. 

Con.   Masters,  masters. 

2  Watch.  You'll  be  made  bring  Deformed  forth, 
I  warrant  you. 

Con.   Masters,  — 

1  Watch.  Never  speak ;  we  charge  you,  let  us 
obey  you  to  go  with  us. 

Bora.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commodity, 
being  taken  up  of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,  I  warrant  you. 
Come,  we'll  obey  you.  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Hero,  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula,  wake  my  cousin  Beatrice, 
and  desire  her  to  rise. 

Urs.   I  will,  lady. 

Hero.   And  bid  her  come  hither. 

Urs.  Well.  [Eait  Ursula. 

Marg.  Troth,  I  think,  your  other  rabato  ^  were 
better. 

Hero.   No,  pray  thee,  good  Meg,  I'll  wear  this. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it's  not  so  good ;  and  I  war- 
rant, your  cousin  will  say  so. 

Hei'o.  My  cousin's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  another  ; 
I'll  wear  none  but  this. 

Marg.  I  like  the  new  tire  within  excellently,  if 
the  hair  were  a  thought  browner :  and  your  gown's 
a  most  rare  fashion.  I  saw  the  duchess  of  Milan's 
gown,  that  they  praise  so. 

Hero.   O  that  exceeds,  they  say. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  its  but  a  night-gown  in  re- 
spect of  yours :  Cloth  of  gold,  and  cuts,  and  laced 
with  silver;  set  with  pearls,  down  sleeves,  side- 
sleeves,  and  skirts  round,  underborne  with  a  bluish 
tinsel :  but  for  a  fine,  quaint,  graceful,  and  excel- 
lent fashion,  yours  is  worth  ten  on't. 

Hero.  God  give  me  joy  to  wear  it,  for  my  heart 
is  exceeding  heavy  ! 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Hero.    Good  morrow,  coz. 

Beat.  Good  morrow,  sweet  Hero.  'Tis  almost 
five  o'clock,  cousin  j  'tis  time  you  were  ready.  By 
my  troth,  I  am  exceeding  ill  :  —  hey  ho  ! 

Marg.   For  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  ? 

Beat.   By  my  troth,  I  am  sick. 

Marg.  Get  you  some  of  this  distilled  Carduus 
Benedictiis,  and  lay  it  to  your  heart ;  it  is  the  only 
thing  for  a  qualm. 

Hero.   There  thou  prick'st  her  with  a  thistle. 

Beat.  Bened  ictus  !  why  Benedictus  ?  you  have 
some  moral  in  this  Benedictus. 

Marg.  Moral !  no,  by  my  troth,  I  have  no  moral 
meaning ;  I  meant,  plain  holy^thistle.  You  may 
think,  perchance,  that  I  think  you  are  in  love  :  nay, 
hy'r  lady,  I  am  not  such  a  fool  to  think  what  I  list ; 
nor  I  list  not  to  think  what  I  can ;  nor,  indeed,  I 
cannot  think,  if  I  would  think  my  heart  out  of 
thinking,  that  you  are  in  love,  or  that  you  will  be 
in  love,  or  that  you  can  be  in  love ;  yet  Benedick 
was  such  another,  and  now  is  he  become  a  man ; 
he  swore  he  would  never  marry ;  and  yet  now,  in 
despite  of  his  heart,  he  eats  his  meat  without  grudg- 
ing :  and  how  .you  may  be  converted,  I  know  not ; 
but,  methinks,  you  look  with  your  eyes  as  other 
women  do. 

Beat.   What  pace  is  this  that  thy  tongue  keeps  ? 

Marg.    Not  a  false  gallop. 

^  A  kii.dof  ruff 


Re-enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  withdraw ;  the  prince,  the  count, 
signior  Benedick,  don  John,  and  all  the  gallants  of 
the  town,  are  come  to  fetch  you  to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me,  good  coz,  good  Meg, 
good  Ursula.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Leonato,  with  Dogberry  and  Verges. 

Leon.  What  would  you  with  me,  honest  neigh- 
bour? 

Dogb.  Marrj',  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence 
with  you,  that  decerns  you  nearly. 

Leon.  Brief,  I  pray  you  ;  for  you  see,  'tis  a  busy 
time  with  me. 

Dogh.   Marry,  this  it  is,  sir. 

Verg.   Yes,,  in  truth,  it  is,  sir. 

Leon.   What  is  it,  my  good  friends  ? 

Dogb.  Goodman  Verges,  sir,  speaks  a  little  off 
the  matter  ;  an  old  man,  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so 
blunt,  as  I  would  desire  they  were ;  but,  in  faith, 
honest,  as  the  skin  between  his  brows. 

Verg.  Yes,  I  thank  God,  I  am  as  honest  as  any 
man  living,  that  is  an  old  man,  and  no  honester 
than  I. 

Dogb.  Comparisons  are  odorous :  palabras,  neigh- 
bour Verges. 

Leon.   Neighbours,  you  are  tedious. 

Dogb.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so,  but  we 
are  the  poor  duke's  oflicers  ;  but  truly,  for  mine  own 
part,  if  I  were  as  tedious  as  a  king,  I  could  find  in 
my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  your  worship. 

Leon.   All  thy  tediousness  on  me !  ha ! 

Dogb.  Yea,  and  'twere  a  thousand  times  more 
than  'tis  :  for  I  hear  as  good  exclamation  on  your 
worship,  as  of  any  man  in  the  city ;  and  though  I 
be  but  a  poor  man,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Verg.   And  so  am  I. 

I^eon.   I  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to  say. 

Verg.  Marry,  sir,  our  watch  to-night,  excepting 
your  worship's  presence,  have  ta'en  a  couple  of  as 
arrant  knaves  as  any  in  Messina. 

Dogb.  A  good  old  man,  sir ;  he  will  be  talking  ; 
as  they  say,  When  the  age  is  in,  the  wit  is  out :  it 
is  a  world  to  see  !  6  —  Well  said,  i'faith,  neigbour 
Verges :  —  well,  an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one 
must  ride  behind  :  —  An  honest  soul,  i'faith,  sir  ; 
by  my  troth  he  is,  as  ever  broke  bread :  but,  all 
men  are  not  alike ;  alas,  good  neighbour  ! 

Leon.  Indeed,  neighbour,  he  comes  too  short  of 
you  ;  but  I  must  leave  you. 

Dogb.  One  word,  sir ;  our  watch,  sir,  have,  in- 
deed, comprehended  two  aspicious  persons,  and 
we  would  have  them  this  morning  examined  before 
your  worship. 

Leon.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and  bring 
it  me  ;  I  am  now  in  great  haste,  as  it  may  appear 
unto  you. 

Dogb.   It  shall  be  suffigance. 

Leon.  Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go;  fare  you  well. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.   My  lord,  they  stay  for  you  to  give  your 
daughter  to  her  husband. 

Leon.   I  will  wait  upon  them ;   I  am  ready. 

[Exeunt  Leonato  and  Messenger. 
Dogb.    Go,  good  partner,  go,  get  you  to  Francis 

6  J.  e.  It  is  wonderful  to  see. 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


121 


Seacoal,  bid  him  bring  his  pen  and  inkhorn  to  the 
gaol ;  we  are  now  to  examination  these  men. 

Verg.   And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Dogb.   We  will  spare  for  no  wit,  I  warrant  you ; 


here's  that  [^Touching  his  forehead.']  shall  drive  some 
of  them  to  a  non  com :  only  get  the  learned  writer 
to  set  down  our  excommunication,  and  meet  me  at 
the  gaol.  {Exeunt, 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  Tlui  Inside  of  a  Church. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Don  John,   Leonato,    Friar, 
Claudio,  Benedick,  Hero,  and  Beatrice,  ^c 

Leon.  Come,  friar  Francis,  be  brief;  only  to  tlie 
plain  form  of  marriage,  and  you  shall  recount  their 
particular  duties  afterwards. 

Friar.  You  come  hitlicr,  my  lord,  to  marry  this  lady  ? 

Claud.   No. 

Leon.  To  be  married  to  her,  friar ;  you  come  to 
marry  her. 

Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  be  married  to 
tliis  count  ? 

Hero.    I  do. 

Friar.  If  eitlier  of  you  know  any  inward  impe- 
diment why  you  should  not  be  conjoined,  I  charge 
you,  on  your  souls,  to  utter  it. 

Claud.    Know  you  any.  Hero? 

Hero.    None,  my  lord. 

Friar.   Know  you  any,  count  ? 

Leon.   I  dare  make  his  answer,  none. 

Claud.  O,  what  men  dare  do !  what  men  may  do  ! 
what  men  daily  do  !  not  knowing  what  they  do  ! 

Bene.  How  now  !  Interjections  ?  Why,  then  some 
be  of  laughing,  as,  ha  !   ha  !  he  ! 

Claud.  Stand  thee  by,  friar: — Father,  by  your  leave ! 
Will  you  witli  free  and  unconstrained  soul 
Give  me  this  maid,  your  daughter? 

Leon.   As  freely,  son,  as  God  did  give  her  me. 

Claud.  And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back,  whose 
worth 
May  counterpoise  this  rich  and  precious  gift  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Nothing,  unless  you  render  her  again. 

Claud.   Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble  thank- 
fulness. — 
There,  Leonato,  take  her  back  again  ; 
Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend ; 

vShe's  but  the  sign  and  semblance  of  her  honour  : 

Behold,  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here  : 

(),  what  authority  and  show  of  truth 

Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal ! 

Comes  not  that  blood,  as  modest  evidence. 

To  witness  simple  virtue  ?  Would  you  not  swear, 

All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 

By  these  exterior  shows  ?   But  she  is  none  : 

Her  blush  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty. 

Leon.   What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.  Not  to  be  married. 

Not  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 

Leon.    Dear  my  lord,  if  you  in  your  own  proof 
Have  vanquish'd  the  resistance  of  her  youth. 
And  made  defeat  of  her  virginity, 

Claud.   I  know  what  you  would  say;    if  I  have 
known  her, 
You'll  say,  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband, 
And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin  : 
No,  Leonato, 
1  never  tempted  her  with  word  too  large  7 ; 

7  Licentioiu. 


But,  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  show'd 
Bashful  sincerity,  and  comely  love. 

Hero.   And  seem'd  I  ever  otherwise  to  you  ? 

Claud.  Out  on  thy  seeming !  I  will  write  against  it: 
You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb ; 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown ; 
But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pamper'd  animals 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality. 

Hero.  Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth  speak  so  wide?  ^ 

Leon.   Sweet  prince,  why  speak  not  you  ? 

D.  Pedro.  What  should  I  speak  ? 

I  stand  dishonour'd,  that  have  gone  about 
To  link  my  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 

Leon.  Are  these  things  spoken?  or  do  I  but  dream? 

D.  John.   Sir,  they  are  spoken,  and  these  things 
are  true. 

Bene.   This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial. 

Hero.  True  ?  O  God  ! 

Claud.   Leonato,  stand  I  here  ? 
Is  this  the  prince  ?  Is  this  the  prince's  brother  ? 
Is  this  face  Hero's  ?  Are  our  eyes  our  own  ? 

Leon.   All  this  is  so ;   But  what  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.   Let  me  but  move  one  question  to  your 
daughter : 
And,  by  that  fatherly  and  kindly  power 
That  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 

Leon.   I  charge  thee  do  so,  as  thou  art  my  child. 

Hero.   O  God  defend  me  !    how  am  I  beset !  — 
What  kind  of  catechising  call  you  this  ? 

Claud.  To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your  name. 

Hero.   Is  it  not  Hero  ?  WTio  can  blot  that  name 
With  any  just  reproach  ? 

Claud.  Marry,  that  can  Hero ; 

Hero  itself  can  blot  out  Hero's  virtue. 
What  man  was  he  talk'd  with  you  yesternight 
Out  at  your  window,  betwixt  twelve  and  one  ? 
Now,  if  you  are  a  maid,  answer  to  this. 

Hero.  I  talk'd  with  no  man  at  that  hour,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  then  are  you  no  maiden. — Leonato, 
I  am  sorry  you  must  hear ;   Upon  mine  honour. 
Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count. 
Did  see  her,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night, 
Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber-window  ; 
Who  hath,  indeed,  most  like  a  liberal  9  villain, 
Confess'd  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 
A  thousand  times  in  secret. 

D.  John.  Fye,  fye  !  they  are 

Not  to  be  nam'd,  my  lord,  not  to  be  spoke  of; 
There  is  not  chastity  enough  in  language. 
Without  offence  to  utter  tliem  :    Tlius,  pretty  lady, 
.1  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovcmment. 

Claud.    O  Hero  !  what  a  Hero  hadst  thou  been, 
fhalf  tliy  outward  graces  had  been  placed 

bout  thy  thoughts,  and  counsels  of  thy  heart ! 
t,  fare  thee  well,  most  foul,  most  fair !  fart  well, 
Thou  pure  impiety,  and  impious  purity ! 
For  tliee  I'll  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love. 


Wildly. 


9  Too  firee  of  tongue. 


122 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  IV. 


And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  hang, 
To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm, 
And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious. 

Leon.  Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point  for  me? 

[Hero  swoons. 

Beat.  Why,  how  now,  cousin?   wherefore  sink 
you  down  ? 

D.  John.   Come,  let  us  go ;  these  things,  come 
thus  to  light, 
Smotlier  her  spirits  up. 

[Exeunt  Don  Pedro,  Don  John,  <and  Claudio. 

Bene.   How  doth  the  lady  ? 

BecU.  Dead,  1  think  ;  —  help,  uncle  ;  — 

Hero!  why.  Hero  !  —  Uncle  !  —  Signior  Benedick  ! 
friar  ! 

Leon.   O  fate,  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand  ! 
Death  is  tlie  fairest  cover  for  her  shame, 
That  may  be  wish'd  for. 

Beat.  How  now,  cousin  Hero  ? 

Friar.   Have  comfort,  lady. 

Leon.  Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

Friar.   Yea;  wherefore  should  she  not? 

Leon.  Wherefore  ?  Why,  doth  not  every  earthly 
thing 
Cry  shame  upon  her?   Could  she  here  deny 
The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood  ? 
Do  not  live.  Hero :   do  not  ope  thine  eyes : 
For  did  I  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die. 
Thought  I  thy  spirits  were  stronger  than  thy  shames. 
Myself  would,  on  the  rearward  of  reproaches, 
Strike  at  thy  life.      Griev'd  I,  I  had  but  one  ? 
Chid  I  for  that  at  frugal  nature's  frame,  i 
O,  one  too  much  by  thee  !   Why  had  I  one  ? 
Why  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  my  eyes  ? 
Why  had  I  not,  with  charitable  hand, 
Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates ; 
Who  smirched  -  thus,  and  mir'd  with  infamy, 
I  might  have  said.  No  part  of  it  is  mine, 
This  shame  derives  itself  Ji-o^n  unknown  loins  9 
But  mine,  and  mine  I  lov'd,  and  mine  I  prais'd. 
And  mine  that  1  was  proud  on ;  mine  so  much, 
That  I  myself  was  to  myself  not  mine. 
Valuing  of  her ;  why,  she  —  O,  she  is  fallen 
Into  a  pit  of  ink  !  that  the  wide  sea 
Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again. 

Bene.   Sir,  sir,  be  patient : 
For  my  part,  I  am  so  attir'd  in  wonder, 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Beat.    O,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied ! 

Bene.    Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night  ? 

Beat.   No,  truly,  not :   although,  until  last  night, 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 

Leon.    Confirm' d,  confinn'd  !   O,  that  is  stronger 
made, 
Which  \\  as  before  barr'd  up  with  ribs  of  iron  ! 
Would  the  two  princes  lie  ?  and  Claudio  lie  ? 
Who  lov'd  her  so,  that,  speaking  of  her  foulness, 
Wash'd  it  with  tears?  Hence  from  her ;  let  her  die. 

Friar.   Hear  me  a  little ; 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long. 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune, 
By  noting  of  the  lady :    I  have  mark'd 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 
Into  her  face  ;  a  thousand  innocent  shames 
In  angel  whiteness  bear  away  those  blushes ; 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire, 
To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth  :  —  Call  me  a  fool  j 


•  Dispocition  of  things. 


Trust  not  my  reading,  nor  my  observations. 
Which  with  experimental  seal  doth  warrant 
The  tenour  of  my  book ;  trust  not  my  age, 
My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity, 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  biting  error. 

Leon.  Friar,  it  cannot  be  : 

Thou  seest,  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left, 
Is,  that  she  will  not  add  unto  her  guilt 
A  sin  of  perjury ;  she  not  denies  it : 
Why  seek'st  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse 
That  which  appears  in  proper  nakedness? 

Friar.  Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accus'd  of? 

Hero.  They  know,  that  do  accuse  me ;  I  know  none : 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive. 
Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant, 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy  !  —  O  my  father. 
Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  convers'd 
At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 
Maintain'd  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature, 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 

Friar.   There  is  some  strange  misprision  3  in  the 
^princes. 

Bene.  Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of  honour ; 
And  if  their  vnsdoms  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard. 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villainies. 

Leon.  I  know  not ;  If  they  speak  but  truth  of  her; 
These  hands  shall  tear  her;  if  they  wrong  her  honour. 
The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 
Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  blood  of  mine, 
Nor  age  so  eat  up  my  invention, 
Nor  fortune  made  such  havock  of  my  means, 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends. 
But  they  shall  find,  awak'd  in  such  a  kind. 
Both  strength  of  limb,  and  policy  of  mind. 
Ability  in  means,  and  choice  of  friends, 
To  quit  me  of  them  throughly. 

Friar.  Pause  a  while, 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case. 
Your  daughter  here  the  princes  left  for  dead ; 
Let  her  a  while  be  secretly  kept  in, 
And  publish  it,  that  she  is  dead  indeed : 
Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation  : 
And  on  your  family's  old  monument 
Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 
That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Leo7i.  What  shall  become  of  this?  What  will  this 
do? 

Friar.  Marry,  this,  well  carried,  shall  on  her  behalf 
Change  slander  to  remorse  ;  that  is  some  good  : 
But  not  for  that,  dream  I  on  this  strange  course. 
But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth. 
She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd. 
Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accus'd. 
Shall  be  lamented,  pitied  and  excus'd, 
Of  every  hearer  :    For  it  so  falls  out. 
That  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth, 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it ;  but  being  lack'd  and  lost. 
Why,  then  we  rack  *  the  value  ;  then  we  find 
The  virtue,  that  possession  would  not  show  us 
Whiles  it  was  ours  :  —  So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio r 
When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words. 
The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 
Into  his  study  of  imagination  ; 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 
Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit. 
More  moving-delicate,  and  full  of  life, 


2  Sullied. 


Misconception. 


■*  Over-rate. 


Scene  I. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


123 


Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 

Than  when  she  liv'd  indeed:  — then  shall  he  mourn, 

And  wish  he  had  not  so  accus'd  her ; 

No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 

Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 

Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape 

ITian  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 

But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  levell'd  false, 

The  supposition  of  tlie  lady's  death 

Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy  : 

And,  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her 

( As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation) 

In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life, 

Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 

Bene.  Signior  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you  : 
And  though,    you    know,   my   inwardness  *  and 

love 
Is  very  much  unto  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honour,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly,  and  justly,  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body. 

Leon.  Being  that  I  flow  in  grief. 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  me. 

Friar.  'Tis  well  consented  ;  presently  away  ; 
For  to  strange  sores  strangely  they  strain  the 
cure : — 
Come,  lady,  die  to  live  :  this  wedding  day, 

Perhaps,  is  but  prolong'd  ;  have  patience,  and 
endure. 

[Exeiint  Friar,  Hero,  and  Leonato. 

Bene.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  ail  this 
wliile  ? 

Beat.   Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer. 

Bene.   I  will  not  desire  that. 

Beat.   You  have  no  reason,  I  do  it  freely. 

Bene.  Surely,  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is 
wrong'd. 

Beat.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of 
me,  that  would  right  her  ! 

Bene.   Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ? 

Beat.   A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

Bene.  May  a  man  do  it  ? 

Beat.   It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as 
you  :    Is  not  that  strange  ? 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not :  It 
were  as  possible  for  me  to  say,  I  loved  nothing  so 
well  as  you  :  but  believe  me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie  not; 
I  confess  nothing,  nor,  I  deny  nothing:  —  I  am  sorry 
for  my  cousin. 

Bene.   By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

Beat.   Do  not  sw  ear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it,  that  you  love  me ;  and 
I  will  make  him  eat  it,  that  says  I  love  not  you. 

Beat.   Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it : 
I  protest,  I  love  thee. 

Beat.   Why  then,  heaven  forgive  me  ! 

Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Beat.  You  have  staid  me  in  a  happy  hour ;  I  was 
about  to  protest,  I  loved  you. 

Bene.   And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that 
none  is  left  to  protest. 

Bene.   Come,  bid  me  do  any  thing  for  thee. 

Beat.   Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.   Ha !  not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.   You  kill  me  to  deny  it :    Farewell. 

Bene.  Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

*  Intimacy. 


Btat.  I  am  gone,  though  I  am  here  .  —  There  is 
no  love  in  you  :  —  Nay,  I  pray  you,  let  me  go. 

Bene.    Beatrice,  — 

Beat.    In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Bene.   We'll  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me,  than 
fight  with  mine  enemy. 

Bene.   Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ? 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain, 
that  hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonoured  my  kins- 
woman ?  —  O,  that  I  were  a  man  !  —  What !  bear 
her  in  hand  until  they  come  to  take  hands ;  and 
then  with  public  accusation,  uncovered  slander,  im- 
mitigated  rancour,  —  O,  that  I  were  a  man  !  I  would 
eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place. 

Bene.    Hear  me,  Beatrice  ;  — 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window  ?  —  a 
proper  saying  ! 

Bene.   Nay,  but,  Beatrice ;  — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero !  —  she  is  wronged,  she  is 
slandered,  she  is  undone. 

Bene.    Beat  — 

Beat.  Princes  and  counties^  !  Surely,  a  princely 
testimony,  a  goodly  count-confect  7 ;  a  sweet  gal- 
lant, surely  !  O,  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake  !  or 
that  I  had  any  friend  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  ! 
But  manhood  is  melted  into  courtesies,  valour  into 
compliment,  and  men  are  only  turned  into  tongue, 
and  trim  ones  too :  he  is  now  as  valiant  as  Hercu- 
les, that  only  tells  a  lie,  and  swears  it :  —  I  cannot 
be  a  man  with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman 
with  grieving. 

Bene-  Tarry,  good  Beatrice :  By  this  hand,  I  love 
thee. 

Beat.  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than 
swearing  by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  count  Claudio 
hath  wronged  Hero? 

Beat.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought,  or  a 
soul. 

Bene.  Enough,  I  am  engaged,  I  will  challenge 
him  ;  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  so  leave  you  :  By 
this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account : 
As  you  hear  of  me,  so  think  of  me.  Go,  comfoit 
your  cousin  :  I  must  say,  she  is  dead  ;  and  so,  fare- 
well. [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Prison. 

Enter  Djdgberry,  Verges,  arid  Sexton,  in  gowns ; 
and  the  Watch,  with  Conrade  and  Borachio. 

Dogb.  Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ? 

Verg.   O,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sexton ! 

Sexton.   Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 

Dogb.    Marry,  that  am  1  and  my  partner. 

Verg.  Nay,  diat's  certain  ;  we  have  the  exhibition 
to  examine. 

Sexton.  But  which  are  the  offenders  that  are  to  be 
examined  ?  let  them  come  before  master  constable. 

Dogb.  Yea,  marry,  let  them  come  before  me.' — 
What  is  your  name,  friend? 

Bora.    Borachio. 

Dogb.  Pray  write  down  —  Borachio.-  Yours, 
sirrah? 

Con.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is 
Conrade. 

Dogb.  Write  down — master  gentleman  Conrade. 
—  Masters,  it  is  proved  already  that  you  are  little 
better  than  false  knaves  ;  and  it  w  ill  go  near  to  be 


<  Noblemen. 


'  A  nobleman  made  out  of  sugar. 


124. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  V. 


thought  so  shortly.  How  answer  you  for  your- 
selves ? 

Con.    Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure  you  ; 
but  I  will  go  about  with  him.  —  Come  you  hither, 
sirrah  :  a  word  in  your  ear,  sir ;  I  say  to  you,  it  is 
thought  you  are  false  knaves. 

Birra.    Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  Well,  stand  aside.  —  They  are  both  in  a 
tale :    Have  you  writ  down  —  that  they  are  none  ? 

Sexton.  Master  constable,  you  go  not  the  way  to 
examine :  you  must  call  forth  tlie  watch  that  are 
their  accusers. 

Dogb.  Yea,  marry,  that's  the  eftest  way  :  —  Let 
the  watch  come  forth  —  Masters,  I  charge  you,  in 
the  prince's  name,  accuse  these  men. 

1  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John,  the 
prince's  brother,  was  a  villain. 

Dogb.  Write  down  —  prince  John  a  villain  :  — 
Why  this  is  flat  perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother — 
villain. 

Bora.   Master  constable,  — 

Dogb.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace;  I  do  not  like 
thy  look,  I  promise  thee. 

Sexton.   What  heard  you  hiin  say  else  ? 

2  Watch.  Marry,  that  he  had  received  a  thousand 
ducats  of  Don  John,  for  accusing  the  lady  Hero 
wrongfully. 

Dogb.   Flat  burglary,  as  ever  was  committed. 

Verg.    Yea,  by  the  mass,  that  it  is. 

Sexton.   What  else,  fellow  ? 

1  Watch.  And  that  count  Claudio  did  mean  upon 
his  words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole  as- 
sembly, and  not  marry  her. 


Dogb.  O  villain  !  tliou  wilt  be  condemned  into 
everlasting  redemption  for  this. 

Sexton.   What  else  ? 

2  Watch.    This  is  all. 

Sexton.  And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you  can 
deny.  Prince  John  is  this  morning  secretly  stolen 
away  ;  Hero  was  in  this  manner  accused,  in  this  very 
manner  refused,  and  upon  the  grief  of  this,  suddenly 
died.  —  Master  constable,  let  these  men  be  bound, 
and  brought  to  Leonato's ;  I  will  go  before,  and 
show  him  their  examination.  \_Exit. 

Dogb.   Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

Verg.   Let  them  be  in  band. 

Con.   Off,  coxcomb. 

Dogb.  Where's  the  sexton  ;  let  him  write  down 
—  the  prince's  officer,  coxcomb.  —  Come,  bind 
them  : Thou  naughty  varlet ! 

Con.   Away  !  you  are  an  ass,  you  are  an  ass. 

Dogb.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place?  Dost 
thou  not  suspect  my  years  ?  —  O  that  he  were  here 
to  write  me  down — an  ass! — but,  masters,  remem- 
ber, that  I  am  an  ass;  though  it  be  not  written  down, 
yet  forget  not  that  I  am  an  ass  :  —  No,  thou  villain, 
thou  art  full  of  piety,  as  shall  be  proved  upon  thee 
by  good  witness.  I  am  a  wise  fellow  ;  and,  which 
is  more,  an  officer ;  and,  which  is  more,  a  house- 
holder :  and,  which  is  more,  as  pretty  a  piece  of  flesh 
as  any  is  in  Messina ;  and  one  that  knows  the  law, 
go  to  ;  and  a  rich  fellow  enough,  go  to  ;  and  a  fel- 
low that  hath  had  losses ;  and  one  that  hath  two 
gowns,  and  every  thing  handsome  about  him :  — 
Bring  him  away.  O,  that  I  had  been  writ  down  — 
an  ass.  \^Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  — Before  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio. 

Ant.   If  you  go  on  thus,  you  will  kill  yourself; 
And  'tis  not  wisdom,  thus  to  second  grief 
Against  yourself. 

Leon.   I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel. 
Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
As  water  in  a  sieve :   give  not  me  counsel ; 
Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear. 
But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 
Bring  me  a  father,  that  so  lov'd  his  child. 
Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelm'd  like  mine, 
And  bid  him  speak  of  patience  ; 
Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine. 
And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain ; 
As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such. 
In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form : 
If  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard  : 
Cry  —  sorrow,  wag !  and  hem,  when  he  should  groan; 
Patch  grief  with  proverbs,  make  misfortune  drunk 
With  candle- wasters ;  bring  him  yet  to  me. 
And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience. 
But  there  is  no  such  man :    For,  brother,  men 
Can  counsel,  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 
Which  they  themselves  not  feel ;  but  tasting  it. 
Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 
Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage. 
Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread. 
Charm  acb  with  air,  and  agony  with  words  : 


No,  no  :   'tis  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 

To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow. 

But  no  man's  virtue,  nor  sufficiency. 

To  be  so  moral,  when  he  shall  endure 

The  like  himself :   therefore  give  me  no  counsel : 

My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement.  8 

Ant.  Therein  do  men  from  children  nothing  difiFer. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee,  peace  :  I  will  be  flesh  and  blood; 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher. 
That  could  endure  the  tooth-ach  patiently; 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods. 
And  made  a  pish  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

Ant.   Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  yourself; 
Make  those,  that  do  offend  you,  suffer  too. 

Leon.   There  thou  speak'st  reason :   nay,  I  will 
do  so  : 
My  soul  doth  tell  me.  Hero  is  belied ; 
And  that  shall  Claudio  know,  so  shall  the  prince, 
And  all  of  them,  that  thus  dishonour  her. 

Enter  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio. 
Ant.  Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio,  hastily. 
D.  Pedro.    Good  den,  good  den. 
Claud.  Good  day  to  both  of  you. 

Leon.   Hear  you,  my  lords,  — 
D.  Pedro.  We  have  some  haste,  Leonato. 

Leon.  Some  haste,  my  lord !  — well,  fare  you  well, 
my  lord  :  — 
Are  you  so  hasty  now?  —  well,  all  is  one. 
8  Admonition. 


Scene  I. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


125 


D.  Pedro.   Nay,  do  not  quarrel  with  us,  good  old 
man. 

Ant.    If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarrelling, 
Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 

Claud.  Who  wrongs  him  ? 

Leon.  Marry, 

Thou,  thou  dost  wrong  me :  thou  dissembler,  thou : — 
Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword, 
I  fear  tliee  not. 

Claud.  Marry,  beshrew  my  hand. 

If  it  should  give  your  age  such  cause  of  fear  : 
In  faith,  my  hand  meant  nothing  to  my  sword. 

Leon .  Tush,  tush,  man,  never  fleer  and  jest  at  me : 
I  speak  not  like  a  dotard,  nor  a  fool ; 
As,  under  privilege  of  age,  to  brag 
What  I  have  done  being  young,  or  what  would  do, 
Were  I  not  old  :    Know,  Claudio,  to  thy  head. 
Thou  hast  so  wrong'd  mine  innocent  child  and  me, 
That  I  am  forc'd  to  lay  my  reverence  by ; 
And,  with  grey  hairs,  and  bruise  of  many  days, 
Do  challenge  thee  to  trial  of  a  man. 
I  say,  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child  ; 
Thy  slander  hath  gone  through  and  through  her 

heart. 
And  she  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors : 
O  !  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept, 
Save  this  of  hers  fram'd  by  thy  villainy  ! 

Claud.   My  villainy ! 

Leon.  Thine,  Claudio  ;  thine,  I  say. 

D.  Pedro.   You  say  not  right,  old  m'an. 

Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I'll  prove  it  on  his  body,  if  he  dare  ; 
Despite  his  nice  fence,  and  his  active  practice, 
His  May  of  youth,  and  bloom  of  lustyhood. 

Claud.    Away,  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 

Leon.   Canst  thou  so  dafF  me  ?  Thou  hast  kill'd 
my  child  ; 
If  thou  kill'st  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 

Ant.   He  shall  kill  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed  : 
But  that's  no  matter ;  let  him  kill  one  first ;  — 
Win  me  and  wear  me,  —  let  him  answer  me,  — 
Come,  follow  me,  boy  ;  come,  boy,  follow  me: 
Sir  boy,  I'll  whip  you  from  your  foining  9  fence  ; 
Nay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will. 

Leon.    Brother,  — 

Jnt.   Content  yourself:    God  knows,  I  lov'd  my 
niece ; 
And  she  is  dead,  slander'd  to  death  by  villains ; 
That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man,  indeed. 
As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue : 
Boys,  apes,  braggarts,  Jacks,  milksops  !  — 

Leon.  Brother  Antony,  — 

Ant.   Hold  you  content ;   What,  man  !   I  know 
them,  yea. 
And  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scruple  : 
Scambling,  out-facing,  fashion-mong'ring  Iwys, 
That  lie,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave  and  slander. 
Go  antickly,  and  show  outward  hideousness. 
And  speak  off  half  a  dozen  dangerous  words. 
How  they  might  hurt  their  enemies,  if  they  durst, 
And  this  is  all. 

Leon.   But,  brother  Antony,  — 

Ant.  Come,  'tis  no  matter  ; 

Do  not  you  meddle,  let  me  deal  in  this. 

D.  Pedro.   Gentlemen  both,   we  will  not   wake 
your  patience. 
IV^y  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death  ; 
but,  on  my  honour,  she  was  charg'd  with  nothing 
But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof. 
9  Thrusting. 


Leon.   My  lord,  my  lord,  — 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  hear  you. 

L^eon.  No  ? 

Brother,  away  :  —  I  will  be  hoard  ;  — 

Ant.  And  shall, 

Or  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

[Exeunt  Leonato  and  Antonio. 

Enter  Benedick. 

D.  Pedro.  Se^,  see  ;  here  comes  the  man  we  went 
to  seek. 

Claud.   Now,  signior  !  what  news  ? 

Bene.   Good  day,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Welcome,  signior:  You  are  almost 
come  to  part  almost  a  fray. 

Claud.  We  had  like  to  have  had  our  two  noses 
snapped  off  with  two  old  men  without  teeth. 

i).  Pedro.  Leonato  and  his  brother :  What 
think'st  thou  ?  Had  we  fought,  I  doubt  we  should 
have  been  too  young  for  them. 

Bene.  In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true  valour. 
I  came  to  seek  you  both. 

Claud.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  thee  ; 
for  we  are  high-proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain 
have  it  beaten  away  :   Wilt  thou  use  thy  wit? 

Bene.   It  is  in  my  scabbard  ;  shall  I  draw  it  ? 

D.  Pedro.   Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy  side  ? 

Claud.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many  have 
been  beside  their  wit.  —  I  will  bid  thee  draw,  as  we 
do  the  minstrels ;  draw,  to  pleasure  us. 

D.  Pedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  looks 
pale  ;  —  Art  thou  sick,  or  angry  ? 

Claud.  What !  courage,  man  !  What  though  care 
killed  a  cat,  thou  hast  mettle  enough  in  thee  to  kill 
care. 

Bene.  Sir,  I  shall  meet  your  wit  in  the  career, 
an  you  charge  it  against  me  :  —  I  pray  you,  choose 
another  subject. 

Claud.  Nay,  then  give  him  another  staff;  this 
last  was  broke  cross. 

D.  Pedro.  By  this  light,  he  changes  more  and 
more  ;   I  think,  he  be  angry  indeed. 

Claud.   If  he  be,  he  knows  how  to  turn  his  girdle. 

Bene.   Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear  ? 

Claud.   Heaven  bless  me  from  a  challenge ! 

Bene.  You  are  a  villain  ;  —  I  jest  not :  —  I  will 
make  it  good  how  you  dare,  with  what  you  dare, 
and  when  you  dare  : —  Do  me  right,  or  I  will  pro- 
test your  cowardice.  You  have  killed  a  sweet  lady, 
and  her  death  shall  fall  heavy  on  you  :  Let  me  hear 
from  you. 

Claud.  Well,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have  good 
cheer. 

D.  Pedro.   What,  a  feast  ?  a  feast  ? 

Clmid.  I'faith,  I  tliank  him  ;  he  hath  bid  me  to 
a  calf's  head  and  a  capon ;  the  which  if  I  do  not 
carve  most  curiously,  say,  my  knife's  naught.  — 
Shall  I  not  find  a  woodcock  too? 

Bene.   Sir,  your  wit  ambles  well ;  it  goes  easily. 

D.  Pedro,  I'll  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  praised  tJiy 
wit  the  other  day :  I  said,  thou  hadst  a  fine  wit : 
lYue,  says  she,  ajine  lUtie  one  :  No,  said  I,  a  great 
wit  s  Right,  says  she,  a  great  gross  one :  Kay,  said  I, 
a  good  wit  s  Just,  said  she,  it  hurts  nobody :  Nay, 
said  I,  the  gentleman  is  wise;  Certain,  said  she,  a 
wise  gentleman :  Nay,  said  I,  he  hath  the  tongues  ; 
That  I  believe,  said  she,  for  he  swore  a  thing  to  me 
on  Monday  night,  which  he  forswore  on  Tuesday 
morning  ;  there's  a  double  tongue ;  there's  two  tongues. 
Thus  did  she,  an  hour  together,  trans-shape  thy  par- 


126 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  V. 


ticular  virtues ;  yet,  at  last,  she  concluded  with  a 
sigh,  thou  wast  the  properest  man  in  Italy. 

Claud.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and  said, 
she  cared  not. 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  that  she  did ;  but  yet  for  all  that, 
an  if  she  did  not  hate  him  deadly,  she  would  love 
him  dearly  :   the  old  man's  divughter  told  us  all. 

Claud.   All,  all. 

D.  Pedro.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage  bull's 
horns  on  the  sensible  Benedick's  head  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  and  text  underneath.  Here  dwells 
Benedick  the  married  man  ? 

liene.  Fare  you  well,  boy  ;  you  know  my  mind  ; 
I  will  leave  you  now  to  your  gossip-like  humour  : 
you  break  jests  as  braggarts  do  their  blades,  which 
hurt  not.  —  My  lord,  for  your  many  courtesies,  I 
thank  you :  I  must  discontinue  your  company : 
your  brother,  the  bastard,  is  fled  from  Messina  :  you 
have,  among  you,  killed  a  sweet  and  innocent  lady  : 
For  my  lord  lack-beard,  there,  he  and  I  shall  meet ; 
and  till  then,  peace  be  with  him.     \^E3nt  Benedick. 

D.  Pedro.   He  is  in  earnest. 

Claud.  In  most  profound  earnest ;  and,  I'll  war- 
rant you,  for  the  love  of  Beatrice. 

D.  Pedro.   And  hath  challenged  thee. 

Claud.   Most  sincerely. 

D.  Pedro.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is,  when  he 
goes  in  his  doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  off  his  wit! 

Enter   Dogberry,   Verges,  and  the    Watch,    ivith 
CoNRADE  and  Boraohio. 

Claud.  He  is  then  a  giant  to  an  ape  :  but  then  is 
an  ape  a  doctor  to  such  a  man. 

D.  Pedro.  But,  soft  you,  let  be ;  pluck  up,  my 
heart,  and  be  sad  !  i  Did  he  not  say,  my  brother  was 
fled? 

Dogb.  Come,  you,  sir  ;  if  justice  cannot  tame  you, 
she  shall  ne'er  weigh  more  reasons  in  her  balance  ; 
nay,  an  you  be  a  cursing  hypocrite  once,  you  must 
be  looked  to. 

D.  Pedro.  How  now,  two  of  my  brother's  men 
bound  !   Borachio,  one  ! 

Claud.   Hearken  after  their  offence,  my  lord ! 

D.  Pedro.  OflScers,  what  offence  have  these  men 
done? 

Dogb.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false  re- 
port ;  moreover,  they  have  spoken  untruths ;  se- 
condarily, they  are  slanders ;  sixth  and  lastly,  they 
have  belied  a  lady ;  thirdly,  they  have  verified  un- 
just things ;  and,  to  conclude,  they  are  lying  knaves. 

D.  Pedro.  First,  I  ask  thee  what  they  have  done ; 
thirdly,  I  ask  thee  what's  their  offence ;  sixth  and 
lastly,  why  they  are  committed ;  and,  to  conclude, 
what  you  lay  to  their  charge  ? 

Claud.  Rightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own  division ; 
and,  by  my  troth,  there's  one  meaning  well  suited. 

D.  Pedro.  Whom  liave  you  offended,  masters, 
that  you  are  thus  bound  to  your  answer  ?  this  learned 
constable  is  too  cunning  to  be  understood ;  What's 
your  oflf'ence  ? 

Bora.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  further  to  mine 
answer ;  do  you  hear  me,  and  let  this  count  kill  me. 
I  have  deceived  even  your  very  eyes ;  what  your 
wisdoms  could  not  discover,  these  shallow  fools 
have  brought  to  light;  who,  in  the  night,  over- 
neard  me  confessing  to  this  man,  how  don  John 
your  brother  incensed  '^  me  to  slander  the  lady 
Hero  :  how  you  were  brought  into  the  orchard,  and 


Seriou*. 


2  Incited. 


saw  me  court  Margaret  in  Hero's  garment;  how 
you  disgraced  her,  when  you  should  marry  her : 
my  villainy  they  have  upon  record ;  which  I  had 
rather  seal  with  my  death,  than  repeat  over  to  my 
shame  :  the  lady  is  dead  upon  mine  and  my  master's 
false  accusation  ;  and,  briefly,  I  desire  notliing  but 
the  reward  of  a  villain. 

D.  Pedro.  Runs  not  this  speech  like  iron  through 
your  blood  ? 

Claud.   I  have  drunk  poison,  whiles  he  utter'd  it. 

D.  Pedro.  But  did  my  brother  set  thee  on  to  this  ? 

Bora.  Yea,  and  paid  me  richly  for  the  practice 
of  it. 

D.  Pedro.   He  is  compos'd  and  fram'd  of  trea- 
chery :  — 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  villainy. 

Claud.  Sweet  Hero  !  now  thy  image  doth  appear 
In  the  rare  semblance  tliat  I  loved  it  first. 

Dogb.  Come,  bring  away  the  plaintiffs ;  by  this 
time  our  sexton  hath  reformed  signior  Leonato  of 
the  matter  :  And,  masters,  do  not  forget  to  specify, 
when  time  and  place  shall  serve,  that  I  am  an  ass. 

Verg.  Here,  here  comes  master  signior  Leonato, 
and  the  sexton  too. 

Re-enter  Leonato  and  Antonio,  vnth  the  Sexton. 

Leon.   Which  is  the  villain  ?  Let  me  see  his  eyes; 
That  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 
I  may  avoid  him :   Which  of  these  is  he  ? 

Bora.   If  you  would  know  your  wronger,  look 
on  me. 

Leon.    Art  thou  the  slave,  that  with  thy  breath 
hast  kill'd 
Mine  innocent  child  ? 

Bora.  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Leon.   No,  not  so,  villain;  thou  bely'st  thyself; 
Here  stand  a  pair  of  honourable  men. 
A  third  is  fled,  that  had  a  hand  in  it :  — 
I  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death  ; 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  worthy  deeds ; 
'Twas  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 

Claud.   I  know  not  how  to  pray  your  patience. 
Yet  I  must  speak  :    Choose  your  revenge  yourself; 
Impose  me  to  what  penance  your  invention 
Can  lay  upon  my  sin  :   yet  sinn'd  I  not, 
But  in  mistaking. 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  soul,  nor  I ; 

And  yet,  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man, 
I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight 
That  he'll  enjoin  me  to. 

Leon.   I  cannot  bid  you  bid  my  daughter  live. 
That  were  impossible  :   but,  I  pray  you  both. 
Possess  3  the  people  in  Messina  here 
How  innocent  she  died  :   and,  if  your  love 
Can  labour  aught  in  sad  invention, 
Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb. 
And  sing  it  to  her  bones ;  sing  it  to-night :  — 
To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house  ; 
And  since  you  could  not  be  my  son-in-law. 
Be  yet  my  nephew  :   my  brother  hath  a  daughter. 
Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that's  dead, 
And  she  alone  is  heir  to  both  of  us  ; 
Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  given  her  cousin. 
And  so  dies  my  revenge. 

Claud.  O,  noble  sir, 

Your  over-kindness  doth  wring  tears  from  me  ! 
I  do  embrace  your  offer ;  and  dispose 
For  henceforth  of  poor  Claudio. 

3  Acquaint 


Scene  II. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


127 


Leon.  To-morrow  tlaen  I  will  expect  your  coming; 
To-niglit  I  take  my  leave.  —  Tliis  naughty  man 
Shall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret, 
Who,  I  believe,  was  pack'd  ^  in  all  this  wrong, 
Hir'd  to  it  by  your  brother. 

Bora.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not ; 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did,  when  she  spoke  to  me  ; 
But  always  hath  been  just  and  virtuous. 
In  any  thing  that  I  do  know  by  her. 

Dogb.  Moreover,  sir,  (which,  indeed,  is  not  under 
white  and  black,)  tliis  plaintiff  here,  the  offender, 
did  call  me  ass  :  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  remembered 
in  his  punishment :  And  also  the  watch  heard  them 
talk  of  one  Deformed  :  tliey  say,  he  wears  a  key  in 
his  ear,  and  a  lock  hanging  by  it;  and  borrows  mo- 
ney ;  the  which  he  hath  used  so  long,  and  never 
paid,  that  now  men  grow  hard-hearted,  and  will 
lend  nothing :  Pray  you,  examine  him  upon  that 
point. 

Leon.   I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest  pains. 

Dogb.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thankful 
and  reverend  youth. 

Leon.  There's  for  thy  pains.  Go,  I  discharge 
thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and  I  thank  thee. 

Dogb.  I  leave  an  arrant  knave  with  your  worship  ; 
which,  I  beseech  your  worship,  to  correct  yourself, 
for  the  example  of  others.  I  wish  your  worship 
well :  I  humbly  give  you  leave  to  depart.  —  Come, 
neighbour.  [Exeu7it  Dogberry,  Verges,  a«rf  Watch, 

Leon.    Until  to  morrow-morning,  lords,  farewell. 

Ant.   Farewell,  my  lords ;  we  look  for  you  to- 
morrow. 

D.  Pedro.   We  will  not  fail. 

Claud.  To-night  I'll  mourn  with  Hero. 

[Exeunt  Don  Pedro  ayid  Claudio. 

Leon.    Bring  you  these  fellows  on  ;  we'll  talk  witli 
Margaret, 
How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd*  fellow. 

{Exeunt. 
SCENE  II.  —  Leonato's  Garden. 

Enter  Benedick  and  Margaret,  meeting. 
Bene.  Pray  thee,  sweet  mistress  Margaret,  de- 
serve well  at  my  liands,  by  helping  me  to  the  speech 
of  Beatrice. 

Marg.  Will  you  then  write  me  a  sonnet  in  praise 
of  my  beauty  ? 

Bene.  In  so  high  a  style,  Margaret,  that  no  man 
living  shall  come  over  it ;  for  in  most  comely  truth, 
thou  deservest  it. 

Marg.   Well,  I  will  call  Beatrice  to  you. 

^ Exit  Margaret. 
Bene.    [Sin^ng."] 

The  god  of  love i 
That  sits  above, 
And  knows  me,  and  knows  me. 
How  pitiful  I  deserve,  — 
I  mean,  in  singing  :  but  in  loving.  —  Leander  the 
good  swimmer,  Troilus  the  first  employer  of  pan- 
dars,  and  a  whole  book  full  of  these  quondam  car- 
pet mongers,  whose  names  yet  run  smoothly  in  the 
even  road  of  a  blank  verse,  why,  they  were  never  so 
truly  turned  over  and  over  as  my  poor  self,  in  love : 
Marry,  I  cannot  show  it  in  rhyme ;  I  have  tried  ;  I 
can  find  out  no  rhyme  to  ladt/  but  babi/,  an  innocent 
rhyme ;  for  scorn,  horn,  a  hard  rhyme ;  for  school, 
fihtL,  a  babbling  rhyme ;    very  ominous   endings  : 
No,  I  was  not  l>om  under  a  rhyming  planet,  nor  I 
cannot  woo  in  festival  terms. 

«  Combined.  »  Wicked. 


Enter  Beatrice. 
Sweet  Beatrice,  wouldst  thou  come  when  I  called 

thee  ? 

Beat.   Yea,  signior,  and  depart  when  you  bid  me. 

Bene.   O,  stay  but  till  then  ! 

Beat.  Then,  is  spoken  ;  fare  you  well  now  :  — 
and  yet,  ere  I  go,  let  me  go  with  that  I  came  for, 
which  is,  with  knowing  what  hath  passed  between 
you  and  Claudio. 

Bene.  Only  foul  words ;  and  thereupon  I  will 
kiss  thee. 

Beat.  Foul  words  are  but  foul  breath,  and  foid 
breath  is  noisome;  therefore  I  will  depart  unkissed. 

Bene.  Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his 
right  sense,  so  forcible  is  thy  wit :  But  I  must  tell 
thee  plainly,  Claudio  undergoes  my  challenge ; 
and  either  I  must  shortly  hear  from  him,  or  I  will 
subscribe  him  a  coward.  And,  I  pray  thee  now, 
tell  me,  for  which  of  my  bad  parts  didst  thou  first 
fall  in  love  with  me  ? 

Beat.  For  them  altogether  ;  which  maintained  so 
politick  a  state  of  evil,  that  they  will  not  admit  any 
good  part  to  intermingle  with  them.  But  for  which 
of  my  good  parts  did  you  first  suffer  love  for  me  ? 

Bene.  Su^er  love  ;  a  good  epithet !  I  do  suffer 
love,  indeed,  for  I  love  thee  against  my  will. 

Beat.  In  spite  of  your  heart,  I  think  ;  alas  !  poor 
heart !  If  you  spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will  spite  it  for 
yours ;  for  I  will  never  love  that  which  my  friend 
hates. 

Bene.  Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably. 

Beat.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession  :  there's 
not  one  wise  man  among  twenty  that  will  praise 
himself. 

Bene.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that 
lived  in  the  time  of  good  neighbours  :  if  a  man  do 
not  erect  in  this  age  his  own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he 
shall  live  no  longer  in  monument  than  the  bell  rings, 
and  the  widow  weeps. 

Beat.   And  how  long  is  that,  think  you? 

Bene.  Question  ?  —  Why,  an  hour  in  clamour, 
and  a  quarter  in  rheum  :  Therefore  it  is  most  ex- 
pedient for  the  wise,  (if  don  Worm  his  conscience 
find  no  impediment  to  the  contrary,)  to  be  the 
trumpet  of  his  own  virtues,  as  I  am  to  myself :  So 
much  for  praising  myself,  (who,  I  myself  will  bear 
witness,  is  praise -worthy,)  and  now  tell  me.  How 
doth  your  cousin  ? 

Beat.   Very  ill. 

Bene.   And  how  do  you  ? 

Beat.   Very  ill  too. 

Bene.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend :  there 
will  1  leave  you  too,  for  here  comes  one  in  haste. 

Enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  your  uncle ; 
yonder's  old  coil  ^  at  home  :  it  is  proved,  my  lady 
Hero  hath  been  falsely  accused,  the  prince  and 
Claudio  mightily  abused ;  and  don  John  is  tlie 
author  of  all,  who  is  fled  and  gone  :  will  you  come 
presently  ? 

Beat.   Will  you  go  hear  this  news,  signior? 

Bene.  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  be  buried  in  thy 
eyes,  and  will  go  with  thee  to  thy  uncle's.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III Tlu:  Inside  of  a  Church. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  Attendants,  with 
viusick  ami  tapers. 
Claud.   Is  this  the  monument  of  Leonato  ? 

6  Stir. 


128 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Act  V 


yltlen.    It  is,  my  lord. 
Claud.    [Heads from  a  scroll] 

Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues, 

Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies  : 
Death  in  guerdon  "^  of  her  wrongs. 

Gives  her  fame  which  never  dies : 
So  the  life,  that  died  with  shame, 
'Lives  in  death  with  glonous  fame. 
Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomb,    [Affixing  it. 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb.  — 
Now,  musick,  sound,  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn. 

SONG. 

Pardon,  goddess  cf  the  night, 
Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  knight. 
For  the  tvhich,  with  so7igs  of  woe. 
Round  about  her  tomb  they  go. 
Midnight,  assist  our  moan ; 
Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan, 

Heavily,  heavily: 
Graves  yawn,  and  yield  your  dead, 
Till  death  be  uttered, 
Heavily,  heavily. 
Claud.   Now,  unto  thy  bones  good  night ! 

Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 
D.  Pedro.     Good   morrow,    masters;    put   your 

torches  out : 
The  wolves  have  prey'd ;  and  look,  the  gentle  day, 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  east  with  spots  of  grey  : 
Thanks  to  you  all,  and  leave  us  ;  fare  you  well. 
Claud.    Good  morrow,  masters;  each  his  several 

way; 
D.  Pedro.   Come,  let  us  hence,  and  put  on  other 
weeds ; 
And  then  to  Leonato's  we  will  go. 

Claud.   And,    Hymen,  now   with   luckier   issue 
speeds, 
Than  this,  for  whom  we  render'd  up  this  woe  ! 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato,   Antonio,  Benedick,  Beatrice, 
Ursula,  Friar,  and  Hero. 

Friar.   Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 

Leon.   So  are  the  prince  and  Claudio,  who  ac- 
cus'd  her, 
Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated  : 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this  ; 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appears 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

Ant.    Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sort  so  well. 

Bene.   And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforc'd 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 

Leon.  Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all. 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves  ; 
And,  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  mask'd : 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promis'd  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me  :  —  You  know  your  office,  brother ; 
You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter. 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio.      [Fxeunt  Ladies. 

Ant.  Which  I  will  do  with  confirm'd  countenance. 

Rene.   Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 

Friar.    To  do  what,  signior? 

Bene.   To  bind  me,  or  undo  me,  one  of  them.  — 
Signior  Leonato,  trutli  it  is  good  signior. 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favour. 

7  Reward. 


Leon.   That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her :  'Tis  most 
true, 

Rene.   And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 

Leon.   The  sight  whereof,  I  think,  you  had  from 
me, 
From  Claudio  and  the  prince ;  But  what's  your  will? 

Bene.   Your  answer,  sir,  is  enigmatical  : 
But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 
May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoin'd 
In  the  estate  of  honourable  marriage  ;  — 
In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leon.   My  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  And  my  help. 

Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio. 

Fntet  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio,  tuith  Attendants. 

D.  Pedro.   Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 
Leon.    Good  morrow,   prince:     good   morrow, 
Claudio ; 
We  here  attend  you ;  are  you  yet  determin'd 
To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter  ? 
Claud.   I'll  hold  my  mind,  were  she  an  Ethiope. 
Leon.   Call   her   forth,  brother,  here's  the  friar 
ready.  [Exit  Antonio. 

Z).  Pedro.  Good  morrow.  Benedick :  Why,  what's 
the  matter. 
That  you  have  such  a  February  face, 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  and  cloudiness? 

Claud.  I  think,  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull :  — 
Tush,  fear  not,  man,  we'll  tip  thy  horns  with  gold. 

Re-enter  Antonio,  with  the  Ladies  masked. 

For  this  I  owe  you  :   here  come  other  reckonings. 
Which  is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon  ? 

Ant.   This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 

Claud.    Why,  then  she's  mine :  Sweet,  let  me  see 
your  face. 

Leon.   No,  that  you  shall  not,  till  you  take  her 
hand, 
Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

Claud.    Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy  friar; 
I  am  your  husband,  if  you  like  of  me. 

Hero.   And  when  I  lived,  I  was  your  other  wife : 

[  Unmasking. 
And  when  you  loved,  you  were  my  other  husband. 

Claud.   Another  Hero? 

Hero.  Nothing  certainer : 

One  Hero  died  defam'd ;  but  I  do  live. 
And,  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid. 

D.  Pedro.   The  former  Hero  !  Hero  that  is  dead. 

Leon.    She  died,  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander 
lived. 

Friar.   All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify  ; 
WTien,  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 
I'll  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death  : 
Mean  time,  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 
And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 

Rene.   Soft  and  fair,  friar.  —  WTiich  is  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.   I  answer  to  that  name;      [U7imasking.} 
What  is  your  will  ? 

Bene.   Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

j]eat.  Noj  no  more  than  reason. 

Bene.   Why,  then   your  uncle,  and  the  prince, 
and  Claudio, 
Have  been  deceived ;  for  they  swore  you  did. 

Beat.   Do  you  not  love  me  ? 

jjene.  No,  no  niore  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula, 
Are  much  deceiv'd;  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 


Scene  IV. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


129 


Bene.  They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  me. 

Beat.   They  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh  dead 
for  me. 

Bene.  'Tis  no  such  matter :  —  Then  you  do  not 
love  me  ? 

Beat.  No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 

Leon.   Come,  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the 
gentleman. 

Claud.  And  I'll  be  sworn  upon't,  that  he  loves  her; 
For  here's  a  paper,  written  in  his  hand, 
A  halting  sonnet  of  his  own  pure  brain, 
Fashion'd  to  Beatrice. 

Hero.  And  here's  another. 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stolen  from  her  pocket. 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Bene.  A  miracle !  here's  our  own  hands  against 
our  hearts !  —  Come,  I  will  have  thee  ;  but,  by  this 
light,  I  take  thee  for  pity. 

Beat.  I  would  not  deny  you  ;  but,  by  this  good 
day,  I  yield  upon  great  persuasion ;  and,  partly  to 
save  your  life  j  for  I  was  told  you  were  in  a  con- 
sumption. 

Bene.   Peace,  I  will  stop  your  mouth.  — 

[ITissing  her. 

D.  Pedro.   How  dost  thou.  Benedick  the  married 
man? 

Bene.  I'll  tell  thee  what,  prince ;  a  college  of  wit- 
crackers  cannot  flout  me  out  of  my  humour  :  Dost 
thou  think,  I  care  for  a  satire,  or  an  epigram  ?  No  : 
If  a  man  will  be  beaten  with  brains,  he  shall  wear 


notliing  handsome  about  him :  In  brief,  since  I  do 
propose  to  marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to  any  pur- 
pose that  the  world  can  say  against  it ;  and  therefore 
never  flout  at  me  for  what  I  have  said  against  it ; 
for  man  is  a  giddy  thing,  and  this  is  my  conclusion. — 
For  thy  part,  Claudio,  I  did  think  to  have  beaten 
thee  ;  but  in  tliat^  thou  art  like  to  be  my  kinsman, 
live  unbruised,  and  love  my  cousin. 

Claud.  I  had  well  hoped,  thou  wouldst  have 
denied  Beatrice,  that  I  might  have  cudgelled  thee 
out  of  thy  single  life,  to  make  thee  a  double  dealer ; 
which,  out  of  question,  thou  wilt  be,  if  my  cousin 
do  not  look  exceeding  narrowly  to  thee. 

Bene.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends  :  —  let's  have 
a  dance,  ere  we  are  married,  that  we  might  lighten 
om*  own  hearts  and  our  wives'  heels. 

Leon.  We'll  have  dancing  afterwards. 

Bene.  First,  o'my  word ;  therefore,  play,  musick. 
—  Prince,  thou  art  sad ;  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a 
wife  :  there  is  no  staff  more  reverend  than  one 
tipped  with  horn. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   My  lord,  your  brother  John  is  ta'en  in 
flight, 
And  brought  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 

Bene.  Think  not  on  liim  till  to-morrow ;  I'll 
devise  thee  brave  punishments  for  him.  —  Strike  up, 
pipers.  [Ifance.^Exeunt, 

B  Because. 


^ 

c 


y 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


m  love  with  Hermia. 


Theseus,  Duke  of  Athens. 

Egeus,  Father  la  Hermia. 

Lysander,  1 

Demetrius,  J 

Philostrate,  Master  of  the  Revels  to  Theseus, 

QriNCE,  the  Carpenter. 

Snug,  the  Joiner. 

Bottom,  the  Weaver. 

Flute,  the  liellows-menfler. 

Snout,  the  Tinker. 

Starveling,  the  Tailor. 

Hippolyta,    Queen  of  the    Amazons,    betrothed   to 

Theseus. 
Hermia,  Daughter  to  Egeus,  in  love  with  Lysander. 
Helena,  in  love  ivith  Demetrius. 


-  Fairies. 


Oberok,  King  of  the  Fairies. 

Titania,  Queen  oftlie  Fairies. 

Puck,  or  Robin-goodfellow,  a  Fairy. 

Peas-blossom, 

Cobweb, 

Moth, 

Mustard-seed, 

Pyramus, 

Thisbe, 

WaU, 

Moonshiney 

Lio?i, 


Characters  in  tlie  Interlude  per- 
formed by  the  Clowns. 


Other  Fairies  attending  their  King  and  Queen. 
Attendants  on  Theseus  and  Hippolyta. 


SCENE,  Athens  ;  and  a  Wood  not  far  from  it. 


HENCE,    AWAY  I 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I Athens.      A  Room  in  the  Palace  (f 

Theseus. 

Enter    Theseus,    Hippolyta,     Philostrate,    and 
Attendants. 

Now,  fair  Hippolyta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace  ;  four  happy  days  bring  in 
Another  moon  :   but,  oh,  methinks,  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes !   she  lingers  my  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-dame,  or  a  dowager, 
Long  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue. 

Hip.    Four  days  will  quickly  steep  themselves  in 
nights  ; 
Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  time  ; 
And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 
New  bent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  night 
Of  our  solemnities. 

The.  Go,  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments : 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth; 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals, 
The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. 

\^Evit  Philostrate. 
Hippolyta,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword. 
And  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries  ; 
But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key, 
With  pomp,  with  triumjih   find  with  revelling. 


Enter  Egeus,  Hermia,  Lvsander,  o/irf  Demetriuj,. 

Ege.    Happy  be  Theseus,  our  renowned  duke ! 

IVie.  Thanks,  good  Egeus  :  What's  the  news  with 
thee? 

E<:^e.    Full  of  vexation  come  I,  with  complaint 
Against  my  child,  my  daughter  Hermia.  — 
Stand  forth,  Demetrius  ;  —  My  noble  lord, 
This  man  hath  my  consent  to  marry  her :  — 
Stand  forth,  Lysander  ;  —  and,  my  gracious  duke, 
This  hath  betwich'd  the  bosom  of  my  child  : 
Thou,  thou,  Lysander,  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes, 
And  interchang'd  love-tokens  with  my  child  : 
Thou  hast  by  moon-light  at  her  window  sung, 
With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love  ; 
And  stol'n  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 
With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gauds,  conceits, 
Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweet-meats  ;  messengers 
Of  strong  prevailment  in  unharden'd  youth  : 
With  cunning  hast  thou  filch'd  my  daughter's  heart ; 
Turn'd  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me. 
To  stubborn  harshness :  —  And,  my  gracious  duke, 
Be  it  so  she  will  not  here  before  your  grace 
Consent  to  marry  with  Demetrius, 
I  beg  the  ancient  privilege  of  Athens ; 
As  she  is  mine,  I  may  dispose  of  her  : 
Which  shall  be  cither  to  this  gentleman, 


Act  I.  Scene  I. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


131 


Or  to  her  death  ;  according  to  our  law, 
Iramediatoly  provided  in  that  case. 

The.  What  say  you,  Ilermia?  be  advis'd,  fair  maid : 
To  you  your  father  should  be  as  a  god  ; 
One  that  compos'd  your  beauties  ;  yea,  and  one 
To  whom  you  are  but  as  a  form  in  wax, 
By  him  imprinted,  and  within  liis  power 
To  leave  the  figure,  or  disfigure  it. 
Demetrius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 

Her.    So  is  Ly sunder. 

The.  In  himself  he  is  : 

But,  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice, 
The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier. 

Her.  I  would,  my  father  look'd  but  with  my  eyes. 

The.    Rather  your  eyes  must  with  his  judgment 
'  look. 

Her.   I  do  entreat  your  grace  to  pardon  me. 
I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold ; 
Nor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty. 
In  such  a  presence  here,  to  plead  my  thoughts : 
But  I  beseech  your  grace  that  I  may  know 
The  worst  that  may  befal  me  in  tliis  case, 
If  I  refuse  to  wed  Demetrius. 

The.    Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
For  ever  the  society  of  men. 
Therefore,  fair  Ilennia,  question  your  desires, 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice, 
You  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun  ; 
For  aye  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mew'd, 
To  live  a  barren  sister  all  your  life, 
Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 
Thrice  blessed  tliey,  tliat  master  so  their  blood, 
To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage  : 
But  earthlier  happy  is  the  rose  distill'd. 
Than  that,  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies  in  single  blessedness. 

Her.    So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord. 
Ere  I  will  yield  my  virgin  patent  up 
Unto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke 
My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 

The.  Take  time  to  pause  ;  and,  by  the  next  new 
moon, 
( The  sealing-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me, 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship,) 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die. 
For  disobedience  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else,  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would : 
Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest, 
For  aye,  austerity  and  single  life. 

Dem.  Relent,  sweet  Hermia ;  —  And,  Lysander, 
yield 
Thy  crazed  title  to  my  certain  right. 

Li/s.   You  have  Iier  father's  love,  Demetrius : 
Let  me  have  Hermia's  :   do  you  marry  him. 

Ege.   Scornful  Lysander  !  true,  he  hath  my  love  ; 
And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him  : 
And  she  is  mine  ;  and  all  my  right  of  her 
I  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 

Lt/s.    I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  deriv'd  as  he. 
As  well  possess'd  ;  my  love  is  more  than  his  ; 
My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  rank'd. 
If  not  with  vantage,  as  Demetrius' ; 
And,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  be, 
I  am  belov'd  of  beauteous  Hermia  : 
Why  should  not  I  then  prosecute  my  right  ? 
Dfmetrius,  I'll  avouch  it  to  his  head. 
Made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  won  her  soul ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes 
Upon  this  spotted  '  and  inconstant  man. 
»  Wicked 


The.    I  must  confess,  that  I  have  heard  so  much» 
And  with  Demetrius  thought  to  have  spoke  tliereof  > 
But,  being  over-full  of  self-affairs. 
My  mind  did  lose  it.  —  But,  Demetrius,  come  ; 
And  come,  Egeus  ;  you  shall  go  witli  me  ; 
I  have  some  private  schooling  for  you  both.  — 
For  you,  fair  Hermia,  look  you  arm  yourself 
To  fit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up 
( Wliicii  by  no  means  we  may  extenuate,) 
To  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  single  life.  — 
Come,  my  Hippolyta  ;   What  cheer,  my  love  ?  — 
Demetrius,  and  Egeus,  go  along : 
I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 
Against  our  nuptial ;  and  confer  with  you 
Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 

Ege.   With  duty,  and  desire,  we  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  Thes.  PIip.  Ege.  Dem.  and  train. 

Eys.  How  now,  my  love?  Why  is  your  cheek  so  pale? 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast? 

Her.    Belike,  for  want  of  rain  ;  which  I  could  well 
Beteem  ^  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes. 

Lys.   Ah  me !  for  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history. 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth  -. 
But,  either  it  was  different  in  blood ; 
Or  else  misgrafl^ed,  in  respect  of  years  ; 
Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends : 
Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice. 
War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it ; 
Making  it  momentany  5*  as  a  sound. 
Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream  ; 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  coUied  *  night, 
That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth. 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say,  —  Behold  ! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 
So  quick  bright  tilings  come  to  confusion. 

Her.   If  then  true  lovers  have  been  ever  cross'd, 
It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny : 
Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience. 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross  ; 
As  due  to  love,  as  thoughts,  and  dreams,  and  sigjis, 
Wishes,  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  =  followers. 

Lys.    A  good   persuasion  ;    therefore,    hear  me, 
Hennia. 
I  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child  : 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues  ; 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 
There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee  ; 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us  ;   If  thou  lov'st  me  then. 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night ; 
And  in  the  wood,  a  league  without  the  town, 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 

Her.  My  good  Lysander  ! 

I  swear  to  thee  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow  ; 
By  his  best  arrow  with  the  golden  head ; 
By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves  ; 
By  that  which  knitteth  souls,  and  prospers  loves  ; 
And  by  that  fire  which  bum'd  the  Carthage  queen, 
When  the  false  Trojan  under  sail  was  seen  ; 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
In  number  more  than  ever  women  spoke  ;  — 
In  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me, 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 


2  Give,  bestow. 
4  Black. 


'  Momentary. 
*  Love'i. 


132 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT  S.  DREAM. 


Act  I.  ScENK  II. 


Lys.     Keep   promise,  love  :    Look,  here  comes 
Helena. 

Enter  Helena. 

Her.    God  speed  fair  Helena  !   Wliither  away  ? 

Hel.    Call  you  me  fair  ?  that  fiiir  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  you  fair  ;    O  happy  fair  ! 
Your  eyes  are  lode-stars '5;  and  your  tongue's  sweet  air 
More  tuneable  than  lark  to  shepherd'^  ear, 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds  appear. 
Sickness  is  catching  ;    O,  were  favour  7  so  ! 
Yours  woukl  I  catch,  fair  Hennia,  ere  I  go ; 
My  ear  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 
My  tongue  should  catch  your  tongue's  sweet  melody. 
Were  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated. 
The  rest  I'll  give  to  be  to  you  translated. 
O,  teach  me  how  you  look ;  and  with  what  art 
You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart. 

Her.   I  frown  upon  him,  yet  he  loves  me  still. 

Hel.   O,  that  your  frowns  would  teach  my  smiles 
such  skill  ! 

Her.   The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me. 

Hel.   The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hateth  me. 

Her.    His  folly,  Helena,  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

Hel.   None,  but  your  beauty  j  'Would  that  fault 
were  mine  ! 

Her.  Take  comfort ;  he  no  more  shall  see  my  face, 
Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place.  — 

Lys.    Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfold  : 
To-morrow  night  when  Phoebe  doth  behold 
Her  silver  visage  in  the  wat'ry  glass, 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, 
(A  time  that  lovers'  flights  doth  still  conceal,) 
Through  Athens'  gates  have  we  devis'd  to  steal. 

Her.    And  in  the  wood,  where  often  you  and  I 
Upon  faint  primrose-beds  were  wont  to  lie. 
Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet ; 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet : 
And  thence,  from  Athens,  turn  away  our  eyes. 
To  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies. 
Farewell,  sweet  play-fellow  ;  pray  thou  for  us. 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius  ! 
Keep  word,  Lysander  :   we  must  starve  our  sight 
From  lovers'  food,  till  morrow  deep  midnight. 

[Exit  Herm. 

hys.    I  will,  my  Hermia.  —  Helena,  adieu  : 
As  you  on  him,  Demetrius  dote  on  you  !  \_Ex^  Lys. 

Hel.   How  happy  some,  o'er  other  some  can  be ! 
Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 
But  what  of  that  ?   Demetrius  thinks  not  so ; 
He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know. 
And  as  he  errs,  doting  on  Hermia's  eyes, 
So  I,  admiring  of  his  qualities. 
Things  base  and  vile,  holding  no  quantity. 
Love  can  transpose  to  form  and  dignity. 
Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind ; 
And  therefore  is  winged  Cupid  painted  blind. 
Nor  hath  love's  mind  of  any  judgment  taste  ; 
Wings,  and  no  eyes,  figure  unheedy  haste : 
And  therefore  is  love  said  to  be  a  child. 
Because  in  choice  he  is  so  oft  beguil'd. 
As  waggish  boys  in  game  8  themselves  forswear. 
So  the  boy  love  is  perjur'd  every  where : 
For  ere  Demetrius  look'd  on  Hermia's  eyne  9, 
He  hail'd  down  oaths,  that  he  was  only  mine ; 
I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight; 
Then  to  the  wood  will  he,  to-morrow  night. 
Pursue  her ;  and  for  this  intelligence 
If  I  have  thanks,  it  is  a  dear  expence : 

^  Polo  stars.  y  Countenance. 

**  Sport.  9  Eyes. 


But  herein  mean  I  to  enrich  my  pain. 

To  have  his  sight  thither,  and  back  again,       \ExM, 

SCENE  II r/ic  same.     A  Room  in  a  Cottage. 

Enter  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  Quince,  and 
Starveling. 

Qnin.   Is  all  our  company  here  ? 

JSot.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man 
by  man,  according  to  the  scrip. 

Quin.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name, 
which  is  thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play  in 
our  interlude  before  the  duke  and  duchess,  on  his 
wedding-day  at  night. 

Bol.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the 
play  treats  on  ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors  ; 
and  so  grow  to  a  point. 

Quin.  Marry,  our  play  is — The  most  lamentable 
comedy,  and  most  cruel  death  of  Pyramus  and 
Thisby. 

Bot.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you, 
and  a  merry.  —  Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth 
your  actors  by  the  scroll :  Masters,  spread  yourselves. 

Quin.  Answer,  as  I  call  you.  —  Nick  Bottom, 
the  weaver. 

Bot.  Ready :  Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and 
proceed. 

Quin.  You,  Nick  Bottom,are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 

Bot.   What  is  Pyramus  ?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant. 

Quin.  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallantly 
for  love. 

Bot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  per- 
forming of  it :  If  1  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to 
their  eyes ;  I  will  move  storms,  I  will  condole  in 
some  measure.  To  the  rest :  —  Yet  my  chief  hu- 
mour is  for  a  tyrant :  I  could  play  Ercles  rarely, 
or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all  split. 

"  The  raging  rocks, 

"  With  shivering  shocks, 

"  Shall  break  the  locks 

"  Of  prison  gates  : 
**  And  Phibbus'  car 
«  Shall  shine  from  far, 
"  And  make  and  mar 

"  The  foolish  fates." 

This  was  lofty  !  —  Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players. 
—  This  is  Ercles'  vein,  a  tyrant's  vein ;  a  lover  is 
more  condoling. 

Quin.    Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Elu.   Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.   You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

Fhi.   What  is  Thisby?  a  wandering  knight? 

Quin.    It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  me  not  play  a  woman  ;  I 
have  a  beard  coming.  ■  ■ 

Quin.  That's  all  one;  you  shall  play  it  in  a  mask,B  I 
and  you  may  speak  as  small  as  you  will.  *  " 

Bot.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play,  Thisby 
too  :  I'll  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice ;  —  Thisne, 
Thime,  —  Ah,  Pyramus,  my  lover  dear;  thy  Thishy 
dear  :  and  lady  dear  ! 

Quin.  No,  no:  you  must  play  Pyramus,  and, 
Flute,  you  Thisby. 

Bot.   Well,  proceed.  ^_ 

Quin.    Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor.  ^| 

Starv.    Here,  Peter  Quince.  ^^ 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  you  must  play  Tliisby's 
mother.  —  Tom  Snout,  the  tinker. 

Snout.   Here,  Peter  Quince. 


I 


Act  II.    Scene  I. 


MIDSUMJVIEIl-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


133 


Quin.  You,  Pyramus's  father ;  myself  Thisby's 
father ;  —  Snug,  the  joiner,  you,  the  lion's  part :  — 
and,  I  hope,  here  is  a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  tlie  lion's  part  written?  pray 
you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

Quin.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  nothing 
but  roaring. 

Bot.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too  :  I  will  roar,  that 
I  will  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me ;  I  will 
roar,  tliat  I  will  make  the  duke  say,  Let  him  roar 
again.  Let  him  roar  again. 

Quin.  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would 
fright  the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  timt  they  would 
shriek  :  and  that  were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All.   Tliat  would  hang  us  every  mother's  son. 

Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should 
fright  the  ladies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have 
no  more  discretion  but  to  hang  us :  but  I  will  ag- 
gravate my  voice  so,  tliat  I  will  roar  you  as  gently 
as  any  sucking  dove;  I  will  roar  you  an  '  'twere 
any  nightingale. 

Quin.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus ;  for 
Pyramus  is  a  sweet-faced  man  ;  a  proper  man,  as 


one  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day  :  a  most  lovely, 
gentleman-like  man ;  therefore  you  must  needs 
play  Pyramus. 

Bot.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard  were 
I  best  to  play  it  in  ? 

Quin.    Why,  what  you  will. 

Bot.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw- 
coloured  beard,  your  orange-tawny  beard,  your 
purple-in-grain  beard,  or  your  perfect  yellow. 

Quin.  Masters,  here  are  your  parts :  and  I  am 
to  entreat  you,  request  you,  and  desire  you,  to  con 
them  by  to-morrow  night ;  and  meet  me  in  the 
palace  wood,  a  mile  without  the  town,  by  moon- 
light ;  there  will  we  reliearse :  for  if  we  meet  in 
the  city,  we  shall  be  dog'd  with  company,  and  our 
devices  known.  In  the  mean  time,  I  will  draw  a 
bill  of  properties  6,  such  as  our  play  wants.  I  pray 
you,  fail  me  not. 

Bot.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  reliearse 
courageously.      Take  pains  ;  be  perfect ;  adieu. 

Quill.    At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bot.   Enough  :    Hold,  or  tut  bow-strings.  7 

[Lxcunt. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.  —yi  fVood  near  Athens. 

Enter  a  Fairy  at  07ie  door,  and  Puck  at  another. 

Puck:   How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Fai.    Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  briar, 
Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  every  where. 
Swifter  than  the  moones  sphere  ; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen. 
To  dew  her  orbs  2  upon  the  green  : 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be  j 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see  ; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  3  of  spirits,  I'll  be  gone ; 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 

Puck.  The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to-night; 
Take  heed,  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight, 
For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 
Because  tliat  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 
A  lovely  boy,  stol'n  from  an  Indian  king; 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling : 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  Ills  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild : 
But  she,  perforce,  withholds  the  loved  lioy. 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  hira  all  her  joy : 
And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  green. 
By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  star-light  sheen  ♦, 
But  they  do  square  '•> ;  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear, 
Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 

Fai.  Eitlier  1  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite, 
Or  else  you  arc  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite, 
Call'd  Robin  Gootlfellpw  :   are  you  not  he. 
That  fright  the  maidens  of  the  villagery ; 


>  At  if. 

^  tihining. 


«  Circle*. 
*  Quarrfl. 


3  A  term  of  coDtenipt 


Skim  milk ;  and  sometimes  labour  in  the  quern  8, 
And  bootless  make  the  breathless  housewife  churn ; 
And  sometimes  make  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm  ^ ; 
Mislead  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  ? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  tliey  shall  have  good  luck  : 
Are  not  you  he  ? 

Puck.  Thou  speak 'st  aright ; 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile, 
When  I  a  fat  and  bean-fed  horse  beguile. 
Neighing  in  likeness  of  a  silly  foal : 
And  sometime  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl, 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab  ' ; 
And,  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob. 
And  on  her  wither'd  dew-lap  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale. 
Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me ; 
Then  slip  I  from  her,  and  down  topples  she. 
And  tailor  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough ; 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips,  and  loffe  ; 
And  waxen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there.  — 
But  room.  Fairy,  here  comes  Oberon. 

Fai.   And  here  my  mistress : — 'Would  that  he 
were  gone  ! 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  Oberon,  at  one  door,  tciih  his  train,  and 
TiTANiA,  at  another,  with  hers. 

Ohe.    Ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 

Pita.  What,  jealous  Oberon  ?   Fairj-,  skip  hence  ; 
I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company, 

Obe.   Tarry,  rash  wanton:    Am  not  I  thy  lord? 

7't/a.    Then  I  must  be  thy  lady :    But  I  know 
W  hen  thou  hast  stol'n  away  from  fairy  land. 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corin  sat  all  day, 

«  Articles  required  in  performing  a  plav. 
7  At  all  events.  •*  Mill. 

9  Ycait  Wild  aiTi)le. 

K  :} 


134 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Act  II. 


Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
To  amorous  Phillida.      Why  art  thou  here, 
Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India  ? 
But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskin'd  mistress,  and  your  warrior  love, 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded  ;  and  you  come 
To  give  tlieir  bed  joy  and  prosperity. 

Obe.   How  cansf  diou  thus,  for  shame,  Titania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  thou  not  lead  him  through  the  glimmering 

night. 
And  make  him  with  fair  ^gle  break  his  faith, 
With  Ariadne,  and  Antiopa  ? 

Tita.   These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy  : 
And  never  since  the  middle  summer's  spring, 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea. 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturb'd  our  sport. 
ITierefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain. 
As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs ;  which  falling  in  the  land. 
Have  every  pelting  '2  river  made  so  proud. 
That  they  have  overborne  their  continents  3  : 
The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain. 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  corn 
Hath  rotted  ere  his  youth  attain'd  a  beard  : 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field. 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock  ; 
Tlie  nine  men's  morris  "*  is  fill'd  up  with  mud ; 
And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green. 
For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable  : 
The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here  ; 
No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  blest :  — 
Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 
Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air, 
That  rhcumatick  diseases  do  abound : 
And  thorough  this  distemperature,  we  see 
The  seasons  alter  :   hoary-headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose ; 
And  on  old  Hyem's  chin,  and  icy  crown. 
An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 
Is,  as  in  mockery,  set :    The  spring,  the  summer, 
The  childing  ^  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 
Their  wonted  liveries  ;  and  the  'mazed  world, 
By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which  : 
And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 
From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension  ; 
We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Obe.    Do  you  amend  it  then  ;  it  lies  in  you  : 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy, 
To  be  my  henchman.  6 

Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest, 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order : 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night, 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side  ; 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands. 
Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood  ; 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  boy  ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

Obe.   How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stay  ? 

Tita.  Perchance,  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 

2  Petty.  3  Banks  which  contain  them. 

•*  Holes  made  for  a  game  played  by  boys. 

'  Autumn  producing  flowers  unseasonably.  ^  Page. 


If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round. 
And  see  our  moonlight  revels,  go  with  us ; 
If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 

Obe.    Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Tita.   Not  for  thy  kingdom.  —  Faries,  away  : 
We  shall  chide  downright,  if  I  longer  stay. 

[Exeiint  Titania,  and  her  traitu 

Obe.   Well,  go  thy  way :   thou  shalt  not  from  this 
grove, 
Till  I  torment  thee  for  tliis  injury.  — 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither :   Thou  remember'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory. 
And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  musick. 

Puck.  1  remember. 

Obe.   That  very  time  I  saw,  but  thou  could'st  not. 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd :    A  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west ; 
And  loos'd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts : 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  wat'ry  moon ; 
And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on. 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 
Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 
It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower,  — 
Before,  milk-white ;  now  pu  rple  with  love's  wound  — 
And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 
Fetch  me  that  flower  ;  the  herb  I  show'd  thee  once  ; 
The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eye-lids  laid. 
Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 
Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 
Fetch  me  this  herb  :   and  be  thou  here  again, 
Ere  the  Leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.    I'll  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes.  {Exit  Puck. 

Obe.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I'll  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep. 
And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes  : 
The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 
(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull. 
On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape,)   " 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love. 
And  ere  I  take  this  charm  off  from  her  sight, 
(As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb,) 
I'll  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 
But  who  comes  here  ?     I  am  invisible  ; 
And  I  will  over-hear  their  conference. 

Enter  Demetrius,  He-l^-s  a  following  him. 

Bern.   I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me  not. 
Where  is  Lysander,  and  fair  Hermia? 
The  one  I'll  slay,  the  other  slayeth  me. 
Thou  told'st  me  they  were  stolen  into  this  wood. 
And  here  am  I,  and  wood  7  within  this  wood. 
Because  I  cannot  meet  with  Hermia. 
Hence,  get  thee  gone,  and  follow  me  no  more. 

Hel.  You  draw  me,  you  hard-hearted  adamant ; 
But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  my  heart 
Is  true  as  steel :   Leave  you  your  power  to  draw. 
And  I  shall  have  no  power  to  follow  you. 

Dem-    Do  I  entice  you ?   Do  I  speak  you  fair? 
Or  rather,  do  I  not  in  plainest  truth 
Tell  you  —  I  do  not,  nor  I  cannot  love  you  ? 

"  Raving  mad. 


1 


Scene  II. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


135 


Hel.   And  even  for  that  do  I  love  you  the  more. 
I  am  your  spaniel ;  and,  Demetrius, 
The  more  you  beat  me,  I  will  fawn  on  you  : 
Use  me  but  as  your  spaniel,  spurn  me,  strike  me, 
Neglect  me,  lose  me ;  only  give  me  leave. 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  to  follow  you. 
What  worser  place  can  I  beg  in  your  love, 
(And  yet  a  place  of  high  respect  with  me,) 
Than  to  be  used  as  you  use  your  dog  ? 

Dejn.   Tempt  not  too  much  the  hatred  of  my 
spirit ; 
For  I  am  sick,  when  I  do  look  on  thee. 

Hel.   And  I  am  sick,  when  I  look  not  on  you. 

Dem.   You  do  impeach  ^  your  modesty  too  much. 
To  leave  the  city,  and  commit  yourself 
Into  the  hands  of  one  that  loves  you  not. 

Hel.   Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  for  that. 
It  is  not  night,  when  I  do  see  your  face, 
Therefore  I  think  I  am  not  in  tlie  night : 
Nor  doth  this  wood  lack  worlds  of  company  ; 
For  you,  in  my  respect,  are  all  the  world : 
Then  how  can  it  be  said,  I  am  alone. 
When  all  the  world  is  here  to  look  on  me  ? 

Dem.    I'll  run  from  thee,  and  hide  me  in  the 
brakes. 
And  leave  thee  to  the  mercy  of  wild  beasts. 

Hel.   The  wildest  hath  not  such  a  heart  as  you. 
Run  when  you  will,  the  story  shall  be  chang'd  j 
Apollo  flies,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase  ; 
The  dove  pursues  the  griflin  ;  the  mild  hind 
IVIakes  speed  to  catch  the  tiger  :   Bootless  speed  ! 
When  cowardice  pursues,  and  valour  flies. 

Dem.    I  will  not  stay  thy  questions  :  let  me  go  : 
Or,  if  thou  follow  me,  do  not  believe 
But  I  shall  do  thee  mischief  in  the  wood. 

Hel.   Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  the  field. 
You  do  me  mischief.     Fye,  Demetrius ! 
Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex  ! 
We  cannot  fight  for  love,  as  men  may  do  ; 
We  should  be  woo'd,  and  were  not  made  to  woo. 
I'll  follow  thee,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell. 
To  die  upon  9  the  hand  I  love  so  well. 

\_Exeunt  Dem.  and  Hel. 

Obe.   Fare  thee  well,  nymph :  ere  he  do  leave  this 
grove. 
Thou  shalt  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love.  — 

Re-enter  Puck. 
Hast  thou  tlie  flower  there  ?  Welcome,  wanderer. 

Puck.   Ay,  there  it  is. 

Obe.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips  >  and  the  nodding  violet  grows  ; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  lush  «  woodbine. 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine  : 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night, 
Lull'd  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamell'd  skin. 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in  : 
And  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak  her  eyes. 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove : 
A  sweet  Atheman  lady  is  in  love 
With  a  disdainful  youth  :   anoint  his  eyes  ; 
But  do  it,  when  the  next  thing  he  espies 
May  be  the  lady  :   Thou  shalt  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  hath  on. 
EflJect  it  with  some  care ;  that  he  may  prove 


'  Bring  in  question. 
The  greater  cowslip. 


9  By. 

2  Vigorous. 


More  fond  on  her,  than  she  upon  her  love ; 
And  look  thou  meet  me  ere  the  first  cock  crow. 
Puck.    Fear  not,  my  lord,  your  servant  shall  do  so. 

\_Exeunt. 
SCENE  III.  -u  Another  part  of  the  Wood. 
Enter  Titania,  urUh  her  train. 
Tita.   Come,  now  a  roundel  3,  and  a  fairy  song  ; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  ; 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  tlie  musk-rose  buds ; 
Some,  war  with  rear-mice 4  for  their  leathern  wings. 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats  ;  and  some,  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits  ^  :    Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 


SONG. 


1  Fai. 


You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue. 
Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen  ; 

Newts  ^,  and  blind- worms  7,  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen  : 
Chorus.       Philomel,  with  melody, 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby  ; 

Lulla,  lulla,  hdlaby ;  lulla,  luUa,  lullaby: 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 


2  Fai. 


II. 


hence , 


Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here  ; 

Hence,  you  long-leggd  spinners. 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near  ; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Chorus.       Philomel,  ivith  melody,  ^c. 

1  Fax.   Hence,  away  ;  now  all  is  well : 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.     Titania  sleeps. 

Enter  Oberon. 
Obe.   What  thou  seest,  when  thou  dost  wake, 

[Squeezes  the  flower  on  Titania's  eye -lids. 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take ; 
Love,  and  languish  for  his  sake  : 
Be  it  ounce  8,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair. 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear ; 
Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.  {Exit. 

Enter  Ltsander  and  Hermia. 

Lys.   Fair  love,  you  faint  with  wandering  in  tl;e 
wood; 

And  to  speak  troth,  I  have  forgot  our  way  ; 
We'll  rest  us,  Hermia,  if  you  tliink  it  good, 

And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day. 

Her.    Be  it  so,  Lysander  :   find  you  out  a  bed, 
For  I  upon  tliis  bank  will  rest  my  head. 
Such  separation,  as,  may  well  be  said. 
Becomes  a  virtuous  bachelor  and  a  maid : 
So  far  be  distant ;  and  good  night  sweet  friend  . 
Tliy  love  ne'er  alter,  till  thy  sweet  life  end  ! 

Lys.    Amen,  amen,  to  that  fair  prayer,  say  I  ; 
And  then  end  life,  when  I  end  loyalty  ! 
Here  is  my  bed  :   sleep  give  tliee  all  his  rest ! 

Her.   With  half  tliat  wish  the  wislier's  eyes  he 
press'd!  [TltcysUrp. 

3  A  kind  of  dance.  <  Bal«.  »  Sports. 

«  EiU.  ?  Siow.womu.  f  The  small  tiger 

K  4 


136 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Act  III. 


Enter  Puck. 

Puck.   Through  the  forest  have  I  gone, 
But  Athenian  found  I  none, 
On  whose  eyes  I  might  approve 
This  flower's  force  in  stirring  love. 
Night  and  silence  !  who  is  here  ? 
Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear : 
This  is  he  my  master  said, 
Despis'd  the  Athenian  maid ; 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound, 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul !  she  durst  not  lie 
Near  this  lack-love,  kill-courtesy. 
Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 
All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owe  9  : 
When  thou  wak'st  let  love  forbid 
Sleep  his  seat  on  thy  eye-lid. 
So  awake,  when  I  am  gone  ; 
For  I  must  now  to  Oberon.  [JExit. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Helena,  running. 

Hel.  Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 

Dem.  I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt  me 
thus. 

Hel,  O,  wilt  thou  darkling"  leave  me?  do  not 
so. 

Dem.   Stay,  on  thy  peril ;   I  alone  will  go. 

[Exit  Demetrius. 

Hel.   O,  I  am  out  of  breath  in  this  fond  chase  ! 
The  more  my  prayer,  the  lesser  is  my  grace. 
Happy  is  Hermia,  whereso'er  she  lies ; 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes. 
How  came  her   eyes    so    bright?     Not  with    salt 

tears : 
If  so,  my  eyes  are  oftener  wash'd  than  hers. 
No,  no,  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  bear ; 
For  beasts  that  meet  me,  run  away  for  fear  ; 
Therefore,  no  marvel,  though  Demetrius 
Do,  as  a  monster,  fly  my  presence  thus : 
What  wicked  and  dissembling  glass  of  mine 
Made  me  compare  with  Hermia's  sphery  eyne  ?  — 
But  who  is  here  ?  —  Lysander  !  on  the  ground  ! 
Dead  ?  or  asleep  ?   T  see  no  blood,  no  wound :  — 
Lysander,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 

Li/s.   And  run  through  fire  I  will,  for  thy  sweet 
sake.  [  Waking. 

Transparent  Helena  !   Nature  here  shows  art. 
That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 
Where  is  Demetrius  ?   O,  how  fit  a  word 
Is  that  vile  name  to  perish  on  my  sword  ! 


Hel.   Do  not  say  so,  Lysander  :  say  not  so : 
What  though  he  love  your  Hermia?  O,  what  though? 
Yet  Hermia  still  loves  you :   then  be  content. 

Lj/s.    Content  with  Hermia  ?  No  :    I  do  repent 
The  tedious  minutes  I  with  her  have  spent. 
Not  Hermia,  but  Helena  I  love  : 
Who  will  not  change  a  raven  for  a  dove  ? 
The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd ; 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 
Things  growing  are  not  ripe  until  their  season  : 
So  I,  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason ; 
And  touching  now  the  point  of  human  skill. 
Reason  becomes  the  marshal  to  my  will, 
And  leads  me  to  your  eyes ;  where  I  o'erlook 
Love's  stories  written  in  love's  richest  book. 

Hel.  Wherefore  was  I  to  this  keen  mockery  bom  ? 
When,  at  your  hands,  did  I  deserve  this  scorn  ? 
Is't  not  enough,  is't  not  enough,  young  man 
That  I  did  never,  no,  nor  never  can. 
Deserve  a  sweet  look  from  Demetrius'  eye. 
But  you  must  flout  my  insufficiency  ? 
Good  troth,  you  do  me  wrong,  good  sooth,  you  do. 
In  such  disdainful  manner  me  to  woo. 
But  fare  you  well  :   perforce  I  must  confess, 
I  thought  you  lord  of  more  true  gentleness. 
O,  that  a  lady,  of  one  man  refus'd, 
Should,  of  another,  therefore  be  abus'd  !  [Exit. 

Lys.  She  sees  not  Hermia :  —  Hermia,  sleep  thou 
there ; 
And  never  may'st  thou  come  Lysander  near  ! 
For,  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings 
Or,  as  the  heresies,  that  men  do  leave. 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive  ; 
So  thou,  my  surfeit,  and  my  heresy. 
Of  all  be  hated ;  but  the  most  of  me  ! 
And  all  my  powers,  address  your  love  and  might. 
To  honour  Helen,  and  to  be  her  knight !        [Edoit. 

Her.  [Starting.^    Help  me,  Lysander,  help  me ! 
do  thy  best. 
To  pluck  this  crawling  serpent  from  my  breast ! 
Ah  me,  for  pity  !  —  what  a  dream  was  here  ? 
Lysander,  look,  how  I  do  quake  with  fear ! 
Methought  a  serpent  eat  my  heart  away. 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey :  — 
Lysander  !  what,  removed  ?  Lysander  !  lord  ! 
What,  out  of  hearing  ?  gone  ?  no  sound,  no  word  ? 
Alack,  where  are  you  ?  speak,  an  if  you  hear  ; 
Speak,  of  all  loves  2  ;   I  swoon  almost  with  fear. 
No  ?  — -  then  I  well  perceive  you  are  not  nigh  : 
Either  death,  or  you,  I'll  find  immediately.     \_Exit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  same.  The  Queen  of  Fairies 
lying  asleep. 

Enter  Quince,  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  and 
Starveling. 

Bot.   Are  we  all  met  ? 

Q.uin.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here's  a  marvellous  conve- 
nient place  for  our  rehearsal :  This  green  plot  shall 
be  our  stage,  this  hawthorn  brake  our  tyring-house ; 
and  we  will  do  it  in  action,  as  we  will  do  it  before 
the  duke. 

Bot.   Peter  Quince,  — 


5  Po5sesf. 


>  In  the  dark. 


Qxiin.   What  say'st  thou,  bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyramus 
and  Thisby,  that  will  never  please.  First,  Pyramus 
must  draw  a  sword  to  kill  himself;  which  the  ladies 
cannot  abide.      How  answer  you  that  ? 

Snout.   By'rlakin  3,  a  parlous  fear. 

Star.  I  believe,  we  must  leave  the  killing  out, 
when  all  is  done. 

Bot.  Not  a  whit;  I  have  a  device  to  make  all 
well.  Write  me  a  prologue  :  and  let  the  prologue 
seem  to  say,  we  will  do  no  harm  with  our  swords ; 


2  By  all  that  is  dear. 


3  By  our  ladykin. 


SC£N£  I. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


137 


and  that  Pyramus  is  not  killed  indeed :  and  for  the 
more  better  assurance,  tell  them,  that  I  Pyramus 
am  not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver:  This 
will  put  them  out  of  fear. 

Quin.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue  ;  and 
it  shall  be  written  in  eight  and  six.  — 

Bot.  No,  make  it  two  more  ;  let  it  be  written  in 
eight  and  eight. 

Snout.   Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  of  the  lion  ? 

Star.   I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  your- 
selves :  to  bring  in  a  lion  among  ladies,  is  a  most 
dreadful  thing  ;  for  there  is  not  a  more  fearful  wild- 
fowl than  your  lion,  living  ;  and  we  ought  to  look 
to  it. 

Snout.  Therefore,  another  prologue  must  tell,  he 
is  not  a  lion. 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his 
face  must  be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck  ;  and  he 
himself  must  speak  through,  saying  thus,  or  to  the 
same  defect,  —  Ladies,  or  fair  ladies,  I  would  wish 
you,  or,  I  would  request  you,  or,  I  would  entreat 
you,  not  to  fear,  not  to  tremble  :  my  life  for  yours. 
If  you  think  I  come  hither  as  a  lion,  it  were  pity 
of  my  life  :  No,  I  am  no  such  thing ;  I  am  a  man 
as  other  men  are  :  —  and  there,  indeed,  let  him 
name  his  name ;  and  tell  them  plainly,  he  is  Snug 
the  joiner. 

Quitu  Well,  it  shall  be  so.  But  there  is  two  hard 
things  ;  that  is,  to  bring  the  moon-light  into  a  cham- 
ber :  for  you  know,  Pyramus  and  Thisby  meet  by 
moon-light. 

Snug.  Doth  the  moon  shine,  that  night  we  play 
our  play  ? 

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  calendar !  look  in  the  alma- 
nack ;  find  out  moon-shine,  find  out  moon-shine. 

Quin.   Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Bot.  Why,  then  you  may  leave  a  casement  of  the 
great  chamber  window,  where  we  play,  open  j  and 
the  moon  may  shine  in  at  the  casement. 

Quin.  Ay  ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush 
of  thorns  and  a  lanthorn,  and  say,  he  comes  to  dis- 
figure, or  to  present,  the  person  of  moon-shine. 
Then,  there  is  another  thing :  we  must  have  a  wall 
in  the  great  chamber  ;  for  Pyramus  and  Thisby,  says 
the  story,  did  talk  through  the  chinks  of  a  wall. 

Snug.  You  never  can  bring  in  a  wall.  —  What 
say  you.  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall :  and 
let  him  have  some  plaster,  or  some  lome,  or  some 
rough-cast  about  him,  to  signify  wall ;  or  let  him 
hold  his  fingers  thus,  and  tlirough  that  cranny  shall 
Pyramus  and  Thisby  wliisper. 

Quin.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come,  sit 
down,  every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your  parts. 
Pyramus,  you  begin  :  when  you  have  spoken  your 
speech,  enter  into  that  brake  ■♦ ;  and  so  every  one 
according  to  his  cue. 

Enter  Puck  behind. 

Puck.   What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we  swag- 
gering here. 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward  ?   I'll  be  an  auditor  ; 
An  actor  too,  perhaps,  if  1  see  cause. 

Quin.   Speak,  Pyramus  :  —  Thisby,  stand  fortli. 

Pyr.  Thish/,  thejiou^ers  of  odious  savours  sweety  — 

Quin.   Odours,  odours. 

«  Thicket 


Pyr.  odours  savours  sweet : 

So  doth  thy  breath,  my  dearest  Thisby  dear.  — 
But,  hark,  a  voice  !  stay  thou  but  here  awhile, 

j^nd  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear.  [^Exii. 

Puck.  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  play'd  here  ! 
\^Aiide.  —  Exit. 

This.   Must  I  speak  now  ? 

Quin.  Ay,  marry,  must  you  :  for  you  must  under- 
stand, he  goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he  heard,  and 
is  to  come  again. 

This,  Most  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily-white  of  hue, 

Of  colour  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier. 
Most  brisky  Juvenal  ^,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 

As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire', 
ril  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninny  s  tomb. 

Quin.  Ninus'  tomb,  man  :  Why  you  must  not 
speak  that  yet ;  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus  :  you 
speak  all  your  part  at  once,  cues  6  and  all.  —  Pyra- 
mus, enter  j  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is,  never  tire. 

Re-enter  Puck,  and  Bottom  with  an  Ass's  head. 
This.  O,  —  As  tru£  as  truest  horse,  thai  yet  would 

never  tire. 
Pyr.   If  I  were  fair,  Thisby,  I  were  only  Ihine  :  — 
Quin.  O  monstrous  !  O  strange  !  we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters  !  fly,  masters  !  help ! 

{Exeunt  Clowns. 
Puck.  I'll  follow  you,  I'll  lead  you  about  a  round. 
Through  bog,  through  bush,  tlirough  brake, 
tlu-ough  brier; 
Sometime  a  horse  I'll  be,  sometime  a  hound, 
A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire ; 
And  neigh,  and  bark,  and  grunt,  and  roar,  and  bum, 
Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn. 

{Exit. 
Bot.   Why  do  they  run  away  ?  this  is  a  knavery 
of  them,  to  make  me  afeard. 

Re-enter  Snout. 

Snout.  O  Bottom,  thou  art  changed  !  what  do  I 
see  on  thee?  {Exit. 

Bot.  What  do  you  see  ?  you  see  an  ass's  head  of 
your  own  ;  Do  you  ? 

Re-enter  Quince. 

Quin.  Bless  thee.  Bottom  !  bless  thee  !  thou  art 
translated.  {Exit. 

Bot.  I  see  their  knavery  :  this  is  to  make  an  ass 
of  me ;  to  fright  me,  if  they  could.  But  I  will  not 
stir  from  tliis  place,  do  what  they  can  :  I  will  walk 
up  and  down  here,  and  I  will  sing,  tliat  they  shall 
hear  I  am  not  afraid.  {Sings. 

The  ousel  cock,  so  Mack  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill. 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true, 
Tiie  wren  with  little  quill. 
Tita.  W' hat  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed  ? 

[  f  raking, 
Bot.  The  finch,  tlie  sparrow,  and  tlu:  lark. 
The  jdain-song  cuckoo  grey, 
U'hose  note  full  ywmy  a  man  doth  mark. 
And  dares  not  answer,  nay  ;  — 
or,  indeed,  who  would  set  his  wit  to  so  foolisli  a 
bird  ?  who  would  give  a  bird  the  lie,  though  he  cry, 
cuckoo,  never  so  ? 

Tita.    I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again : 
Mine  car  is  much  enamour'd  of  thy  note, 

*  Young  man. 

<  The  last  words  of  the  preceding  speech,  which  sorve  as  a 
hint  to  him  who  is  to  8|ieak  next 


138 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS  DREAM. 


Act  III. 


So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape  ; 

And  tliy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me, 

On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Bot.  Metliinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little 
reason  for  that :  And  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason 
and  love  keep  little  company  together  now-a-days : 
The  more  the  pity,  that  some  honest  neighbours 
will  not  make  them  friends.  Nay,  I  can  gleek  7  upon 
occasion. 

Tita.   Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Bot.  Not  so,  neither ;  but  if  I  had  wit  enough  to 
get  out  of  this  wood,  I  have  enough  to  serve  mine 
own  turn. 

Tita.    Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go  ; 
Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate  : 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 
And  I  do  love  thee  :  therefore,  go  with  me ; 
I'll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep. 
And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep  : 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 
That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go.  — 
Peas-blossom !  Cobweb  !  Moth !  and  Mustard-seed  ! 

Ertterfour  Fairies. 

1  Fai.    Ready. 

2  Fai.  And  I. 

3  Fai.  And  I. 

4  Fai.  Where  shall  we  go  ? 
Tita.   Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman  ; 

Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes  ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries ; 
The  honey  bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And,  for  night-tapers,  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes. 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise  ; 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moon- beams  from  his  sleeping  eyes  : 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

1  Fai.   Hail,  mortal  I 

2  Fai.   Hail ! 

3  Fai.   Hail ! 

4  Fai.    Hail ! 

Bot.  I  cry  your  worship's  mercy,  heartily.  —  I 
beseech,  your  worsliip's  name  ? 

Cob.   Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance, 
good  master  Cobweb :  If  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make 
bold  with  you.  —  Your  name,  honest  gentleman  ? 

Peas.    Peas-blossom. 

Bot.  I  pray  you,  commend  me  to  mistress  Squashy 
your  mother,  and  to  master  Peascod,  your  father. 
Good  master  Peas-blossom,  I  shall  desire  you  of  more 
acquaintance  too.  —  Your  name,  I  beseech  you,  sir, 

Mas.   Mustard-seed. 

Bot.  Good  master  Mustard-seed,  I  know  your 
patience  well :  that  same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox- 
beef  hath  devoured  many  a  gentleman  of  your 
house  ;  I  promise  you,  your  kindred  hath  made  my 
eyes  water  ere  now.  I  desire  you  more  acquaint- 
ance, good  master  Mustard-seed. 

Tita.  Come  wait  upon  him;  lead  him  to  my  bower. 

The  moon,  methinks,  looks  with  a  watery  eye ; 
And  when  she  weeps,  weeps  every  little  flower, 

Lamenting  some  enforced  chastity. 

Tie  up  my  love's  tongue,  bring  him  silently. 

\_Exeunt. 
^  Joke. 


SCENE  II.  —  Another  part  of  the  Wood. 
Enter  Oberon. 
Obe.   I  wonder,  if  Titania  be  awak'd ; 
Then,  what  it  was  that  next  came  in  her  eye, 
Which  she  must  dote  on  in  extremity. 

Enter  Puck. 
Here  comes  my  messenger.  —  How  now,  mad  spirit? 
What  night-rule  now  about  this  haunted  grove  ? 

Puck.   My  mistress  with  a  monster  is  in  love. 
Near  to  her  close  and  consecrated  bower, 
While  she  was  in  her  dull  and  sleeping  hour, 
A  crew  of  patches  8,  rude  mechanicals. 
That  work  for  bread  upon  Athenian  stalls. 
Were  met  together  to  rehearse  a  play, 
Intended  for  great  Theseus'  nuptial  day. 
The  shallowest  thick-skin  of  that  barren  sort. 
Who  Pyramus  presented,  in  their  sport 
Forsook  his  scene,  and  enter'd  in  a  brake : 
When  I  did  him  at  this  advantage  take, 
An  ass's  nowl  I  fixed  on  his  head ; 
Anon,  his  Thisbe  must  be  answered, 
And  forth  my  mimick  comes  :  When  they  him  spy, 
As  wild  geese  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye, 
Or  russet-pated  choughs,  many  in  sort. 
Rising  and  cawing  at  the  gun's  report 
Sever  themselves,  and  madly  sweep  the  sky  ; 
So,  at  his  sight,  away  his  fellows  fly  ; 
And,  at  our  stamp,  here  o'er  and  o'er  one  falls; 
He  murder  cries,  and  help  from  Athens  calls. 
Their  sense,  thus  weak,  lost  with  their  fears,  thus 

strong. 
Made  senseless  things  begin  to  do  them  wrong : 
For  briers  and  thorns  at  their  apparel  snatch  ; 
Some,  sleeves ;  some,  hats  :  from  yielders  all  things 

catch. 
I  led  them  on  in  this  distracted  fear. 
And  left  sweet  Pyramus  translated  there  : 
When  in  that  moment  (so  it  came  to  pass,) 
Titania  wak'd,  and  straightway  lov'd  an  ass. 

Obe.   This  falls  out  better  than  I  could  devise. 
But  hast  thou  yet  latch'd  9  the  Athenian's  eyes 
With  the  love-juice,  as  I  did  bid  thee  do  ? 

Puck.  I  took  him  sleeping,  —  that  is  finish'd  too,  — 
And  the  Athenian  woman  by  his  side ; 
That,  when  he  wak'd,  of  force  she  must  be  ey'd. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Hermia. 

Obe.   Stand  close  ;  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 

Puck.   Tliis  is  the  woman,  but  not  this  the  man. 

Dem.    O,  why  rebuke  you  him  that  loves  you  so? 
Lay  breath  so  bitter  on  your  bitter  foe. 

Her.  Now  I  but  chide,  but  I  should  use  thee  worse; 
For  thou,  I  fear,  hast  given  me  cause  to  curse. 
If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep. 
Being  o'er  shoes  in  blood,  plunge  in  the  deep. 
And  kill  me  too. 

The  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day. 
As  he  to  me  :   Would  he  have  stol'n  away 
From  sleeping  Hermia  ?  I'll  believe  as  soon. 
This  whole  earth  may  be  bor'd ;  and  that  the  moon 
May  through  the  centre  creep,  and  so  displease 
Her  brother's  noon-tide  with  the  Antipodes. 
It  cannot  be,  but  thou  hast  min-der'd  him  ; 
So  should  a  murderer  look  ;  so  dead,  so  grim. 

Dem.  So  should  the  murder'd  look;  and  so  should  I, 
Pierc'd  through  the  heart  with  your  stern  cruelty  : 
Yet  you,  the  murderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear. 
As  yonder  Venus  in  her  glimmering  sphere. 
8  Simple  fellows.  ^  InfectetL 


Scene  II. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


139 


Her.   What's  this  to  my  Lysandcr  ?  where  is  he  ? 
Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  give  him  me  ? 

Dent.   I  had  rather  give  his  carcase  to  my  hounds. 

Her.   Out,  dog !  out,  cur  !  thou  driv'st  me  past 
tlie  bounds 
Of  maiden's  patience.     Hast  thou  slain  him  then  ? 
Henceforth  be  never  number'd  among  men  ! 

0  !  once  tell  true,  tell  true,  even  for  my  sake  ; 
Durst  thou  have  look'd  upon  him,  being  awake, 
And  hast  thou  kill'd  him  sleeping  ?  O  brave  touch  ! 
Could  not  a  worm,  an  adder,  do  so  much  ? 

An  adder  did  it ;  for  with  doubler  tongue 
Than  thine,  thou  serpent,  never  adder  stung. 
Dem.   You  spend  your  passion  on  a  mispris'd  ' 
mood: 

1  am  not  guilty  of  Lysander's  blood  ; 
Nor  is  he  dead,  for  aught  that  I  can  tell. 

Her.   I  pray  thee,  tell  me  then,  that  he  is  well. 
Dem.  And  if  I  could,  what  should  1  get  therefore? 
Her.    A  privilege,  never  to  see  me  more.  — 
And  from  thy  hated  presence  part  I  so  : 
See  me  no  more,  whether  he  be  dead  or  no.    [^Exit. 
Dem.  There  is  no  following  her  in  this  fierce  vein : 
Here,  tlierefore,  for  a  while  I  will  remain. 
So  sorrow's  heaviness  doth  heavier  grow 
For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  sorrow  owe  ; 
Which  now,  in  some  slight  measure  it  will  pay, 
If  for  his  tender  here  I  make  some  stay.  [Lies  doivn. 
Obe.  What  hast  thou  done?  thou  hast  mistaken  quite, 
And  laid  the  love-juice  on  some  true  love's  sight : 
Of  thy  misprision  must  perforce  ensue 
Some  true-love  turn'd,  and  not  a  false  tum'd  true. 
Puck.   Then  fate  o'er-rules  ;  that,  one  man  hold- 
ing troth, 
A  million  fail,  confounding  oath  on  oath. 

Obe.    About  the  wood  go  swifter  than  the  wind, 
And  Helena  of  Athens  look  thou  find  : 
All  fancy-sick  2  she  is,  and  pale  of  cheer  3, 
With  sighs  of  love,  that  cost  the  fresh  blood  dear  : 
By  some  illusion  see  thou  bring  her  here  ; 
I'll  charm  his  eyes,  against  she  do  appear. 

Puck.    I  go,  I  go  ;  look  how  I  go ; 
Swifter  than  arrow  from  the  Tartar's  bow.       [^ExU. 
Obe.   Flower  of  this  purple  die, 
Hit  with  Cupid's  archery, 
Sink  in  apple  of  his  eye  ! 
When  his  love  he  doth  espy, 
Let  her  shine  as  gloriously 
As  the  Venus  of  the  sky.  — 
When  thou  wak'st,  if  she  be  by, 
Beg  of  her  for  remedy. 

Re-enter  Puck. 
Puck.    Captain  of  our  fairy  band, 
Helena  is  here  at  hand  ; 

And  the  youth,  mistook  by  me, 
Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee  ; 
Shall  we  their  fond  pageant  see  ? 
O,  what  fools  these  mortals  be  ! 

Obe.   Stand  aside  :   the  noise  they  make. 
Will  cause  Demetrius  to  awake. 

Puck.   Then  will  two  at  once,  woo  one  ; 
That  must  needs  be  sport  alone  ; 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me, 
That  befal  preposterously. 

Enter  Lvsandbr  and  Helena. 
Lys.  Why  should  you  think,  that  I  should  woo 

in  scorn  ? 
Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears  : 

Mistaken.  >  Love-sick.  ^  Countenance. 


Look,  when  I  vow,  I  weep  ;  and  vows  so  born, 

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you, 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith,  to  prove  them  true  ? 

Hel.  You  do  advance  your  cunning  more  and 
more. 

When  truth  kills  truth,  O  matchless  holy  fray  ! 
These  vows  are  Hermia's  :   Will  you  give  her  o'er  ? 

Weigh  oath  with  oath,  and  you  will  nothing  weigh : 
Your  vows,  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 
Will  even  weigh ;  and  both  as  light  as  tales. 

Lys.   I  had  no  judgment,  when  to  her  I  swore. 

Hel.   Nor  none,  in  my  mind,  now  you  give  her 
o'er. 

Lys.   Demetrius   loves  her,   and  he    loves   not 
you. 

Dem.    [awaking.'\    O   Helen,  goddess,   nymj)!), 
perfect,  divine ! 
To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne  ? 
Crystal  is  muddy.      O,  how  ripe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow 
That  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus'  snow, 
Fann'd  with  the  eastern  wind,  turns  to  a  crow, 
When  thou  hold'st  up  thy  hand :   O  let  me  kiss 
This  princess  of  pure  white,  this  seal  of  bliss ! 

Hel.   O  cruel  spite  !  I  see  you  all  are  bent 
To  set  against  me,  for  your  merriment. 
If  you  were  civil,  and  knew  courtesy, 
You  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  me,  as  I  know  you  do. 
But  you  must  join,  in  souls'*,  to  mock  me  too? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show, 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so  ; 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  superpraise  my  pints. 
When,  I  am  sure,  you  hate  me  with  your  liciirts. 
You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hermia ; 
And  now  both  rivals,  to  mock  Helena : 
A  trim  exploit,  a  manly  enterprize, 
To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes. 
With  your  derision  !  none,  of  noble  sort, 
Would  so  offend  a  virgin  ;  and  extort 
A  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport. 

Lys.   You  are  unkind,  Demetrius  :  be  not  so  ; 
For  you  love  Hermia ;  this,  you  know,  I  know  : 
And  here,  with  all  good  will,  with  all  my  heart, 
In  Hermia's  love  I  yield  you  up  my  part ; 
And  yours  of  Helena  to  me  bequeath, 
Whom  I  do  love,  and  will  do  to  my  death. 

Hel.   Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle  breath. 

Dem.  Lysandcr,  keep  tliy  Hermia  ;   I  will  none  : 
If  e'er  I  lov'd  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 
My  heart  with  her  but,  as  guest-wise,  sojourn 'd  ; 
And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  retuni'd. 
There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dem.  Disparage  not  the  faith  thou  dost  not  know. 
Lest,  to  thy  peril,  thou  aby  it  dear.  *  — 
Look,  where  thy  love  comes  ;  yonder  is  tliy  dear. 

Enter  Hkrmia. 
Her.   Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  function 
takes, 
The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes 
Wherein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense. 
It  pays  tlie  hearing  double  recompense :  — 
Thou  art  not  by  mine  eye,  Lj-sander,  found  ; 
Mine  car,  I  thank  it,  brought  me  to  tliy  sound. 
But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so  ? 


Heartily. 


ray  dearly  for  it 


140 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Act  III. 


Lys.   Why  slioiild  he  stay,  whom  love  doth  press 
to  go? 

Her.   What  love  could  press  Lysander  from  my 
side? 

Lys.  Lysander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him  bide, 
Fair  Helena  :   who  more  engilds  the  night 
Than  all  yon  fiery  oes  6  and  eyes  of  light. 
Why  seek'st  thou  me  ?    could   not  tliis  make  thee 

know, 
The  hate  I  bare  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so  ? 

Her.   You  speak  not  as  you  think  ;  it  cannot  be. 

Hel.  Lo,  she  is  one  of  tliis  confederacy  ! 
Now  I  perceive  they  have  conjoin'd,  all  three, 
To  fashion  this  false  sport  in  spite  of  me. 
Injurious  Hermia :  most  ungrateful  maid  ! 
Have  you  conspir'd,  have  you  with  these  contriv'd 
To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ? 
Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shar'd. 
The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 
When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 
For  parting  us,  —  O ,  and  is  all  forgot  ? 
All  school-days'  friendship,  childhood  innocence  ? 
We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  7  gods, 
Have  with  our  neelds  ^  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler  sitting  on  one  cushion. 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key  ; 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds. 
Had  been  incorporate.      So  we  grew  together. 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted ; 
But  yet  a  union  in  partition. 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem  : 
So  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart ; 
Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry, 
Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 
And  will  you  rent  our  ancient  love  asunder, 
To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend  ? 
It  is  not  friendly,  'tis  not  maidenly  : 
Our  sex  as  well  as  I,  may  chide  you  for  it ; 
Though  T  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 

Her.   I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words  ; 
I  scorn  you  not ;  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 

Hel.   Have  you  not  set  Lysander,  as  in  scorn, 
To  follow  me,  and  praise  my  eyes  and  face  ? 
And  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius, 
(Who  even  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot,) 
To  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine,  and  rare. 
Precious,  celestial  ?  Wherefore  speaks  he  this 
To  her  he  hates  ?  and  wherefore  doth  Lysander 
Deny  your  love,  so  rich  within  his  soul. 
And  tender  me,  forsooth,  affection  ; 
But  by  your  setting  on,  by  your  consent  ? 
What  though  I  be  not  so  in  grace  as  you. 
So  hung  upon  with  love,  so  fortunate  ; 
But  miserable  most,  to  love  unlov'd  ? 
This  you  should  pity,  rather  than  despise. 

Her.    I  understand  not  what  you  mean  by  this. 

Hel.   Ay,  do,  pers^ver,  counterfeit  sad  looks, 
Make  mows 9  upon  me  when  I  turn  my  back  ; 
Wink  at  each  other  ;  hold  the  sweet  jest  up  : 
This  sport,  well  carried,  shall  be  chronicled. 
If  you  have  any  pity,  grace,  or  manners, 
You  would  not  make  me  svich  an  argument. 
But  fare  ye  well :   'tis  partly  mine  own  fault ; 
Which  death,  or  absence,  soon  shall  remedy. 

Lys.   Stay,  gentle  Helena ;  hear  my  excuse ; 
My  love,  my  life,  my  soul,  fair  Helena ! 

Hel.   O  excellent ! 

Her.  Sweet,  do  not  scorn  her  so. 


"  Circles. 
^  Needles. 


"  Ingenious. 
3  Wry  faces. 


Dem.   If  she  cannot  entreat,  I  can  compel. 

L^ys.   Thou  canst  compel  no  more  than  she  en- 
treat ; 
Thy  threats  have  no  more  strength  than  her  weak 

prayers.  — 
Helen,  I  love  thee ;  by  my  life,  I  do  ; 
I  swear  by  that  which  I  will  lose  for  thee. 
To  prove  him  false,  that  says  I  love  thee  not. 

Dem.   I  say,  I  love  thee  more  than  he  can  do. 

Lys.   If  thou  say  so,  withdraw,  and  prove  it  too., 

Dem.   Quick,  come,  — 

Her.  Lysander,  whereto  tends  all  this. 

Lys.    Away,  you  Ethiop  ! 

Dem.  No,  no,  sir  :  —  he  will 

Seem  to  break  loose ;  take  on,  as  you  would  follow  ; 
But  yet  come  not :   you  are  a  tame  man,  go  ! 

Lys.   Hang  off,  thou  cat,  thou  burr :   vile  thing, 
let  loose  ; 
Or  I  will  shake  thee  from  me,  like  a  serpent. 

Her.   Why  are  you  grown  so  rude  ?  what  chahge 
is  this. 
Sweet  love  ? 

Lys.  Thy  love  ?  out,  tawny  Tartar,  out ! 

Her.   Do  you  not  jest? 

Hel.  Yes,  'sooth  ;  and  so  do  you. 

Lys.   Demetrius,  I  will  keep  my  word  with  thee. 

Dem,.    I  would,  I  had  your  bond;  for,  I  perceive, 
A  weak  bond  holds  you  ;   I'll  not  trust  your  word. 

Lys.   What,  should  I  hurt  her,  strike  her,  kill  her 
dead? 
Although  I  hate  her,"  I'll  not  harm  her  so. 

Her.   What,  can  you  do  me  greater  harm,  than 
hate? 
Hate  me  !  wherefore  ?  O  me !  what  news,  my  love  ? 
Am  not  I  Hermia  ?  Are  not  you  Lysander  ? 
I  am  as  fair  now,  as  I  was  erewhile. 
Since  night,  you  lov'd  me ;  yet,  since  night  you  left 

me: 
Why,  then  you  left  me,  —  O,  the  gods  forbid  !  — 
In  earnest  shall  I  say  ? 

Lys.  Ay,  by  my  life ; 

And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 
Therefore,  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  doubt. 
Be  certain,  nothing  truer  ;  'tis  no  jest. 
That  I  do  hate  thee,  and  love  Helena. 

Her.    O  me  !  you  juggler!  you  canker  blossom  !  • 
You  thief  of  love  !  what,  have  you  come  by  night. 
And  stol'n  my  love's  heart  from  him  ? 

Hel.  Fine,  i'faith ! 

Have  you  no  modesty,  no  maiden  shame. 
No  touch  of  bashfulness  ?  What,  will  you  tear 
Impatient  answers  from  my  gentle  tongue  ? 
Fie,  fie !  you  counterfeit,  you  puppet  you  ! 

Her.   Puppet !  why  so  ?  Ay,  that  way  goes  the 
game. 
Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 
Between  our  statures,  she  hath  urg'd  her  height ; 
And  with  her  personage,  her  tall  personage. 
Her  height,  forsooth,  she  hath  prevail'd  with  him.  — 
And  are  you  grown  so  high  in  his  esteem. 
Because  I  am  so  dwarfish,  and  so  low  ? 
How  low  am  I,  thou  painted  maypole  ?  speak  ; 
How  low  am  I  ?  I  am  not  yet  so  low. 
But  that  my  nails  can  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 

Hel.  I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentlemen, 
Let  her  not  hurt  me  :    I  was  never  curst  - ; 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness  ; 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice  ; 

1  A  worm  that  preys  on  buds  of  flowers. 

2  Shrewish  or  mischievous. 


\\ 


SCKNE  II. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


141 


Let  her  not  strike  me :    You,  perhaps,  may  think. 
Because  she's  something  lower  than  myself, 
Tliat  I  can  match  her. 

Her.  Lower  !  hark,  again. 

Hel.    Good  Ilennia,  do  not  be  so  bitter  with  me- 
I  evermore  did  love  you,  Hermia, 
Did  ever  keep  your  counsels,  never  wrong'd  you  ; 
Save,  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 
I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood  : 
He  follow'd  you  ;  for  love,  I  foUow'd  him  : 
But  he  hath  chid  me  hence ;  and  threaten'd  me 
To  strike  me,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too  : 
And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go, 
To  Athens  will  I  bear  my  folly  back. 
And  follow  you  no  further  ;    Let  me  go  : 
You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  3  I  am. 

Her.   Why,  get  you  gone  :   Who  is't  tliat  hinders 

you  ? 
Hel.   A  foolish  heart,  that  I  leave  here  behind. 
Her.  What,  with  Lysander? 
Hel.  With  Demetrius. 

Lys.    Be  not  afraid :    she  shall  not  harm   thee, 

Helena. 
Bern.   No,  sir;  she  shall  not,  though   you  take 

her  part. 
Hel.  O,  when  she's  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shrewd : 
She  was  a  vixen,  when  she  went  to  school ; 
And,  though  she  be  but  little,  she  is  fierce. 

Her.    Little  again  ?  notliing  but  low  and  little  ?  — 
Why  w  ill  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ? 
Let  me  come  to  her. 

Lys.  Get  you  gone,  you  dwarf; 

You  minimus,  of  hind'ring  knot-grass  ^  made  ; 
You  bead,  you  acorn. 

Dem.  You  are  too  officious, 

In  her  behalf  that  scorns  your  services. 
Let  her  alone  ;  speak  not  of  Helena  ; 
Take  not  her  part :   for  if  thou  dost  intend  ^ 
Never  so  little  show  of  love  to  her, 
Thou  shalt  aby  it. 

Lys.  Now,  she  holds  me  not ; 

Now  follow,  if  thou  dar'st,  to  try  whose  right, 
Or  thine  or  mine,  is  most  in  Helena. 

Dem.    Follow  ?  nay,  I'll  go  with  thee,  cheek  by 
jole.  [Exeunt  Lys.  and  Dem. 

Her.   You,  mistress,  all  this  coil  is  'long  of  you  : 
Nay,  go  not  back. 

Hel.  I  will  not  trust  you,  I  ; 

Nor  longer  stay  in  your  curst  company. 
Your  hands,  than  mine,  are  quicker  for  a  fray ; 
My  legs  are  longer  though,  to  run  away.         [^ExU. 
Her.    I  am  amaz'd,  and  know  not  what  to  say. 

\^Exit,  pursuing  Helena. 
Obe.   This  is  thy  negligence  :  still  tliou  mistak'st, 
Or  else  commit'st  tliy  knaveries  wilfully. 

Puck.    Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,  I  mistook. 
Did  not  you  tell  me,  I  should  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  had  on  ? 
And  so  far  blameless  proves  my  enterprize, 
That  I  have  'nointed  an  Athenian's  eyes: 
And  so  far  am  I  glad  it  so  did  sort, 
As  this  their  jangling  I  esteem  a  sport. 

Obe.   Thou  seest,  these  lovers  seek  a  place  to  fight ; 
Hie,  therefore,  Robin,  overcast  the  night ; 
The  starry  welkin  cover  thou  anon 
With  drooping  fog,  as  black  as  Acheron ; 
And  lead  tliese  testy  rivals  so  astray, 
As  one  come  not  within  another's  way. 
'  Foolish. 

*  Annently  knot-graM  was  believed  to  prevent  the  growth 
ofchiWrca  *  Pretend. 


Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tongue. 

Then  stir  Demetrius  up  with  bitter  wrong; 

And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius; 

And  from  each  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus, 

'i'ill  o'er  their  brows  death-counterfeiting  sleep 

With  leaden  legs  and  batty  wings  doth  creep  : 

1'hcn  crush  this  herb  into  Lysander's  eye ; 

Whose  liquor  hath  tliis  virtuous  property. 

To  take  from  thence  all  eiTor,  with  his  might. 

And  make  his  eye-balls  roll  with  wonted  sight. 

When  they  next  wake,  all  this  derision 

Shall  seem  a  dream,  and  fruitless  vision  ; 

And  back  to  Athens  shall  the  lovers  wend", 

With  league,  whose  date  till  death  shall  never  end. 

Whiles  I  in  this  affair  do  thee  employ, 

I'll  to  my  queen,  and  beg  her  Indian  boy ; 

And  then  I  will  her  charmed  eye  release 

From  monster's  view,  and  all  things  shall  be  peace. 

Puck.  My  fairy  lord,  this  must  be  done  with  haste ; 
For  night's  swift  dragons  cut  the  clouds  full  fast, 
And  yonder  shines  Aurora's  harbinger  ; 
At  whose  approach,  ghosts,  wandering  here  and  there, 
Troop  home  to  church-yards  :   and  the  spirits  all. 
That  in  cross-ways  and  floods  have  burial, 
Already  to  their  wormy  beds  are  gone ; 
For  fear  lest  day  should  look  their  shames  upon, 
They  wilfully  themselves  exile  from  light, 
And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-brow'd  niglit. 

Obe.   But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort : 
I  with  the  Morning's  Love  '  have  oft  made  sport ; 
And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread, 
Even  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery  red. 
Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt-green  streams. 
But,  notwithstanding,  haste  ;  make  no  delay : 
We  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day.    \^ExU  Ob. 
Puck.   Up  and  down,  up  and  down  ; 
I  will  lead  them  up  and  down  : 
I  am  fear'd  in  field  and  town ; 
Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  down. 
Here  comes  one. 

Enter  Lysander. 

I.ys.   Where  art  thou,  proud  Demetrius  ?  speak 
thou  now. 

P^tck.    Here,  villain  ;  drawn  and  ready.     Where 
art  thou  ? 

Lys.   I  will  be  with  thee  straight. 

Puck.  Follow  me  then 

To  plainer  ground. 

[Exit  Lysander  asfoUouing  the  voice. 

Enter  Demetrius. 
Dem.  Lysander  !  speak  again. 

Thou  runaway,  thou  coward,  art  thou  fled  ? 
Speak.     In  some  bush?  Where  dost  thou  hide  thy 
head? 
Puck.  Thou  coward,  art  thou  bragging  to  the  stars. 
Telling  the  bushes  that  thou  look'st  for  wars, 
And  wilt  not  come  ?  Come,  recreant ;  come,  thou 

child ; 
I'll  whip  thee  with  a  rod :    He  is  defil'd, 
That  draws  a  sword  on  thee. 

j)g„i.  Yea ;  art  thou  there  ? 

Puck.    Follow  my  voice ;  we'll  try  no  manhood 

here.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Lysander. 

Lys.   He  goes  before  me,  and  still  dares  me  on ; 

When  I  come  where  he  calls,  then  he  is  gone. 


•  Qo. 


7  Cephalus,  the  paramour  of  Aurora. 


142 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Act  IV. 


The  villain  is  much  lighter  heel'd  than  I : 

I  follow'd  fast,  but  faster  he  did  fly  ; 

That  fallen  am  I  in  dark  uneven  way, 

And  here  will  rest  me.     Come,  thou  gentle  day  ! 

[Lies  down. 
For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  grey  light, 
I'll  find  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite.   \_Sleeps. 

Re-enter  Puck  and  Demetrius. 
Puck.  Ho,ho!ho,ho!  Coward,  why  com'st  thou  not? 
Dem.    Abide  me,  if  thou  dar'st ;  for  well  I  wot. 
Thou  runn'st  before  me,  shifting  every  place  ; 
And  dar'st  not  stand,  nor  look  me  in  the  face. 
Where  art  thou  ? 

Puck.  Come  hither ;   I  am  here. 

Dem.   Nay,  then  thou  mock'st  me.      Thou  shalt 
buy  this  dear. 
If  ever  I  thy  face  by  daylight  see  : 
Now,  go  thy  way.      Faintness  constraineth  me 
To  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed.  — 
By  day's  approach  look  to  be  visited. 

[Lies  down  and  sleeps. 
Enter  Helena. 
Hel.   O  weary  night,  O  long  and  tedious  night. 
Abate  thy  hours :  shine,  comforts,  from  the  east ; 
Tliat  I  may  back  to  Athens,  by  day-light. 

From  these  that  my  poor  company  detest :  — 
And,  sleep,  that  sometimes  shuts  up  sorrow's  eye. 
Steal  me  awhile  from  mine  own  company.    [Sleeps. 
Puck.  Yet  but  three  ?  Come  one  more  ; 
Two  of  both  kinds  makes  up  four. 


Here  she  comes,  curst  and  sad  :   — 

Cupid  is  a  knavish  lad. 

Thus  to  make  poor  females  mad. 

Enter  Hermia. 

Her.   Never  so  weary,  never  so  in  woe. 

Bedabbled  with  the  dew,  and  torn  with  briers ; 
I  can  no  further  crawl,  no  further  go  ; 

My  legs  can  keep  no  pace  with  my  desires. 
Here  will  I  rest  me,  till  the  break  of  day. 
Heavens  shield  Lysander,  if  they  mean  a  fray  ! 

[Lies  donm. 
Puck.   On  the  ground 
Sleep  sound  : 
I'll  apply 
To  your  eye. 
Gentle  lover,  remedy. 

[Squeezing  the  juice  on  Lysander'^  eye. 
When  thou  wak'st, 
Thou  tak'st 
True  delight 
In  the  sight 
Of  thy  former  lady's  eye  : 
And  the  country  proverb  known, 
That  every  man  should  take  his  own, 
In  your  waking  shall  be  shown  : 
Jack  shall  have  Jill ; 
Nought  shall  go  ill ; 
The  man  shall  have  his  mare  again,  and  all  shall  be 
well. 

[Exit  Puck.  —  Dem.  Hel.  ^c.  sleep. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Titania  and  Bottom,   Fairies  attending ; 
Oberon  behind  unseen. 

Tita.   Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy  8, 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head. 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 

Bot.   Where's  Peas-blossom? 

Peas.   Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch  my  head.  Peas-blossom.  —  Where's 
monsieur  Cobweb? 

Cob.   Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb  ;  good  monsieur,  get  your 
weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped 
humble-bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle  ;  and,  good  mon- 
sieur, bring  me  the  honey-bag.  Do  not  fret  your- 
self too  much  in  the  action,  monsieur ;  and,  good 
monsieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag  break  not :  I 
would  be  loath  to  have  you  overflown  with  a  honey- 
bag,  signior.  —  Where's  monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 

Must.    Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  nief  9,  monsieur  Mustard-seed. 
Pray  you,  leave  your  courtesy,  good  monsieur. 

Must.   What's  your  \vill  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  cavalero 
Cobweb  to  scratch.  I  must  to  the  barber's,  mon- 
sieur ;  for,  methinks,  I  am  marvellous  hairy  about 
the  face  ;  and  I  am  such  a  tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do 
but  tickle  me,  I  must  scratch. 

Tita.   What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  musick,  my 
sweet  love? 
^  Stroke.  9  Fist. 


Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  musick  : 
let  us  have  the  tongs  and  the  bones. 

Tita.  Or,  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desir'st  to  eat. 

Bot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender ;  I  could  munch 
your  good  dry  oats.  Methinks,  I  have  a  great  desire 
to  a  bottle  of  hay ;  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no 
fellow. 

Tita.   I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful,  or  two,  of  dried 
peas.  But,  I  pray  you,  let  none  of  your  people  stir 
me  :   I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 

Tita.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  begone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 

[Exeunt  Fairies. 
So  doth  the  woodbine,  the  sweet  honeysuckle. 
Gently  entwist,  —  the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 
O,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee  ! 

[They  sleep. 


Oberon  advances. 


Enter  Pock. 

See'st  thou  this 


Obe.   Welcome,  good   Robin 
sweet  sight  ? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity. 
For  meeting  her  of  late,  behind  the  wood. 
Seeking  sweet  savours  for  this  hateful  fool, 
I  did  upbraid  her,  and  fall  out  with  her  : 
For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers ; 
And  that  same  dew,  which  sometime  on  the  buds 
Was  wont  to  swell,  like  round  and  orient  pearls. 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flowrets'  eyes, 


Scene  I. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM. 


143 


Like  tears,  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  taunted  her. 
And  she,  in  mild  terms,  begg'd  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  her  changeling  child  ; 
Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 
And  now  I  have  tlie  boy,  I  will  undo 
Tliis  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  tliis  Athenian  swain  ; 
That  he  awaking  when  the  others  do, 
May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair ; 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents. 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  first  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 
Be,  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be ; 

[  Toitching  her  eyes  with  an  herb. 
See,  as  thou  wast  wont  to  see  : 
Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania ;  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 

Tita.   My  Oberon  !  what  visions  have  I  seen  ! 
Methought,  I  was  enamour'd  of  an  ass. 
Obe.   There  lies  your  love. 
TUa.  How  came  these  things  to  pass? 

O,  how  mine  eyes  do  loath  his  visage  now  ! 

Obe.  Silence,  a  while.  —  Robin,  take  off  this  head. 
Titania,  musick  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
'I'han  common  sleep,  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 
TUa.    Musick,   ho !    musick,  such  as  charmeth 

sleep. 
Puck.   Now,  when  thou  wak'st,  with  thine  own 

fool's  eyes  peep. 
Obe.   Sound,  musick.    {StUl  mxitick.'\    Come,  my 
queen,  take  hands  with  me. 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity ; 
And  will,  to-morrow  midnight,  solemnly, 
Dance  in  duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity  : 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jolity. 

Puck.   Fairy  king,  attend  and  mark  ^ 
I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 

Obe.   Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad. 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade  : 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon. 
Swifter  than  the  wand'ring  moon. 

TUa.   Come,  my  lord ;  and  in  our  flight, 
Tell  me  how  it  came  this  night. 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found. 
With  these  mortals,  on  the  ground.     lExeunt. 
\^Homs  sound  unthin. 
Enter  Thkskus,  Hippolyta,  Egeus,  and  train. 
The.  Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forrester  ;  — 
For  now  our  observation  is  perform'd  ; 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward '  of  the  day. 
My  love  shall  hear  the  musick  of  my  hounds.  — 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley  ;  go  :  — 

Despatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester 

We  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top. 
And  mark  the  musical  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hip.   I  was  witli  Hercules,  and  Cadmus,  once. 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bay'd  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta  :   never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding ;  for,  besides  the  groves, 
ITie  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 

'   Forepart 


Seem'd  all  one  mutual  cry  :    I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

Tfie.  My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind. 
So  flew'd  2,  so  sanded  ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew  ; 
Crook-knee'd,  and  dew-lap'd  like  Thessalian  bulls ; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.      A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  holla'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn. 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly  : 
Judge,  when  you  hear.  —  But,  soft  j  what,  nymphs 
are  these  ? 

Ege.   My  lord,  this  is  my  daughter  here  asleep  : 
And  this,  Lysander  ;  this  Demetrius  is ; 
This  Helena,  old  Ncdar's  Helena ; 
I  wonder  of  their  being  here  together. 

The.   No  doubt,  they  rose  up  early,  to  observe 
The  rite  of  May  ;  and,  hearing  our  intent. 
Came  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity.  — 
But,  speak,  Egeus  ;  is  not  this  the  day 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice  ? 

Ege.   It  is,  my  lord. 

The.   Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake  them  with  their 
horns. 

Horns,  and  shouts  wUhin.     Demetrius,  Lysander, 
Hermia,  and  Helena,  waJce  and  start  tip. 

The.   Good-morrow,  friends.      Saint  Valentine  is 
past; 
Begin  these  wood-birds  but  to  couple  now  ? 

Lys.   Pardon,  my  lord. 

[JSe  and  the  rest  kneel  to  Theseus. 

The.  I  pray  you  all,  stand  up. 

I  know,  you  are  two  rival  enemies ; 
How  comes  this  gentle  concord  in  the  world. 
That  hatred  is  so  far  from  jealousy. 
To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity  ? 

Lys.   My  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly. 
Half  'sleep,  half  waking  :   But  as  yet,  I  swear 
I  cannot  truly  say  how  I  came  here  : 
But,  as  I  tliink,  (for  truly  would  I  speak,  — 
And  now  1  do  bethink  me,  so  it  is  ;) 
I  came  with  Hermia  hither :  our  intent 
Was,  to  be  gone  from  Athens,  where  we  might  be 
Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 

Ege.     Enough,    enough,   my    lord;    you   have 
enough  : 
I  beg  the  law,  the  law,  upon  his  head.  — 
They  would  have  stol'n  away,  they  would,  Demetrius, 
Thereby  to  have  defeated  you  and  me  : 
You,  of  your  wife  ;  and  me,  of  my  consent ; 
Of  my  consent  that  she  should  be  your  wife. 

JDem.  My  lord,  fair  Helen  told  me  of  their  stealtit. 
Of  this  their  purpose  hither  to  this  wood ; 
And  I  in  fury  hither  follow'd  them  ; 
Fair  Helena  in  fancy  3  following  me. 
But,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power, 
(But  by  some  power  it  is,)  my  love  to  Hermia, 
Melted  as  doth  the  snow,  seems  to  me  now 
As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gawd. 
Which  in  my  childhood  I  did  dote  upon  : 
And  all  the  faith,  the  virtue  of  my  heart. 
The  object,  and  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye. 
Is  only  Helena.      To  her,  my  lord. 
Was  I  betroth  *d  ere  I  saw  Hermia : 
But,  like  in  sickness,  did  I  loath  this  food : 
But,  as  in  health,  come  to  my  natural  taste, 
Now  do  I  wish  it,  love  it,  long  for  it. 
And  will  for  evermore  be  true  to  it. 


*  The  flewt  are  the  large  chap*  of  a  hound. 


3  Love 


144 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Act  V. 


The.    Fair  lovers,  you  are  fortunately  met : 
Of  this  discourse  we  more  will  hear  anon.  — 
Egeus,  I  will  overbear  your  will ; 
For  in  the  temple,  by  and  by  with  us, 
These  couples  shall  eternally  be  knit. 
And,  for  the  morning  now  is  something  worn, 
Our  purpos'd  hunting  shall  be  set  aside.  — 
Away,  with  us,  to  Athens  :   Three  and  three, 
"We'll  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity.  — 
Come,  Hippolyta. 

[Exeunt  The.  Hip.  Ege.  and  train. 

JDem.     These  things  seem  small   and  undistin- 
guishable. 
Like  far-off  mountains  turned  into  clouds. 

Her.  Methinks,   I  see  these  things  with  parted 
eye 
When  every  thing  seems  double. 

Hel.  So  methinks : 

And  I  have  fovmd  Demetrius  like  a  jewel. 
Mine  own,  and  not  mine  own. 

Denu  It  seems  to  me, 

That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream.  —  Do  not  you  think, 
The  duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  him  ? 

Her.   Yea ;  and  my  father. 

Hel,  And  Hippolyta. 

Lys.   And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 

Dem.    Why  then,   we  are  awake :    let's  follow 
him; 
And,  by  the  way,  let  us  recount  our  dreams. 

[Exeunt. 

As  they  go  out,  Bottom  awakes. 

Bat.  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and  I  will 
answer  :  —  my  next  is.  Most  fair  Pyramus.  —  Hey, 
ho  !  —  Peter  Quince  !  Flute,  the  bellows-mender ! 
Snout,  the  tinker  !  Starveling !  Odd's  my  life  ! 
stolen  hence,  and  left  me  asleep  !  I  have  had  a 
most  rare  vision.  I  have  had  a  dream,  —  past  the 
wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream  it  was :  Man  is  but 
an  ass,  if  he  go  about  to  expound  this  dream. 
Methought  I  was  —  there  is  no  man  can  tell  what. 
Methought  I  was,  and  methought  I  had,  —  But 
man  is  but  a  patched  fool,  if  he  will  offer  to  say 
what  methought  1  had.  I  will  get  Peter  Quince 
to  write  a  ballad  of  this  dream :  it  shall  be  called 
Bottom's  Dream,  because  it  hath  no  bottom ;  and 
I  will  sing  it  in  the  latter  end  of  the  play,  before 
the  duke  !  Peradventure,  to  make  it  the  more  gra- 
cious, I  shall  sing  it  at  her  death.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.  — Atliens.   A  Room  in  Quince's  House. 

Enter  Quince,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 

Quin.  Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's  house  ?  is  he 
come  home  yet? 

Star.  He  cannot  be  heard  of.  Out  of  doubt,  he 
is  transported. 

Flu.  If  lie  come  not,  then  the  play  is  marred  j 
It  goes  not  forward,  doth  it  ? 

Quin.  It  is  not  possible  :  you  have  not  a  man  in 
all  Athens,  able  to  discharge  Pyramus,  but  he. 

Flu.  No ;  he  hath  simply  the  best  wit  of  any 
handycraft  man  in  Athens. 

Q.uin.  Yea,  and  the  best  person  too :  and  he  is  a 
very  paramour,  for  a  sweet  voice. 

Flu.  You  must  say,  paragon :  a  paramour  is  a 
thing  of  nought. 

Enter  Snug. 

Snug.  Masters,  the  duke  is  coming  from  the 
temple,  and  there  is  two  or  three  lords  and  ladies 
more  married :  if  our  sport  had  gone  forward,  we 
had  all  been  made  men. 

Flu.  O  sweet  bully  Buttom !  Thus  hath  he  lost 
sixpence  a  day  during  his  life ;  he  could  not  have 
'scaped  sixpence  a-day ;  an  the  duke  had  not  given 
him  sixpence  a-day  for  playing  Pyramus,  I'll  be 
hanged  ;  he  would  have  deserved  it  :  sixpence 
a-day,  in  Pyramus,  or  nothing. 

Enter  Bottom. 

Bot.  Where  are  these  lads  ?  whiere  are  these  hearts? 

Quin.  Bottom  !  —  O  most  courageous  day  !  O 
most  happy  hour ! 

Bot.  Masters,  I  am  to  discourse  wonders :  but  ask 
me  not  what ;  for,  if  I  tell  you,  I  am  no  true  Athe- 
nian.  I  will  tell  you  every  thing,  right  as  it  fell  out. 

Quin.   Let  us  hear,  sweet  Bottom. 

Bot.  Not  a  word  of  me.  All  that  I  will  tell  you, 
is,  that  the  duke  hath  dined :  Get  your  apparel  to- 
gether ;  good  strings  to  your  beards,  new  ribbons 
to  your  pumps ;  meet  presently  at  the  palace ; 
every  man  look  o'er  his  part;  for,  the  short  and 
the  long  is,  our  play  is  preferred.  In  any  case,  let 
Thisby  have  clean  linen  ;  and  let  not  him,  that 
plays  the  lion  pare  his  nails,  for  they  shall  hang 
out  for  the  lion's  claws.  And,  most  dear  actors, 
eat  no  onions,  nor  garlick,  for  we  are  to  utter  sweet 
breath ;  and  I  do  not  doubt,  but  to  hear  them  say, 
it  is  a  sweet  comedy.  No  more  words  ;  away ;  go, 
away.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  palace  o/'Theseus. 

Enter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Philostrate,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

Hip.  'Tis  strange,  my  Theseus,  that  these  lovers 
speak  of. 

The.  More  strange  than  true.   I  never  may  believe 
These  antique  fables  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers,  and  madmen,  have  such  seething  brains, 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatick,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact**: 

*  Compacted,  made. 


One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold; , 

That  is,  the  madman :   the  lover,  all  as  frantick. 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt : 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 

heaven. 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation,  and  a  name. 
Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination ; 
That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy,  . 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy  ; 
Or,  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  suppos'd  a  bear? 


Scene  I. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


145 


Hip.    But  all  the  story  of  the  night  told  over, 
And  all  their  minds  transfigur'd  so  together, 
More  witnesseth  than  fancy's  images, 
And  grows  to  sometliing  of  great  constancy ; 
But,  howsoever,  strange  and  admirable. 

Enter  Lysander,   Demetrius,   Hermia,  and 
Helena. 

The.  Here  come  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and  mirth,  — 
Joy,  gentle  friends  !  joy,  and  fresh  days  of  love. 
Accompany  your  hearts ! 

Lys.  More  than  to  us 

Wait  on  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed  ! 

The.   Come  now  ;  what  masks,  what  dances  shall 
we  have, 
To  wear  away  this  long  age  of  three  hours, 
Between  our  after-supper,  and  bed-time  ? 
Where  is  our  usual  manager  of  mirth  ? 
What  revels  are  in  hand  ?  Is  there  no  play, 
To  ease  tlue  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  ? 
Call  Philostrate. 

Philost.  Here,  miglity  Theseus. 

Tlie.   Say  what  abridgment  *  have  you  for  this 
evening  ? 
What  mask  ?  what  musick  ?  How  shall  we  beguile 
The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight? 

Philost,  There  is  a  brief,  how  many  sports  are  ripe ; 
Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see  first. 

[  Giving  a  paper. 

The.    \^Reads.'\   Tlie  battle  with  the  Centaurs,  to  be 
sung. 

By  an  Athenian  songster  to  the  harp. 
We'll  none  of  that :   tliat  have  I  told  my  love. 
In  glory  of  my  kinsman  Hercules. 

The  riot  of  the  tipsy  Bacchanals, 

Tearing  the  Thracian  singer  in  their  rage. 
That  is  an  old  device ;  and  it  was  play'd 
Wlien  I  from  Thebes  came  last  a  conqueror. 

The  thrice  three  muses  mourning  for  the  death 

Of  learnings  late  deceased  in  beggary. 
That  is  some  satire,  keen,  and  critical, 
Not  sorting  with  a  nuptial  ceremony. 

A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus, 

And  his  love  Thisbe  ;  very  tragical  mirth. 
Merry  and  tragical  ?  Tedious  and  brief? 
That  i»,  hot  ice,  and  wonderous  strange  snow. 
How  shall  we  find  the  concord  of  this  discord? 

Philost.    A  play  there  is,  my  lord,  some  ten  words 
long; 
Which  is  as  brief  as  I  have  known  a  play  j 
But  by  ten  words,  my  lord,  it  is  too  long ; 
Which  makes  it  tedious :  for  in  all  the  play 
There  is  not  one  word  apt,  one  player  fitted. 
And  tragical,  my  noble  lord,  it  is; 
For  Pyramus  therein  doth  kill  himself. 
Which,  when  I  saw  rehears'd,  I  must  confess, 
Made  mine  eyes  water;  but  more  merry  tears 
The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

The.   What  are  they,  that  do  play  it  ? 

Philost.    Hard-handed  men,  that  work  in  Athens 
here. 
Which  never  labour'd  in  their  minds  till  now ; 
And  now  have  toil'd  their  unbrcath'd  memories 
With  this  same  play,  against  your  nuptial. 

The.    And  we  will  hear  it. 

Philost.  No,  my  noble  lord, 

It  is  not  for  you  :    I  have  heard  it  over, 
And  it  is  notliing,  nothing  in  tlie  world  ; 
Unless  you  can  find  si)ort  in  tlieir  intents, 

'  rastimc.  «  Short  account 


Extremely  stretch'd,  and  conn'd  with  cruel  pain. 
To  do  you  service. 

The.  I  will  hear  that  play  ; 

For  never  any  thing  can  be  amiss. 
When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it. 
Go,  bring  them  in ;  —  and  take  your  places,  ladies. 
[Exit  Philostrate. 

Hip.  I  love  not  to  see  wretchedness  o'ercharg'd, 
And  duty  in  his  service  perishing. 

Tlie.  Why,  gentle  sweet,  you  shall  see  nosuch  thing. 

Hip.    He  says,  they  can  do  nothing  in  this  kind. 

The.  The  kinderwe,togivethemthanksfornothing. 
Our  sport  shall  be,  to  take  what  they  mistake : 
And  what  poor  duty  can  do. 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit. 
Where  I  have  come,  great  clerks  have  purposed 
To  greet  me  with  premeditated  welcomes  ; 
Where  I  have  seen  them  shiver  and  look  pale, 
Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences. 
Throttle  their  practis'd  accent  in  their  fears. 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off, 
Not  "paying  me  a  welcome  :   Trust  me,  sweet. 
Out  of  this  silence,  yet,  I  pick'd  a  welcome ; 
And  in  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 
I  read  as  much,  as  from  tlie  rattling  tongue 
Of  sawcy  and  audacious  eloquence. 
Love,  therefore,  and  tongue-tied  simplicity, 
In  least,  speak  most,  to  my  capacity. 

Enter  Philostrate. 

Philost.   So  please   your  grace,  the  prologue  is 

addrest.7 
The.   Let  him  approach.     [Flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  Prologue. 

Prol.   Jfwe  offend,  it  is  tvith  our  good-will. 

That  you  should  think,  we  come  not  to  offend^ 
But  with  good-will.      To  show  our  simple  skilly 

Thai  is  the  true  beginning  of  our  end. 
Consider  then,  we  come  bui  in  despite. 

fVe  do  not  come  as  minding  to  content  you. 
Our  true  intent  is.      All  for  your  delight. 

We  are  not  here.     That  you  should  here  repent  you. 
The  actors  are  at  hand  ;  and,  by  their  show. 
You  shall  know  all,  that  you  are  like  to  know. 

The.   This  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  points. 

Lys.  He  hath  rid  his  prologue,  like  a  rough  colt ; 
he  knows  not  the  stop.  A  good  moral,  my  lord : 
It  is  not  enough  to  speak,  but  to  speak  true. 

Hip.  Indeed  he  hath  played  on  tliis  prologue, 
like  a  child  on  a  recorder  f^ ;  a  sound,  but  not  in 
government. 

The.  His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain  ;  no- 
thing impaired,  but  all  disordered.     Who  is  next  ? 

Enter  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  Wall,  Moonshine, 

and  Lion,  as  in  dumb  show. 
Prol.   "  Gentles,  perchance,  you  wonder  at  this 

show; 
"  But  wonder  on,  till  truth  make  all  things  plain. 
"  This  man  is  Pyramus,  if  you  would  know; 

"  This  beauteous  la<ly  Thisby  is,  certain. 
"  This  man,  with  lime  and  rough-cast,  doth  present 
"  Wall,  that  vile  wall   which   did   these    lovers 
sunder : 
«  And  through  wall's  chink,  poor  souls,  they  are 
content 
♦'  To  whisper; art  the  which  let  no  man  wondir. 


Ready. 


A  musical  instrument 


./ 


U6 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Act  V. 


**  This  man,  with  lantern,  dog,  and  bush  of  thorn, 

"  Presenteth  moon-sliine  :  for,  if  you  will  know, 
"  By  moon-shine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 

"  To  meet  at  Ninus'  tomb,  there,  there  to  woo. 
"  This  grisly  beast,  which  by  name  lion  hight  9, 
"  The  trusty  Thisby,  coming  first  by  night, 
"  Did  scare  away,  or  rather  did  affright : 
**  And,  as  she  fled,  her  mantle  she  did  fall ; 

"  Which  lion  vile  with  bloody  mouth  did  stain : 
"  Anon  comes  Pyramus,  sweet  youth,  and  tall, 

"  And  finds  his  trusty  Thisby's  mantle  slain  : 
««  Whereat  with  blade,  with  bloody  blameful  blade, 

"  He  bravely  broach'd  his  boiling  bloody  breast; 
**  And,  Thisby  tarrying  in  mulberry  shade, 

«  His  dagger  drew,  and  died.      For  all  the  rest, 
"  Let  lion,  moonshine,  wall,  and  lovers  twain, 
"  At  large  discourse,  while  here  they  do  remain." 
[Exeunt  Prol.  Pyr.  Thisbe,  Lion,  and  Moonshine. 

The.   I  wonder  if  the  lion  be  to  speak. 

Dem.  No  wonder,  my  lord :  one  lion  may,  when 
many  asses  do. 

Wall.   "  In  this  same  interlude,  it  doth  befall, 
"  That  I,  one  Snout  by  name,  present  a  wall : 
"  And  such  a  wall,  as  I  would  have  you  think, 
"  That  had  in  it  a  cranny'd  hole,  or  chink, 
"  Through  which  the  lovers,  Pyramus  and  Thisby, 
"  Did  whisper  often  very  secretly. 
«  This  loam,  this  rough-cast,  and  this  stone,  doth 

show 
"  That  I  am  that  same  wall ;  the  truth  is  so  : 
"  And  this  the  cranny  is,  right  and  sinister, 
"  Through  which  the  fearful  lovers  are  to  whisper." 

The.  Would  you  desire  lime  and  hair  to  speak 
better  ? 

Dem.  It  is  the  wittiest  partition  that  ever  I  heard 
discourse,  my  lord. 

The.   Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall :  silence  ! 

Enter  Pyramus. 
Pi/r.   "  O  grim-look'd  night !   O  night  with  hue 

so  black  ! 
"  O  night,  which  ever  art,  when  day  is  not ! 
"  O  night,  O  night,  alack,  alack,  alack, 

"  I  fear  my  Thisby's  promise  is  forgot !  — 
"  And  thou,  O  wall,  O  sweet,  O  lovely  wall, 
"  That  stand'st  between  her  father's  ground  and 
mine  ! 
*'  Thou  wall,  O  wall,  O  sweet  and  lovely  wall, 
"  Show  me  thy  chink,  to  blink  through  with  mine 
eyne.  [Wall  holds  up  his  fingers. 

"  Thanks,  courteous  wall :  Jove  shield  thee  well  for 

this ! 
"  But  what  see  I  ?  No  Thisby  do  I  see. 
"  O  wicked  wall,  through  whom  I  see  no  bliss ; 
"  Curst  be  thy  stones  for  thus  deceiving  me  !  " 

The.  The  wall,  methinks,  being  sensible,  should 
curse  again. 

Pyr.  No,  in  truth,  sir,  he  should  not.  Deceiving 
niey  is  Thisby's  cue  :  she  is  to  enter  now,  and  I  am 
to  spy  her  through  the  wall.  You  shall  see,  it  will 
fall  pat  as  I  told  you  :  —  Yonder  she  comes. 

Enter  Thisbe. 
This. "  O  wall,  full  often  hast  thou  heard  my  moans, 
"  For  parting  my  fair  Pyramus  and  me  : 

*•  My  cherry  lips  have  often  kiss'd  thy  stones  ; 
"  Thy  stones  with  lime  and  hair  knit  up  in  thee." 
Pyr.   "  I  see  a  voice  :   now  will  I  to  the  chink, 

*'  To  spy  an  I  can  hear  my  Thisby's  face. 

«  Thisby ! " 


This.  **  My  love,  thou  art  my  love,  I  think." 

Pyr.  "  Think  what  thou  wilt,  I  am  thy  lover's  grace ; 

"  And  like  Limander  am  I  trusty  still." 

This.   "  And  I  Hke  Helen,  till  the  fates  me  kill." 
Pyr.   "  Not  Shafalus  to  Procrus  was  so  true." 
This.   "  As  Shafalus  to  Procrus,  I  to  you." 
Pyr. "  O,  kiss  me  through  the  hole  of  this  vile  wall. " 
This.  "  I  kiss  the  wall's  hole,  not  your  lips  at  all." 
Pyr,    "  Wilt  thou  at  Ninny's   tomb   meet  me 

straightway  ?  " 
This.  "  Tide  life,  tide  death,  I  come  without  delay.** 
WaJl.  "  Thus  have  I,  wall,  my  part  discharged  so;" 

"  And,  being  done,  thus  wall  away  doth  go." 

Exeunt  Wall,  Pyramus,  and  Thisbe. 
The.   Now  is  the  mural  down  between  the  two 

neighbours. 

Dem.   No  remedy,  my  lord,  when  walls  are  so 

wilful  to  hear  without  warning. 

Hip.   This  is  the  silliest  stuff  that  ever  I  heard. 
The.   The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows  :  and 

the  worst  are  no  worse,  if  imagination  amend  them. 
Hip.   It  must  be  your  imagination  then,  and  not 

theirs. 

The.   If  we  imagine  no  worse  of  them,  than  they 

of  themselves,  they  may  pass  for   excellent  men. 

Here  come  two  noble  beasts  in,  a  moon  and  a  lion. 

Enter  Lion  and  Moonshine. 

Lion. "  You ,  ladies,  you,  whose  gentle  hearts  do  fear 

"  The  smallest  monstrous  mouse  that  creeps  on 
floor, 
"  May  now,  perchance,  both  quake  and  tremble  here, 

"  When  lion  rough  in  wildest  rage  doth  roar. 
"  Then  know,  that  I,  one  Snug  the  joiner,  am 
"  A  lion  fell,  nor  else  no  lion's  dam : 
*'  For  if  I  should  as  lion  come  in  strife 
"  Into  this  place,  'twere  pity  on  my  life." 

The.  A  very  gentle  beast  and  of  a  good  conscience. 

Dem.  The  very  best  at  a  beast,  my  lord,  that  e'er  I 
saw. 

Lys.   This  lion  is  a  very  fox  for  his  valour. 

The.   True  ;  and  a  goose  for  his  discretion. 

Dem.  Not  so,  my  lord:  for  his  valour  cannot 
carry  his  discretion  ;  and  the  fox  carries  the  goose. 

The.  His  discretion,  I  am  sure,  cannot  carry  his 
valour ;  for  the  goose  carries  not  the  fox.  It  is 
well :  leave  it  to  his  discretion,  and  let  us  listen  to 
the  moon. 

Moon.   "  This   lantern   doth  the  horned   moon 
present :  — " 

Dem.  He  should  have  worn  the  horns  on  his  head. 

The.  He  is  no  crescent,  and  his  horns  are  invisible 
vnthin  the  circumference. 

Moon.  "  Thislantem  doth  the  horned  moon  present; 
"  Myself  the  man  i'the  moon  do  seem  to  be." 

The.  This  is  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest :  the 
man  should  be  put  into  the  lantern :  How  is  it  else 
the  man  i'the  moon  ? 

Dem.  He  dares  not  come  there  for  the  candle : 
for,  you  see,  it  is  already  in  snuff.  ^ 

Hip.  I  am  aweary  of  this  moon :  Would,  he 
would  change  ! 

The.  It  appears,  by  his  small  light  of  discretion, 
that  he  is  in  the  wane :  but  yet,  in  courtesy,  in  all 
reason,  we  must  stay  the  time. 

Lys.   Proceed,  moon. 

Moon.    All  that  I  have  to  say,  is,  to  tell  you,  that 
the  lantern  is  the  moon  ;  I,  the  man  in  the  moon ;  this 
thorn-bush,  my  thorn-bush  ;  and  this  dog,  my  d 
I  In  anger ;  a  quibble. 


Scene  I. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM 


U7 


Dem.  Why,  all  these  should  be  in  the  lantern  ;  for 
they  are  in  the  moon.  But,  silence;  here  comes  Thisbe. 

Enter  Thisbe. 
This.   "  This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb:  Where  is  my 

love  ?  " 
Lion.   "  Oh.  —  " 

[  The  Lion  roars.  —  Thisbe  runs  off. 
Dem.   Well  roared,  lion. 
The.   Well  run,  Thisbe. 
Bip.    Well   shone,  moon.  —  Truly,   the   moon 

shines  with  a  good  grace. 
The.  Well  moused,  lion. 

[  The  Lion  tears  Thisbe'a-  mantle,  and  exit. 
Dem-   And  so  comes  Pyramus. 
Lys.   And  so  the  lion  vanish'd. 

Enter  Pyramus. 
Pyr.   "  Sweet  moon,  I  tliank  thee  for  thy  sunny 

beams ; 
"  I  thank  tliee,  moon,  for  shining  now  so  bright; 
**  For,  by  thy  gracious,  golden,  glittering  streams, 
"  I  trust  to  taste  of  truest  Thisby's  sight. 
"  But  stay  ;  —  O  spite  ! 
"  But  mark  ;  —  Poor  knight, 
"  What  dreadful  dole  is  here  ? 
"  Eyes,  do  you  see  ? 
"  How  can  it  be  ? 
**  O  dainty  duck  !   O  dear  ! 
"  Thy  mantle  good, 
"  What,  slain'd  with  blood  ? 
"  Approach,  ye  furies  fell ! 
"  O  fates  !  come,  come  ; 
"  Cut  thread  and  thrum  ;  « 
"  Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell  ! " 
The.   Tliis  passion,  and  the  death  of  a  dear  friend, 
would  go  near  to  make  a  man  look  sad. 

Hip.    Beshrew  my  heart,  but  I  pity  the  man. 
Pyr.  "  O,  wherefore,  nature,  didst  thou  lions  frame  ? 
"  Since  lion  vile  hath  here  deflour'd  my  dear : 
«  Which  is  —  no,  no  —  which  was  the  fairest  damo, 
«  That  liv'd,  that  lov'd,  that  lik'd,  tliat  look'd  with 
"  cheer.  3 
"  Come,  tears,  confound  ; 
"  Out,  sword,  and  wound 
**  The  pap  of  Pyramus  : 
"  Ay,  that  left  pap, 
"  Where  heart  doth  hop : 
"  Thus  die  I,  thus,  thus,  thus. 
**  Now  am  I  dead, 
"  Now  am  I  fled ; 
"  My  soul  is  in  the  sky : 

"  Tongue,  loose  Uiy  light ! 
«  Moon,  take  thy  flight ! 
"  Now  die,  die,  die,  die,  die." 

{Dies.  —  Exit  Moonshine. 
Dem.  No  die,  but  an  ace,  for  him ;  for  he  is  but  one. 
Lys.   Less  than  an  ace,  man  ;  for  he  is  dead ;  he 
is  notliing. 

The.   With  the  help  of  a  surgeon,  he  might  yet 
recover,  and  prove  an  ass. 

Hip.   How  chance  moonshine   is   gone,   before 
Thisbe  comes  back  and  finds  her  lover  ? 

The.   She  will  find  him  by  star-light. — Here  she 
comes  ;  and  her  passion  ends  the  play. 

Enter  Thisbk. 
Hip.   Methinks,  she  should  not  use  a  long  one, 
for  such  a  Pyramus  :   I  hope,  she  will  be  brief. 

'  Coarse  yarn.  s  Countenance. 


Dem.  A  mote  will  turn  the  balance,  which  Py- 
ramus, which  Thisbe,  is  the  better. 

Lys.  She  hath  spied  him  already  with  those  sweet 
eyes. 

Dem.    And  thus  she  moans,  tddelicet.  — 
Thi<i.   "  Asleep,  my  love  ? 
"  What,  dead,  my  dove  ? 
"  O  Pyramus,  ari'..e, 

"  Speak,  speak.      Quite  dumb  ? 
"  Dead,  dead  ?     A  tomb 
"  Must  cover  thy  sweet  eyes. 
"  These  lily  brows, 
"  This  cherry  nose, 
"  These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 
"  Are  gone,  are  gone  : 
"  Lovers,  make  moan  ! 
•*  His  eyes  were  green  as  leeks. 
**  O  sisters  three, 
"  Come,  come,  to  me, 
"  With  hands  as  pale  as  milk ; 
"  Lay  them  in  gore, 
"  Since  you  have  shore 
"  With  shears  his  thread  of  silk. 
"  Tongue,  not  a  word  ;  — 
"  Come,  trusty  sword  ; 
**  Come,  blade,  my  breast  imbrue : 
**  And  farewell,  friends ;  ^ 
«  Thus  Thisbe  ends : 
"  Adieu,  adieu,  adieu."  [Dies. 

The.  Moonshine  and  lion  are  left  to  bury  the  dead. 
Dem.  Ay,  and  wall  too. 

Bot.  No,  I  assure  you;  the  wall  is  down  tliat 
parted  their  fathers.  Will  it  please  you  to  see  the 
epilogue,  or  to  hear  a  Bergomask  dance,  between 
two  of  our  company  ? 

The.  No  epilogue,  I  pray  you;  for  your  play 
needs  no  excuse.  Never  excuse  ;  for  when  the 
players  are  all  dead,  there  need  none  to  be  blamed. 
Marry,  if  he  that  writ  it,  had  play'd  Pyramus  and 
hanged  himself  in  Thisbe's  garter,  it  would  have 
been  a  fine  tragedy :  and  so  it  is,  truly ;  and  very 
notably  discharged.  But  come,  your  Bergomask : 
let  your  epilogue  alone. 

[Here  a  dance  of  Clowns. 
The  iron  tongue  of  midnight  hath  told  twelve  :  — 
Lovers,  to  bed  ;  'tis  almost  fairy  time. 
I  fear  we  shall  outsleep  the  coming  morn. 
As  much  as  we  this  night  have  overwatch'd. 
This  palpable  gross  play  hath  well  beguil'd 
The  heavy  gait  of  night.  —  Sweet  friends,  to  bed. — 
A  fortnight  hold  we  this  solemnity. 
In  nightly  revels,  and  new  jollity.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  XL 
Enter  Puck. 
Puck.   Now  the  hungry  lion  roars. 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon  ; 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores. 

All  with  weary  task  fordone.^ 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  scritch-owl,  scritching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch,  that  lies  in  woe, 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night. 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite, 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide  : 

*  Overcome. 
L  2 


148 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Act  V. 


And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecat's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun. 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolick ;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house  : 
I  am  sent,  with  broom,  before. 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

Enter  Obe&on  and  Titania,  vnth  their  Train. 

Obe.  Through  this  house  give  glimmering  light. 
By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire  : 

Every  elf,  and  fairy  sprite. 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier ; 
And  his  ditty,  after  me, 
Sing,  and  dance  it  trippingly. 

Tito.   First,  rehearse  this  song  by  rote  : 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note. 
Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace, 
Will  we  sing,  and  bless  this  place. 

SONG,  AND  DANCE. 

Obe.   Now,  until  the  break  of  day. 
Through  this  house  each  fairy  stray. 
To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we. 
Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be ; 
So  shall  all  the  couples  three 
Ever  true  in  loving  be ; 
And  the  blots  of  nature's  hand 
Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand ; 


Never  mole,  hare-lip,  nor  scar, 

Nor  mark  prodigious  *,  such  as  are 

Despised  in  nativity, 

Shall  upon  their  children  be.  — 

With  this  field-dew  consecrate, 

Every  fairy  take  his  gait  6 ; 

And  each  several  chamber  bless. 

Through  this  palace  with  sweet  peace : 

E'er  shall  it  in  safety  rest. 

And  the  owner  of  it  blest. 
Trip  away ; 
Make  no  stay ; 

Meet  me  al  I  by  break  of  day. 

[Exeunt  Oberon,  Titania,  and  Train. 
Puck.   If  we  shadows  have  offended, 

Think  but  this,  {and  all  is  mended,) 
That  you  have  but  slumbered  hei-e, 
While  these  visions  did  appear. 
And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 
No  more  yielding  but  a  dream,. 
Gentles,  do  not  reprehend  ; 
If  you  pardon,  we  will  mend. 
And,  as  I  am  honest  Puck, 
If  we  have  unearned  luck 
Now  to  ^scape  the  serpent's  tongue. 
We  wUl  nwke  amends,  ere  long  : 
Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call. 
So,  good  night  unto  you  all. 
Give  me  your  hands,  if  we  bejtiends, 
And  Robin  shall  restore  amends.        [Exit. 
»  Portentous.  «  Way. 


\^ 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Ferdinand,  King  of  Navarre. 

BiRON,  "1 

LoNGAViLLE,  \  Lords,  attending  on  the  King. 

DUMAIN,  J 

BoYET,  \  Lords,  attending  on  the  Princess  of 

Mercade,      J  France. 

Don  Adriano  de  Armado,  a  fantastical  Spaniard. 

Sir  Nathaniel,  a  Curate. 

Holofernes,  a  Schoolmaster. 

Dull,  a  Constable. 

Costard,  a  Clown. 


Moth,  Page  to  Armado. 
A  Forester. 


Princess  of  France. 

Rosaline,     "1 

Maria,  >  Ladies  attending  on  the  Princess. 

Katharine,  J 

Jaquenetta,  a  Country  Girl. 


Officers  and   others,   attendants   on   the   King    and 
Princess. 


SCENE,  Navarre. 


rr^-^^.—^TTiT 


i^OHK    I  I,L    BKAU    TUE    UDK   THAT   I    HaVE    WHIT. 


LOVE'S    LABOUR'S    LOST, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — Navarre.     A  I'ark,  with  a  Palace  in  it. 

Enter  the  King,  Biron,  Longaville,  and  Dumain. 
King.   Let  fame,  that  all  hunt  after  in  their  lives, 
Live  register'd  upon  our  brazen  tombs, 
And  then  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death  ; 
When,  spite  of  cormorant  devouring  time. 
The  endeavour  of  this  present  breath  may  buy 
That  honour,  which  shall   bate  his  scythe's    keen 

edge. 
And  make  us  heirs  of  all  eternity. 
Therefore,  brave  conquerors  :  —  for  so  you  are, 
That  war  against  your  own  affections. 
And  the  huge  anny  of  the  world's  desires,  — 
Our  late  edict  shall  strongly  stand  in  force  : 
Navarre  shall  be  the  wonder  of  the  world  ; 
Our  court  shall  be  a  little  Academe, 
Still  and  contemplative  in  living  art. 
You  three,  Biron,  Dumain,  and  Longaville, 
Have  sworn  for  three  years'  term  to  live  with  me, 
My  fellow-scholars,  and  to  keep  those  statutes, 
That  are  recorded  in  this  schedule  here : 
Your  oaths  are  past,  and  now  subscribe  your  names  ; 
That  his  own  hand  may  strike  his  honour  down. 
That  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein : 
If  you  are  arm'd  to  do,  as  sworn  to  do. 
Subscribe  to  your  deep  oath,  and  keep  it  too. 

I.img.    I  am  resolv'd  :    'tis  but  a  three  years'  fast ; 
The  mind  shall  banquet,  though  the  body  pine : 
Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates  ;  and  dainty  bits 
Make  rich  the  ribs,  but  bank'rout  quite  the  wits. 

J)um.    My  loving  lord,  Dumain  is  mortified  ; 


The  grosser  manner  of  these  world's  delights 
He  throws  upon  the  gross  world's  baser  slaves : 
To  love,  to  wealth,  to  pomp,  I  pine  and  die ; 
With  all  these  living  in  philosophy. 

Biron.    I  can  but  say  their  protestation  over. 
So  much,  dear  liege,  I  have  already  sworn, 
That  is.  To  live  and  study  here  three  years. 
But  there  are  other  strict  observances  : 
As,  not  to  see  a  woman  in  that  term ; 
Which,  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there  : 
And,  one  day  in  a  week  to  touch  no  food  ; 
And  but  one  meal  on  every  day  beside ; 
The  which,  I  hope,  is  not  enrolled  there : 
And  then,  to  sleep  but  three  hours  in  the  night. 
And  not  be  seen  to  wink  of  all  the  day  ; 
(When  I  was  wont  to  think  no  harm  all  night. 
And  make  a  dark  night  too  of  half  the  day  ;; 
Which,  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there  : 
O,  these  are  barren  tasks,  too  liard  to  keep ; 
Not  to  see  ladies,  study,  fast,  not  sleep. 

A'ing.    Your  oatli  is  pass'd  to  pass  away  from  these. 

liiron.    Let  me  say  no,  my  liege,  an  if  you  please  ? 
I  only  swore,  to  study  with  your  grace, 
And  stay  here  in  your  court  for  three  years*  space. 

Long.    You  swore  to  that,  Biron,  and  to  the  rest. 

Biron.    By  yea  and  nay,  sir,  tlien  I  swore  in  jest. — 
W^hat  is  the  end  of  study  ?  let  me  know. 

A'ifig.   Why,  that  to  know,  which  else  we  should 
not  know. 

Biron.   Things  hid  and  barr'd,  you  mc>an,  from 
common  sense? 

King.   Ay,  that  i>  study's  god-like  recomp<;nse. 
L  3 


w 


150 


LOVES  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  I, 


Biron.   Come  on  then,  I  will  swear  to  study  so, 
To  know  the  thing  I  am  forbid  to  know : 
As  thus  —  To  study  where  1  well  may  dine, 

When  I  to  feast  expressly  am  forbid  ; 
Or,  study  where  to  meet  some  mistress  fine, 

When  mistresses  from  common  sense  are  hid : 
Or,  having  sworn  too  hard-a-keeping  oath, 
Study  to  break  it,  and  not  break  my  troth. 
If  study's  gain  be  thus,  and  this  be  so, 
Study  knows  that,  which  yet  it  doth  not  know  : 
Swear  me  to  this,  and  I  will  ne'er  say,  no. 

King.  These  be  the  stops  that  hinder  study  quite. 
And  train  our  intellects  to  vain  delight. 

Biron.   Why,  all  delights  are  vain ;  but  that  most 
vain. 
Which,  with  pain  purchas'd,  doth  inherit  pain : 
As,  painfully  to  pore  upon  a  book, 

To  seek  the  light  of  truth  ;  while  truth  the  while 
Doth  falsely  blind  the  eyesight  of  his  look : 

Light,  seeking  light,  doth  light  of  light  beguile : 
So,  ere  you  find  where  light  in  darkness  lies. 
Your  light  grows  dark  by  losing  of  your  eyes. 
Study  me  how  to  please  the  eye  indeed, 

By  fixing  it  upon  a  fairer  eye ; 
Who  dazzling  so,  that  eye  shall  be  his  heed, 

And  give  him  light  that  was  it  blinded  by. 
Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun, 

That  will  not  be  deep-search'd  with  saucy  looks ; 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won, 

Save  base  authority  from  others'  books. 
These  earthly  godfathers  of  heaven's  lights, 

That  give  a  name  to  every  fixed  star. 
Have  no  more  profit  of  their  shining  nights, 

Than  those  that  walk,  and  wot  not  what  they  are. 
Too  much  to  know,  is,  to  know  nought  but  fame  ; 
And  every  godfather  can  give  a  name. 

King.   How  well  he's   read,   to   reason   against 
reading ! 

Dum.  Proceeded  well,  to  stop  all  good  proceeding ! 

Long.    He  weeds  the  corn,  and  still  let's  grow 
the  weeding, 

Biron.   The  spring  is  near,  when  green  geese  are 
a  breeding. 

Dum.    How  follows  that  ? 

Biron.  Fit  in  his  place  and  time. 

Dum.   In  reason  nothing. 

Biron.  Something  then  in  rhyme. 

Long.    Biron  is  like  an  envious  sneaping  '  frost, 
That  bites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring. 

Biron.    Well,     say    I   am ;    why    should    proud 
summer  boast. 
Before  the  birds  have  any  cause  to  sing  ? 
Why  should  I  joy  in  an  abortive  birth  ? 
At  Christmas  I  no  more  desire  a  rose 
Than  wish  a  snow  in  May's  new-fangled  shows ; 
But  like  of  each  thing,  that  in  season  grows. 
So  you,  to  study  now  it  is  too  late, 
Climb  o'er  the  house  t'  unlock  the  little  gate. 

King.  Well,  sit  you  out :  go  home,  Biron  ;  adieu ! 

Biron.    No,  my  good  lord ;   I  have  suorn  to  stay 
with  you  : 
And.  though  I  have  for  barbarism  spoke  more, 

Than  for  tliat  angel  knowledge  you  can  say. 
Yet  confident  I'll  keep  what  I  have  swore. 

And  bide  the  penance  of  each  three  years'  day. 
Give  me  the  papei-,  let  me  read  the  same  ; 
And  to  the  strict'st  decrees  I'll  write  my  name. 

King.    How  well  this  yielding  rescues  thee  from 
shame ! 

'  Nipping. 


Biron.  \^Reads'\  Item,  That  no  woman  shall  come 
within  a  mile  of  my  court.  — 
And  hath  this  been  proclaim'd  ? 

Long.  Four  days  ago. 

Biron.   Let  s  see  the  penalty. 
[^Reads.'\  —  On  pain  of  losing  her  tongue.  — 

Who  devis'd  this  ? 

Long.   Marry,  that  did  I. 

Biron.   Sweet  lord,  and  why  ? 

Long.   To  fright  them  hence  with  that  dread  pe- 
nalty. 

Biron.   A  dangerous  law  against  gentility. 

[Reads.}    Item,  If  any  man  be  seen  to  talk  tvilh  a 
woman  within  the  term  of  three  years,  he  shall  endure 
such  publicic  shame  as  the  rest  of  the  court  can  possibly 
devise  — 
This  article,  my  liege,  yourself  must  break  ; 

For,  well  you  know,  here  comes  in  embassy 
The  Frenchking'sdaughter,  with  yourself  to  speak,  — 

A  maid  of  grace,  and  complete  majesty,  — 
About  surrender-up  of  Aquitain 

To  her  decrepit,  sick,  and  bed-rid  father  : 
Therefore  this  article  is  made  in  vain. 

Or  vainly  comes  the  admired  princess  hitlier. 

King.   What  say  you,  lords  ?   why,  this  was  quite 
forgot. 

Biron.    So  study  evermore  is  overshoot ; 
While  it  doth  study  to  have  what  it  wouhi. 
It  doth  forget  to  do  the  thing  it  should : 
And  when  it  hath  the  thing  it  hunteth  most, 
'Tis  won,  as  towns  with  fire ;  so  won,  so  lost. 

King.  We  must,  of  force,  dispense  with  this  decree; 
She  must  be  here  on  mere  necessity. 

Biron.    If  I  break  faith,  this  word  shall  speak  for 
me, 
I  am  forsworn  on  mere  necessity.  — 
So  to  the  laws  at  large  I  write  my  name  . 

[Subs{ 

And  he,  that  breaks  them  in  the  least  degree 
Stands  in  attainder  of  perpetual  shame : 

Suggestions    are  to  others,  as  to  me ; 
But,  I  believe,  although  I  seem  so  loth, 
I  am  the  last  that  will  last  keep  his  oath. 
But  is  there  no  quick  recreation  granted  ? 

King.   Ay,  that  there  is:   our  court,  you  know,  is 
haunted 

With  a  refined  traveller  of  Spain ; 
A  man  in  all  the  world's  new  fashion  planted. 

That  hath  a  mint  of  phrases  in  his  brain  : 
One,  whom  the  musick  of  his  own  vain  tongue 

Doth  ravish,  like  enchanting  harmony ; 
A  man  of  compliments,  whom  right  and  wrong 

Have  chose  as  umpire  of  their  mutiny  ; 
This  child  of  fancy,  that  Armado  hight  % 

For  interim  to  our  studies,  shall  relate. 
In  high-born  words,  the  worth  of  many  a  knight 

From  tawny  Spain,  lost  in  the  world's  debate. 
How  you  delight,  my  lords,  I  know  not,  I ; 
But,  I  protest,  I  love  to  hear  him  lie, 
And  I  will  use  him  for  my  minstrelsy. 

Biro7i.    Armado  is  a  most  illustrious  wight, 
A  man  of  fire-new  words,  fashion's  own  knight. 

Long.    Costard  the  swain,  and  he,  shall  be    oi 
sport ; 
And,  so  to  study,  three  years  is  but  short 

King.    Then  go  we,  lords,  to  put  in  practice  thai 

Which  each  to  other  hath  so  strongly  sworn . 

[Exeunt  King,  Longaville,  and  UuMAislf^ 

1| 


Tcmi)tatioi)s. 


3  Calletl. 


Scene  II.  LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 

JBiron.    I'll  lay  my  head  to  any  good  man's  hat, 
These  oaths  and  laws  will  prove  an  idle  scorn. 

lExit. 
SCENE  II.  —  Armado's  House. 

Enter  Armado  and  Moth 

Arm.   Boy,  what  sign  is  it  when  a  man  of  great 
spirit  grows  melancholy  ? 

Moth.   A  great  sign,  sir,  that  he  will  look  sad. 
Arm.   Why,   sadness  is  one   and  the   self-same 
thing,  dear  imp. 

Moth.   No,  no,  sir,  no. 

Arm.   How  canst  thou  part  sadness  and  melan- 
choly, my  tender  ju venal  ?  ^ 

Moth.   By  a  famih'ar  demonstration  of  the  work- 
ing, my  tough  senior. 

Arm.   Why  tough  senior  ?  why  tough  senior  ? 
Moth.   Why  tender  juvenal  ?  why  tender  juvenal  ? 
Arm.   I  spoke  it,  tender  juvenal,  as  a  congruent 
epitheton,  appertaining  to  thy  young  days,  which 
we  may  nominate  tender. 

Moth.    And  I,  tough  senior,  as  an  appertinent  title 
to  your  old  time,  which  we  may  name  tough. 
Arm.    Pretty  and  apt. 

Moth.   How  mean  you,  sir?    I  pretty,  and  my 
saying  apt  ?  or,  I  apt,  and  my  saying  pretty  ? 
Arm.   Thou  pretty,  because  little. 
Moth.  Little  pretty,  because  little:  Wherefore  apt? 
Arm.   And  therefore  apt,  because  quick. 
Moth.   Speak  you  this  in  my  praise,  master  ? 
Arm.    In  thy  condign  praise. 
Moth.   I  will  praise  an  eel  with  the  same  praise. 
Arm.   What  ?  that  an  eel  is  ingenious  ? 
Moth.   That  an  eel  is  quick. 
Arm.   I  do  say,  thou  art  quick  in  answers  :   Thou 
heatest  my  blood. 

Moth.   I  am  answered,  sir. 
Arm.    I  love  not  to  be  crossed. 
Moth.   He  speaks  the  mere  contrary,  crosses  ^  love 
not  him.  lAside. 

Arm.   I  have  promised  to  study  three  years  with 
the  duke. 
Moth.   You  may  do  it  in  an  hour,  sir. 
Arm.   Impossible. 

Moth.  How  many  is  one  thrice  told  ? 
Arm.   I  am  ill  at  reckoning,  it  fitteth  the  spirit 
of  a  tapster. 

Moth.   You  are  a  gentleman,  and  a  gamester,  sir. 
Arm.    I  confess  both  ;  they  are  both  the  varnish 
of  a  complete  man. 

Moth.  Then,  I  am  sure  you  know  how  much  the 
gross  sum  of  deuce-ace  amounts  to. 

Arvu    It  doth  amount  to  one  more  than  two. 
Moth.   Which  the  base  vulgar  do  call  three, 
Arm^    True. 

Moth.  Why,  sir,  is  this  such  a  piece  of  study? 
Now  here  is  three  studied,  ere  you'll  thrice  wink : 
and  how  easy  it  is  to  put  years  to  the  word  three, 
and  study  three  years  in  two  words,  the  dancing 
horse  will  tell  you. 

Arm.    A  most  fine  figure  ! 

Moth.   To  prove  you  a  cipher.  [Aside. 

Arm.  I  will  hereupon  confess,  I  am  in  love :  and 
my  love  is  most  immaculate  white  and  red. 

Moth.  Most  maculate  thoughts,  master,  are 
masked  under  such  colours. 

Arm.    Define,  define,  well-educated  infant. 
Moth.   My  father's  wit,  and  my  mother's  tongue 
assist  me ! 
*  Young  maa 


*  The  name  of  a  coin  once  current 


151 

Arm.  Sweet  invocation  of  a  child ;  most  pretty 
and  pathetical !  r       /» 

Moth.    If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red. 
Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known  ; 
For  blushing  cheeks  by  faults  are  bred, 

And  fears  by  pale  white  shown  : 
Then,  if  she  fear,  or  be  to  blame. 

By  this  you  shall  not  know ; 
For  still  her  cheeks  possess  the  same, 
Which  native  she  doth  owe.  6 
A  dangerous  rhyme,  master,  against  the  reason  of 
white  and  red. 

Arm.  Is  there  not  a  ballad,  boy,  of  the  King  and 
the  Beggar?  ^ 

Moth.  The  world  was  very  guilty  of  such  a  ballad 
some  three  ages  since  :  but,  I  think,  now  'tis  not  to 
be  found  ;  or,  if  it  were,  it  would  neither  serve  for 
the  writing  nor  the  tune. 

Arm.  I  will  have  the  subject  newly  writ  o'er, 
that  I  may  example  my  digression  by  some  mighty 
precedent.  Boy,  I  do  love  that  country  girl,  that 
I  took  in  the  park  with  the  rational  hind.  Costard  ; 
she  deserves  well. 

Moth.   To  be  whipped ;    and  yet  a  better  love 

than  my  master.  [Aside. 

Arm.   Sing,  boy ;  my  spirit  grows  heavy  in  love. 

Moth.   And  that's  great   marvel,  loving  a  light 

woman. 

Arm.   I  say  sing. 

Moth.   Forbear  till  this  company  be  past. 

Enter  Dull,  Costard,  and  Jaquenetta. 

Dull.  Sir,  the  duke's  pleasure  is,  that  you  keep 
Costard  safe  :  and  you  must  let  him  take  no  delight, 
nor  no  penance ;  but  a'  must  fast  three  days  a- week : 
For  this  damsel,  I  must  keep  her  at  the  park  ;  she 
is  allowed  for  the  day- woman.  7     Fare  you  well. 

Arm.   I  do  betray  myself  with  blushing.  —  Maid. 

Ja/f.   Man. 

Arm.  I  will  visit  thee  at  the  lodge. 

Jaq.   That's  hereby. 

Arm.   I  know  where  it  is  situate. 

Jag.   How  wise  you  are ! 

Arm.   I  will  tell  thee  wonders. 

Jaq.   With  that  face  ? 

Arm.   I  love  thee. 

Jaq.   So  I  heard  you  say. 

Arm.    And  so  farewell. 

Jaq.    Fair  weather  after  you  ! 

Dull.   Come,  Jaquenetta,  away. 

[Exe^int  Dull  a7id  Jaquenetta. 

Arm.   Villain,  thou  shalt  fast  for  thy  offences,  ere 
thou  be  pardoned. 

Cost.   Well,  sir,  I  hope,  when  I  do  it,  I  shall  do 
it  on  a  full  stomach. 

Arm.   Thou  shalt  be  heavily  punished. 

Cost.    I  am  more  bound  to  you,  than  your  fellows, 
for  they  are  but  lightly  rewarded. 

Arm-    Take  away  this  villain  ;  shut  him  up. 

Moth.    Come,  you  transgressing  slave  ;  away. 

Cost.    Let  me  not  be  pent  up,  sir;    I  will  fast, 
being  loose. 

Moth.   No,  sir,  tliat  were  fast  and  loose  :    thou 
shalt  to  prison. 

Cost.   Well,  if  ever  I  do  see  the  merry  days  of 
desolation  ttiat  I  have  seen,  some  shall  see  — 

Moth.    What  shall  some  see  ? 

Cost.    Nay,  notliing,  master  Moth,  but  what  they 
look  upon.      It  is  not  for  prisoners  to  be  too  silent 


^  Of  which  the  it  naturally  poMcsaed. 
L  4 


Dairjr-wonuuL 


152 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  IL 


in  their  words  ;  and,  therefore,  I  will  say  nothing  : 
I  have  as  little  patience  as  another  man  ;  and  there- 
fore I  can  be  quiet.  [Exeunt  Moth  and  Costard. 
^rm.  I  do  affect"  the  very  ground,  which  is  base, 
where  her  shoe,  which  is  baser,  guided  by  her  foot, 
which  is  basest,  doth  tread.  I  shall  be  forsworn, 
(wliich  is  a  great  argument  of  falsehood,)  if  I  love  : 
And  how  can  that  be  true  love,  which  is  falsely 
attempted?  Cupid's  butt-shafts  is  too  hard  for 
Hercules*  club,  and  therefore  too  much  odds  for  a 


Spaniard's  rapier.  The  first  and  second  cause  will 
not  serve  my  turn ;  the  passado  he  respects  not,  the 
duello  he  regards  not :  his  disgrace  is  to  be  called 
boy ;  but  his  glory  is  to  subdue  men.  Adieu,  va- 
lour !  rust,  rapier  !  be  still,  drum  !  for  your  manager 
is  in  love ;  yea,  he  loveth.  Assist  me,  some  extem- 
poral  god  of  rhyme,  for,  I  am  sure,  I  sliall  turn 
sonneteer.  Devise,  wit ;  write,  pen  j  for  I  am  for 
whole  volumes  in  folio. 

[ExU. 


ACT  IL 


SCENE  1.  —  A  Pavilion,  and  Tents  at  a  distance. 

Enter  the  Princess  of  France,  Rosaline,  Maria, 
Katharine,  Boyet,  Lords,  and  other  Attendants. 

Boyet.   Now,  madam,  summon  up  your  dearest 
spirits  : 
Consider  who  the  king  your  father  sends ; 
To  whom  he  sends  ;  and  what's  his  embassy  : 
Yourself,  held  precious  in  the  world  f  esteem ; 
To  parley  with  the  sole  inheritor 
Of  all  perfections  that  a  man  may  owe. 
Matchless  Navarre  ;  the  plea  of  no  less  weight 
Than  Aquitain  ;  a  dowry  for  a  queen. 
Be  now  as  prodigal  of  all  dear  grace, 
As  nature  was  in  making  graces  dear, 
When  she  did  starve  the  general  world  beside. 
And  prodigally  gave  them  all  to  you. 

Priti.   Good  lord  Boyet,  my  beauty,  though  but 
mean, 
Needs  not  the  painted  flourish  of  your  praise  ; 
Beauty  is  bought  by  judgment  of  the  eye. 
Not  utter'd  by  base  sale  of  chapmen's  tongues  : 
I  am  less  proud  to  hear  you  tell  my  worth, 
Than  you  much  willing  to  be  counted  wise 
In  spending  your  wit  in  the  praise  of  mine. 
But  now  to  task  the  tasker.  —  Good  Boyet, 
You  are  not  ignorant,  all-telling  fame 
Doth  noise  abroad  Navarre  hath  made  a  vow, 
Till  painful  study  shall  out-wear  three  years. 
No  woman  may  approach  his  silent  court : 
Therefore  to  us  seemeth  it  a  needful  course. 
Before  we  enter  his  forbidden  gates. 
To  know  his  pleasure  ;  and,  in  that  behalf. 
Bold  of  your  worthiness,  we  single  you 
As  our  best-moving  fair  solicitor  : 
Tell  him,  the  daughter  of  the  king  of  France, 
On  serious  business,  craving  quick  despatch, 
Imp6rtunes  personal  conference  with  his  grace. 
Haste,  signify  so  much ;  while  we  attend. 
Like  humbly-visag'd  suitors,  his  high  will. 

Boyet.   Proud  of  employment,  willingly  I  go. 

{^Exit. 

Prin.  All  pride  is  willing  pride,  and  yours  is  so. — 
Who  are  the  votaries,  my  loving  lords. 
That  are  vow-fellows  with  this  virtuous  duke? 

1  Lord.   Longaville  is  one. 

Prin.  Know  you  the  man  ? 

Mar.    I  know  him,  madam ;  at  a  marriage  feast. 
Between  lord  Perigort  and  the  beauteous  heir 
Of  Jaques  Falconbridge  solemnized. 
In  Normandy  saw  I  this  Longaville  : 
A  man  of  sovereign  parts  he  is  esteem'd ; 
Well  fitted  in  the  arts,  glorious  in  arms  : 
*  Love.  9  Arrow  to  shoot  at  butts  with. 


Nothing  becomes  him  ill,  that  he  would  well. 
The  only  soil  of  his  fair  virtue's  gloss, 
(If  virtue's  gloss  will  stain  with  any  soil,) 
Is  a  sharp  wit  match'd  with  too  blunt  a  will ; 
Whose  edge  hath  power  to  cut,  whose  will  still  wills 
It  should  none  spare  that  come  within  his  power. 

Prin.   Some  merry  mocking  lord,  belrke  ;  is't  so  ? 

Mar.   They  say  so  most,  that  most  his  humours 
know. 

Prin.  Such  short-liv'd  wits  do  wither  as  they  grow. 
Who  are  the  rest  ? 

Kath.   The  young  Dumain,  a  well-accomplish'd 
youth. 
Of  all  that  virtue  love  for  virtue  lov'd : 
Most  power  to  do  most  harm,  least  knowing  ill ; 
For  he  hath  wit  to  make  an  ill  shape  good. 
And  shape  to  win  grace  though  he  had  no  wit. 
I  saw  him  at  the  duke  Alen9on's  once  ; 
And  much  too  little  of  that  good  I  saw, 
Is  my  report,  to  his  great  worthiness. 

JRo5.   Another  of  these  students  at  that  time 
Was  there  with  him :   if  I  have  heard  a  truth, 
Biron  they  call  him ;  but  a  merrier  man, 
Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal : 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit ; 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch. 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest ; 
Which  his  fair  tongue  (conceit's  expositor) 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words. 
That  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales. 
And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished  ; 
So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse. 

Prin.  Heaven  bless  my  ladies !  are  they  all  in  love; 
That  every  one  her  own  hath  garnished 
With  such  bedecking  ornaments  of  praise  ? 

Mar.   Here  comes  Boyet. 

Re-enter  Boyet. 

Prin.  Now,  what  admittance,  lord  ? 

Boyet.   Navarre  had  notice  of  your  fair  approach  j 
And  he,  and  his  competitors  i  in  oath, 
Were  all  address'd  "^  to  meet  you,  gentle  lady, 
Before  I  came.      Marry,  thus  much  I  have  learnt. 
He  rather  means  to  lodge  you  in  the  field, 
(Like  one  that  comes  here  to  besiege  his  court,) 
Than  seek  a  dispensation  for  his  oath. 
To  let  you  enter  his  unpeopled  house. 
Here  comes  Navarre.  [Tfie  Ladies  mask. 

Enter  King,  Longaville,  Dumain,  Biron,  and 
Attendants. 
King.   Fair   princess,    welcome  to  the  court  of 
Navarre. 
>  Confederates.  a  Preitared, 


■ 


Scene  I. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


153 


Prin.  Fair,  I  give  you  back  again  ;  and,  welcome 
I  have  not  yet :  the  roof  of  this  court  is  too  high  to 
be  yours ;  and  welcome  to  the  wild  fields  too  base 
to  be  mine. 

Ji'ing.  You  shall  be  welcome,  madam,  to  my  court. 

Prin.   I   will    be  welcome  then;    conduct    me 
thither. 

ITing.   Hear  me,  dear  lady ;  I  have  sworn  an  oath. 

Prin.   Our  lady  help  my  lord  !  he'll  be  forsworn. 

Mng.   Not  for  the  world,  fair  madam,  by  my  will. 

Prin.  Why,  will  shall  break  it ;  will,  and  nothing 
else. 

I^ing.   Your  ladyship  is  ignorant  what  it  is. 

Prin.   Were  my  lord  so,  his  ignorance  were  wise, 
Where  now  his  knowledge  must  prove  ignorance. 
I  hear,  your  grace  hath  sworn-out  house-keeping : 
'Tis  deaidly  sin  to  keep  that  oath,  my  lord, 
And  sin  to  break  it : 
But  pardon  me,  I  am  too  sudden-bold  ; 
To  teach  a  teacher  ill  beseemeth  me. 
Vouchsafe  to  read  the  purpose  of  my  coming, 
And  suddenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit.  [Gives  a  paper. 

King.   Madam,  I  will,  if  suddenly  I  may. 

Prin.   You  will  the  sooner,  that  I  were  away ; 
For  you'll  prove  perjur'd.  if  you  make  me  stay. 

liiron.  Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once? 

Ros.    Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once  ? 

Biron.   I  know  you  did. 

Ros.  How  needless  was  it  then 

To  ask  the  question  ! 

Biron.  You  must  not  be  so  quick. 

Ros.  *Tis  'long  of  you  that  spur  me  witli  such 
questions. 

Biron.   Your  wit's  too  hot,  it  speeds  too  fast,  'twill 
tire. 

Ros.  Not  till  it  leave  the  rider  in  the  mire. 

Biron.   What  time  o'  day  ? 

Ros.   The  hour  that  fools  shall  ask. 

Biron.   Now  fair  befall  your  mask  ! 

Ros.   Fair  fall  the  face  it  covers  ! 

Biron.   And  send  you  many  lovers  ! 

Ros.   Amen,  so  you  be  none. 

Biron.   Nay,  then  vnll  I  be  gone. 

King.   Madam,  your  father  here  doth  intimate 
The  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns  ; 
Ik'ing  but  the  one  half  of  an  entire  sum. 
Disbursed  by  my  father  in  his  wars. 
I  Jut  say,  that  he,  or  we,  (as  neither  have,) 
Receiv'd  that  sura  ;  yet  there  remains  unpaid 
A  hundred  thousand  more;  in  surety  of  the  which. 
One  part  of  Aquitain  is  bound  to  us. 
Although  not  valued  to  the  money's  worth. 
If  then  the  king  your  father  will  restore 
But  that  one  half  which  is  unsatisfied, 
We  will  give  up  our  right  in  Aquitain, 
And  hold  fair  friendship  with  his  majesty. 
Hut  that,  it  seems,  he  little  purposeth, 
I 'or  here  he  doth  demand  to  have  repaid 
An  hundred  thousand  crowns;  and  not  demands. 
On  payment  of  a  hundred  tliousand  crowns, 
To  have  his  title  live  in  Aquitain  ; 
Which  we  much  rather  had  depart  3  withal. 
And  have  the  money  by  our  father  lent, 
Than  Aquitain  divided  as  it  is. 
Dear  princess,  were  not  his  requests  so  far 
From  reason's  yielding,  your  fair  self  should  make 
A  yielding,  'gainst  some  reason,  in  my  breast, 
And  go  well  satisfied  to  France  again. 

Prin.  You  do  the  king  my  father  too  much  wrong, 
3  Part 


And  wrong  the  reputation  of  your  name. 

In  so  unseeming  to  confess  receipt 

Of  that  which  hath  so  faithfully  been  paid. 

King.   I  do  protest,  I  never  heard  of  it ; 
And,  if  you  prove  it,  I'll  repay  it  back, 
Or  yield  up  Aquitain. 

Prill.  We  arrest  your  word :  ^ 

Boyet,  you  can  produce  acquittances. 
For  such  a  sum,  from  special  officers 
Of  Charles  his  father. 

King.  Satisfy  me  so. 

Boyet.   So  please  your  grace,  the  packet  is  not 
come, 
Where  that  and  other  specialties  are  bound ; 
To-morrow  you  shall  have  a  sight  of  them. 

King.   It  shall  suffice  me :  at  which  interview, 
All  liberal  reason  I  will  yield  unto. 
Mean  time,  receive  such  welcome  at  my  hand,    • 
As  honour,  without  breach  of  honour,  may 
Make  tender  of  to  thy  true  worthiness : 
You  may  not  come,  fair  princess,  in  my  gates  ; 
But  here  without,  you  shall  be  so  receiv'd, 
As  you  shall  deem  yourself  lodg'd  in  my  heart. 
Though  so  denied  fair  harbour  in  my  house. 
Your  own  good  thoughts  excuse  me,  and  farewell : 
To-morrow  shall  we  visit  you  again. 

Prin,  Sweet  health  and  fair  desires  consort  your 
grace ! 

King.  Thy  own  wish  wish  I  thee  in  every  place ! 
[Exeunt  King  and  his  Train. 

Biron.  Lady,  I  will  commend  you  to  my  own 
heart. 

Ros.  'Pray  you,  do  my  commendations ;  I  would 
be  glad  to  see  it. 

Biron.   I  would,  you  heard  it  groan. 

Ros.   Is  the  fool  sick  ? 

Biron.   Sick  at  heart. 

Ros.   Alack,  let  it  blood. 

Biron.   Would  that  do  it  good  ? 

Ros.   My  physick  says,  I.  "* 

Biron.   Will  you  prick't  with  your  eye  ? 

Ros.   No  poynt  ^,  with  ray  knife. 

Biron.   Now,  heaven  save  thy  life  ! 

Ros.   And  yours  from  long  living  ! 

Biron.   I  cannot  stay  thanksgiving.         [Retiring. 

Dum,   Sir,  I  pray  you,  a  word :   What  lady  is  tliat 
sarae? 

Boyet.   The  heir  of  Alen^on,  Rosaline  her  name. 

Dum.   A  gallant  lady !  Monsieur,  fare  you  well. 

[Eiit. 

Long.   I  beseech  you  a  word ;  What  is  she  in  the 
white  ? 

Boyet.  A  woman  sometimes,  an  you  saw  her  in 
the  light. 

Long.   Pray  you,  sir,  whose  daughter  ? 

Boyet.   Her  mother's,  I  have  heard. 

Long.   Heaven's  blessing  on  your  beard  ! 

Boyet.    Good  sir,  be  not  offended  : 
She  is  an  heir  of  Falconbridge. 

Long.    Nay,  ray  choler  is  ended. 
She  is  a  raost  sweet  lady. 

Boyet.   Not  unlike,  sir ;  that  may  be.  [Exit  Long. 

Biron.   What's  her  name  in  the  cap? 

Boyet.   Katharine,  by  good  hap. 

Biron.   Is  she  wedded  or  no  ? 

Boyet.   To  her  will,  sir,  or  so. 

Biron.   You  are  welcome,  sir ;  adieu  ! 

Boyet.   Farewell  to  me,  sir,  and  welcome  to  you. 
[Exit  Biron.  —  Ladies  unmask. 

♦  Ay,  ye*.  *  A  French  particle  of  negation. 


154 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  IlL 


Mar.   That  last  is  Biron,  the  merry  mad-cap  lord  ; 
Not  a  word  with  him  but  a  jest. 

Boyet.  And  every  jest  but  a  word. 

If  my  observation,  (which  very  seldom  lies,) 
By  the  heart's  still  rhetorick,  disclosed  with  eyes, 
Deceive  me  not  now,  Navarre  is  infected. 

Pnn.   With  what? 

Boyet.  With  that  which  we  lovers  entitle,  affected. 

Prin.   Your  reason  ? 

Boyet.  Why  all  his  behaviours  did  make  their  retire 
To  the  court  of  his  eye,  peeping  thorough  desire : 
His  heart,  like  an  agate,  with  your  print  impressed. 
Proud  with  his  form,  in  his  eye  pride  expressed  : 
His  tongue,  all  impatient  to  speak  and  not  see. 
Did  stumble  with  haste  in  his  eye-sight  to  be ; 
All  senses  to  that  sense  did  make  their  repair, 
To  feel  only  looking  on  fairest  of  fair : 
Methought,  all  his  senses  were  lock'd  in  his  eye, 
As  jewels  in  crystal  for  some  prince  to  buy  ; 
Who,  tend'ring  their  own  worth,  from  where  they 

were  glass' d, 
Did  point  you  to  buy  them,  along  as  you  pass'd. 


His  face's  own  margent  did  quote  such  amazes, 
That  all  eyes  saw  his  eyes  enchanted  with  gazes : 
I'll  give  you  Aquitain,  and  all  that  is  his, 
An  you  give  him  for  my  sake  but  one  loving  kiss. 
Prin.   Come,  to  our  pavilion  :  Boyet  is  dispos'd  — 
Boyet.   But  to  speak  that  in  words,  which  his  eye 
hath  disclos'd : 
I  only  have  made  a  mouth  of  his  eye, 
By  adding  a  tongue  which  I  know  will  not  lie. 
Ros.   Thou  art  an  old  love-monger,  and  speak'st 

skilfully. 
Mar.   He  is  cupid's  grandfather,  and  learns  news 

of  him. 
Ros.   Then  was  Venus  like  her  motner ;  for  her 

father  is  but  grim. 
Boyet.   Do  you  hear,  my  mad  girls  ? 
Mar.  No. 

Boyet.  What  then,  do  you  see  ? 

Ros.   Ay,  our  way  to  be  gone. 
Boyet.  You  are  too  hard  for  me. 

\_Exeunt7 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  1 The  Park,  near  the  Palace. 

Enter  Arm  a  do  and  Moth. 

Arm.  Warble,  child ;  make  passionate  my  sense 
of  hearing. 

Moth.   Concolinel ^Singing. 

Arm.  Sweet  air  !  —  Go,  tenderness  of  years ;  take 
this  key,  give  enlargement  to  the  swain,  bring  him 
festinately  6  hither ;  I  must  employ  him  in  a  letter 
to  my  love. 

Moth.  Master,  will  you  \dn  yoiu*  love  with  a 
French  brawl  ?  7 

Arm.   How  mean'st  thou  ?  brawling  in  French  ? 

Moth.  No,  my  complete  master:  but  to  jig  off 
a  tune  at  the  tongue's  end,  canary  6  to  it  with  your 
feet,  humour  it  with  turning  up  your  eye-lids  ;  sigh 
a  note,  and  sing  a  note;  sometime  through  the 
throat,  as  if  you  swallowed  love  vnth  singing  love  ; 
sometime  through  the  nose,  as  if  you  snuffed  up 
love  by  smelling  love ;  with  your  hat  penthouse- 
like, o'er  the  shop  of  your  eyes ;  with  your  arms 
crossed  on  your  thin  doublet,  like  a  rabbit  on  a 
spit ;  or  yoiu-  hands  in  your  pocket,  like  a  man  after 
the  old  painting;  and  keep  not  too  long  in  one 
tune,  but  a  snip  and  away. 

Arm.   How  hast  thou  purchased  this  experience  ? 

Moth.   By  my  penny  of  observation. 

Arm.   But  O,  —  but  O, — 

Moth.  —  the  hobby-horse  is  forgot. 

Arm.   Callest  thou  my  love,  hobby-horse  ? 

Moth.  No,  master;  the  hobby-horse  is  but  a  colt, 
and  your  love,  perhaps,  a  hackney.  But  have  you 
forgot  your  love  ? 

Arm.   Almost  I  had. 

Moth.  Negligent  student !  learn  her  by  heart. 

Arm.   By  heart,  and  in  heart,  boy. 

Moth.  And  out  of  heart,  master  :  all  those  three 
1  will  prove. 

Arm.  What  will  that  prove  ? 

6  Hastily.  7  A  kind  of  dance. 

s  Canary  was  the  name  of  a  sprightly  dance. 


Moth.  A  man,  if  I  live ;  and  this,  by,  in,  and 
without,  upon  the  instant :  By  heart  you  love  her, 
because  your  heart  cannot  come  by  her :  in  heart 
you  love  her,  because  your  heart  is  in  love  with 
her :  and  out  of  heart  you  love  her,  being  out  of 
heart  that  you  cannot  have  her. 

Arm,   I  am  all  these  three. 

Moth.  And  three  times  as  much  more,  and  yet 
nothing  at  all. 

Arm.  Fetch  hither  the  swain  ;  he  must  carry  me 
a  letter. 

Moth.  A  message  well  sympathised ;  a  horse  to 
be  embassador  for  an  ass  ! 

Arm.   Ha,  ha  !  what  sayest  thou  ? 

Moth.  Marry,  sir,  you  must  send  the  ass  upon  the 
horse,  for  he  is  very  slow  gaited  :    But  I  go. 

Arm.   The  way  is  but  short ;  away. 

Moth.    As  swift  as  lead,  sir. 

Arm.   Thy  meaning,  pretty  ingenious  ? 
Is  not  lead  a  metal  heavy,  dull,  and  slow  ? 

Moth.  Minime,  honest  master ;  or  rather,  master 


Arm.   I  say,  lead  is  slow. 

Moth.  You  are  too  swift,  sir,  to  say  so 

Is  that  lead  slow  which  is  fired  from  a  gun  ? 

Arm.   Sweet  smoke  of  rhetorick  : 
He  reputes  me  a  cannon ;  and  the  bullet,  that's  he 
I  shoot  thee  at  the  swain. 

Moth.  Thump  then,  and  I  fl 

[JExif. 

Arm.  A  most  acute  Juvenal ;  voluble  and  free  of 


I 


By  thy  favour,  sweet  welkin,  I  must  sigh  in  thy  face : 
Most  rude  melancholy,  valour  gives  thee  place. 
My  herald  is  return'd. 

Re-enter  Moth  and  Costard.  1 

Moth.    A   wonder,   master;    here's   a   costard 
broken  in  a  shin. 

9  A  head. 


Scene  I. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


155 


Arm.    Some  enigpia,  some  riddle  :   come,  —  thy 
T envoy '  ;  —  begin. 

Cost.  No  egma,  no  riddle,  no  V envoy ;  no  salve 
in  the  mail,  sir :  O,  sir,  plantain,  a  plain  plantain  ; 
no  t envoy,  no  t envoy,  no  salve,  sir,  but  a  plantain ! 

Arm.  By  virtue,  thou  enforcest  laughter;  thy 
silly  thought,  my  spleen ;  the  heaving  of  my  lungs 
provokes  me  to  ridiculous  smiling :  O,  pardon  me, 
my  stars!  Doth  the  inconsiderate  take  salve  for 
V envoy,  and  the  word,  V envoy,  for  a  salve  ? 

Moth.  Do  the  wise  think  them  other?  is  not 
V envoy  a  salve  ? 

Arm.   No,  page  :  it  is  an  epilogue  or  discourse 
to  make  plain 
Some  obscure  precedence  that  hath  tofore  been  sain. 
I  will  example  it : 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee. 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
There's  the  moral :   Now  the  V envoy. 

Moth.  I  will  add  the  Venvoy  :  Say  the  moral  again. 

Arm.   The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee. 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three  : 

Moth.   Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 

And  stay'd  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
Now  will  I  begin  your  moral,  and  do  you  follow 
with  my  Venvoy. 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee. 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three  : 

Arm.   Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door. 
Staying  the  odds  by  adding  four. 

Moth.  A  good  Venvoy,  ending  in  the  goose : 
Would  you  desire  more  ? 

Cost.   The  boy  hath  sold  him  a  bargain,  a  goose, 
that's  flat :  — 
Sir,  your  pennyworth  is  good,  an  your  goose  be  fat — 
To  sell  a  bargain  well,  is  as  cunning  as  fast  and  loose : 
Let  me  see  a  fat  Venvoy  ;  ay,  that's  a  fat  goose. 

Arm.   Come  hither,  come  liither  :   How  did  this 
argument  begin  ? 

Moth.  By  saying  that  a  Costard  was  broken  in  a  shin. 
Then  call'd  you  for  the  Venvoy. 

Cost.   True,  and  I  for  a  plantain :    Thus  came 
your  argument  in  ; 
Then  the  boy's  fat  Venvoy,  the  goose  that  you  bought ; 
And  he  ended  the  market. 

Arm.  But  tell  me ;  how  was  there  a  Costard 
broken  in  a  shin  ? 

Moth.    I  will  tell  you  sensibly. 

Cost.  Thou  hast  no  feeling  of  it.  Moth ;  I  will 
speak  that  Venvoy  : 

I,  Costard,  running  out,  that  was  safely  within. 
Fell  over  the  threshold,  and  broke  my  shin. 

Arm.  We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  matter. 

Cost.   Till  there  be  more  matter  in  the  shin. 

Arm.   Sirrah  Costard,  I  will  enfranchise  thee. 

Cost.  O,  marry  me  to  one  Frances :  —  I  smell 
some  Venvoy,  some  goose,  in  this. 

Arm^  I  mean,  setting  thee  at  liberty,  enfreedom- 
ing  thy  person ;  thou  wert  immured,  restrained, 
captivated,  bound. 

Cost.   True,  true  ;  and  now  you  will  let  me  loose. 

Arm.  I  give  thee  thy  liberty,  set  thee  from  dur- 
ance ;  and,  in  lieu  thereof,  impose  on  thee  nothing 
but  this :  Bear  this  significant  to  the  country  maid 
Jaquenetta:  there  is  remuneration;  [Gitnng  him 
money.]  for  the  best  ward  of  mine  honour,  is  re- 
warding my  dependents.      Moth,  follow.         lErit. 

'An  old  French  term  for  concludine  verses,  which  served 
either  to  convey  the  moral,  or  to  address  the  poem  to  some 
person.  *^ 


Moth.  Like  the  sequel,  I.  —  Signior  Costard, 
adieu.  [Exit  Moth. 

Cost.  Now  will  I  look  to  his  remuneration.  Re- 
muneration !  O,  that's  the  Latin  word  for  three 
farthings :  three  farthings  —  remuneration.  —  WhaVs 
the  price  of  this  inkle  ?  a  penyiy  :  —  No,  VU  give  you 
a  remuneration :  why,  it  carries  it,  —  Remuneration ! 

Enter  Biron. 

Biron.  O,  my  good  knave  Costard  !  exceedingly 
well  met. 

Cost.  Pray  you,  sir,  how  much  carnation  ribbon 
may  a  man  buy  for  a  remuneration  ? 

Biron.   What  is  a  remuneration  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  sir,  half-penny  farthing. 

Biron.   O,  why  then,  three-fannings-worth  of  silk. 

Cost.  I  thank  your  worship :  Heaven  be  with  you ! 

Biron.   O,  stay,  slave ;   I  must  employ  thee  : 
As  thou  wilt  win  my  favour,  good  my  knave, 
Do  one  thing  for  me  that  I  shall  entreat. 

Cost.   When  would  you  have  it  done,  sir  ? 

Biron.    O,  this  afternoon. 

Cost.   Well,  I  will  do  it,  sir  :   Fare  you  well. 

Biron    O,  thou  knowest  not"what  it  is. 

Cost.   I  shall  know,  sir,  when  I  have  done  it. 

Biron.   Why,  villain,  thou  must  know  first. 

Cost.  I  will  come  to  your  worship  to-morrow 
morning. 

Biron.  It  must  be  done  this  afternoon.  Hark, 
slave,  it  is  but  this  ;  — 

The  princess  comes  to  hunt  here  in  the  park, 
And  in  her  train  there  is  a  gentle  lady ; 
When  tongues  speak  sweetly,  then  Uiey  name  her 

name. 
And  Rosaline  they  call  her :  ask  for  her ; 
And  to  her  white  hand  see  thou  do  commend 
This   seal'd  up  counsel.      There's  thy  guerdon  2 ; 
go.  [Gives  him  money. 

Cost.  Guerdon,  —  O  sweet  guerdon  !  better  than 
remuneration  ;  eleven-pence  farthing  better :  Most 
sweet  guerdon  !  —  I  will  doit,sir,in  print.3 — Guer- 
don —  remuneration.  [Exit. 

Biron.   O !  —  And  I,  forsooth,  in  love  !  I,  tliat 
have  been  love's  whip  ; 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humourous  sigh ; 
A  critick ;  nay,  a  night-watch  constable  ; 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy, 
Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent ! 
This  whimpled  ^,  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy; 
This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid  ; 
Regent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms. 
The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans, 
Liege  of  all  loiterers  and  malcontents. 
And  I  to  be  a  corporal  of  his  field. 
And  wear  his  colours  like  a  tumbler's  hoop  ! 
What?  I  !   I  love  !   I  sue  !   I  seek  a  wife  ! 
A  woman,  that  is  like  a  German  clock. 
Still  a  repairing  ;  ever  out  of  frame  ; 
And  never  going  aright,  being  a  watch, 
But  being  watch 'd  that  it  may  still  go  right  ? 
Nay,  to  be  perjur'd,  which  is  worst  of  all ; 
And,  among  three,  to  love  the  worst  of  all ; 
And  I  to  sigh  for  her  !  to  watch  for  her  ! 
To  pray  for  her  !   Go  to ;  it  is  a  plague 
That  Cupid  will  impose  for  my  neglect 
Of  his  most  mighty  dreadful  little  might. 
Well,  1  will  love,  write,  sigh,  pray,  sue,  and  groan  ; 
Some  men  must  love  my  lady,  and  some  Joan. 

[EiU. 
'  Reward.  a  With  the  utmoct  exactness. 

'*  Hooded,  veiled. 


156 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  IV. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. —A  Pavilion  in  the  Park. 

Enter  the  Princess,  Rosaline,  Maria,  Katharine, 
BoYET,  Lords,  Attendants,  and  a  Forester. 

Prin.  Was  that  the  king,  that  spurred  his  horse 
so  hard 
Against  the  steep  uprising  of  the  hill  ? 

Jioi/et.    I  know  not ;  but  1  think,  it  was  not  he. 

Prin.  Whoe'er  he  was,  he  show'd  a  mounting 
mind. 
Well,  lords,  to-day  we  shall  have  our  despatch ; 
On  Saturday  we  will  return  to  France.  — 
Then,  forester,  ray  friend,  where  is  the  bush. 
That  we  must  stand  and  play  the  murderer  in  ? 

For.   Here  by,  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  coppice ; 
A  stand,  where  you  may  make  the  fairest  shoot. 

Prin.   I  thank  my  beauty,  I  am  fair  that  shoot, 
And  thereupon  thou  speak'st,  the  fairest  shoot. 

For.   Pardon  me,  madam,  for  I  meant  not  so. 

Prin.  What,  what?    first  praise  me,  and  again 
say,  no? 
O  short-liv'd  pride  !  Not  fair  ?  alack  for  woe  ! 

For.  Yes,  madam,  fair. 

Prin.  Nay,  never  paint  me  now  ; 

Where  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the  brow. 
Here,  good  my  glass,  take  this  for  telling  true  ; 

[Giving  him  money. 
Fair  payment  for  foul  words  is  more  than  due. 

For.   Nothing  but  fair  is  that  which  you  inherit. 

Prin.   See,  see,  my  beauty  will  be  sav'd  by  merit. 
O  heresy  in  fair,  fit  for  these  days  ! 
A  giving  hand,  though  foul,  shall  have  fair  praise.' — 
But  come,  the  bow  :  —  Now  mercy  goes  to  kill. 
And  shooting  well  is  then  accounted  ill. 
Thus  will  I  save  my  credit  in  the  shoot : 
Not  wounding,  pity  would  not  let  me  do't ; 
If  wounding,  then  it  was  to  show  my  skill, 
That  more  for  praise,  than  purpose,  meant  to  kill. 
And,  out  of  question,  so  it  is  sometimes  ; 
Glory  grows  guilty  of  detested  crimes  ; 
When,  for  fame's  sake,  for  praise,  an  outward  part, 
We  bend  to  that  the  working  of  the  heart ; 
As  I,  for  praise  alone,  now  seek  to  spill 
The  poor  deer's  blood,  tliat  my  heart  means  no  ill. 

Boyet.   Do  not  curst  wives  hold  that  self-sove. 
reignty 
Only  for  praise'  sake,  when  they  strive  to  be 
Lords  o'er  their  lords  ? 

Prin.   Only  for  praise  :  and  praise  we  may  afford 
To  any  lady  that  subdues  a  lord. 

ErUer  Costard. 
Prin,  Here  comes  a  member  of  the  common- 
wealth. 
Cost.   Pray  you,  which  is  the  head  lady  ? 
Prin-   Thou  shalt  know  her,  fellow,  by  the  rest 
that  have  no  heads. 

Cost.  Which  is  the  greatest  lady,  the  highest  ? 
Prin.  The  thickest,  and  the  tallest. 
Cost,  The  thickest,  and  the  tallest!  it  is  so;  truth 
is  truth. 
Are  not  you  the  chief  woman  ?  you  are  the  thick- 
est here. 
Prin.  What's  your  will,  sir  ?  what's  your  will  ? 
Cost.   I  have  a  letter  from  monsieur  Biron,  to  one 
lady  Rosaline. 


I 


Prin.   O,  thy  letter,  thy  letter ;  he's  a  good  friend 
of  mine : 

Stand  aside,  good  bearer Boyet,  you  can  carve ; 

Break  up  this  capon. 

Boyet.  I  am  bound  to  serve.  — 

This  letter  is  mistook,  it  importeth  none  here ; 
It  is  writ  to  Jaquenctta. 

Prin.  We  will  read  it,  I  swear : 

Break  the  neck  of  the  wax,  and  every  one  give  ear. 

Boyet.  [Reads.]  By  heaven,  that  thou  art  fair,  is 
most  infallible ;  true,  that  thou  art  beavieous ;  truth 
itself  that  thou  art  lovely :  More  fairer  than  fair, 
beautiful  than  beauteous :  truer  than  truth  itself,  have 
commiseration  on  thy  heroical  vassal !  The  magnan- 
imous and  mA>st  illustrate  king  Cophetua  set  eye  upon 
the  pernicious  and  indubitate  beggar  Zenelophon; 
and  he  it  was  that  might  rightly  say,  veni,  vidi,  vici ; 
which  to  anatomize  in  the  vulgar,  {Obase  and  obscure 
vulgar  ! )  videlicet,  he  came,  saw,  and  overcame  :  he 
came,  one  ;  saw,  two ;  overcame,  three.  Who  came  ? 
the  king :  Why  did  he  come  ?  to  see  :  Why  did  he  see  ? 
to  overcome :  To  whom  came  he  ?  to  the  beggar : 
What  saw  he  ?  the  beggar :  Who  overcame  he  ?  the 
beggar:  the  conclusion  is  victory;  On  whose  side?  the 
king's  :  The  captive  is  enriched;  On  whose  side  ?  the 
beggars:  The  catastrophe  is  a  nuptial;  On  whose 
side  ?  the  kings  ? — no,  on  both  in  one,  or  one  in  both, 
I  am  the  king  ;  for  so  stands  the  comparison  :  thou 
the  beggar  ;  for  so  witnesseth  thy  lowliness.  Shall  I 
command  thy  love  ?  I  may  :  Shall  I  enforce  thy  love? 
I  could  :  Shall  I  entreat  thy  love  ?  I  vdll.  What 
shalt  thou  exchange  for  rags  ?  robes ;  For  tittles, 
titles  ;  For  thyself,  me.  Thus,  expecting  thy  reply, 
I  profane  my  lips  on  thy  foot,  my  eyes  on  thy  picture, 
and  my  heart  on  thee. 

Thine,  in  the  dearest  design  of  industry, 

Don  Adriano  de  Armabo. 
Thus  dost  thou  hear  the  Nemean  lion  roar 

'Gainst  thee,  thou  lamb,  that  standest  as  his  prey ; 
Submissive  fall  his  princely  feet  before. 

And  he  from  forage  will  incline  to  play  : 
But  if  thou  strive,  poor  soul,  what  art  thou  then  ? 
Food  for  his  rage,  repasture  for  his  den. 

Prin.   What  plume  of  feathers  is  he,  that  indited 
this  letter? 
What  vane  ?  what  weathercock  ?  did  you  ever  hear 
better  ? 

Boyet.   I  am  much  deceived,  but  I  remember  the 

Prin.   Else  your  memory  is  bad,  going  o  er  it  ere-^B  J 
while.  ^  i^H  I 

Boyet.   This  Armado  is  a  Spaniard,  that  keeps 
here  in  court ; 
A  phantasm,  a  Monarcho,  and  one  that  makes  sport 
To  the  prince,  and  his  book-mates. 

Prin.  Thou,  fellow,  a  word  i 

Who  gave  thee  this  letter  ? 

Cost.  I  told  you ;  my  lord. 

Prin.   To  whom  should'st  thou  give  it  ? 

Cost.  From  my  lord  to  my  lady. 

Prin.   From  which  lord,  to  which  lady? 

Cost.  From  my  lord  Biron,  a  good  master  of 
mine. 
To  a  lady  of  France,  that  he  call'd  Rosaline. 

*  Just  now. 


I 


Scene  II. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


157 


Prin.  Thou   hast  mistaken  his  letter.       Come, 
lords,  away. 
Here,  sweet,  put  up  this  ;  'twiU  be  thine  another  day. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  II.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Holofernes,  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 

Nath.  Very  reverent  sport,  truly ;  and  done  in 
the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience. 

Hoi.  The  deer  was,  as  you  know,  in  sanguis,  — 
blood ;  ripe  as  a  pomewater  6,  who  now  hangeth 
like  a  jewel  in  the  ear  ofccelo,  —  the  sky,  the  welkin, 
the  heaven;  and  anon  falleth  like  a  crab,  on  the 
face  of  terra,  —  the  soil,  the  land,  the  earth. 

Nath.  Truly,  master  Holofernes,  the  epithets  are 
sweetly  varied,  like  a  scholar  at  the  least :  But,  sir, 
I  assure  ye,  it  was  a  buck  of  the  first  head.  7 

Hoi.    Sir  Nathaniel,  haud  credo. 

Dull.   'Twas  not  a  haud  credo,  'twas  a  pricket. 

Hoi.  Most  barbarous  intimation  !  yet  a  kind  of 
insinuation,  as  it  were,  in  via,  in  way,  of  explica- 
tion ;  /acere,  as  it  were,  replication,  or,  rather, 
ostentare,  to  show,  as  it  were,  his  inclination,  —  after 
his  undressed,  unpolished,  uneducated,  unpruned, 
untrained,  or  rather  unlettered,  or,  ratherest,  un- 
confirmed fashion,  —  to  insert  again  my  haud  credo 
for  a  deer. 

Dull.  I  said,  the  deer  was  not  a  haud  credo ;  'twas 
a  pricket. 

Hoi.  Twice  sod  simplicity,  bis  coctus! —  O  thou 
monster  ignorance,  how  deformed  dost  thou  look  ! 

Nath.  Sir,  he  hath  never  fed  of  the  dainties  that 
are  bred  in  a  book ;  he  hath  not  eat  paper,  as  it 
were ;  he  hath  not  drunk  ink :  his  intellect  is  not 
replenished ;  he  is  only  an  animal,  only  sensible  in 
the  duller  parts ; 
And  such  barren  plants  are  set  before  us,  that  we 

thankful  should  be 
(Which  we  of  taste  and  feeling  are)  for  those  parts 

that  do  fructify  in  us  more  than  he. 
For  as  it  would  ill  become  me  to  be  vain,  indiscreet, 

or  a  fool. 
So,  were  there  a  patch  8  set  on  learning,  to  see  him 

in  a  school : 
But,  omne  bene,  say  I ;  being  of  an  old  father's  mind, 
Many  can  brook  the  tveather,  that  love  not  the  wind. 

Dull.   You  two  are  bookmen  :   Can  you  tell  by 
your  wit. 
What  was  a  month  old  at  Cain's  birth,  that's  not  five 
weeks  old  as  yet  ? 

HoL   Dictynna,  good  man  Dull ;  Dictynna,  good 
man  Dull. 

Dull.   What  is  Dictynna  ? 

Nath.    A  title  to  Phoebe,  to  Luna,  to  the  moon. 

Hoi.   The  moon  was  a  month  old,  when  Adam 
was  no  more  ; 
And  raught  9  not  to  five  weeks,  when  he  came  to 

fivescore. 
The  allusion  holds  in  the  exchange. 

Dull.  'Tis  true  indeed;  the  collusion  holds  in 
tlie  exchange. 

Hoi.  Heaven  comfort  thy  capacity  !  I  say,  the 
allusion  holds  in  the  exchange. 

'  A  species  of  apjile. 

■  To  render  some  of  the  allusions  in  this  scene  intelligible  to 
persons  who  are  not  acquaintetl  with  the  language  of  jwrk- 
kceiH-rs  and  foresters,  it  may  be  necessary  to  mention,  that  a 
fawn,  when  it  is  a  year  old,  is  called  by  them  a  pricket ;  when 
t  is  two  years  old,  it  is  a  sorel ;  when  it  is  three  years  old,  it 
-  a  sore  ;  when  it  is  four  years,  it  is  a  buck  of  the  first  head  ; 
.it  five  vears,  it  is  an  old  buck. 

•  A  low  fellow.  »  Reached. 


Dull.  And  I  say  the  pollution  holds  in  the  ex- 
change ;  for  the  moon  is  never  but  a  month  old : 
and  I  say  beside,  that  'twas  a  pricket  that  the  prin- 
cess kill'd. 

Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  will  you  hear  an  extemporal 
epitaph  on  the  death  of  the  deer?  and,  to  humour 
the  ignorant,  I  have  call'd  the  deer  the  princess 
kill'd  a  pricket. 

Nath.  Perge,  good  master  Holofernes,  perge ; 
so  it  shall  please  you  to  abrogate  scurrility. 

Hoi.  I  will  something  attect  the  letter;  for  it 
argues  facility. 

The  praiseful  princess  pierced  and  prick'd  a  pretty 
pleasing  pricket  ; 

Some  say  a  sore ;  but  not  a  sore,  till  now  made  sore 
with  shooting. 
The  dogs  did  yell;  put  L  to  sore,  then  sorel  jumps 
from  thicket  1 

Or  pricket,  sore,  or  else  sorel ;  the  people  Jail  a 
hooting. 
If  sore  be  sore,  then  L  to  sore  makes  fifty  sores ;  0 

sore  L  ! 
Of  one  sore  I  an  hundred  make,  by  adding  but  one 
more  L. 

Nath.      A  rare  talent ! 

Dull.  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,  look  how  he  claws 
him  with  a  talent. 

Hoi.  This  is  a  gift  that  I  have,  simple,  simple  ; 
a  foolish  extravagant  spirit,  full  of  forms,  figures, 
shapes,  objects,  ideas,  apprehensions,  motions,  revo- 
lutions :  But  the  gift  is  good  in  those  in  whom  it  is 
acute,  and  I  am  thankful  for  it. 

Nath.  Sir,  I  praise  heaven  for  you  ;  and  so  may 
my  parishioners ;  for  their  sons  are  well  tutor'd  by 
you,  and  their  daughters  profit  very  greatly  under 
you  :  you  are  a  good  member  of  the  commonwealth. 

Hoi.  Mehercle,  if  their  sons  be  ingenious,  they 
shall  want  no  instruction  :  if  their  daughters  be  ca- 
pable, I  will  put  it  to  them :  But,  vir  sapit,  qui 
pauca  loquitur :  a  soul  feminine  saluteth  us. 

Enter  Jaquenetta  arid  Costard. 

Jaq.   Good  morrow,  master  person. 

Hoi.  Master  person,  ■^  quasi  pers-on.  And  if  one 
should  be  pierced,  which  is  the  one  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  master  schoolmaster,  he  that  is  likest 
to  a  hogshead. 

Hoi.  Of  piercing  a  hogshead  !  a  good  lustre  of 
conceit  in  a  turf  of  earth  ;  fire  enough  for  a  flint : 
'tis  pretty  ;  it  is  well. 

Jaq.  Good  master  parson,  be  so  good  as  read  me 
this  letter  ;  it  was  given  me  by  Costard,  and  sent 
me  from  Don  Armatho  :    I  beseech  you,  read  it. 

Hoi.  Fauste,  precor  gelidd  quando  j)ecus  omne  sub 
umbra 
Ruminat,  —  and  so  forth.    Ah,  good  old  Mantuan  : 
I  may  speak  of  thee  as  the  traveller  doth  of  Venice  ! 

—  Vinegia,  Vinegia, 

Chi  non  te  vede,  ei  non  te  pregia- 

Old  Mantuan  !  old  Mantuan  !  Who  understandcth 
thee  not,  loves  thee  not.  —  Ut,  re,  sol,  la,  mi,  fa.  — 
Under  pardon,  sir,  what  are  the  contents  ?  or,  rather, 
as  Horace  says  in  his  —  What,  my  soul,  verses  ? 

Nnth.  Ay,  sir,  and  very  learned. 

Hoi.  Let  me  hear  a  staff,  a  stanza,  a  verse ;  Lege, 
domine. 

Nath.  [Reads.]  If  love  make  me  forsworn,  how 
shall  I  swear  to  loi^  T 

Ah,  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vowed  I 


158 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  IV. 


Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  VU faithful  prove  ,- 

Those  thoughts  to  me  were  oaks,  to  thee  like  osiers 
bowed. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thine  eyes  ; 

Where  all  those  pleasures  live,  that  art  would  com- 
prehend : 
If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall  suffice; 

Well  learned  is  that  tongue,   that   well   can  thee 
commend : 
AU  ignorant  that  soul,  that  sees  thee  without  wonder  ,- 

(  Which  is  to  me  some  praise,  that  I  thy  parts  ad- 
mire i) 
Thy  eye  Jove's  lightning  bears,  thy  voice  his  dreadful 
thunder. 

Which  not  to  anger  bent,  is  musick,  and  sweet  f  re. 
Celestial,  as  thou  art,  oh  pardon,  love,  this  wrung. 
That   sings    heaven  s  praise   with   such    an  earthly 
tongue  ! 

Hoi.  You  find  not  the  apostrophes,  and  so  miss 
the  accent :  let  me  supervise  the  canzonet.  Here 
are  only  numbers  ratified;  but  for  the  elegancy, 
facility,  and  golden  cadence  of  poesy,  caret.  Ovidius 
Naso  was  the  man :  and  why,  indeed,  Naso ;  but 
for  smelling  out  the  odoriferous  flowers  of  fancy, 
the  jerks  of  invention  ?  Imitari,  is  notWng  :  so  doth 
the  hound  his  master,  the  ape  his  keeper,  the  tired  ' 
horse  his  rider.  But  damosella  virgin,  was  this 
directed  to  you  ? 

Jaq.  Ay,  sir,  from  one  Monsieur  Biron,  one  of 
the  strange  queen's  lords. 

Hoi.  I  will  overglance  the  superscript.  To  the 
snow-ivhite  hand  of  the  most  beauteous  Lady  Rosaline. 
I  will  look  again  on  the  intellect  of  the  letter,  for 
the  nomination  of  the  party  writing  to  the  person 
written  unto : 

Your  Ladyship's  in  all  desired  employment,  Biron. 

Sir  Nathaniel,  this  Biron  is  one  of  the  votaries  with 
the  king ;  and  here  he  hath  framed  a  letter  to  a 
sequent  of  the  stranger  queen's,  which,  accidentally, 
or  by  the  way  of  progression,  hath  miscarried.  — 
Trip  and  go,  my  sweet;  deliver  this  paper  into  the 
royal  hand  of  the  king  ;  it  may  concern  much  :  Stay 
not  thy  compliment ;   I  forgive  thy  duty ;  adieu. 

Jaq.    Good  Costard,  go  with  me. 

Cost.   Have  with  thee,  my  girl. 

[Exeunt  Cost,  and  Jaq. 

Naih.  Sir,  you  have  done  this  very  religiously  ; 
and,  as  a  certain  father  saith 

Hoi.  Sir,  tell  not  me  of  the  father,  I  do  fear  co- 
lourable colours.  But,  to  return  to  the  verses ;  Did 
they  please  you,  Sir  Nathaniel  ? 

Nath.   Marvellous  well  for  the  pen. 

Hoi.  I  do  dine  to-day  at  the  father's  of  a  certain 
pupil  of  mine  ;  where  if,  before  repast,  it  shall  please 
you  to  gratify  the  table  with  a  grace,  I  will,  on  my 
privilege  I  have  with  the  parents  of  the  foresaid 
child  or  pupil,  undertake  your  ben  venuto  ;  where 
I  will  prove  those  verses  to  be  very  unlearned, 
neither  savouring  of  poetry,  wit,  nor  invention  :  I 
beseech  your  society. 

Nath.  And  thank  you  too  :  for  society,  (saith 
.  the  text,)  is  the  happiness  of  life. 

Hoi.  And,  certes^,  the  text  most  infallibly  con- 
cludes it.  —  Sir,  [To  Dull.]  I  do  invite  you  too  ; 
you  shall  not  say  me,  nay  :  pauca  verba.  Away ; 
the  gentles  are  at  their  game,  and  we  will  to  our 
recreation.  \_Exeunt. 


Attired,  caparisoned. 


2  In  truth. 


SCENE  III.  —  Jmjther  pari  of  the  Park. 

Enter  Birok,  with  a  paper, 
Biron.  The  king  he  is  hunting  the  deer ;  I  am 
coursing  myself.  Well,  Set  thee  down,  sorrow  !  for 
so,  they  say,  the  fool  said,  and  so  say  I,  and  I  the 
fool.  Well  proved,  wit !  This  love  is  as  mad  as 
Ajax  :  it  kills  sheep;  it  kills  me,  I  a  sheep  :  Well 
proved  again  on  my  side  !  I  will  not  love  :  if  I  do, 
hang  me  ;  i'faith,  I  will  not.  O,  but  her  eye,  —  by 
this  light,  but  for  her  eye,  I  would  not  love  her ; 
yes,  for  her  two  eyes.  Well,  1  do  nothing  in  thf 
world  but  lie,  and  lie  in  my  throat.  By  heaven,  I 
do  love :  and  it  hatli  taught  me  to  rhyme,  and  to  be 
melancholy ;  and  here  is  part  of  my  rhyme,  and 
here  my  melancholy.  Well,  she  hath  one  o'  my  son- 
nets already  ;  the  clown  bore  it,  the  fool  sent  it,  and 
the  lady  hath  it :  sweet  clown,  sweeter  fool,  sweetest 
lady  !  By  the  world,  I  would  not  care  a  pin  if  the 
other  three  were  in  :  Here  comes  one  with  a  paper. 
[  Gets  up  into  a  tree. 

Enter  the  King,  with  a  paper. 

Xing.   Ah  me ! 

Biron.  [Aside.]  Shot,  by  heaven!  —  Proceed, 
sweet  Cupid  ;  thou  hast  thump'd  him  with  thy  bird- 
bolt  under  the  left  pap  :  — 

^ng.   [Reads.]  So  sweet  a  kiss  the  golden  sun 
gives  not 

To  those  fresh  morning  drops  upon  the  rose 
As  thy  eye-beams,  when  their  fresh  rays  have  smote 

The  night  of  dew  that  on  my  cheeks  down  fows 
Nor  shines  the  silver  moon  one  half  so  bright 

Through  the  transparent  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As  doth  thy  face  through  tears  of  mine  give  light ; 

Thou  shin  St  in  every  tecr  that  I  do  weep  : 
No  drop,  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  thee. 

So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  woe  ; 
Do  but  behold  the  tears  that  sivell  in  me. 

And  they  thy  glory  through  my  grief  will  show  . 
But  do  not  love  thyself ;  then  thou  wilt  keep 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  weep. 
0  queen  of  queens,  how  far  dost  thou  excel ! 
No  thought  can  think,  nor  tongue  of  mortal  tell.  — 

How  shall  she  know  my  griefs  ?  I'll  drop  the  paper ; 
Sweet  leaves  shade  folly.     Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

[Stq)S  aside. 

Enter  Longaville,  with  a  paper. 

What  Longaville  !  and  reading  !  listen,  ear. 

Biron.   Now,  in  thy  likeness,  one  more  fool,  ap- 
pear !  [Aside. 
Long.    Ah  me  !   I  am  forsworn. 
Biron.   Why,  he  comes  in  like  a  perjure,  wearing 
papers.  [Aside. 
King.   In   love,    I   hope :     Sweet   fellowship    in 
shame !  [Aside. 
Biron,    One  drunkard  loves  another  of  the  name. 

[Aside. 

Long.  Am  I  the  first  that  have  been  perjured  so  ? 

Biron.   [Aside.]   I  could  put  thee  in  comfort ;  not 

by  two,  that  I  know  : 

Thou  mak'st  the  triumviry,  the  corner-cap  of  society, 

The  shape  of  love's  Tyburn  that  hangs  up  simplicity. 

Long.   I  fear,  these  stubborn  lines  lack  power  to 

move : 

O  sweet  Maria,  empress  of  my  love  ! 

These  numbers  will  I  tear,  and  write  in  prose. 


I 


Scene  III. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


159 


Biron.   ^jlside.']  O,  rhymes  are  guards  on  wanton 
Cupid's  hose  : 
Disfigure  not  his  slop. 

Long.  This  same  shall  go.  — 

[He  reads  the  sonnet. 
Did  not  the  heavenly  rhetorick  of  thine  eye 

{'Gainst  whom  the  world  cannot  hold  argument) 
Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjury  ? 

Vows,  for  tliee  broke,  deserve  not  pnnishm£nt. 
A  woman  I  forswore  ;  but,  I  tvill  prove. 

Thou,  being  a  goddess,  I  forswore  not  thee  : 
My  vow  was  eartldy,  thou  a  heavenly  love ; 

Thy  grace  being  gaitid,  cures  all  disgrace  in  m<?. 
Voxos  are  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is  : 

Then   thou,  fair   su7i,  which   on  my   earth   doth 
shine, 
Exhatsl  this  vapour  vow ;  in  thee  it  is : 

If  broken,  then,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine  : 
If  by  me  broke :  What  fool  is  not  so  wise. 
To  lose  an  oath  to  ivin  a  paradise  9 

Enter  Dumain,  vnth  a  paper. 

Long.   By  whom  shall  I  send  this  ?  —  Company ! 

stay.  [Step])ing  aside. 

Biron.   [Aside.}   All  hid,  all  hid,  an  old  infant 

Like  a  demi-god  here  sit  I  in  the  sky, 

And  wretched  fools'  secrets  heedfully  o'er-eye. 

More  sacks  to  the  mill !     O  heavens,  I  have  my 

wish ; 
Dumain  transform'd  :  four  woodcocks  in  a  dish  ! 
Dum.   O  most  divine  Kate  ! 
Biron.  O  most  prophane  coxcomb  ! 

[Aside. 
Dum.   As  fair  as  day. 

Biron.   Ay,  as  some  days  ;  but  then  no  sun  must 
shine.  [Aside. 

Dunu   O  that  I  had  my  wish  ! 
Long.  And  I  had  mine  ! 

[Aside. 

King.   And  I  mine  too,  good  lord  !  [Aside. 

Biron.   Amen,  so  I  had  mine  :    Is  not  that  a  good 

word  ?  [Aside. 

Dum.   I  would  forget  her  ;  but  a  fever  she 

Reigns  in  my  blood,  and  will  remember'd  be. 

Biron.   A  fever  in  your  blood,  why  then  incision 
Would  let  her  out  in  saucers ;  Sweet  misprision  ! 

[Aside. 
Dum.   Once  more  I'll  read  the  ode  that  1  have 

writ. 
Biron.   Once  more  I'll  mark  how  love  can  vary 
wit.  [Aside. 

Dum.    On  a  day,  {alack  the  day  1 1 

Ixme,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom,  passing  fair. 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air  : 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind. 
All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find  ; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
IFish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow  ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 
But,  alack,  my  hand  is  sworn. 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn  : 
Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet  ; 
Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 
Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me. 
That  I  amfrrswornfor  thee  : 
Thou  for  whom  even  Jove  would  swear, 
Juno  but  an  Ethiop  were  ,- 


And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love.  — 
This  will  I  send  ;  and  something  else  more  plain, 
That  shall  express  my  true  love's  fasting  pain. 

0  would  the  King,  Biron,  and  Longa^e, 
Were  lovers  too !     Ill  to  example  ill, 
Would  from  my  forehead  wipe  a  peijur'd  note ; 
For  none  offend,  where  all  alike  do  dote. 

J^ong.  Dumain,  [Advancing.']  thy  love  is  far  from 
charity. 
That  in  love's  grief  desir'st  society  : 
You  may  look  pale,  but  I  should  blush,  I  know. 
To  be  o'erheard,  and  taken  napping  so. 

King.    Come,    sir,    [Advancing.]  you  blush ;   as 
his  your  case  is  such  ; 
You  chide  at  him,  offending  twice  as  much  : 
You  do  not  love  Maria ;  Longaville 
Did  never  sonnet  for  her  sake  compile ; 
Nor  never  lay  his  wreathed  arms  athwart 
His  loving  bosom,  to  keep  down  his  heart. 

1  have  been  closely  shrouded  in  this  bush. 

And  mark'd  you  both,  and  for  you  both  did  blush. 
I  heard  your  guilty  rhymes,  observ'd  your  fashion ; 
Saw  sighs  reek  from  you,  noted  well  your  passion  : 
Ah  me  !  says  one ;  O  Jove !  the  other  cries ; 
One,  her  hairs  were  gold,  crystal  the  other's  eyes : 
You  would  for  paradise  bresJc  faith  and  troth  ; 

[To  Long. 
And  Jove,  for  your  love,  would  infringe  an  oatli. 

[To  Dumain. 
What  will  Biron  say,  when  that  he  shall  hear 
A  faith  infring'd,  which  such  a  zeal  did  swear  ? 
How  will  he  scorn  ?  how  will  he  spend  his  wit  ? 
How  will  he  triumph,  leap,  and  laugh  at  it  ? 
For  all  the  wealth  that  ever  I  did  see, 
I  would  not  have  him  know  so  much  by  me. 

Biron.  Now  step  I  forth  to  whip  hypocrisy.  — 
Ah,  good  my  liege,  I  pray  thee  pardon  me  : 

[Descends from  the  tree. 
Good  heart,  what  grace  hast  thou,  thus  to  reprove 
These  worms  for  loving,  that  art  most  in  love  ? 
Your  eyes  do  make  no  coaches ;  in  your  tears, 
There  is  no  certain  princess  that  appears  : 
You'll  not  be  perjur'd,  'tis  a  hateful  thing ; 
Tush,  none  but  minstrels  like  of  sonneting. 
But  are  you  not  asham'd  ?  nay,  are  you  not. 
All  three  of  you,  to  be  thus  much  o'ershot  ? 

0  what  a  scene  of  foolery  I  have  seen, 

Of  sighs,  of  groans,  of  sorrow,  and  of  teen !  ' 
(>  me,  with  what  strict  patience  have  I  sat. 
To  see  a  king  transformed  to  a  gnat ! 
And  Nestor  play  at  push-pin  with  the  boys. 
And  critick  ^  Timon  laugh  at  idle  toys ! 
Where  lies  thy  grief,  O  tell  me,  good  Dumain  ? 
And,  gentle  Longaville,  where  lies  thy  pain  ? 
And  where  my  liege's?  all  about  the  breast ;  — 
A  caudle,  ho ! 

King.  Too  bitter  is  thy  jest. 

Are  we  betray'd  thus  to  thy  over-view  ? 

Biron.   Not  you  by  me,  but  I  betray'd  to  you  ; 
I,  that  am  honest ;   I,  that  hold  it  sin 
To  break  the  vow  I  am  engaged  in  ? 

1  am  betray'd,  by  keeping  company 

With  moon-like  men  of  strange  inconstancy. 
When  shall  you  see  me  write  a  thing  in  rhyme? 
Or  groan  for  Joan  ?  or  spend  a  minute's  time 
In  pruning  *  me  ?     When  shall  you  hear  that  I 
Will  praise  a  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  an  eye  ? 


>  Grief. 


Cjrnic.  *  In  trimming  rayseli. 


160 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  IV.    Scene  IU. 


Enter  Jaquenetta  and  Costaed. 
Jaq.   God  bless  the  king  ! 

King.  What  present  hast  thou  there  ? 

Cost.   Some  certain  treason. 
King.  What  makes  treason  here  ? 

Cost.   Nay,  it  makes  nothing,  sir. 
King.  If  it  mar  nothing  neither. 

The  treason,  and  you,  go  in  peace  away  together. 

Jaq.   I  beseech  your  grace,  let  this  letter  be  read. 
Our  parson  misdoubts  it ;  'twas  treason,  he  said. 
King.   Biron,  read  it  over. 

\_Giving  him  the  letter. 
Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 
Jaq.    Of  Costard. 
King.   Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 
Cost.    Of  Dun  Adramadio,  Dun  Adramadio. 
King.   How  now  !  what  is  in  you  ?  why  dost  thou 

tear  it  ? 
Biron.   A  toy,  my  liege,  a  toy ;  your  grace  needs 

not  fear  it. 
Long.  It  did  move  him  to  passion,  and  therefore 

let's  hear  it. 
Dum.   It  is  Biron's  writing,  and  here  is  his  name. 
{Picks  up  the  pieces. 
Biron.  J^h,  you  loggerhead,  [To  Costard.]  you 
were  born  to  do  me  shame.  — 
Guilty,  my  lord,  guilty ;   I  confess,  I  confess. 
King.   What? 

Biron.   That  you  three  fools  lack'd  me  fool  to 
make  up  the  mess  : 
He,  he,  and  you,  my  liege,  and  I, 
Are  pick -purses  in  love,  and  we  deserve  to  die. 
O,  dismiss  tliis  audience,  and  I  shall  tell  you  more. 
Dum.    Now  the  number  is  even. 
Biron.  True,  true ;  we  are  four  :  — 

Will  these  turtles  be  gone  ? 

King-  Hence,  sirs  ;  away. 

Cost.  Walk  aside  the  true  folk,  and  let  the  traitors 
stay.  [Exeunt  Cost,  and  Jaq. 

King.   What,  did  these  rent  lines  show  some  love 

of  thine  ? 
Biron.   Did   they,    quoth    you  ?    Who   sees   the 
heavenly  Rosaline, 
That,  like  a  rude  and  savage  man  of  Inde, 

At  the  first  opening  of  the  gorgeous  east. 
Bows  not  his  vassal  head ;  and,  strucken  blind, 

Kisses  the  base  ground  with  obedient  breast  ? 
What  peremptory  eagle-sighted  eye 

Dares  look  upon  the  heaven  of  her  brow, 
That  is  not  blinded  by  her  majesty  ? 

King.  What  zeal,  what  fury  hath  inspired  thee  now? 
My  love,  her  mistress,  is  a  gracious  moon ; 

She,  an  attending  star,  scarce  seen  a  light. 
Biron.   My  eyes  are  then  no  eyes,  nor  I  Biron  : 
O,  but  for  my  love,  day  would  turn  to  night ! 
Of  all  complexions  the  cull'd  sovereignty 

Do  meet,  as  at  a  fair,  in  her  fair  cheek ; 
Where  several  worthies  make  one  dignity  ; 

Where  nothing  wants,  that  want  itself  doth  seek. 
Lend  me  the  flourish  of  all  gentle  tongues  — 

Fye,  painted  rhetorick  !   O,  she  needs  it  not ; 
To  things  of  sale  a  seller's  praise  belongs  ; 

She  passes  praise ;  then  praise  too  short  doth  blot. 
A  wither'd  hermit,  five-score  winters  worn. 

Might  shake  off  fifty,  looking  in  her  eye  : 
Beauty  doth  varnish  age,  as  if  new-born, 

And  gives  the  crutch  the  cradle's  infancy. 
O,  'tis  the  sun,  that  maketh  all  things  shine  ! 
Kitig.   By  heaven,  thy  love  is  black  as  ebony. 


Biron.   Is  ebony  like  her  ?  O  wood  divine ! 
A  wife  of  such  wood  were  felicity. 
O,  who  can  give  an  oath  ?  where  is  a  book  ? 

That  I  may  swear,  beauty  doth  beauty  lack, 
If  that  she  learn  not  of  her  eye  to  look  : 

No  face  is  fair,  that  is  not  full  so  black. 
O,  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  be  deckt, 

It  mourns,  that  painting,  and  usurping  hair, 
Should  ravish  doters  with  a  false  aspect ; 

And  therefore  is  she  bom  to  make  black  fair. 
Her  favour  turns  the  fashion  of  the  days ; 

For  native  blood  is  counted  painting  now ; 
And  therefore  red,  that  would  avoid  dispraise, 
Paints  itself  black,  to  imitate  her  brow. 

King.   But  what  of  this  ?  Are  we  not  all  in  love  ? 

Biron.  Nothing  so  sure;  and  thereby  all  forsworn. 

King.  Then  leave  this  chat:   and,  good  Biron, 
now  prove 
Our  loving  lawful,  and  our  faith  not  torn. 

Dum.  Ay,  marry,  there,  —  some  flattery  for  tliis 
evil. 

Long.   O,  some  authority  how  to  proceed ; 
Some  tricks,  some  quillets  6,  how  to  cheat  the  devil. 

Dum.   Some  salve  for  perjury. 

Biron.  O,  'tis  more  than  need  !  — 

Have  at  you  then,  affection's  men  at  arms  : 
Consider,  what  you  first  did  swear  unto  ;  — 
To  fast,  —  to  study,  —  and  to  see  no  woman  ;  — 
Flat  treason  'gainst  the  kingly  state  of  youth. 
Say,  can  you  fast  ?  your  stomachs  are  too  young 
And  abstinence  engenders  maladies. 
And  where  that  you  have  vow'd  to  study,  lords, 
In  that  each  of  you  hath  forsworn  his  book  : 
Can  you  still  dream,  and  pore,  and  thereon  look  ? 
For  when  would  you,  my  lord,  or  you,  or  you. 
Have  found  the  ground  of  study's  excellence. 
Without  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  face  ? 
From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive  : 
They  are  the  ground,  the  books,  the  academes. 
From  whence  doth  spring  the  true  Promethean  fl 
Why,  universal  plodding  prisons  up 
The  nimble  spirits  in  the  arteries ; 
As  motion,  and  long-during  action,  tires 
The  sinewy  vigour  of  the  traveller. 
N"ow,  for  not  looking  on  a  woman's  face, 
You  have  in  that  forsworn  the  use  of  eyes ; 
And  study  too,  the  causer  of  your  vow  : 
For  where  is  any  author  in  the  world. 
Teaches  such  beauty  as  a  woman's  eye  ? 
Learning  is  but  an  adjunct  to  ourself. 
And  where  we  are,  our  learning  likewise  is. 
Then,  when  ourselves  we  see  in  ladies'  eyes, 
Do  we  not  likewise  see  our  learning  there  ? 
O,  we  have  made  a  vow  to  study,  lords ; 
And  in  that  vow  we  have  forsworn  our  books  ; 
For  when  would  you,  my  liege,  or  you,  or  you. 
In  leaden  contemplation,  have  found  out 
Such  fiery  numbers,  as  the  prompting  eyes 
Of  beauteous  tutors  have  enrich'd  you  with  ? 
Other  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain ; 
And  therefore  finding  barren  practisers, 
Scarce  show  a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil : 
But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes. 
Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain  ; 
But  with  the  motion  of  all  elements. 
Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  power ; 
And  gives  to  every  power  a  double  power, 
Above  their  functions  and  their  oflSces. 

6  Law-chicane. 


Act  V.    Scene  I. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


161 


It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye  ; 

A  lover's  eyes  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind ; 

A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound, 

When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopp'd  ; 

Love's  feeling  is  more  soft,  and  sensible, 

Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  snails  ; 

Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in  taste  : 

For  valour,  is  not  love  a  Hercules, 

Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides? 

Subtle  as  sphinx  ;  as  sweet,  and  musical. 

As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair ; 

And,  when  love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 

Makes  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 

Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write. 

Until  his  ink  were  temper'd  with  love's  sighs ; 

O,  then  his  lines  would  ravish  savage  ears, 

And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility. 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive  ; 

They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire  ; 

They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  academes, 

That  show,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world  ; 

Else  none  at  all  in  aught  proves  excellent : 

Then  fools  you  were  these  women  to  forswear ; 

Or,  keeping  what  is  sworn,  you  will  prove  fools. 


For  wisdom's  sake,  a  word  that  all  men  love  ; 
Or  for  love's  sake,  a  word  that  loves  all  men  ; 
Let  us  once  lose  our  oaths,  to  find  ourselves, 
Or  else  we  lose  ourselves  to  keep  our  oatlis : 
It  is  religion  to  be  thus  forsworn  : 
For  charity  itself  fulfils  the  law  ; 
And  who  can  sever  love  from  charity  ? 

King.   Saint   Cupid,  then !  and,  soldiers,  to  the 
field! 

Long.   Shall  we   resolve  to  woo  tliese   girls  of 
France  ? 

King.    And  win  them  too:  therefore  let  us  devise 
Some  entertainment  for  them  in  their  tents. 

Biron.   First,  from  tlie  park  let  us  conduct  them 
thither ; 
Then,  homeward,  every  man  attach  the  hand 
Of  his  fair  mistress  :   in  the  afternoon 
We  will  with  some  strange  pastime  solace  them. 
Such  as  the  shortness  of  the  time  can  shape ; 
For  revels,  dances,  masks,  and  merry  hours, 
Fore-run  fair  Love,  strewing  her  way  with  flowers. 

King.    Away,  away  !  no  time  shall  be  omitted. 
That  will  be  time,  and  may  by  us  be  fitted. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. —A  Street. 
Enter  Holofebnes,  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 

HoL    Satis  quod  siifftcii. 

Nalk.  Sir,  your  reasons  "  at  dinner  have  been 
sharp  and  sententious ;  pleasant  witliout  scurrility, 
witty  without  affection**,  audacious  without  impu- 
dency,  learned  without  opinion,  and  strange  without 
heresy.  I  did  converse  this  quondam  day  with  a 
companion  of  the  king's,  who  is  intituled,  nominated, 
or  called,  Don  Adriano  de  Armado. 

Hoi.  Novi  hominem  tanquam  te  :  His  humour  is 
lofly,  his  discourse  peremptory,  his  tongue  filed,  his 
eye  ambitious,  his  gait  majestical,  and  his  general 
behaviour  vain,  ridiculous,  and  thrasonical. 9  He 
is  too  picked  ',  too  spruce,  too  affected,  too  odd,  as 
it  were,  too  perigrinate,  as  I  may  call  it. 

Nath.    A  most  singular  and  choice  epithet. 

[  2''akes  out  his  table-book. 

Hoi.  He  draweth  out  the  thread  of  his  verbosity 
finer  than  the  staple  of  his  argument.  I  abhor  sucli 
fanatical  phantasms,  such  insociable  and  point-de- 
vise 5  companions ;  such  rackers  of  orthography,  as 
to  speak,  dout,  fine,  when  he  should  say,  doubt; 
det,  when  he  should  pronounce,  debt ;  d,  e,  b,  t ; 
not,  d,  e,  t:  he  clepeth  a  calf,  cauf;  half,  hauf; 
neighbour,  vocatur,  nebour,  neigh,  abbreviated,  ne  : 
This  is  abhominable,  (which  he  would  call  abomin- 
able,) it  insinuateth  me  of  insanie ;  Ne  intcUigis 
domine  f  to  make  frantick,  lunatick. 

Nath.   Laus  deo,  bone  inti'lligo. 

Hoi.   Bone  ? bom;  for  bene :  Priscian  a  little 

scratch 'd ;  'twill  serve. 

Enter  Armado,  Moth,  and  Costard. 
Nath.    Viflesnc  quis  venit  f 
Hoi.   Vieleo,  et  gaudeo. 
Arnu   Chirra!  [To  Moth. 


Discourset. 
Overdressed. 


AfTcct-iUon.  9  BoantfUl  '  A  small 

Finical  exactneM.  wine. 


Hoi.  Quare  Chirra,  not  sirrah? 

Arm.   Men  of  peace  well  encounter'd. 

Hal.   Most  military  sir,  salutation. 

Moth.  They  have  been  at  a  great  feast  of  lan- 
guages, and  stolen  the  scraps.       [To Costa RDosv/e. 

Cost.  O,  they  have  lived  long  in  the  alms-basket 
of  words  !  I  marvel,  thy  master  hath  not  eaten  tliee 
for  a  word  ;  for  thou  art  not  so  long  by  the  head  as 
honorijicabilitudinitatibus  :  thou  art  easier  swallowed 
than  a  fiap-dragon.  3 

Moth.   Peace ;  the  peal  begins. 

Arm.   Monsieur,  \_To  Hol.]  are  you  not  letter'd  ? 

Moth.  Yes,  yes  ;  he  teaches  boys  the  horn-book  : 
—  What  is  a,  b,  spelt  backward  with  a  horn  on  his 
head  ? 

Hd.   Ba,  puerilia,  with  a  horn  added. 

Moth.  Ba,  most  silly  sheep,  with  a  horn :  —  You 
hear  his  learning. 

Hol.    Qvis,  quis,  thou  consonant? 

Moth.  The  third  of  the  five  vowels,  if  you  repeat 
them  ;  or  the  fifth,  if  I. 

Hol.   I  will  repeat  them,  a,  e,  i.  — 

Moth.  The  sheep  :  the  other  two  concludes  it ; 
o,  u. 

Arm.  Now,  by  the  salt  wave  of  the  Meditcrra- 
neum,  a  sweet  touch,  a  quick  vencw  of  wit  :  snip, 
snap,  quick  and  home ;  it  rejoiceth  my  intellect : 
true  wit. 

Moth.   OfTer'd  by  a  child  to  an  old  man. 

Co-tt.  And  1  had  but  one  penny  in  the  world,  thou 
shouldst  have  it  to  buy  gingerbread  :  hold,  there  is 
the  very  remuneration  I  had  of  thy  master,  thou 
halfpenny  purse  of  wit,  thou  pigeon-egg  of  discretion. 

Arm.  Arts-man,  prtBambula  ;  we  will  be  singled 
from  the  barbarous.  Do  you  not  educate  youth  at 
the  charge-house  *  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  ? 

Hol.   Or,  mans,  the  hill. 

Arm^    At  your  sweet  pleasure,  for  the  mountain. 


iflammahle  substance,  iwallowcd  in  a  plass  of 
*  Free-school. 


162 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  V. 


Hoi.   I  do,  sans  question. 

Arm.  Sir,  the  king  is  a  noble  gentleman  ;  and  my 
familiar,  I  do  assure  you,  very  good  friend :  —  For 
what  is  inward  beween  us,  let  it  pass  :  —  I  do  be- 
seech thee,  remember  thy  courtesy ;  —  I  beseech 
thee,  apparel  thy  head ;  —  and  among  other  im- 
portunate and  most  serious  designs,  —  and  of  great 
import  indeed,  too ;  —  but  let  that  pass  :  —  for  I 
must  tell  thee,  it  will  please  his  grace  (by  the  world) 
sometime  to  lean  upon  my  poor  shoulder ;  but  sweet 
heart,  let  that  pass.  By  the  world,  I  recount  no 
fable ;  some  certain  special  honours  it  pleaseth  his 
greatness  to  impart  to  Armado,  a  soldier,  a  man  of 
travel,  that  hath  seen  the  world  :  but  let  that  pass. 
—  The  very  all  of  all  is,  —  but,  sweet  heart,  I  do 
implore  secrecy,  —  that  the  king  would  have  me 
present  tlie  princess,  sweet  chuck,  with  some  de- 
lightfid  ostentation,  or  show,  or  pageant,  or  antick, 
or  fire-work.  Now,  understanding  tliat  the  curate 
and  your  sweet  self,  are  good  at  such  eruptions, 
and  sudden  breaking  out  of  mirth,  as  it  were,  I  have 
acquainted  you  withal,  to  the  end  to  crave  your 
assistance. 

Hoi.  Sir,  you  shall  present  before  her  the  nine 
worthies.  —  Sir  Nathaniel,  as  concerning  some  en- 
tertainment of  time,  to  be  rendered  by  our  assist- 
ance, —  the  king's  command,  and  this  most  gallant, 
illustrate,  and  learned  gentleman,  —  before  the 
princess ;  I  say,  none  so  fit  as  to  present  the  nine 
worthies. 

Nath.  Where  will  you  find  men  worthy  enough 
to  present  them? 

Hoi.  Yourself;  myself,  or  this  gallant  gentle- 
man ;  this  swain,  because  of  his  great  limb  or  joint, 
shall  pass  Pompey  the  great;  the  page,  Hercules. 

Arm.  Pardon,  sir,  error :  he  is  not  quantity  enough 
for  that  worthy's  thumb  :  he  is  not  so  big  as  the 
end  of  his  club. 

Hoi.  Shall  I  have  audience?  he  shall  present 
Hercules  in  minority :  his  enter  and  exit  shall  be 
strangling  a  snake ;  and  I  will  have  an  apology  for 
that  purpose. 

Moth.  An  excellent  device  !  so,  if  any  of  the 
audience  hiss,  you  may  cry.  Well  done,  Hercules  ! 
now  thou  crushest  the  snake/  that  is  the  way  to 
make  an  offence  gracious  ;  though  few  have  the 
grace  to  do  it. 

Arm.   For  the  rest  of  the  worthies  ?  — 

Hoi.   I  will  play  three  myself. 

Moth.   Thrice-worthy  gentleman  ! 

Arm.    Shall  I  tell  you  a  thing  ? 

Hoi.   We  attend. 

Arm.  We  will  have,  if  this  fadge  5  not,  an  antick. 
I  beseech  you  follow. 

Hoi.  Via  ^,  goodman  Dull !  thou  hast  spoken  no 
word  all  this  while. 

Hull.   Nor  understood  none  neither,  sir. 

Hoi.   Allons  !  we  will  employ  thee. 

Hull.  I'll  make  one  in  a  dance,  or  so ;  or  I  will 
play  on  the  tabor  to  the  worthies,  and  let  them  dance 
the  hay. 

Hoi.  Most  dull,  honest  Dull,  to  our  sport,  away. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — Bef(yre  the  Princess'^  Pavilion. 

Enter  the  Princess,  Katharine,    Rosaline,  and 
Maria. 
Prin.  Sweet  hearts,  we  shall  be  rich  ere  we  depart. 
If  fairings  come  thus  plentifully  in  : 

•  Suit.  e  Courage 


A  lady  wall'd  about  with  diamonds  !  — 
Look  you,  what  I  liave  from  the  loving  king. 

Ros.   Madam,  came  nothing  else  along  with  that  ? 

Prin.   Nothing  but  tliis  ?  yes,  as  much  love  in 
rhyme. 
As  would  be  cramm'd  up  in  a  sheet  of  paper, 
Writ  on  both  sides  the  leaf,  margent  and  all ; 
That  he  was  fain  to  seal  on  Cupid's  name. 

Ros.   That  was  the  way  to  make  his  god-head 
wax  7 ; 
For  he  hath  been  five  thousand  years  a  boy. 

ITath.   Ay,  and  a  shrewd  unhappy  gallows  too. 

22 OS.   You'll  ne'er  be  friends  with  him  ;  he  kill'd 
your  sister. 

ITath.  He  made  her  melancholy,  sad,  and  heavy  ; 
And  so  she  died :  had  she  been  light,  like  you. 
Of  such  a  merry,  nimble,  stirring  spirit. 
She  might  have  been  a  grandam  ere  she  died : 
And  so  may  you  ;  for  a  light  heart  lives  long. 

Ros.   What's  your  dark  meaning,  mouse  ^,  of  this 
light  word  ? 

Xath.    A  light  condition  in  a  beauty  dark. 

Ros.  We  need  more  light  to  find  your  meaning 
out. 

ITath.  You'll  mar  the  light,  by  taking  it  in  snufF"  ; 
Therefore,  I'll  darkly  end  the  argument. 

Ros.   Look,  what  you  do,  you  do  it  still  i'  the 
dark. 

ITath.   So  do  not  you  ;  for  you  are  a  light  girl. 

Ros.  Indeed,  I  weigh  not  you ;  and  therefore  light. 

ITath.   You  weigh  me  not  —  O,  that's  you  care 
not  for  me. 

Ros.  Great  reason  ;  for,  Past  cure  is  still  past  care. 

Prin.   Well  bandied  both  ;  a  set  of  wit  well  play'd. 
But,  Rosaline,  you  have  a  favour  too  : 
Who  sent  it  ?  and  what  is  it  ? 

Ros.  I  would,  you  knew  : 

An  if  my  face  were  but  as  fair  as  yours. 
My  favour  were  as  great ;  be  witness  this. 
Nay,  I  have  verses  too,  I  thank  Biron  : 
The  numbers  true ;  and,  were  the  numb'ring  too, 
I  were  the  fairest  goddess  on  the  ground  : 
I  am  compar'd  to  twenty  thousand  fairs. 
O,  he  hath  drawn  my  picture  in  his  letter ! 

Prin.    Any  thing  like  ? 

Ros.   Much,  in  the  letters ;  nothing  in  the  praise. 

Prin.   Beauteous  as  ink  ;  a  good  conclusion. 

ITath.   Fair  as  a  text  B  in  a  copy-book. 

Ros.  'Ware  pencils  !  How  ?  let  me  not  die  your 
debtor, 
My  red  dominical,  my  golden  letter : 
O,  that  your  face  were  not  so  full  of  O's! 

ITath.   A  plague  of  that  jest !  and  beshrew  all 
shrows ! 

Prin.  But  what  was  sent  to  you  from  fairDumain  ? 

ITath.   Madam,  this  glove. 

Prin.  Did  he  not  send  you  twain  ? 

Xath.   Yes,  madam  ;  and  moreover. 
Some  thousand  verses  of  a  faithful  lover  : 
A  huge  translation  of  hypocrisy. 
Vilely  compil'd,  profound  simplicity. 

Mar.   This,  and  these  pearls,  to  me  sent  Lon- 
gaville  ; 
The  letter  is  too  long  by  half  a  mile. 

Prin.  I  think  no  less  :  Dost  thou  not  wish  in  heart. 
The  chain  were  longer,  and  the  letter  short  ? 

Mar.   Ay,  or  I  would  these  hands  might  never 
part. 


I 


I 
II 


"  Grow. 
9  In  anger. 


^  Formerly  a  term  of  endearment. 


Scene  II. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


163 


Prin.   We  are  wise  girls  to  mock  our  lovers  so. 

Itos.  Tliey  arc  worse  fools  to  jjurchase  mocking  so. 
That  same  Biron  I'll  torture  ere  I  go. 
(),  that  I  knew  he  were  but  in  by  the  week  ! 
How  I  would  make  him  fawn,  and  beg,  and  seek  ; 
And  wait  the  season,  and  observe  the  times, 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes  ; 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  my  behests ; 
And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that  jests ! 
So  portent-like  would  I  o'ersway  his  state, 
That  he  should  be  my  fool,  and  I  his  fate. 

Prin.   None  are  so  surely  caught,  when  they  are 
catch'd. 
As  wit  turn'd  fool  :   folly,  in  wisdom  hatch'd. 
Hath  wisdom's  warrant,  and  the  help  of  school ; 
And  wit's  own  grace  to  grace  a  learned  fool. 

Mar.   Folly  in  fools  bears  not  so  strong  a  note. 
As  foolery  in  the  wise,  when  wit  doth  dote ; 
Since  all  the  power  thereof  it  doth  apply, 
To  prove,  by  wit,  worth  in  simplicity. 

Enter  Boyet. 

Prin.  Here  comes  Boyet,  and  mirth  is  in  his  face. 

Boyet.   O,  I  am  stabb'd  with  laughter !   Where's 
her  grace  ? 

Prin.   Thy  news,  Boyet  ? 

Boyet.  Prepare,  madam,  prepare  !  — 

Ann,  my  girls,  arm  !  encounters  mounted  are 
Against  your  peace  :  Love  doth  approach  disguis'd, 
Armed  in  arguments ;  you'll  be  surpris'd  : 
Muster  your  wits  ;  stand  in  your  own  defence  ; 
Or  hide  your  heads  like  cowards,  and  fly  hence. 

Prin.  Saint  Dennis  to  saint  Cupid  !  What  are  they, 
That  charge  their  breath  against  us  ?  say,  scout,  say. 

Boyet.    Under  the  cool  shade  of  a  sycamore, 
I  thought  to  close  mine  eyes  some  half  an  hour : 
When,  lo !  to  interrupt  my  purpos'd  rest. 
Toward  that  shade  I  might  behold  addrest 
The  king  and  his  companions :   warily 
I  stole  into  a  neighbour  thicket  by, 
And  overheard  what  you  shall  overhear  ; 
That,  by  and  by,  disguis'd  they  will  be  here. 
Their  herald  is  a  pretty  knavish  page, 
That  well  by  heart  hath  conn'd  his  embassage : 
Action,  and  accent,  did  they  teach  him  there ; 
Thus  must  thou  speak,  and  thus  thy  body  bear  : 
And  ever  and  anon  they  made  a  doubt. 
Presence  majestical  would  put  him  out ; 
For,  quoth  the  king,  an  angel  shalt  thou  see ; 
Yet  fear  not  thou,  but  speak  atidaciously. 
The  boy  reply'd.  An  angel  is  not  evil; 
I  should  have  fear  d  her,  had  she  been  a  devil. 
With   that  all  laugh'd,  and   clapp'd    him   on  the 

shoulder ; 
Making  the  bold  wag  by  their  praises  bolder. 
One  rubb'd  his  elbow,  thus;  and  flcer'd,  and  swore, 
A  better  speech  was  never  spoke  before : 
Another  with  his  finger  and  his  tliumb, 
Cry'd,  Via  !   we  wUl  do't,  come  what  will  come  : 
The  third  he  caper'd,  and  cried.  All  goes  well  : 
Tlie  fourth  turn'd  on  the  toe,  and  down  he  fell. 
W^ith  that  they  all  did  tumble  on  the  ground. 
With  such  9  zealous  laughter,  so  profound. 
That  in  this  spleen  ridiculous  appears, 
To  check  their  folly,  passion's  solemn  tears. 
Prin.   But  what,  but  what,  come  they  to  visit  us  ? 
Boyet.   They   do,    they  do ;    and   are   apparel'd 
thus,  — 
Like  Muscovites,  or  Russians:  as  I  guess, 
Their  purpose  is,  to  parle,  to  court,  and  dance  : 


And  every  one  his  love-feat  will  advance 
Unto  his  several  mistress ;  which  they'll  know 
By  favours  several,  which  they  did  bestow. 

Prin.    And  will  they  so?    the  gallants  shall  be 
task'd  :  — 
For,  ladies,  we  will  every  one  be  mask'd ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them  shall  have  the  grace, 
Despite  of  suit,  to  see  a  lady's  face.  — 
Hold,  Rosaline,  this  favour  thou  shalt  wear  ; 
And  then  tlie  king  will  court  thee  for  his  dear ; 
Hold,  take  thou  this,  my  sweet,  and  give  me  thine ; 
So  shall  Biron  take  me  for  Rosaline.  — 
And  change  your  favours  too  ;  so  shall  your  loves 
Woo  contrary,  deceiv'd  by  these  removes. 

Bos.  Come  on  then;  wear  the  favours  most  in  sight. 

Xath.  Butj  in  this  changing,  wliat  is  your  intent? 

Prin.   The  effect  of  my  intent  is,  to  cross  theirs  : 
They  do  it  but  in  mocking  merriment ; 
And  mock  for  mock  is  only  my  intent. 
Their  several  counsels  they  unbosom  shall 
To  loves  mistook  ;  and  so  be  mock'd  withal. 
Upon  the  next  occasion  that  we  meet, 
With  visages  display'd,  to  talk,  and  greet. 

Ros.   But  shall  we  dance,  if  they  desire  us  to't? 

Prin.  No :  to  the  death,  we  will  not  move  a  foot, 
Nor  to  their  penn'd  speech  render  we  no  grace  ; 
But,  while  'tis  spoke,  each  turn  away  her  face. 

Boyet.  Why,  that  contempt  will  kill  the  speaker's 
heart. 
And  quite  divorce  his  memory  from  his  part. 

Prin.   Therefore  I  do  it ;  and  I  make  no  doubt 
The  rest  will  ne'er  come  in,  if  he  be  out. 
There's  no  such  sport,  as  sport  by  sport  o'erthrown  ; 
To  make  theirs  ours,  and  ours  none  but  our  own  : 
So  shall  we  stay,  mocking  intended  game  ; 
And  they,  well  mock'd,  depart  away  with  shame. 
[  Trumpets  sound  within^ 

Boyet.   The   trumpet   sounds ;    be   mask'd,   the 
maskers  come.  [TAe  Ladies  mask. 

Enter  the  King,  Birok,  Longaville,  and  Do- 
main, in  Russian  habiis,  and  masked;  Moth, 
Musicians,  and  Attendants. 

Moth.   All  hail,  the  richest  beauties  on  the  earth  ! 
Boyet.   Beauties  no  richer  than  rich  taf!ata. 
Moth.   A  holy  parcel  of  the  fairest  dames, 

[The  Ladies  turn  their  backs  to  him. 
That  ever  turn'd  their  —  backs  —  to  mortal  views  ! 
Biron.    Their  eyes,  villain,  their  eyes. 
Moth.    Thai  ever  turn'd  their  eyes  to  mortal  views  ! 

Out-- 
Boyet.   True  ;  out,  indeed. 
Moth.     Out   of  your  favours,   heavenly   spirits^ 
vouchsafe. 
Not  to  behold  — 

Biron.   Once  to  behold,  rogue. 
Moth.    Once  to  behold  with  your  sun-beamed  eyes, 
•         with  your  sun- beamed  eyes  — 

Boyet.    They  will  not  answer  to  that  epithet ; 
You  were  best  call  it,  daughter-l>eamcd  eyes. 

Moth.   They  do  not  mark  me,  and  tliat  brings  me 

out. 
Biron.  Is  this  your  perfectness?  begone,  you  rogue. 
Bos.    What  would  these  strangers?  know  their 
minds,  Boyet : 
If  they  do  speak  our  language,  'tis  our  will 
Tliat  some  plain  man  recount  their  purposes : 
Know  what  they  would. 

Boyet.   What  would  you  with  the  princess? 
Biron.   Nothing  but  peace  and  gentle  visitation. 
M  2 


164. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  V. 


Ros.  What  would  they,  say  tliey? 
Boyet.  Nothing  but  peace,  and  gentle  visitation. 
Ros.  Why,  that  they  have ;  and  bid  them  so  be  gone. 
JBoyeU  She  says,  you  have  it,  and  you  may  be  gone. 
King.  Say  to  her,  we  have  measur'd  many  miles 
To  tread  a  measure  with  her  on  this  grass. 

Boyet.   They  say  that  they  have  measur'd  many  a 
mile, 
To  tread  a  measure  with  you  on  this  grass. 

Ros.   It  is  not  so  :   ask  them  how  many  inches 
Is  in  one  mile  :  if  they  have  measur'd  many, 
Tlie  measure  then  of  one  is  easily  told. 

Boyet.  If,  to  come  hither  you  have  measur'd  miles, 
And  many  miles  ;  the  princess  bids  you  tell, 
How  many  inches  do  fill  up  one  mile, 

Biron.  Tell  her,  we  measure  them  by  weary  steps. 
Boyet.    She  hears  herself. 

Ros.  How  many  weary  steps, 

Of  many  weary  miles  you  have  o'ergone, 
Are  number'd  in  the  travel  of  one  mile? 

Biron.  We  number  nothing  that  we  spend  for  you ; 
Our  duty  is  so  rich,  so  infinite, 
That  we  may  do  it  still  without  accompt. 
Vouchsafe  to  show  the  sunshine  of  your  face. 
That  we,  like  savages,  may  worship  it. 

Ros.   My  face  is  but  a  moon,  and  clouded  too. 
King.  Blessed  are  clouds,  to  do  as  such  clouds  do  ! 
Vouchsafe,  bright  moon,  and  these  thy  stars,  to  shine 
(Those  clouds  remov'd,)  upon  our  wat'ry  eyne. 

Ros.    O  vain  petitioner !  beg  a  greater  matter ; 
Thou  now  request'st  but  moonshine  in  the  water. 
King.   Then,  in  our  measure  do  but  vouchsafe 
one  change  ; 
Thou  bid'st  me  beg ;  this  begging  is  not  strange. 
Ros.    Play,  musick ,  then :   nay,  you  must  do  it 
soon.  {^Musick  plays. 

Not  yet ;  —  no  dance :  —  thus  change  I  like  the  moon. 
King.  Will  you  not  dance  ?  How  come  you  thus 

estrang'd  ? 
Ros.   You  took  the  moon  at  full ;  but  now  she's 

chang'd. 
King.   Yet  still  she  is  the  moon,  and  I  the  man. 
The  musick  plays ;  vouchsafe  some  motion  to  it. 
Ros.   Our  ears  vouchsafe  it. 

King.  But  your  legs  should  do  it. 

Ros.   Since  you  are  strangers,  and  come  here  by 
chance. 
We'll  not  be  nice  :  take  hands  ;  —  we  will  not  dance. 
King.   Why  take  we  hands  then  ? 
Ros.  Only  to  part  friends  :  — 

Court'sy,  sweet  hearts  ;  and  so  the  measure  ends. 
King.   More  measure  of  this  measure;  be  not  nice. 
Ros.   We  can  afford  no  more  at  such  a  price. 
King.    Prize  you  yourselves;    What   buys   your 

company  ? 
Ros.   Your  absence  only. 

King.  That  can  never  be. 

Ros.   Then  cannot  we  be  bought :  and  so  adieu  ; 
Twice  to  your  visor,  and  half  once  to  you  ! 

King.   If  you  deny  to  dance,  let's  hold  more  chat. 
Ros.   In  private  then. 

King.  I  am  best  pleas'd  with  that. 

[They  converse  apart. 

Biron.   White-handed  mistress,  one  sweet  word 

with  thee. 
Prin.  Honey,  and  milk,  and  sugar  ;  there  is  three. 
Biron.   Nay  then,  two  treys,  (an  if  you  grow  so 
nice,) 
Metheglin,  wort,  and  malmsey  ;  —  Well  run,  dice. 
There's  half  a  dozen  sweets. 


Pri7i.  Seventh  sweet,  adieu ! 

Since  you  can  cog  ',  I'll  play  no  more  with  you. 
Biron.   One  word  in  secret. 
Prin.  Let  it  not  be  sweet. 

Biron.   Thou  griev'st  my  gall. 
Prin.  Gall?  bitter. 

Biron.  Therefore  meet. 

[  They  converse  apart. 
Dum.   Will  you  vouchsafe  with  me  to  change  a 

word? 
Mar.   Name  it. 
Dum.  Fair  lady,  — 

Mar.  Say  you  so  ?   Fair  lord,  — 

Take  that  for  your  fair  lady. 

Dum.  Please  it  you. 

As  much  in  private,  and  I'll  bid  adieu. 

{They  converse  apart. 
Kath.   What,   was   your   visor   made   without   a 

tongue  ? 
Long.   I  know  the  reason,  lady,  why  you  ask. 
Kath.    O,  for  your  reason  !   quickly,  sir ;   I  long. 
Long.  You  have  a  double  tongue  within  your  mask, 
And  would  afford  my  speechless  visor  half. 

Kath.    Veal,  quoth  the  Dutchman  ;  —  Is  not  veal 

a  calf? 
Long.   A  calf,  fair  lady  ? 

Kath.  No,  a  fair  lord  calf. 

Long.   Let's  part  the  word. 

Kath.  No,  I'll  not  be  your  half. 

Long.    One  word  in  private  with  you,  ere  I  die. 
Kath.    Bleat  softly  then,  the  butcher  hears  you 
cry.  {They  converse  apart. 

Boyet.  The  tongues  of  mocking  damsels  are  as  keen 
As  is  the  razor's  edge  invisible, 
Cutting  a  smaller  hair  than  may  be  seen ; 
Above  the  sense  of  sense  :   so  sensible 
Seemeth  their  conference ;  their  conceits  have  wings, 
Fleeter  than  arrows,  bullets,  wind,  thought,  swifter 
things. . 
Ros.  Not  one  word  more,  my  maids ;  break  off, 

break  off. 

Biron.  By  heaven,  all  dry-beaten  with  pure  scoff ! 

King.  Farewell,  mad  damsels ;  you  have  simple  wits. 

{Exeunt  King,  Lords,  Moth,  Musick,  and 

Attendants. 

Prin.   Twenty  adieus,  my  frozen  Muscovites.  — 

Will  they  not,  think  you,  hang  themselves  to-night  ? 

Or  ever,  but  in  visors,  show  their  faces  ? 
This  pert  Biron  was  out  of  countenance  quite. 
Ros.    O  !  they  were  all  in  lamentable  cases  ! 
The  king  was  weeping-ripe  for  a  good  word. 
Pnn.   Biron  did  swear  himself  out  of  all  suit. 
Mar.    Dumain  was  at  my  service,  and  his  sword  : 
No  point '^i  quoth  I ;  my  servant  straight  was  mute. 
Kath.  Lord  Longaville  said,  I  came  o'er  his  heart ; 
And  trow  you,  what  he  call'd  me  ? 

Prin.  Qualm,  perhaps. 

Kath.   Yes,  in  good  faith. 

Prin.  Go,  sickness  as  thou  art ! 

Ros.    Well,  better  wits  have  worn  plain  statute- 
caps.  3 
But  vrill  you  hear  ?  the  king  is  my  love  sworn. 
Prin.    And  quick  Biron  hath  plighted  faith  to  me. 
Kath.    And  Longaville  was  for  my  service  born. 
Mar.   Dumain  is  mine,  as  sure  as  bark  on  tree. 
Boyet.   Madam,  and  pretty  mistresses,  give  ear  : 
Immediately  they  will  again  be  here 

1  Falsify  dice,  lie. 

2  A  quibble  on  the  French  adverb  of  negation. 

3  Better  wits  may  be  found  among  citizens. 


I 


Scene  II. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


165 


In  their  own  shapes  ;  for  it  can  never  be, 
They  will  digest  this  harsh  indignity. 

PrtJi.   Will  they  return  ? 

Boyet.  They  will,  they  will,  heaven  knows ; 

And  leap  for  joy,  though  they  are  lame  with  blows  : 
Therefore,  change  favours  ♦  ;  and,  when  tliey  repair, 
Blow  like  sweet  roses  in  this  summer  air. 

Prin.   How  blow  ?  how  blow  ?  speak  to  be  un- 
derstood. 

Boyet.    Fair  ladies,  mask'd,  are  roses  in  their  bud  : 
Dismask'd,  their  damask  sweet  commixture  shown, 
Are  angels  vailing  clouds,  or  roses  blown. 

Frin.   Avaunt,  perplexity  !  What  shall  we  do, 
If  they  return  in  their  own  shapes  to  woo  ? 

Bos.    Good  madam,  if  by  me  you'll  be  advis'd, 
Let's  mock  them  still,  as  well  known,  as  disguis'd  : 
Let  us  complain  to  them  what  fools  were  here, 
Disguis'd  like  Muscovites,  in  shapeless  gear ; 
And  wonder,  what  they  were;  and  to  what  end 
Their  shallow  shows,  and  prologue  vilely  penn'd, 
A  nd  their  rough  carriage  so  ridiculous. 
Should  be  presented  at  our  tent  to  us. 

Boyet.  Ladies,  withdraw ;  the  gallants  are  at  hand. 

Prin.    Whip  to  our  tents^  as  roes  run  over  land. 
lExeunt  Princess,  Ros.  Kath.  and  Maria. 

Enter  the  King,  Biron,  Longaville,  and  Dumaik 
in  their  proper  habits. 

King*    Fair  sir,  heaven  save  you  !    WTiere  is  the 
princess? 

Boyet.   Gone  to  her  tent :    Please  it  your  majesty, 
Command  me  any  service  to  her  thither  ? 

King.   That  she  vouchsafe  me  audience  for  one 
word. 

Boyet.   I  will  j  and  so  will  she,  I  know,  my  lord. 

{Exit. 

Biron.   This  fellow  picks  up  wit,  as  pigeons  peas  ; 
And  utters  it  again  when  Jove  doth  please  : 
He  is  wit's  pedler ;  and  retails  his  wares 
At  wakes,  and  wassels  ^,  meetings,  markets,  fairs ; 
He  can  carve  too,  and  lisp :  Why,  this  is  he, 
That  kiss'd  away  his  hand  in  courtesy  j 
Th's  is  the  ape  of  form,  monsieur  the  nice, 
That,  when  he  plays  at  tables,  chides  the  dice 
In  honourable  terms ;  nay,  he  can  sing 
A  mean  '^  most  meanly ;  and,  in  ushering. 
Mend  him  who  can  :   the  ladies  call  him,  sweet ; 
The  stairs,  as  he  treads  on  them,  kiss  his  feet : 
This  is  the  flower  that  smiles  on  every  one. 
To  show  his  teeth  as  white  as  whales'  bone  7  : 
And  consciences,  that  will  not  die  in  debt, 
Pay  him  the  due  of  honey-tongued  Boyet. 

King.   A  blister  on  his  sweet  tongue,  with   my 
heart. 
That  put  Arm  ado's  page  out  of  bis  part ! 

Enter  the  Princess,  ushered  by  Botet  ;   Rosaline, 
Maria,  Katharine,  otuI  Attendants. 
Biron.    See  where  it  comes  !  —  Behaviour,  what 
wert  thou. 
Till  this  man  show'd  thee  ?  and  what  art  thou  now  ? 
King.  All  hail,  sweet  madam,  and  fair  time  of  day ! 
Prin.   Fair,  in  all  hail,  is  foul  as  I  conceivp. 
King.    Construe  my  speeches  better,  if  you  may. 
Prin.   Then  wish  me  better,  I  will  give  you  leave. 
King.  We  came  to  visit  you ;  and  purpose  now 
To  lead  you  to  our  court :  vouchsafe  it  then. 

*  Features,  countenances. 
Rustic  merry-meetings.  "  The  tcuor  in  miuick. 

The  tooth  of  the  horse-whale. 


Prin.  This  field  shall  hold  me;  and  so  hold  your 
vow  : 
Nor  heaven,  nor  I,  delight  in  perjur'd  men. 
King    Rebuke  me  not  for  that  which  you  provoke ; 

The  virtue  of  your  eye  must  break  my  oath. 
Prin.    You   nick-name  virtue:   vice  you  should 
have  spoke ; 
For  virtue's  office  never  breaks  men's  troth. 
Now  by  my  maiden  honour,  yet  as  pure 

As  the  unsullied  lily,  I  protest, 
A  world  of  torments  though  I  should  endure, 

I  would  not  yield  to  be  your  house's  guest : 
So  much  I  hate  a  breaking-cause  to  be 
Of  heavenly  oaths,  vow'd  with  integrity. 
King.   O,  you  have  liv'd  in  desolation  here, 

Unseen,  unvisitcd,  much  to  our  shame. 
Prin.   Not  so,  my  lord  ;  it  is  not  so,  I  swear ; 
We  have  had  pastimes  here,  and  pleasant  game  ; 
A  mess  of  Russians  left  us  but  of  late. 
R^i7ig.    How,  madam  ?  Russians  ? 
Prin.  Ay,  in  truth,  my  lord  ; 

Trim  gallants,  full  of  courtship,  and  of  state. 

Bos.  Madam,  speak  true  :  —  It  is  not  so,  my  lord ; 
My  lady,  (to  the  manner  of  the  days  8,) 
In  courtesy,  gives  undeserving  praise. 
We  four  indeed,  confronted  here  with  four 
In  Russian  habit :   here  they  stay'd  an  hour, 
And  talk'd  apace  ;  and  in  that  hour,  my  lord. 
They  did  not  bless  us  with  one  happy  word. 
I  dare  not  call  them  fools  ;  but  this  I  think. 
When  they  are  thirsty,  fools  would  fain  have  drink. 
Biron.   This  jest  is  dry  to  me  —  Fair,   gentle, 
sweet, 
Your  wit  makes  wise  things  foolish  ;  when  we  greet 
With  eyes  best  seeing  heaven's  fiery  eye, 
By  light  we  lose  light :    Your  capacity 
Is  of  that  nature,  that  to  your  huge  store 
Wise  things  seem  foolish,  and  rich  things  but  poor. 
Bos.   This  proves  you  wise  and  rich  ;  for  in  my 

eye,  — 
Biron.   I  am  a  fool,  and  full  of  poverty. 
Bos.  But  that  you  take  what  doth  to  you  belong. 
It  were  a  fault  to  snatch  words  from  my  tongue. 
Biron.   O,  I  am  yours,  and  all  that  I  possess. 
Bos.   All  the  fool  mine  ? 

Biron.  I  cannot  give  you  less. 

Bos.   Which  of  the  visors  was  it,  that  you  wore  ? 
Biron.  Where  ?  when  ?  what  vizor  ?  why  demand 

you  this  ? 
Bos.   There,  then,  that  vizor ;  that  superfluous 
case. 
That  hid  the  worse,  and  show'd  the  better  face. 
King.  We  are  descried :  they'll  mock   us  now 

downright. 
Dum.   Let  us  confess,  and  turn  it  to  a  jest. 
Pfin.   Amaz'd,  my  lord  ?  Why  looks  your  high- 
ness sad  ? 
Bos.    Help,  hold  his  brows  !  he'll  swoon  !    Why 
look  you  pale  ?  — 
Sea-sick,  1  think,  coming  from  Muscovy. 

Biron.   Thus  pour  the  stars  down  plagues  for 
perjury. 
Can  any  face  of  brass  hold  longer  out  ?  — 
Here  stand  I,  lady ;  dart  thy  skill  at  me ; 

Bruise   me  with  scorn,  confound  me  with  a 
flout; 
Thrust  thy  sharp  wit  quite  through  my  ignorance  ; 
Cut  me  to  pieces  with  thy  keen  conceit ; 

•  After  the  fashion  of  the  times. 
M   3 


[66 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  V. 


And  I  will  wish  thee  never  more  to  dance, 
Nor  never  more  in  Russian  habit  wait. 

0  !  never  will  I  trust  to  speeches  penn'd, 

Nor  to  the  motion  of  a  school-boy's  tongue  ; 
Nor  never  come  in  visor  to  my  friend ; 

Nor  woo  in  rhyme,  like  a  blind  harper's  song  : 
TafFata  phrases,  silken  terms  precise, 

Three-pil'd  hyperboles,  spruce  affectation, 
Figures  pedantical ;  these  summer-flies 

Have  blown  me  full  of  maggot  ostentation  : 

1  do  forswear  them :  and  I  here  protest, 

By  this  white  glove,   (how  white  the  hand, 
heaven  knows!) 
Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  express'd 

In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersey  noes : 
And,  to  begin,  girl,  —  so  heaven  help  me,  la  !  — 
My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  er  flaw. 

Ros.  Sans  sans,  I  pray  you. 

Biron.  Yet  I  have  a  trick 

Of  the  old  rage  :  —  bear  with  me,  I  am  sick ; 
I'll  leave  it  by  degrees.      Soft,  let  us  see ;  — 
Write,  heaven  have  mercy  on  us,  on  those  three ; 
They  are  infected,  in  their  hearts  it  lies ; 
They  have  the  plague,  and  caught  it  of  your  eyes  : 
These  lords  are  visited ;  you  are  not  free, 
For  the  Lord's  tokens  on  you  do  I  see. 

Prin.  No,  they  are  free,  that  gave  these  tokens  to  us. 

Biron.   Our  states  are  forfeit,  seek  not  to  undo  us. 

Ros.   It  is  not  so ;   For  how  can  this  be  true. 
That  you  stand  forfeit,  being  those  that  sue  ? 

Biron.   Peace ;  for  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 

Ros.   Nor  shall  not,  if  I  do  as  I  intend. 

Biron.    Speak  for  yourselves,  my  wit  is  at  an  end. 

King.   Teach  us,   sweet   madam,   for  our  rude 
transgression 
Some  fair  excuse. 

Prin.  The  fairest  is  confession. 

Were  you  not  here,  but  even  now,  disguis'd  ? 

King.   Madam,  I  was. 

Prin.  And  were  you  well  advis'd  ? 

King.   I  was,  fair  madam. 

Prin.  When  you  then  were  here, 

What  did  you  whisper  in  your  lady's  ear  ? 

King.  That  more  than  all  the  world  I  didrespect  her. 

Prin.  When  she  shall  challenge  this,  you  will 
reject  her. 

King.   Upon  mine  honour,  no. 

Prin.  Peace,  peace,  forbear ; 

Your  oath  once  broke,  you  force  9  not  to  forswear. 

King.  Despise  me,  when  I  break  this  oath  of  mine. 

Prin.   I  will ;  and  therefore  keep  it :  —  Rosaline, 
What  did  the  Russian  whisper  in  your  ear  ? 

Ros>  Madam,  he  swore,  that  he  did  hold  me  dear 
As  precious  eye-sight;  and  did  value  me 
Above  this  world :  adding  thereto,  moreover. 
That  he  would  wed  me,  or  else  die  my  lover. 

Prin.  Heaven  give  thee  joy  of  him !  the  noble  lord 
Most  honourably  doth  uphold  his  word. 

King.  What  mean  you,  madam  ?  by  my  life,  my 
troth, 
I  never  swore  this  lady  such  an  oath. 

Ros.  By  heaven  you  did ;  and  to  confirm  it  plain 
You  gave  me  this  :  but  take  it,  sir,  again. 

King.   My  faith,  and  this,  the  princess  I  did  give  ; 
I  knew  her  by  this  jewel  on  her  sleeve. 

Prin.   Pardon  me,  sir,  this  jewel  did  she  wear ; 
And  lord  Biron,  I  thank  him,  is  my  dear :  — 
What ;  will  you  have  me,  or  your  pearl  again  ? 

Biron.   Neither  of  either;   I  remit  both  twain. — 
9  Make  no  difficulty. 


I  see  the  trick  on't ;  —  Here  was  a  consent ', 

(Knowing  aforehand  of  our  merriment,) 

To  dash  it  like  a  Christmas  comedy  : 

Some  carry-tale,some  please-man,  some  slight  zany  ^ , 

Some  mumble-news,   some  trencher-knight,  some 

Dick,  — 
That  smiles  his  cheek  in  years  ;  and  knows  the  trick 
To  make  my  lady  laugh,  when  she's  dispos'd,  — 
Told  our  intents  before  :   which  once  disclos'd, 
Tlie  ladies  did  change  favours ;  and  then  we. 
Following  the  signs,  woo'd  but  the  sign  of  she. 
Now,  to  our  perjury  to  add  more  terror, 
We  are  again  forsworn  ;  in  vnW,  and  error. 
Much  upon  this  it  is :  —  And  might  not  you, 

[To  BOYET. 

Forestal  our  sport,  to  make  us  thus  untrue  ? 
Do  not  you  know  my  lady's  foot  by  the  squire  % 

And  laugh  upon  the  apple  of  her  eye  ? 
And  stand  between  her  back,  sir,  and  the  fire. 

Holding  a  trencher,  jesting  merrily  ? 
You  leer  upon  me,  do  you  ?  there's  an  eye. 
Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword. 

Boyet,  Full  merrily 

Hath  this  brave  manage,  this  career,  been  run. 
Biron.   Lo,  he  is  tilting  straight !   Peace  ;   I  have 
done. 

Enter  Costard. 

Welcome,  pure  wit !  thou  partest  a  fair  fray. 

Cost.   O,  sir,  they  would  know, 
Whether  the  three  worthies  shall  come  in,  or  no. 

Biron.   What,  are  there  but  three? 

Cost.  No,  sir  ;  but  it  is  vara  fine. 

For  every  one  pursents  three. 

Biron.  And  three  times  thrice  is  nir^. 

Cost.   Not  so,  sir ;  under  correction,  sir ;   I  hope, 
it  is  not  so  : 
You  cannot  beg  us,  sir,  I  can  assure  you,  sir ;    we 

know  what  we  know  : 
I  hope,  sir,  three  times  thrice,  sir,  — 

Biron.  Is  not  nine. 

Cost.  Under  correction,  sir,  we  know  whereuntil 
it  doth  amount. 

Biron.   By  Jove,  I  always  took  three  threes  for 
nine. 

Cost.  O,  sir,  it  were  pity  you  should  get  your 
living  by  reckoning,  sir. 

Biron.   How  much  is  it  ? 

Cost.  O,  sir,  the  parties  themselves,  the  actors, 
sir,  will  show  whereuntil  it  doth  amount :  for  ray 
own  part,  I  am,  as  they  say,  but  to  parfect  one 
man,  —  e'en  one  poor  man  ;   Pompion  the  great,  sir. 

Biron.   Art  thou  one  of  the  worthies  ? 

Cost.  It  pleased  them,  to  think  me  worthy  of 
Pompion  the  great :  for  mine  own  part,  I  know  not 
the  degree  of  the  worthy  :  but  I  am  to  stand  for  him. 

Biron.   Go,  bid  them  prepare. 

Cost.   We  will  turn  it  finely  off,  sir ;  we  will  take 
some  care.  {_Exit  Costard. 

King.   Biron,  they  will  shame  us,  let  them  not 
approach. 

Biron.   We  are  shame-proof,  my  lord ;  and  'tis 
some  policy 
To  have  one  show  worse  than  the  king's  and  his 
company. 

King.   I  say,  they  shall  not  come. 

Prin.   Nay,  my  good  lord,  let  me  o'er-rule  you 
now; 
That  sport  best  pleases,  that  doth  least  know  how  : 


I 


2  Buffoon. 


3  Square,  rule. 


Scene  II. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


167 


Where  zeal  strives  to  content,  and  the  contents 
Die  in  the  zeal  of  them  which  it  presents, 
Their  form  confounded  makes  most  form  in  mirth ; 
When  great  things  labouring  perish  in  their  birth. 
Biron.   A  right  description  of  our  sport,  my  lord. 

Enter  Arm  ado. 
Arm.   Anointed,  I  implore  so  much  expence  of 
thy  royal  sweet  breath,  as  will  utter  a  brace  of  words. 
[Arm ADO  converses  mth  the  King,  and  de- 
livers him  a  paper. 
That's  all  one,  my   faii:,  sweet,  honey  monarch  : 
for,  I  protest,  the  schoolmaster  is  exceeding  fantas- 
tical ;  too,   too  vain  ;  too,   too  vain  :    But  we  will 
put  it,  as  they  say,  to  fortuna  delta  guerra.      I  wish 
you  the  peace  of  mind,  most  royal  couplement ! 

[Exit  Armado. 
£ing.   Here  is  like  to  be  a  good  presence  of  wor- 
thies:   He   presents  Hector  of  Troy;    the  swain, 
Pompey  the  great ;  the  parish  curate,  Alexander ; 
Armado's  page,  Hercules  j  the  pedant,  Judas  Ma- 

chabaeus. 
And  if  these  four  worthies  in  their  first  show  thrive. 
These  four  will  change  habits,  and  present  the  other 
five. 
Biron.   There  is  five  in  the  first  show. 
Xing.   You  are  deceiv'd,  'tis  not  so. 
Biron.    The  pedant,   the   braggart,   the   hedge- 
priest,  the  fool,  and  the  boy  :  — 
Abate  a  throw  at  novum  * ;  and  the  whole  world 

again. 
Cannot  pick  out  five  such,  take  each  one  in  his  vein. 
H^ng.  The  ship  is  under  sail,  and  here  she  comes 
amain. 
[Seats  brought/or  the  King,  Princess,  ^c. 

Pageant  of  the  Nine  Worthies. 

Enter  Costard  arm* d for  Pompey. 

Cost.   /  Pompey  am, 

Boyet.  You  lie,  you  are  not  he. 

Cost.   I  Pompey  am, 

Boyet.  With  libbard's  head  on  knee. 

Biron.   Well  said,  old  mocker ;  I  must  needs  be 

friends  with  thee. 
Cost.  7  Pompey  am,  Pompey  sumam'd  the  big,— 
Dum.   Tlie  great. 

Cost.   It  is  great,   sir;  —  Pompey  sumam'd  the 
great  ; 
That  oft  in  f  eld,  vuith  targe  and  shield,  did  make  my 

foe  to  sweat : 
And,  travelling  along  this  coast,  I  here  am  come  by 

chance  ,- 
And  lay  my  arms  before  the  feet  of  this  s^eet  lass  of 

France. 
If  your  ladyship  would  say,  Thanks,  Pompey,  I  had 
done. 
Prin.   Great  thanks,  great  Pompey. 
Cost.  'Tis  not  so  much  worth ;  but,  I  hope,  I  was 
perfect :    I  made  a  little  fault  in  great. 

Biron.  My  hat  to  a  halfpenny,  Pompey  proves 
the  best  worthy. 

Enter  Nathanikl  arm'd,  for  Alexander. 

Nath.  When  in  the  world  I  liv'd,  I  was  the  world's 
comviander, 
£y  cast,  west,  north,  and  toutht  I  spread  my  conquer- 
ing might  : 

*  A  game  with  dice. 


My  'scutcheon  plain  declares,  that  I  am  Alimnder. 

Boyet.  Your  nose  says,  no,  you  are  not ;  for  it 
stands  too  right. 

Prin.  The  conqueror  is  dismay'd  .  Proceed,  good 
Alexander. 

Nath.  When  in  the  world  I  liv'd,  I  was  the  world's 
commander  J  — 

Boyet.  Most  true,  'tis  right ;  you  were  so,  Ali- 
sander. 

Biron.   Pompey  the  great, 

Cost.  Your  servant,  and  Costard. 

Biron.  Take  away  the  conqueror,  take  away  Ali- 
sander. 

Cost.  O,  sir,  [To  Nath.]  you  have  overthrown 
Alisander  the  conqueror !  You  will  be  scraped  out 
of  the  painted  cloth  for  this.  A  conqueror,  and 
afeard  to  speak  !  run  away  for  shame,  Alisander. 
[Nath.  retires.]  There,  an't  shall  please  you  ;  a 
foolish  mild  man  ;  an  honest  man,  look  you,  and 
soon  dash'd  !  He  is  a  marvellous  good  neighbour, 
insooth  ;  and  a  very  good  bowler  :  but,  for  Alisan- 
der, alas,  you  see,  how  'tis ;  —  a  little  o'erparted  : 
—  But  there  are  worthies  a  coming  will  speak  tlieir 
mind  in  some  other  sort. 

Prin.   Stand  aside,  good  Pompey. 

Enter  Holofernes   arm'd,  and  Moth  arm'd,  for 
Hercules. 

Hoi.  Great  Hercules  is  presented  by  this  imp. 
Whose   club   kUl'd   Cerberus,  that   three-headed 
can  us  ; 
And  when  he  was  a  babe,  a  child,  a  shrimp, 

Thus  did  he  strangle  serpents  in  his  manus 
Quoniam,  he  seemeth  in  minority ; 
Ergo,  /  come  with  this  apology.  — 
Keep  some  state  in  thy  exit,  and  vanish. 

[Exit  Moth. 

Hoi.  Judas  I  am,  ycleped  Machabaeus. 

Dum.  Judas  Machabseus  dipt,  is  plain  Judas. 

Hoi.   I  will  not  be  put  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.   Because  thou  hast  no  face. 

Hoi.  What  is  tins? 

Boyet.   A  cittern  head. 

Dum.   The  head  of  a  bodkin. 

Biron.   A  death's  face  in  a  ring. 

Long.  The  face  of  an  old  Roman  coin,  scarce  seen. 

Boyet.   The  pummel  of  Caesar's  faulchion. 

Dum.   The  carv'd-bone  face  on  a  flask. 

Biron.   St.  George's  half-cheek  in  a  brooch. 

Dum.   Ay,  in  a  brooch  of  lead. 

Biron.    Ay,   and   worn  in  the  cap  of  a  tooth- 
drawer: 
And  now,  forward ;  for  we  have  put  thee  in  coun- 
tenance. 

Hoi.   You  have  put  me  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.   False  ;  we  have  given  thee  faces. 

Hoi.   But  you  have  out-fac'd  them  all. 

Biron.   An  thou  wert  a  lion,  we  would  do  so. 

Boyet.   Therefore,  as  he  is,  an  ass,  let  him  go. 

[Exit  HOLOFERKU. 

Enter  Armado  arm'd,  for  Hector. 

Biron.  Hide   thy   head,    Achilles;   here  comes 
Hector  in  arms. 

Dunu   Though  my  mocks  come  home  by  me,  I 
will  now  be  merry. 

ITing.  Hector  was  but  a  Trojan  in  respect  of  this. 

Boyet.   But  is  this  Hector  ? 

Dum.   I  think.  Hector  was  not  so  clean-timber'd. 

Long.   His  leg  is  too  big  for  Hector. 
M  4 


168 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Act  V. 


Dum.   More  calf,  certain. 

Boyel.   No ;  he  is  best  indued  in  the  small. 

Biron.   This  cannot  be  Hector. 

Dum.   He's  a  painter  ;  for  he  makes  faces. 

Arm.  The  armipotcnt  Mars,  of  lances  the  mighty. 
Gave  Hector  a  gift,  — 

Bum.   A  gilt  nutmeg. 

JSiron.    A  lemon. 

Long.   Stuck  with  cloves. 

Dum.   No,  cloven. 

Arm.   Peace! 
Tlie  armipotent  Mars,  of  lances  the  mighty, 

Gave  Hector  a  gift,  the  heir  of  Ilion  ; 
A  man  so  breath'd,  that  certain  he  would  fight,  yea 

From  morn  till  night,  out  of  his  pavilion. 
I  am  that  fiower,  — 

Dum,  That  mint. 

Loiig.  That  columbine. 

Ar7n.   Sweet  lord  Longaville,  rein  thy  tongue. 

Long.  I  must  rather  give  it  the  rein  ;  for  it  runs 
against  Hector. 

Dum.    Ay,  ajid  Hector's  a  greyhound. 

Arm.  The  sweet  war-man  is  dead  ;  sweet  chucks, 
beat  not  the  bones  of  the  buried  :  when  he  breath'd, 
he  was  a  man.  —  But  I  will  forward  with  my  device : 
Sweet  royalty,  [To  the  Princess.]  bestow  on  me  the 
sense  of  hearing.  [Bihon  whispers  Costard. 

Prin.   Speak,  brave  Hector  j  we  are  much  de- 
lighted. 

Arm.   I  do  adore  thy  sweet  grace's  slipper. 

Boyet.   Loves  her  by  the  foot. 

Arm.    This  Hector  far  surmounted  Hannibal,  — 

Cost.  The  party  is  gone,  fellow  Hector,  she  is  gone. 

Arfn.  Dost  thou  infamonize  me  among  poten- 
tates ?  thou  shalt  die. 

Cost.  Then  shall  Hector  be  hanged,  for  Pompey 
that  is  dead  by  him. 

Dum.   Most  rare  Pompey  ! 

Boyet.   Renowned  Pompey ! 

Biron.  Greater  than  great,  great,  great,  great 
Pompey  !   Pompey  the  huge  ! 

Dum.   Hector  trembles. 

Biron.  Pompey  is  mov'd  :  —  More  Ates  ^,  more 
Ates  ;  stir  them  on  !   stir  them  on  ! 

Dum.   Hector  will  challenge  hhn. 

Biron.  Ay,  if  he  have  no  more  man's  blood  in 
him  than  will  sup  a  flea. 

Arm.   By  the  north  pole,  I  do  challenge  thee. 

Cost.  I  will  not  fight  with  a  pole,  like  a  northern 
man  ;  I'll  slash  ;  I'll  do  it  by  the  sword :  —  I  pray 
you,  let  me  borrow  my  arms  again, 

Dum.   Room  for  the  incensed  worthies. 

Enter  Meecade. 

Mer.   Heaven  save  you,  madam  ! 

Prin.   Welcome,  Mercade ; 
But  that  thou  interrupt'st  our  merriment. 

Mer.  I  am  sorry,  madam  ;  for  the  news  I  bring. 
Is  heavy  in  my  tongue.      The  king  your  father  — 

Prin.   Dead,  for  my  life. 

Mer.   Even  so  ;  my  tale  is  told. 

Biron.  Worthies,  away ;  the  scene  begins  to 
cloud. 

Arm.   For  mine  own  part,  I  breathe  free  breath  : 

I  have  seen  the  day  of  wrong  through  the  little  hole 

of  discretion,  and  I  will  right  myself  like  a  soldier. 

[Exeunt  Worthies. 

King.   How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

Prin.   Boyet,  prepare  ;   I  will  away  to-night. 

'•'  Aii.  was  the  goddess  of  discord. 


King.   Madam,  not  so ;   I  do  beseech  you,  stay. 

Prin.    Prepare,  1  say.  —  I  thank  you,  gracious 
lords. 
For  all  your  fair  endeavours  ;  and  entreat, 
Out  of  a  new-sad  soul,  that  you  vouchsafe 
In  your  rich  wisdom,  to  excuse  or  hide. 
The  liberal  ^  opposition  of  our  spirits  : 
If  over-boldly  we  have  borne  ourselves 
In  the  converse  of  breath,  your  gentleness 
Was  guilty  of  it.  —  Farewell,  worthy  lord  ! 
A  heavy  heart  bears  not  an  humble  tongue  : 
Excuse  me  so,  coming  so  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily*  obtain'd. 

King.    The  extreme  parts  of  time  extremely  form 
All  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed  j 
And  often,  at  his  very  loose,  decides 
That  which  long  process  could  not  arbitrate  : 
And  though  the  morning  brow  of  progeny 
Forbid  the  smiling  courtesy  of  love. 
The  holy  suit  which  fain  it  would  convince  ; 
Yet,  since  love's  argument  was  first  on  foot. 
Let  not  the  cloud  of  sorrow  justle  it 
From  what  it  purpos'd ;  since,  to  wail  friends  lost, 
Is  not  by  much  so  wholesome,  profitable. 
As  to  rejoice  at  friends  but  newly  found. 

Prin.  I  understand  you  not;  my  griefs  are  double. 

Biron.   Honest  plain  words  best  pierce  the  ear  of 
grief;  — 
And  by  these  badges  understand  the  king. 
For  your  fair  sakes  have  we  neglected  time, 
Play'd  foul  play  with  our  oaths ;  your  beauty,  ladies. 
Hath  much  deform'd  us,  fashioning  our  humours 
Even  to  the  opposed  end  of  our  intents  : 
And  what  in  us  hath  seem'd  ridiculous,  — 
As  love  is  full  of  unbefitting  strains ; 
All  wanton  as  a  child,  skipping,  and  vain  ; 
Form'd  by  the  eye,  and,  therefore,  like  the  eye 
Full  of  strange  shapes,  of  habits,  and  of  fonns, 
Varying  in  subjects  as  the  eye  doth  roll 
To  every  varied  object  in  his  glance  : 
Which  party-coated  presence  of  loose  love 
Put  on  by  us,  if,  in  your  heavenly  eyes. 
Have  misbecom'd  our  oaths  and  gravities, 
Those  heavenly  eyes,  that  look  into  these  faults. 
Suggested  us  to  make  :   Therefore,  ladies. 
Our  love  being  yours,  the  error  that  love  makes 
Is  likewise  yours :   we  to  ourselves  prove  false. 
By  being  once  false  for  ever  to  be  true 
To  those  that  make  us  both,  —  fair  ladies,  you  : 
And  even  that  falsehood,  in  itself  a  sin, 
Thus  purifies  itself,  and  turns  to  grace. 

Prin.  We  have  receiv'd  your  letters,  full  of  love  j 
Your  favours,  the  embassadors  of  love  ; 
And,  in  our  maiden  council,  rated  them 
At  courtship,  pleasant  jest,  and  courtesy, 
As  bombast,  and  as  lining  to  the  time  : 
But  more  devout  than  this,  in  our  respects, 
Have  we  not  been ;  and  therefore  met  your  loves 
In  their  own  fashion,  like  a  merriment. 

Dum.    Our  letters,  madam,  show'd  much  more 
than  jest. 

Long.    So  did  our  looks. 

Ros.  We  did  not  quote  7  them  so. 

King.   Now,  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  hour. 
Grant  us  your  loves. 

Prin.  A  time,  methinks,  too  short 

To  make  a  world-without-end  bargain  in  : 
No,  no,  my  lord,  your  grace  is  perjur'd  much, 


I 

II 


Free  to  excess. 


Regard. 


Scene  II. 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S  LOST. 


169 


Full  of  dear  guiltiness  ;  and  therefore  this,  — 

If  for  my  love  (as  there  is  no  sucli  cause) 

You  will  do  aught,  this  shall  you  do  for  me : 

Your  oatli  I  will  not  trust ;  but  go  with  speed 

To  some  forlorn  and  naked  hermitage, 

Remote  from  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  ; 

There  stay,  until  the  twelve  celestial  signs 

Have  brought  about  their  annual  reckoning  ; 

If  this  austere  insociable  life 

Change  not  your  offer  made  in  heat  of  blood ; 

If  frosts,  and  fasts,  hard  lodging,  and  thin  weeds  8, 

Nip  not  the  gaudy  blossoms  of  your  love, 

But  that  it  bear  this  trial,  and  last  love  ; 

Then,  at  the  expiration  of  the  year. 

Come  challenge,  challenge  me  by  these  deserts. 

And,  by  this  virgin  palm,  now  kissing  tliine, 

I  will  be  thine ;  and,  till  that  instant,  shut 

My  woeful  self  up  in  a  mourning  house  ; 

Raining  the  tears  of  lamentation. 

For  the  remembrance  of  my  father's  death. 

If  tliis  thou  do  deny,  let  our  hands  part ; 

Neither  intitled  in  the  other's  heart. 

£ing.   If  this,  or  more  than  this,  I  would  deny, 

To  flatter  up  these  powers  of  mine  with  rest. 
The  sudden  hand  of  death  close  up  mine  eye  ! 

Hence  ever  then  my  heart  is  in  thy  breast. 

Biron.  And  what  to  me,  my  love?  and  what  to 
me  ? 

Ros.  You  must  be  purged  too,  your  sins  are  rank; 
You  are  attaint  with  faults  and  perjury ; 
Therefore,  if  you  my  favour  mean  to  get, 
A  twelvemonth  shall  you  spend,  and  never  rest, 
But  seek  the  weary  beds  of  people  sick. 

Dum.  But  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  but  what  to  me? 

Kath.    A  Avife! — A  beard,  fair  health,  and  ho- 
nesty ; 
With  three-fold  love  I  wish  you  all  these  three. 

Dum.   O,  shall  I  say,  I  thank  you,  gentle  wife  ? 

Kath.  Not  so,  my  lord ; — a  twelvemonth  and  a  day 
I'll  mark  no  words  that  smooth-fac'd  wooers  say  : 
Come  when  the  king  doth  to  my  lady  come, 
Then,  if  I  have  much  love,  I'll  give  you  some. 

Dum,  I'll  serve  thee  true  and  faithfully  till  then. 

Kath.  Yet  swear  not,  lest  you  be  forsworn  again. 

Long.   What  says  Maria  ? 

Mar.  At  the  twelvemonth's  end, 

I'll  change  my  black  gown  for  a  faithful  friend. 

Long.  I'll  stay  with  patience ;  but  the  time  is  long. 

Mar.   The  liker  you  ;  few  taller  are  so  young. 

Biron.   Studies  my  lady  ?  mistress,  look  on  me. 
Behold  the  window  of  my  heart,  mine  eye. 
What  humble  suit  attends  thy  answer  there  ; 
Impose  some  service  on  me  for  thy  love. 

Ros,   Oft  have  I  heard  of  you,  my  lord  Biron, 
Before  I  saw  you  :  and  the  world's  large  tongue 
Proclaims  you  for  a  man  replete  with  mocks ; 
Full  of  comparisons  and  wounding  flouts  ; 
Which  you  on  all  estates  will  execute. 
That  He  within  the  mercy  of  your  wit : 
To  weed  this  wormwood  from  your  fruitful  brain ; 
And,  therewithal,  to  win  me,  if  you  please, 
(Without  the  which  I  am  not  to  be  won,) 
You  shall  this  twelvemonth  term  from  day  to  day 
Visit  the  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 
With  groaning  wretches  ;  and  your  task  shall  be, 
With  all  the  fierce  endeavour  of  your  wit, 
To  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile. 

Biron.   To  move  wild  laughter  in  the  throat  of 
death? 

«  Clothing. 


It  cannot  be  ;  it  is  impossible : 
Mirth  cannot  move  a  soul  in  agony. 

Ros.  Why,  that's  the  way  to  choke  a  gibing  spirit, 
Whose  influence  is  begot  of  that  loose  grace, 
Which  shallow  laughing  hearers  give  to  fools  : 
A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue 
Of  him  that  makes  it :   then,  if  sickly  ears, 
Deaf'd    with    the    clamours    of   their   own    dear 

groans. 
Will  hear  your  idle  scorns,  continue  then. 
And  I  will  have  you,  and  that  fault  withal ; 
But,  if  they  will  not,  throw  away  that  spirit, 
And  I  shall  find  you  empty  of  that  fault. 
Right  joyful  of  your  reformation. 

Biron,   A  twelvemonth?  well,  befal  what  will 
befal, 
I'll  jest  a  twelvemonth  in  an  hospital. 

Prin.   Ay,  sweet  my  lord :    and  so  I  take  my 
leave.  [To  the  Kino. 

King.  No,  madam  :  we  will  bring  you  on  your 
way. 

Biron.  Our  wooing  doth  not  end  like  an  old  play  j 
Jack  hath  not  Jill :  these  ladies'  courtesy 
Might  well  have  made  our  sport  a  comedy. 

King,  Come,  sir,  it  wants  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
And  then  'twill  end. 

Biron.  That's  too  long  for  a  play. 

Enter  Akmado. 

jlrm.   Sweet  majesty,  vouchsafe  me,  — 

Prin.  Was  not  that  Hector  ? 

Dum,   The  worthy  knight  of  Troy. 

Arm,  I  vrill  kiss  thy  royal  finger  and  take  leave : 
I  am  a  votary  ;  I  have  vowed  to  Jaquenetta  to  hold 
the  plough  for  her  sweet  love  three  years.  But, 
most  esteemed  greatness,  will  you  hear  the  dialogue 
that  the  two  learned  men  have  compiled,  in  praise 
of  the  owl  and  the  cuckoo  ?  it  should  have  followed 
in  the  end  of  our  show. 

King.   Call  them  forth  quickly,  we  will  do  so. 

Arm,   Holla!  approach. 

Enter  Holoferkes,  Nathakiel,  Moth,  Costard, 

and  others. 
This  side  is  Hieras,  winter ;  this  Ver,  the  spring ; 
the  one  maintain'd  by  the  owl,  the  other  by  the 
cuckoo.     Ver,  begin. 

SONG. 

I. 

Spring.    IVlien  daisies  yied,  and  violets  biiie, 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white^ 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue. 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  ddight. 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree. 
Mocks  married  men,  for  thtis  sings  he, 

Cuckoo  ; 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  —  0  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  I 

II. 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straxia. 
And  merry  larks  are  plotighmcn's  clocks. 

When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daws. 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks, 

The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 

Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  he, 
Cuckoo ; 


170 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


jVct  v. 


Cuckoo,  cuckoo  —  0  word  offeaVf 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  ! 

III. 

Winter.  IVlien  icicles  hang  by  the  wall. 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail. 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall. 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 
When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  befoul, 
IVien  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who  ; 
Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  ^  the  pot. 

»  Scum.      ^ 


IV. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow. 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow. 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  '  hiss  in  tlie  bowl. 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who  ; 
Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  dath  keel  the  pot. 

Arm.   The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  after  the 
songs  of  Apollo.     You,  that  way ;  we,  this  way. 

\E.xeunt. 
'  Wild  apples. 


I 


ry^ 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


o,  I 

.N,    / 


Suitors  to  Portia. 


Old  GoBBO,  Father  to  Launcelot. 

Salerio,  a  Messenger  from  Venice. 

Leonardo,  Servant  to  Bassanio. 

Balthazar,  "|    _  .    ^    t»    ^' 

c  J-  Servants  to  Portia. 

Stephano,      J 


Duke  of  Venice 

Prince  of  Morocco 

Prince  of  Arrago 

ANTOXio,  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Bassanio,  his  Friend. 

Salanio,       ~j 

Salarino,      I-  Friends  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

Gratiano,   J 

Lorenzo,  in  love  with  Jessicj. 

Shylock,  a  Jew. 

Tubal,  a  Jew,  his  Fi-iend. 

Launcelot  Gobbo,  a  Clovm,  Servant  to  Shylock. 

SCENE,  partly  at  Venice,  and  partly  at  Belmont,  the  Seat  of  Portia,  on  the  Continent 


Portia,  a  rich  Heiress. 
Nerissa,  her  Waiting-Maid. 
Jessica,  Daughter  to  Shylock. 

Magnificoes  (f  Venice,  Officers  of  the  Court  ofJuLSticei 
Gaoler,  Servants,  and  other  Attendants. 


Ol-VB   all    TOOK   HAMI).   BA33ANIO  ;    FARB   YOO    WEI,!,! 
.>RIKVB   NOT   TDiT   1    AM    fAULRN    TO   THIS    FOR  TOD. 


MERCHANT    OF    VENICE, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  Venice.      ^  Street. 
Enter  Antonio,  Salarino,  nnd  Salanio. 

Ant.    In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad ; 
It  wearies  me  ;  you  say  it  wearies  you  ; 
But  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  'tis  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn  ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me. 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself. 

Salar.   Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean  ; 
There,  where  your  argosies '  with  portly  sail,  — 
Like  signiors  and  rich  burghers  of  the  flood. 
Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, — 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers, 
That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 

Saliin.    Kelieve  me,  sir,  had  I  such  venture  forth, 
Tlie  better  })art  of  my  affections  would 
He  with  my  hopes  abroad.      I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass,  to  know  where  sits  the  wind  ; 
Peering  in  maps,  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads; 
And  every  object,  that  might  make  me  fear 
^Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt. 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Salar.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth, 

Would  blow  me  to  an  agxie,  when  I  thought 
What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 
I  should  not  see  tlie  sandy  hour-glass  run, 
'  Ships  of  large  Imrden. 


But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats  ; 
And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew  dock'd  in  sand, 
Vailing*  her  high-top  lower  than  her  ribs, 
To  kiss  her  burial.      Should  I  go  to  church. 
And  see  the  holy  edifice  of  stone. 
And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rock-;  ? 
Which  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side, 
Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream  ; 
Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks; 
And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this, 
And  now  worth  nothing  !   Shall  I  have  the  thought 
To  think  on  this  ;  and  shall  I  lack  tJie  thought, 
j  That  such  a  thing,  bechanc'd,  would  make  me  sad? 
But,  tell  not  me;  I  know,  Antonio 
Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandize. 

Ant.    Believe  me,  no  :    I  thank  my  fortune  for  it. 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted. 
Nor  to  one  place  ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year  : 
Therefore,  my  merchandize  makes  me  not  sad. 

Satan.   Why  then  you  are  in  love. 

Ant.  Fyc,  fye  ! 

SfUan.     Not  in  love  neither?  Then  let's  say,  you 
are  sad. 
Because  you  are  not  merry  :   and  'twere  as  easy 
For  you,  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say.  you  are  merry, 
Because  you  are  not  sad.  Now,  by  two-headed  Janus. 
Nature  hath  fram'd  strange  fellows  in  her  time  : 
Some  that  will  evenriore  peep  through  their  eyes, 
And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bag-piper; 
I  *  Ix.wcring. 


172 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  1. 


And  other  of  such  vinegar  aspect, 

That  they'll  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 

Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Lorenzo,  and  Gratiano. 

Solan.   Here  comes   Bassanio,  your  most  noble 
kinsman , 
Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo  :    Fare  you  well ; 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Snlar.  I  would  have  staid  till  I  had  made  you  merry, 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant.   Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it,  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  the  occasion  to  depart. 

Salar.    Good  morrow,  my  good  lords. 

Bass.    Good  signiors  both,  when  shall  we  laugh  ? 
Say,  when  ? 
You  grow  exceeding  strange  :    Must  it  be  so  ? 

Salar.  We'll  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 
[Exeunt  Salarino  and  Salanio. 

Lor.   My  lord    Bassanio,  since  you  have  found 
Antonio, 
We  two  will  leave  you  :  but,  at  dinner-time, 
I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass.    I  will  not  fail  you. 

Gra.   You  look  not  well,  signior  Antonio  ; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world  : 
They  lose  it,  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  chang'd. 

Ant.  I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratiano  ; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part, 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  Fool : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come ; 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine. 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes  ?  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ?   1  tell  thee  what,  Antonio,  — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks  ; 
There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle,  like  a  standing  pond  ; 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  3  entertain. 
With  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 
As  who  should  say,  /  am  sir  Oracle, 
And,  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark  ! 
O,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these, 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise, 
For  saying  nothing ;  who,  I  am  very  sure. 
If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  dam  those  ears. 
Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers,  fools. 
I'll  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time  : 
But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait, 
For  this  fool's  gudgeon,  this  opinion.  — 
Come,  good  Lorenzo :  —  Fare  ye  well,  a  while ; 
I'll  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

Lor.  Well,  we  will  leave  you  then  till  dinner-time  : 
I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men. 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak. 

Gra.  Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years  more. 
Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  own  tongue. 

Ant.   Farewell :     I'll  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear. 
[Exeunt  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo. 

Bass.  Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing, 
more  than  any  man  in  all  Venice  :  His  reasons  are 
as  two  grains  of  wheat  hid  in  two  bushels  of  chaff; 

3  Obstinate  silence 


I  you  shall  seek  all  day  ere  you  find  them  :   and,  when 
you  have  them,  they  are  not  worth  the  search. 

Ant.   Well ;  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  this  same 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage, 
That  you  to-day  promis'd  to  tell  me  of? 

Bass.   'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate. 
By  something  showing  a  more  swelling  port 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance  ; 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridg'd 
From  such  a  noble  rate ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is,  to  come  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts. 
Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gag'd  :    To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most,  in  money,  and  in  love ; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburthen  all  my  plots,  and  purposes. 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Ant.   I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it; 
And,  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 
Within  the  eye  of  honour,  be  assured. 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means, 
Lie  all  unlock'd  to  your  occasions. 

Bass.  In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one  shaft] 
I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch. 
To  find  the  other  forth  ;  and  by  advent'ring  both, 
I  oft  found  both  :   I  urge  this  childhood  proof, 
Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 
I  owe  you  much  ;  and,  like  a  wilful  youth. 
That  which  I  owe  is  lost :  but  if  you  please 
To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self  way 
Which  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt, 
As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both. 
Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again. 
And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first. 

Ant.   You  know  me  well ;  and  herein  spend  but 
time, 
To  wand  about  my  love  with  circumstance ; 
And,  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong, 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost. 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have : 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do, 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done, 
And  I  am  prest  "*  unto  it :  therefore,  speak. 

Bass.   In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left. 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word. 
Of  wond'rous  virtues  ;  sometimes^  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages  : 
Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth  ; 
For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors  :  and  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  terajjles  like  a  golden  fleece  ; 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont,  Colchos'  strand. 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

0  my  Antonio,  had  I  but  the  means 
To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them, 

1  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift. 
That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate. 

Ant.  Thou  know'st,  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at  sea; 
Nor  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum :   therefore  go  forth. 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do ; 
That  shall  be  rack'd,  even  to  the  uttermost, 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia. 
Go  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 

■•  Ready.  *  Formerly. 


SCKNE  II. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


173 


Where  money  is ;  and  I  no  question  make, 

To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II Belmont.  A Roo in  in  Fortia,' s House. 

Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

For.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is 
a-wcary  of  this  great  world. 

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  mi- 
series were  in  the  same  abundance  as  your  good 
fortunes  are  :  And  yet,  for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as 
sick,  that  surfeit  with  too  much,  as  they  that  starve 
with  nothing :  It  is  no  mean  happiness,  therefore, 
to  be  seated  in  the  mean ;  superfluity  comes  sooner 
by  white  hairs,  but  competency  lives  longer. 

For.    Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Ner.   They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 

For.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were 
good  to  do,  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor 
men's  cottages,  princes'  palaces.  It  is  a  good  divine 
that  follows  his  own  instructions  :  I  can  easier  teach 
twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of 
the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own  teaching.  But  this 
reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to  choose  me  a  hus- 
l)and  :  —  O  me,  the  word  choose !  I  rilay  neither 
choose  whom  I  would,  nor  refuse  whom  I  dislike  ; 

^   \<   thp    i.jl)    r.f^<i    i:.n«,.    rini.gUf^j-   f;uj|]'fl    hy  thpwjll 

of  :i  dead  father :  —  Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that! 
cannot  choose  one,  nor  refuse  none  ? 

Nor.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous ;  and  holy 
Jen,  at  tlieir  death,  have  good  inspirations  ;  there- 
fore, the  lottery,  that  he  hath  devised  in  these  three 
chests,  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead,  (whereof  who 
chooses  his  meaning,  chooses  you,)  will,  no  doubt, 
never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly,  but  one  who  you 
shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is  there  in 
your  aflfection  towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors 
that  are  already  come  ? 

For.  I  pray  thee,  over-name  them  ;  and  as  thou 
namest  them,  I  will  describe  them  ;  and,  according 
to  my  description,  level  at  my  afiection. 

Ner.   First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 
For.    Ay,  that's  a  colt,  indeed,  for  he  doth  nothing 
but  talk  of  his  horse ;  and  he  makes  it  a  great  ap- 
propriation to  his  own  good  parts,  that  he  can  shoe 
him  liimself. 

Ner.  Then,  is  there  the  county  ^  Palatine. 
For.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown  ;  as  who  should 
say.  An  if  you  xvill  not  have  me,  choose  j  he  hears 
merry  tales,  and  smiles  not :  I  fear  he  will  prove 
the  weeping  philosopher  when  he  grows  old,  being 
so  full  of  unmannerly  sadness  in  his  youth.  I  had 
rather  be  married  to  a  death's  head  with  a  bone  in 
his  mouth,  than  to  either  of  these.  Heaven  defend 
me  from  these  two  ! 

iVt'r.  How  say  you  by  the  French  lord,  monsieur 
Le  Bon? 

For.  Heaven  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him 
pass  for  a  man.  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a 
mocker  :  But,  he  !  why,  he  hath  a  horse  better  than 
the  Neapolitan's;  a  better  bad  habit  of  frowning 
than  the  count  Palatine  :  he  is  every  man  in  no  man : 
if  a  throstle  sing,  he  falls  straight  a  capering;  he 
will  fence  with  his  own  shadow  ;  If  I  should  marry 
him,  I  should  marry  twenty  husbands  :  If  he  would 
despise  me,  I  would  forgive  him  ;  for  if  he  love  me 
to  matlness,  I  shall  never  requite  him. 

Ner.  What  say  you  then  to  Faulconbridge,  tlie 
young  baron  of  England  ? 


For.  You  know,  I  say  nothing  to  him ;  for  he 
understands  not  me,  nor  I  him :  he  hath  neither 
Latin,  French,  nor  Italian  ;  and  you  will  come  into 
the  court  and  swear,  that  I  have  a  poor  penny  wortli 
in  the  English.  He  is  a  proper  man's  picture  ;  But, 
alas  !  who  can  converse  with  a  dumb  show  ?  How 
oddly  he  is  suited !  I  think  he  bought  his  doublet 
in  Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in 
Germany,  and  his  behaviour  every  where. 

Ner.  What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,  his 
neighbour  ? 

For.  That  he  hath  a  neighbourly  charity  in  him  ; 
for  he  borrowed  a  box  of  the  ear  of  the  Englishman, 
and  swore  he  would  pay  him  again,  when  he  was 
able  :  I  think,  the  Frenchman  became  liis  surety, 
and  sealed  under  for  another. 

Ner.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  duke 
of  Saxony's  nephew  ? 

For.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is 
sober  ;  and  most  vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  is 
drunk  :  when  he  is  best,  he  is  a  little  worse  than  a 
man ;  and  when  he  is  worst,  he  is  little  better  than 
a  beast :  an  the  worst  fall  that  ever  fell,  I  hope,  I 
shall  make  shift  to  go  without  him. 

Ner.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the 
right  casket,  you  should  refuse  to  perform  your 
father's  will,  if  you  should  refuse  to  accept  him. 

For.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee, 
set  a  deep  glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary 
casket ;  for,  if  the  devil  be  within,  and  that  tempt- 
ation without,  I  know  he  will  choose  it.  I  will  do 
any  thing,  Nerissa,  ere  I  will  be  married  to  a  spunge. 

Ner.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  tlie  having  any  of 
these  lords;  they  have  acquainted  me  with  their 
determinations  :  which  is  indeed,  to  return  to  their 
home,  and  to  trouble  you  with  no  more  suit ;  unless 
you  may  be  won  by  some  other  sort  than  your  fa- 
ther's imposition,  depending  on  the  caskets. 

For.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die 
as  chaste  as  Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  man- 
ner of  my  father's  will :  I  am  glad  tliis  parcel  of 
wooers  are  so  reasonable  ;  for  there  is  not  one  among 
them  but  I  dote  on  his  very  absence,  and  I  wish  them 
a  fair  departure. 

Ner.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's 
time,  a  Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a  soldier,  that  came 
hither  in  company  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

For.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio ;  as  I  think,  so 
was  he  called. 

Ner.  True,  madam ;  he  of  all  the  men  that  ever 
my  foolish  eyes  looked  upon,  was  tlie  best  deserving 
a  fair  lady. 

For.  I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  remember  him 
worthy  of  thy  praise.  —  How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam, 
to  take  their  leave  :  and  there  is  a  fore-runner  come 
from  a  fifth,  the  prince  of  Morocco ;  who  brings 
word,  the  prince,  his  master,  will  be  here  to-night. 

For.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so 
good  heart  as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I 
should  be  glad  of  his  approach  :  if  he  have  the  con- 
dition 7  of  a  saint,  and  the  complexion  of  a  devil,  I 
had  rather  he  should  shrive  me  than  wive  me. 
Come,  Nerissa.  —  Sirrah,  go  before.  —  Whiles  we 
shut  the  gate  upon  one  wooer,  another  knocks  at 
the  door.  [Exeunt. 

7  Temper,  qualities. 


174 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  I.   Scene  III. 


SCENE  III.  —  Venice.     A  Public  Place. 

Enter  Bassanio  and  Shylock. 

Sky.   Three  thousand  ducats,  —  well. 

Bass.   Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Shy.    For  three  months,  —  well. 

Bass.  For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio  shall 
be  bound. 

Shy.  Antonio  shall  become  bound,  —  well. 

Bass.  May  you  stead  me  ?  Will  you  pleasure  me  ? 
Shall  I  know  your  answer  ? 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats,  for  three  months, 
and  Antonio  bound. 

Bass.  Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy.   Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  con- 
trary ? 

Shy.  Ho,  no,  no,  no,  no  ;  —  my  meaning,  in  say- 
ing he  is  a  good  man,  is  to  have  you  understand  me, 
that  he  is  sufficient:  yet  his  means  are  in  supposition ; 
he  hath  an  argosy  bound  to  Tripolis,  another  to  the 
Indies ;   I  understand  moreover  upon  the  Rialto,  he 

hath  a  third  at  Mexico,  a  fourth  for  England, 

and  other  ventures  he  hath,  squander'd  abroad : 
But  ships  are  but  boards,  sailors  but  men ;  there  be 
land-rats,  and  water-rats,  water-thieves,  and  land- 
thieves  ;  I  mean,  pirates  ;  and  then,  there  is  the 
peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks  :  The  man  is,  not- 
withstanding, sufficient ;  —  three  thousand  ducats  ; 

—  I  think  I  may  take  his  bond. 
Bass.    Be  assured  you  may. 

Shy.  I  will  be  assured,  I  may  ;  and,  that  I  may 
be  assured,  1  will  bethink  me :  May  I  speak  with 
Antonio  ? 

Bass.  If  it  please  you  to  dine  with* us. 

Shy.  Yes,  to  smell  pork :  I  will  buy  with  you, 
sell  with  you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you,  and  so 
following  ;  but  I  will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with 
you,  nor  pray  with  you.   What  news  on  the  Rialto  ? 

—  Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Antonio. 

^055.    This  is  signior  Antonio. 

Shy.    {Aside.']    How  like  a  fawning  publican  he 
looks ! 
I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian  : 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity. 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation  ;  and  he  rails, 
Even  there  where  mercliants  most  do  congregate. 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well  won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest :    Cursed  be  my  tribe. 
If  I  forgive  him  ! 

Bass.  Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 

Shy.   I  am  debating  of  my  present  store  ; 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats  :   What  of  that  ? 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe. 
Will  furnish  me :    But  soft ;   How  many  months 
Do  you  desire  ?  —  Rest  you  fair,  good  signior ; 

[To  Antokio. 
Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 

Ant.    Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow, 
By  taking,  nor  by  giving  of  excess, 
Yet  to  supply  the  ripe  wants ^  of  my  friend, 
8  Wants  which  admit  no  longer  delay. 


I'll  break  a  custom :  —  Is  he  yet  possess'd  9, 
How  much  you  would? 

Shy.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant.  And  for  three  months. 

Shy.  I  had  forgot, — three  months,  you  told  me  so. 

Well  then,  your  bond ;  and,  let  me  see, But 

hear  you  ; 
Methought,  you  said,  you  neither  lend  nor  borrow. 
Upon  advantage. 

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy.   Three  thousand  ducats, —  'tis  a  good  round 
sum. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the  rate. 
Ant.  Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholden  to  you  ? 
Shy.   Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft. 
In  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  monies,  and  my  usances '  : 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug  ; 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe  : 
You  call  me  —  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog. 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine. 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help  : 
Go  to  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
Shylock,  we  would  have  monies  ;  You  say  so  ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard. 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold ;  monies  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you  ?  Should  I  not  say. 
Hath  a  dog  money  ?   is  it  possible, 
A  cur  caji  lend  three  thousand  ducats  9  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key. 
With  'bated  breath,  and  whispering  humbleness, 

Say  this, 

Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last ; 
You  spurned  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  calVd  me  —  dog;  and  for  these  courtesies 
Ell  lend  you  thus  much  monies. 

Ant.    I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again. 
To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friends  ;  (for  when  did  friendship  take 
A  breed  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ?) 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy  ; 
Who  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love, 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stain'd  me  with. 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  monies,  and  you'll  not  hear  me 
This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Ant.   This  were  kindness. 

Shy.  This  kindness  will  I  show] 

Go  with  me  to  a  notary,  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport. 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day. 
In  such  a  place,  such  sum,  or  sums,  as  are 
Express'd  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

Ant.   Content,  in  faith;   I'll  seal  to  such  a  bond 
And  say,  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bass.   You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me, 
I'll  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Ant.   Why,  fear  not,  man  :    I  will  not  forfeit  it ; 
Within  these  two  months,  that's  a  month  before 

»  Informed.  '  Interest. 


Act  II.    Scene  I. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


175 


This  bond  expires,  I  do  expect  return 

Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  tliis  bond. 

Shy.  O  father  Abraham,  what  these  Christians  are; 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  tliem  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others  !    Pray  you,  tell  me  this  ; 
If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 
A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man, 
Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither, 
As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.      I  say 
1  o  buy  his  favour,  I  extend  this  friendship  : 
If  he  will  take  it,  so  ;  if  not,  adieu  ; 
And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you,  wrong  me  not. 


Ant.   Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Shy.    Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notary's ; 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond, 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight; 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave ;  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian  ;  he  grows  kind. 

Bass.   I  like  not  fair  terms,  and  a  villain's  mind. 

Ant.   Come  on  :   in  tliis  there  can  be  no  dismay, 
My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day. 

[^Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  Belmont.      A  Room  in  Portia's 
House. 

Flourish  of  Comets.     Enter  the  Prince  of  Morocco 

and  his  Train;  Portia,  Nkrissa,  and  other  of  her 

Attendants. 

Mor.   Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion. 
The  shadow'd  livery  of  the  burnish'd  sun, 
I'o  whom  I  am  a  neighbour,  and  near  bred. 
Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  born, 
Where  Phoebus'  fire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles, 
And  let  us  make  incision  "^  for  your  love. 
To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his,  or  mine. 
I  tell  thee,  lady,  this  aspj^ct  of  mine 
Hath  fear'd  3  the  valiant ;  by  my  love,  I  swear, 
The  best  regarded  virgins  of  our  clime 
Have  lov'd  it  too  :    I  would  not  change  this  hue. 
Except  to  steal  your  thoughts,  my  gentle  queen. 

For.      In  terms  of  choice  I  am  not  solely  led 
By  nice  direction  of  a  maiden's  eyes  : 
Besides,  the  lottery  of  my  destiny 
Bars  me  the  right  of  voluntary  choosing : 
But,  if  my  father  had  not  scanted  me, 
And  hedg'd  me  by  his  wit,  to  yield  myself 
His  wife,  who  wins  me  by  that  means  I  told  you. 
Yourself,  renowned  prince,  then  stood  as  fair. 
As  any  comer  I  have  look'd  on  yet. 
For  my  affection. 

Mor.  Even  for  that  I  thank  you ; 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  lead  me  to  the  caskets. 
To  try  my  fortune.      By  this  scimitar,  — 
'ITiat  slew  the  Sophy,  and  a  Persian  prince. 
That  won  three  fields  of  sultan  Solyman,  — 
I  would  out-stare  the  sternest  eyes  that  look, 
Out-brave  the  heart  most  daring  on  the  earth, 
Pluck  the  young  sucking  cubs  from  the  she  bear, 
Yt-a,  mock  tiie  lion  when  he  roars  for  prey, 
To  win  thee,  lady  :    But,  alas  the  while ! 
If  Hercules,  and  Lichas,  play  at  dice 
Which  is  the  better  man,  the  greater  throw 
May  turn  by  fortune  from  the  weaker  hand  : 
So  is  Alcides  beaten  by  his  page  ; 
And  so  may  I,  blind  fortune  leading  me. 
Miss  that  which  one  unworthier  may  attain. 
And  die  with  grieving. 

Por.  You  must  take  your  chance ; 

And  either  not  attempt  to  clioose  at  all, 
Or  swear,  before  you  choose, — if  you  choose  wrong, 

'  AlUiMon  to  the  Eastern  custom  for  lovers  to  testify  their 
paMiiin  hy  cutting  themselves  in  their  mislrcsscs'  sight 
3   Terrified. 


Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward 

In  way  of  marriage  ;  therefore  be  advis'd. 

Mor.   Nor  will  not ;  come,  bring  me  unto  my 

chance. 
Por.   First,  forward  to  the  temple ;  after  dinner 
Your  hazard  shall  be  made. 

Mor.  Good  fortune  then  !    [Cornets. 

To  make  me  bless't  or  cursed'st  among  men. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  LAUNCEtoT  Gobbo. 

Laun.  Certainly  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to 
run  from  this  Jew,  my  master :  The  fiend  is  at 
mine  elbow ;  and  tempts  me,  saying  to  me,  Gobbo, 
Launcelot  Gobbo,  good  Launcelot,  or  good  Gobbo, 
or  good  Launcelot  Gobbo,  use  your  legs,  take  the 
start,  run  away :  My  conscience  says,  —  no ;  take 
heed,  honest  Launcelot ,-  take  lieed,  honest  Gobbo  ; 
or,  as  aforesaid,  honest  Launcelot  Gobbo ;  do  not 
run;  scorn  running  with  thy  heels:  Well,  tlie  most 
courageous  fiend  bids  me  pack ;  via !  says  the 
fiend ;  away !  says  the  fiend ;  rouse  up  a  brave 
mind,  says  the  fiend,  a7id  run.  Well,  my  conscience, 
hanging  about  the  neck  of  my  heart,  says  very 
wisely  to  me,  —  my  honest  friend  Launcelot,  being 
an  honest  m,an^s  son,  budge  not ;  budge,  says  the 
fiend ;  budge  not,  says  my  conscience  :  Conscience, 
say  I,  you  counsel  well ;  fiend,  say  I,  you  counsel 
well :  to  be  ruled  by  my  conscience,  I  should  stay 
with  the  Jew  my  master,  who  is  a  kind  of  devil ; 
and,  to  run  away  from  the  Jew,  I  should  be  ruled 
by  the  fiend,  who,  saving  your  reverence,  is  tlie 
devil  himself:  Certainly,  the  Jew  is  tlie  very  devil 
incarnation  ;  and,  in  my  conscience,  my  conscience 
is  but  a  kind  of  hard  conscience,  to  offer  to  counsel 
me  to  stay  with  the  Jew  :  The  fiend  gives  tlie  more 
friendly  counsel :  I  will  run,  fiend ;  my  heels  are 
at  your  commandment,  I  will  run. 

Enter  old  Gobbo,  unlh  a  Basket. 

Gob.  Master,  young  man,  you,  I  pray  you; 
which  is  the  way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Lau7i.  [Aside.]  O  heavens,  tliis  is  my  true-be- 
gotten father  !  who,  being  more  than  sand-blind, 
high-gravel  blind,  knows  mc  not :  —  I  w  ill  try  con- 
clusions *  with  him. 

Gob.  Master,  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you, 
which  is  the  way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

*  Experiments. 


176 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  II. 


Laun.  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand,  at  the  next 
turning,  but,  at  the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your 
left ;  marjy,  at  tlie  very  next  turning,  turn  of  no 
hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to  the  Jew's  house. 

Gob.  'Twill  be  a  hard  way  to  hit.  Can  you  tell 
me  whether  one  Launcelot,  that  dwells  with  him, 
dwell  with  him,  or  no  ? 

Lnun.  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot? — 
Mark  me  now  ;  I  Aside.}  now  will  I  raise  the  waters  : 
—  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ? 

Gob.  No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son  ;  his 
father,  though  I  say  it,  is  an  honest  exceeding  poor 
man,  and,  God  be  thanked,  well  to  live. 

Laun.  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  he  will,  we 
talk  of  young  master  Launcelot. 

Gob.    Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot,  sir. 

Laun.  But  I  pray  you  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I 
beseech  you  ;   Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot? 

Gob.   Of  Launcelot,  an't  please  your  mastership. 

Laun.  Ergo,  master  Launcelot;  talk  not  of 
master  Launcelot,  father ;  for  the  young  gentleman 
(according  to  fates  and  destinies,  and  such  odd 
sayings,  the  sisters  three,  and  such  branches  of 
learning,)  is  indeed  deceased. 

Gob.  Marry,  God  forbid !  the  boy  was  the  very 
staff  of  my  age,  my  very  prop. 

Laun.  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel,  or  a  hovel-post, 
a  staff,  or  a  prop  ?  —  Do  you  know  me,  father  ? 

Gob.  Alack  the  day,  I  know  you  not,  young 
gentleman  ;  but,  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  is  my  boy  alive 
or  dead? 

Laun.    Do  you  not  know  me,  father  ? 

Gob.  Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind,  I  know  you  not. 

Laun.  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you 
might  fail  of  the  knowing  me :  it  is  a  wise  father, 
that  knows  his  own  child.  Well,  old  man,  I  will 
tell  you  news  of  your  son  :  Give  me  your  blessing  : 
truth  will  come  to  light;  murder  cannot  be  hid 
long,  a  man's  son  may ;  but,  in  the  end,  truth  will 
out. 

Gob.  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up ;  I  am  sure,  you  are 
not  Launcelot,  my  boy. 

Laun.  Pray  you,  let's  have  no  more  fooling  about 
it,  but  give  me  your  blessing;  I  am  Launcelot, 
your  boy  that  was,  your  son  that  is,  your  child  that 
shall  be. 

Gob.   I  cannot  think,  you  are  my  son. 
Laun.   I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  that : 
but  I  am  Launcelot,  the  Jew's  man ;  and,   I  am 
sure,  Margery,  your  wife,  is  my  mother. 

Gob.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed :  I'll  be 
sworn,  if  thou  be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own 
flesh  and  blood.  What  a  beard  hast  thou  got !  thou 
hast  got  more  hair  on  thy  chin,  than  Dobbin  my 
thill-horse  '  has  on  his  tail. 

Laun.  It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail 
grows  backward  ;  I  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  on 
his  tail,  than  I  have  on  my  face,  when  I  last  saw 
him. 

Gob.  Lord,  how  art  thou  changed  !  How  dost 
thou  and  thy  master  agree?  I  have  brought  him 
a  present ;   How  'gree  you  now  ? 

Laun.  Well,  well ;  but  for  mine  own  part,  as  I 
have  set  up  my  rest  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest 
till  I  have  run  some  ground  :  my  master's  a  very 
Jew  :  Give  him  a  present !  give  him  a  halter  :  I  am 
famish'd  in  his  service  ;  you  may  tell  every  finger  I 
have  with  my  ribs.  Father,  I  am  glad  you  are 
come ;  give  me  your  present  to  one  master  Bassa- 
*  Shaft-horse. 


nio,  who,  indeed,  gives  rare  new  liveries ;  if  I 
serve  not  him,  I  will  run  as  far  as  there  is  any 
ground.  —  O  rare  fortune  !  here  comes  the  man  ; — 
to  him,  father ;  for  I  am  a  Jew,  if  I  serve  tlie  Jew 
any  longer. 

Enter  Bassanio,  with  Leonardo,  and  other 
Followei-s. 

Bass.  You  may  do  so;  — but  let  it  be  so  hasted, 
that  supper  be  ready  at  the  farthest  by  five  of  tlie 
clock :  See  these  letters  deliver'd ;  put  the  liveries 
to  making ;  and  desire  Gratiano  to  come  anon  to 
my  lodging.  [Ei-U  a  Servant. 

Laun.    To  him,  father 

Gob,   God  bless  your  worship  ! 

Bass.    Gramercy  ;   Wouldst  thou  auglit  with  me  ? 

Gob.  Here's  my  son,  sir,  a  poor  boy,  — — 

Laun.  Not  a  poor  boy,  sir,  but  the  rich  Jew's 
man  ;  that  would,  sir,  as  my  father  shall  specify, 

Gob.  He  hath  a  great  infection,  sir,  as  one  would 
say,  to  serve  — — 

Laun.  Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I  serve 
the  Jevf,  and  I  have  a  desire,  as  my  father  shall 
specify, 

Gob.  His  master  and  he,  (saving  your  worship's 
reverence,)  are  scarce  cater-cousins  : 

Laun.  To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is,  that  the 
Jew  having  done  me  wrong,  doth  cause  me,  as  my 
father,  being  I  hope  an  old  man,  shall  frutify  unto 
you, 

Gob.  I  have  here  a  dish  of  doves,  that  I  would 
bestow  upon  your  worship  ;  and  my  suit  is, 

Laun.  In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent  to 
myself,  as  your  worship  shall  know  by  this  honest 
old  man ;  and,  though  1  say  it,  tliough  an  old  man, 
yet,  poor  man,  my  father. 

Bass.   One  speak  for  both  ;  —  What  would  you  ? 

Laun.   Serve  you,  sir. 

Gob.   This  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Bass.   I  know  thee  well,  thou  hast  obtain'd  thy 
suit : 
Shylock,  thy  master,  spoke  with  me  this  day. 
And  hath  preferr'd  thee,  if  it  be  preferment. 
To  leave  a  rich  Jew's  service,  to  become 
The  follower  of  so  poor  a  gentleman. 

Laun.  The  old  proverb  is  very  well  parted  be- 
tween my  master  Shylock  and  you,  sir ;  you  have 
grace,  sir,  and  he  hath  enough. 

Bass.   Thou    speak'st  it  well :    Go,  father,  with 
thy  son :  — 
Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  and  enquire 
My  lodging  out :  —  Give  him  a  livery 

[To  his  Fallowers. 
More  guarded  ^  than  his  fellows' :    See  it  done. 
Laun.   Father,  in  :  —  I  cannot  get  a  service,  no ; 

— I  have  ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head Well,  father, 

come ;   I'll  take  my  leave  of  the  Jew  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  [Exeunt  Launcelot  a7id  old  Gobbo. 

Bass.   I  pray  thee,  good  Leonardo,  think  on  this ; 
These  things  being  bought,  and  orderly  bestow'd. 
Return  in  haste,  for  I  do  feast  to-night 
My  best- esteem 'd  acquaintance  ;  hie  thee,  go. 
Leon.   My  best  endeavours  shall  be  done  herein. 

Enter  Gratiano. 

Gra.   Where  is  your  master  ? 
Leon.  Yonder,  sir,  he  walks. 

[Exit  Leonardo. 
Gra.    Signior  Bassanio,  — — 
6  Ornamented. 


Scene  III. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


177 


Bass.   Gratiano ! 

Gra.   I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass.  You  have  obtain'd  it. 

Gra.   You  must  not  deny  me ;   I  must  go  with 
you  to  Belmont. 

Bass.   Why,  then  you  must ;  —  But  hear  thee, 
Gratiano ; 
Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice  ;  — 
Parts,  that  become  thee  happily  enough, 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults ; 
But  where  thou  art  not  known,  why,  there  they  show 
Something  too  liberal '  ;  —  pray  thee  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit;  lest,  through    thy   wild   be- 
haviour, 
I  be  misconstmed  in  the  place  I  go  to, 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me  : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit. 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then, 
Wear  prayer-books  in  my  pocket,  look  demurely  ; 
Nay  more,  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 
Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh,  and  say,  amen  ; 
Use  all  the  observance  of  civility, 
Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent  8 
To  please  his  grandam,  never  trust  me  more. 
Bass.   Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing.  9 

Gra.  Nay,   but  I  bar   to-night;  you  shall   not 
gage  me 
By  what  we  do  to-night. 

Bass.  No,  that  were  pity ; 

I  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on 
Your  boldest  suit  of  mirth,  for  we  have  friends 
That  purpose  merriment :    But  fare  you  well, 
I  have  some  business. 

Gra.   And  I  must  to  Lorenzo,  and  the  rest ; 
But  we  will  visit  you  at  supper-time.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Shylock's  House. 

Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot. 

Jes.   I  am  sorry,  thou  wilt  leave  my  father  so ; 
Our  house  is  sad,  but  thou,  a  merry  devil, 
Didst  rob  it  of  some  taste  of  tediousness  : 
But  fare  thee  well ;  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee. 
And,  Launcelot,  soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 
Lorenzo,  who  is  thy  new  master's  guest : 
Give  him  this  letter ;  do  it  secretly, 
And  so  farewell ;  I  would  not  have  my  father 
See  me  talk  with  thee. 

Laun.   Adieu! — tears  exhibit  my  tongue. — 
Most  beautiful  pagan,  —  most  sweet  Jew  !     If  a 
Christian  do  not  play  the  knave,  and  get  thee,  I 
am  much  deceiv'd  :   But,  adieu  !  these  foolish  drops 
do  somewhat  drown  my  manly  spirit ;  adieu  !  [Exit. 

Jes.   Farewell,  good  Launcelot.  — 
Alack,  what  heinous  sin  it  is  in  me, 
To  be  asham'd  to  be  my  father's  child  ! 
Hut  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 
I  am  not  to  his  manners  :   O  Lorenzo, 
If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife  ; 
Become  a  Christian,  and  thy  loving  wife.       [Eait. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Street. 

Enter  Gratiano,  Lorenzo,  Salarino,  and 

Salanio. 

Lor.  Nay,  we  will  slink  away  in  supper-time  ; 

'  Licentious.  «  Showof  staid  and  serious  demeanour. 

■  Carriage,  deportment. 


Disguise  us  at  my  lodging,  and  return 
All  in  an  hour. 

Gra.   We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 

Salar.   We  have  not  spoke  us  yet  of  torch-bearers. 

Solan.   'Tis  vile,  unless  it  maybe  quaintly  order'd; 
And  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 

Lor.  'Tis  now  but  four  o'clock ;  we  have   two 
hours 
To  furnish  us  :  — 

Enter  Launcelot,  tuith  a  Letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  what's  the  news  ? 

Laun.   An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up  this,  it 
shall  seem  to  signify. 

Lor.   I  know  the  hand :  in  faith,  'tis  a  fair  hand ; 
And  whiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on, 
Is  the  fair  hand  that  writ. 

Gra.  Love-news,  in  faith. 

Laun.   By  your  leave,  sir. 

Lor.   W^hither  goest  thou  ? 

Laun.   Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master  the  Jew 
to  sup  to-night  with  my  new  master  the  Christian. 

Lor.   Hold  here,  take  this  :  — tell  gentle  Jessica, 
I  will  not  fail  her  ;  —  speak  it  privately  ;  go.  — 
Gentlemen,  [Exit  Launcelot. 

Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  masque  to-night  ? 
I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer. 

Salar.   Ay,  marry,  I'll  be  gone  about  it  straight. 

Salan.    And  so  will  I. 

Xor.  Meet  me,  and  Gratiano, 

At  Gratiano's  lodging  some  hour  hence. 

Salar.   'Tis  good  we  do  so. 

[Exeunt  Salar.  and  Salan. 

Gra.   Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica  ? 

Lor.  I  must  needs  tell  thee  all :  She  hath  directed, 
How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house  ; 
What  gold,  and  jewels,  she  is  furnish'd  with  ; 
What  page's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 
Come,  go  with  me  ;  peruse  this,  as  thou  goest : 
Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Before  Shylock'5  House. 
Enter  Shylock  and  Launcelot. 
Shy.   Well,  thou  shalt  see,  thy  eyes  shall  be  thy 
judge, 
The  diflference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio  :  — 
What,  Jessica  !  —  thou  shalt  not  gormandize. 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me  :  —  What,  Jessica  !  — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out ;  — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say  ! 

Laun.  Why,  Jessica ! 

Shy.  Who  bids  thee  call  ?  I  do  not  bid  thee  call. 
Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me,  I  could 
do  nothing  without  bidding. 

Enter  Jessica. 

Jes.   Call  you  ?  What  is  your  will  ? 

Shy.   I  am  bid  •  fortli  to  supper,  Jessica ; 
There  are  my  keys :  —  But  wherefore  should  I  go  ? 
I  am  not  bid  for  love ;  they  flatter  me  : 
But  yet  I'll  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal  Christian.  -:-  Jessica,  my  girl, 
Look  to  my  house :  —  I  am  right  loth  to  go ; 
There  is  some  ill  a  brewing  towards  my  rest. 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 

Laun.   I  beseech  you,  sir,  go ;  my  young  master 
doth  expect  your  reproach. 

Shy.  So  do  I  bis. 

>  Invited. 
N 


178 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  II. 


Laun.  And  they  have  conspired  together,  —  I 
will  not  say,  you  shall  see  a  masque ;  but  if  you  do, 
then  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  my  nose  fell  a 
bleeding  on  Black- Monday  last,  at  six  o'clock  i'the 
morning. 

Sliif.   What !  are  there  masques  ?    Hear  you  me, 
Jessica  : 
Lock  up  my  doors ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-neck'd  fife, 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then, 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street. 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnish'd  faces  : 
But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements ; 
Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house.  —  By  Jacob's  staff',  I  swear 
I  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-night : 
But  I  will  go.  —  Go  you  before  me,  sirrah  ; 
Say,  I  will  come. 

Laun.  I  will  go  before,  sir.  — 

Mistress,  look  out  at  window,  for  all  this ; 
There  will  come  a  Christian  by, 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye,  [^Exii  Laun. 

Shy.  What  says   that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring, 
ha? 

Jes.  His  words  were.  Farewell,  mistress ;  nothing 
else. 

Shy.  The  patch  is  kind  enough ;  but  a  huge  feeder. 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild-cat ;  drones  hive  not  with  me  ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him  ;  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrow'd  purse.  —  Well,  Jessica,  go  in  ; 
Perhaps,  I  will  return  immediately  ; 
Do,  as  I  bid  you. 

Shut  doors  after  you  :    Fast  bind,  fast  find ; 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.  \^Ent. 

Jes.    Farewell :   and  if  my  fortune  be  not  crost, 
I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  lost.  \_E3it. 

SCENE  VI.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Gratiano  and  Salarino,  masked. 

Gra.  This  is  the  pent-house,  under  which  Lorenzo 
Desir'd  us  to  make  stand. 

Salnr.  His  hour  is  almost  past. 

Gra.   And  it  is  marvel  he  out-dwells  his  hour, 
For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 

Salar.    O,  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pigeons  fly 
To  seal  love's  bonds  new  made,  than  they  are  wont. 
To  keep  obliged  faith  unforfeited  ! 

Gra.  That  ever  holds  :    Who  riseth  from  a  feast. 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down  ? 
Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  again 
His  tedious  measures  with  the  unbated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first?    All  things  that  are, 
Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoy'd. 
How  like  a  younker,  or  a  prodigal. 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay. 
How  like  the  prodigal  doth  she  return  ; 
With  over-weatlier'd  ribs,  and  ragged  sails. 

Enter  Lorehzo. 
Salar.   Here    comes    Lorenzo ;  —  more    of  this 

hereafter. 
Lor.   Sweet  friends,  your  patience  for  my  long 
abode ; 
Not  I,  but  my  affairs,  have  made  you  wait ; 
When  you  shall  please  to  play  the  thieves  for  wives, 
I'll  watch  as  long  for  you  then.  —  Approach ; 
Here  dwells  my  father  Jew  :  —  Ho  !  who's  within? 


Enter  Jessica,  above,  in  Boy's  clothes. 

Jes    Who  are  you  ?  Tell  me,  for  more  certainty, 
Albeit  I'll  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lor.   Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

Jes.   Lorenzo,  certain  ;  and  my  love,  indeed ; 
For  who  love  I  so  much  ?   And  now  who  knows, 
But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours? 

Lor.  Heaven,  and  thy  thoughts,  are  witness  that 
thou  art. 

Jes.  Here,  catch  this  casket,  it  is  worth  the  pains. 
I  am  glad  'tis  night,  you  do  not  look  on  me. 
For  I  am  much  asham'd  of  my  exchange  : 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit : 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

Lor.   Descend,  for  you  must  be  my  torch-bearer. 

Jes.   What,  must  I  hold  a  candle  to  my  shames  ? 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth,  are  too  too  light. 
Why,  'tis  an  oflSce  of  discovery,  love  ; 
And  I  should  be  obscur'd. 

Lor.  So  are  you,  sweet, 

Even  in  the  lovely  garnish  of  a  boy. 
But  come  at  once  ; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  run-away. 
And  we  are  staid  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

Jes.   I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  join   you 
straight.  \^Eont,Jrom  above. 

Gra.   Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,  and  no  Jew 

Lor.   Beshrew  me,  but  1  love  her  heartily  : 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her ; 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true ; 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  prov'd  herself; 
And  therefore,  like  herself,  wise,  fair,  and  true. 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

Enter  Jessica,  below. 
What,  art  thou  come  ?  —  On,  gentlemen,  away ; 
Our  masquing  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[Exit  with  Jessica  and  Salarino. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.    Who's  there  ? 

Gra.   Signior  Antonio  ? 

Ant.   Fye,  fye,  Gratiano  !  where  are  all  the  rest  ? 
'Tis  nine  o'clock :  our  friends  all  stay  for  you  :  — 
No  masque  to-night ;  the  wind  is  come  about, 
Bassanio  presently  will  go  aboard  : 
I  have  sent  twenty  out  to  seek  for  you. 

Gra.   I  am  glad  on't ;   I  desire  no  more  delight. 
Than  to  be  under  sail,  and  gone  to-night.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.  —  Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's 
House. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.     Enter  Portia,  with  the  Prince 
of  Morocco,  and  both  tfieir  Trains. 

For.    Go,  draw  aside  the  curtains,  and  discover 
The  several  caskets  to  this  noble  prince  — 
Now  make  your  choice. 

Mor.   The  first,   of  gold,  who    this    inscription 
bears ; — 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 
The  second ;  silver,  which  this  promise  carries  ;  — 
JVho  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
This  third,  dull  lead,  with  warning  all  as  blunt ;  — 
JVho  chooseth  me,  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath. 
How  shall  I  know  if  I  do  choose  the  right  ? 

For.  The  one  of  them  contains  my  picture,  prince; 
If  you  choose  that,  then  I  am  yours  withal. 


I 


Scene  VII. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


179 


Mor.  Some  god  direct  my  judgment !  Let  me  sec, 
I  will  survey  the  inscriptions  back  again  : 
What  says  this  leaden  casket  ? 
Who  chooseth  vie,  viust  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath, 
Must  give  —  For  what  ?  for  lead  ?  hazard  for  lead  ? 
This  casket  threatens  ;   Men,  that  hazard  all. 
Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages  : 
A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross ; 
I'll  then  nor  give,  nor  hazard,  aught  for  lead. 
What  says  the  silver,  with  her  virgin  hue  ? 
lHio  chooseth  vie,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
As  much  as  he  deserves  ?  —  Pause  there,  Morocco. 
And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand : 
If  thou  be'st  rated  by  thy  estimation, 
Thou  dost  deserve  enough ;  and  yet  enough 
May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady  ; 
And  yet  to  be  afeard  of  my  deserving. 
Were  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 
As  much  as  I  deserve  !  —  Why,  that's  the  lady  : 
I  do  in  birth  deserve  her,  and  in  fortunes. 
In  graces,  and  in  qualities  of  breeding ; 
But  more  than  these,  in  love  I  do  deserve. 
What  if  I  stray'd  no  further,  but  chose  here  ?  — 
Let's  see  once  more  this  saying  grav'd  in  gold  : 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  viany  men  desire. 
Why,  that's  the  lady  ;  all  the  world  desires  her : 
From  the  four  comers  of  the  earth  they  come, 
To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 
Tlie  Hyrcanian  deserts,  and  the  vasty  wilds 
Of  wide  Arabia,  are  as  through-fares  now. 
For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia : 
The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 
Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 
To  stop  the  foreign  spirits ;  but  they  come. 
As  o'er  a  brook,  to  see  fair  Portia. 
One  of  these  three  contains  her  heavenly  picture. 
Is't  like,  that  lead  contains  her  ?  'Twere  a  sin 
To  think  so  base  a  thought ;  it  were  too  gross 
To  rib '-  her  cerecloth  in  tlie  obscure  grave. 
Or  shall  I  think,  in  silver  she's  immur'd, 
Being  ten  times  undervalued  to  try'd  gold? 
O  sinful  thought !   Never  so  rich  a  gem 
Was  set  in  worse  than  gold.    They  have  in  England 
A  coin  that  bears  the  figure  of  an  angel 
Stamped  in  gold ;  but  that's  insculp'd  3  upon  ; 
But  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 
Lies  all  within.  —  Deliver  me  the  key  ; 
Here  do  I  choose,  and  thrive  I  as  I  may  ! 

For.   There,  take  it,  prince,  and  if  my  form  lie 
there. 
Then  I  am  yours.        \^He  unlocks  the  golden  cas\et. 

Mor.  What  have  we  here  ? 

A  carrion  death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
'Diere  is  a  written  scroll?  I'll  read  die  writing. 

All  that  glisters  is  not  goldj 
Often  have  you  heard  that  told  : 
Many  a  man  his  life  hath  sold, 
But  my  outside  to  behold  : 
Gilded  tombs  do  worms  infold. 
Had  you  been  as  tvise  as  bold, 
Young  in  limbs,  in  judgment  old. 
Your  answer  had  not  been  inscroCd  : 
Fare  you  well;  your  suit  is  cold. 

Cold,  indeed  ;  and  labour  lost : 

Then,  farewell,  heat;  and,  welcome,  frost. — 
Portia,  adieu  !    I  have  too  griev'd  a  heart 
To  take  a  tedious  leave  :   thus  losers  part.        [Exit. 


«  Enclo&e. 


3  Engraven. 


For.    A  gentle  riddance  ; Draw  the  curtains 

go; ■ 

Let  all  of  his  complexion  choose  me  so.      \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.  —  Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Salarino  ani  Salanio. 

Salar.   Why,  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail ; 
With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along  ; 
And  in  their  ship,  I  am  sure,  Lorenzo  is  not. 

Salan.   The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  rais'd  the 
duke; 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

Salar.   He  came  too  late,  the  ship  was  under  sail ; 
But  there  the  duke  was  given  to  understand, 
That  in  a  gondola  were  seen  together 
Lorenzo  and  his  amorous  Jessica  : 
Besides,  Antonio  certify'd  the  duke, 
They  were  not  with  Bassanio  in  his  ship. 

Salan.   I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confus'd, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable. 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets : 
My  daughter  !    0  my  ducats ;  —  0  my  daughter  ! 
Fled  with  a  Christian  ?  —  0  my  christian  ducats  — 
Justice  !  the  law !  my  ducats,  and  my  dnighter  f 
A  sealed  bag,  two  sealed  bags  of  ducat Sy 
Of  double  ducats,  stoCnfroin  me  by  my  daughter  ! 
Ami  jewels  ;  a  stone,  a  rich  and  precious  stone, 
SloVn  by  my  daughter  !  —  Justice  /  fnd  the  ff,rl  ! 
She  hath  the  stone  upon  her,  and  the  ducats  ! 

Salar.   Why,  all  the  boys  in  Venice  follow  him, 
Crying,  —  his  stone,  his  daughter,  and  his  ducats. 

Salan.   Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day, 
Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 

Salar.  Marry,  well  remem!)er*d  : 

I  reason'd  ^  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday  ; 
Who  told  me,  —  in  the  narrow  seas,  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught : 
I  thought  upon  Antonio,  when  he  told  me; 
And  wish'd  in  silence,  that  it  were  not  his. 

Salan.   You  were  best  to  tell  Antonio  what  you 
hear; 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  for  it  may  grieve  him. 

Salar.  A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth. 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part ; 
Bassanio  told  him,  he  woidd  make  some  speed 
Of  his  return  ;  he  answer'd  —  Do  not  so. 
Slubber  *  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time  ; 
And  for  the  Jew^s  bond,  which  he  hath  of  me. 
Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love  : 
Be  merry  ;  and  employ  your  chiifest  thoughts 
To  courtship,  and  such  fair  ostenls  ^  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there  : 
And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him, 
And  with  aflection  wondrous  sensible 
He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand,  and  so  they  parted. 

Salan.   I  tliink  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 
I  pray  thee,  let  us  go,  and  find  him  out. 
And  quicken  his  embraced  heaviness  ^ 
With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  so.      [Ereunt. 

SCENE  IX.— Belmont.  A  Room  ««  Portia's //oi/se. 
Enter  Nbrissa,  with  a  Servant. 
Ner.    Quick,  quick,  I  pray  tliee,  draw  the  curtain 
straight ; 

*  To  slubber  is  to  do  a  thing  rarplessly. 


*  Conversed. 
6  Shows,  tokens. 


N   2 


rhe  heaviness  he  is  fond  ^4, 


180 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  III. 


The  prince  of  Arragon  hath  ta'en  his  oath, 
And  comes  to  his  election  presently. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.     Enter  the  Prince  of  Arragon, 
Portia,  and  their  Trains. 

For.  Behold,  there  stand  the  caskets,  noble  prince : 
K  you  choose  that  wherein  I  am  contain'd, 
Straight  shall  our  nuptial  rites  be  solemniz'd  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord, 
You  must  be  gone  from  lience  immediately. 

Ar.   I  am  enjoin'd  by  oath  to  observe  three  things: 
First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 
Which  casket  'twas  I  chose  ;  next,  if  I  fail 
Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life 
To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage  ;  lastly, 
If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice. 
Immediately  to  leave  you  and  be  gone. 

For.   To  these  injunctions  every  one  doth  swear, 
That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 

Ar.  And  so  have  I  address'd*^  me  :    Fortune  now 
To  my  heart's  hope !  —  Gold,  silver,  and  base  lead. 
Who  chooseth  tne,  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath  : 
You  shall  look  fairer,  ere  I  give,  or  hazard. 
What  says  the  golden  chest  ?  ha !  let  me  see  :  — 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 
What  many  men  desire.  —  That  many  may  be  meant 
By  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show. 
Not  learning  more  than  the  fond  eye  doth  teach  : 
Which  pries  not  to  the  interior,  but,  like  the  martlet, 
Builds  in  the  weatlier  on  the  outward  wall, 
Even  in  the  force  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  will  not  choose  what  many  men  desire. 
Because  I  will  not  jump  9  with  common  spirits, 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure  house ; 
Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear : 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves  ; 
And  well  said  too  ;   For  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honourable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit?  Let  none  presume 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 
O,  tliat  estates,  degrees,  and  offices. 
Were  not  deriv'd  corruptly  !  and  that  clear  honour 
Were  purchas'd  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer ! 
How  many  then  should  cover  that  stand  bare  ? 
How  many  be  commanded,  that  command  ? 
How  much  low  peasantry  v/ould  then  be  glean'd 
From  the  true  seed  of  honour?  and  how  much  honour 
Pick'd  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times, 
To  be  new  varnish'd  ?  Well,  but  to  my  choice  : 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  viiich  as  he  deserves  : 
I  will  assume  desert ;  —  Give  me  a  key  for  this. 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

For.    Too  long  a  pause  for  that  which  you  find 
there. 


Ar.    What's  here  ?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking  idiot, 
Presenting  me  a  schedule  !   I  will  read  it. 
How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  Portia  ! 
How  much  unlike  my  hopes,  and  my  deservings ! 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  have  as  much  as  he  desei  ves. 
Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  ? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  better  ? 

For.   To  offend,  and  judge,  are  distinct  offices, 
And  of  opposed  natures. 

Ar.  What  is  here  ? 

Thejire  seven  tiTnes  tried  this . 
Si-ven  times  tried  that  judgment  is, 
That  did  never  choose  amiss  : 
Some  there  be,  that  shadows  Iciss : 
Such  have  hut  a  shadow's  bliss  : 
There  befools  alive,  I  uis  ', 
Silver  d  o'er ;   and  so  was  this. 
Take  what  wife  you  will  to  bed, 
I  will  ever  be  your  head  : 
So  begone,  sir,  you  are  sped. 

Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear. 

By  the  time  I  linger  here  : 

With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo. 

But  I  go  away  with  two. 

Sweet,  adieu  !   I'll  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  wroth. 

{Exeunt  An-agon,  and  Train, 
For.   Thus  hath  the  candle  sing'd  the  moth. 
O  these  deliberate  fools  !  when  they  do  choose, 
They  have  tlie  wisdom  by  their  wit  to  lose. 

N'er.   The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy  ;  — 
Hanging  and  wiving  goes  by  destiny. 
For.   Come,  draw  the  curtain,  Nerissa. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sei^j.   Where  is  my  lady  ? 

l^or.  Plere  ;  what  wovdd  my  lord  ? 

Sei'v.   Madam,  there  is  alighted  at  your  gate 
A  young  Venetian,  one  that  comes  before 
To  signify  the  approaching  of  his  lord  : 
From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  regrets  ? ; 
To  wit,  besides  commends,  and  courteous  breath, 
Gifts  of  rich  value  ;  yet  I  have  not  seen 
So  likely  an  embassador  of  love : 
A  day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet. 
To  show  how  costly  summer  was  at  hand. 
As  this  fore-spurrer  comes  before  his  lord. 

For.   No  more,  I  pray  thee  ;   I  am  half  afeard, 
Thou  wilt  say  anon,  he  is  some  kin  to  thee. 
Thou  spend'st  such  high-day  wit  in  praising  him  — 
Come,  come,  Nerissa ;  for  I  long  to  see 
Quick  Cupid's  post,  tliat  comes  so  maimerly. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  Salanio  and  Salarino. 

Salan.   Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto  ? 

Salar.  Why,  yet  it  lives  there  uncheck'd,  that 
Antonio  hath  a  ship  of  rich  lading  wreck'd  on  the 
narrow  seas ;  the  Goodwins,  I  think  they  call  the 


•  Prepared. 


a  Agiee. 


place ;  a  very  dangerous  flat,  and  fatal,  where  the 
carcases  of  many  a  tall  sliip  lie  buried,  as  they  say, 
if  my  gossip  report  be  an  honest  woman  of  her  word. 
Salan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in  that 
as  ever  knapp'd  ginger,  or  made  her  neighbours 
believe  she  wept  for  the  death  of  a  third  husband  : 
But  it  is  true,  —  without  any  slips  of  prolixity,  or 


'  Know. 


2  Salutations. 


Scene  I 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


181 


crossing  the  plain  high-way  of  talk,  —  that  the  good 

Antonio,  the  honest  Antonio,  O  that  I  had  a 

title  good  enough  to  keep  his  name  company  !  — 

Sal(ir.    Come,  the  full  stop. 

Salan.  Ha,  —  what  say'st  thou  ?  —  Why  the  end 
is,  he  hatii  lost  a  ship. 

Sular.  I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his 
losses  I 

Salan.  Let  me  say  amen  betimes,  lest  tlie  devil 
cross  my  prayer ;  for  here  he  comes  in  the  likeness 
of  a  Jew.  — 

Enter  Shylock. 
How  now,  Shylock  ?  what  news  among  the  mer- 
chants ? 

Shy.  You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well  as 
you,  of  my  daughter's  flight. 

Siilar.  That's  certain ;  I,  for  my  part,  knew  the 
tailor  tliat  made  the  wings  she  flew  withal. 

Salan.  And  Shylock,  for  his  own  part,  knew  the 
bird  was  fledg'd. 

S/ii/.   INIy  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

Salar.  There  is  more  difference  between  thy  flesh 
and  hers,  tlian  between  jet  and  ivory ;  more  between 
your  bloods,  than  there  is  between  red  wine  and 
Rhenish  :  —  But  tell  us,  do  you  hear  whether  An- 
tonio have  had  any  loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shy.  There  I  have  another  bad  match :  a  bank- 
rupt, a  prodigal,  who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on 
the  Rialto  ;  — a  beggar,  that  used  to  come  so  smug 
upon  the  mart ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond  :  he  was 
wont  to  call  me  usurer; — let  him  look  to  his  bond : 
he  was  wont  to  lend  money  for  a  Christian  courtesy ; 
—  let  him  look  to  his  bond. 

Salar.  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt 
not  take  his  flesh  ;   What's  that  good  for  ? 

Shy.  To  bait  fish  withal :  if  it  will  feed  nothing 
else,  it  will  feed  my  revenge.  He  hath  disgraced 
me,  and  hindered  me  of  half  a  million  ;  laughed  at 
my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  nation, 
thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my  friends,  heated 
mine  enemies ;  and  what's  his  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew  : 
Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs, 
dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions?  fed  with  the 
same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to 
the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means, 
warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter  and  sum- 
mer, as  a  Christian  is  ?  if  you  prick  us,  do  we  not 
bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh  ?  if  you 
poison  us,  do  we  not  die  ?  and  if  you  wrong  us, 
shall  we  not  revenge?  if  we  are  like  you  in  the 
rest,  we  will  resemble  you  in  that.  If  a  Jew  wrong 
a  Christian,  what  is  his  humility  ?  revenge  ;  If  a 
Christian  wrong  a  Jew,  what  should  his  sufferance 
be  by  Christian  example  ?  why,  revenge.  The  vil- 
lainy you  teach  me,  I  will  execute ;  and  it  shall  go 
hard,  but  I  will  better  the  instruction. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Serv.   Gentlemen,  my  master   Antonio  is  at  his 
house,  and  desires  to  speak  with  you  both. 

Salar.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  him. 

EtUct  Tubal. 

Salan.  Here  comes  another  of  the  tribe ;  a  third 
cannot  be  matched,  unless  the  devil  himself  turn 
Jew.  [Exeunt  Salan.  Salar.  and  Servant. 

Shy.  How  now.  Tubal,  what  news  from  Genoa  ? 
hast  thou  found  my  daughter  ? 

Tub.  I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her,  but 
cannot  find  her. 


Shy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there !  a  diamond 
gone,  cost  me  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort ! 
The  curse  never  fell  upon  our  nation  till  now ;  I 
never  felt  it  till  now :  —  two  thousand  ducats  in 
that;  and  other  precious,  precious  jewels. —  I  would, 
my  daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels 
in  her  ear  !  'would  she  were  hears'd  at  my  foot,  and 
the  ducats  in  her  coffin  !  No  news  of  them  ?  —  Why, 
so  :  —  and  1  know  not  what's  spent  in  the  search  : 
Why,  thou  loss  upon  loss !  the  thief  gone  with  so 
much,  and  so  much  to  find  the  thief;  and  no  satis- 
faction, no  revenge  :  nor  no  ill  luck  stirring,  but 
what  lights  o' my  shoulders ;  no  sighs,  but  o' my 
breathing  ;  no  tears,  but  o'  my  shedding. 

Tub.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too;  Antonio, 
as  I  heard  in  Genoa,  — 

Shy.   What,  what,  what  ?  ill  luck,  ill  luck  ? 
7'u6.    —  hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  from 
Tripolis. 

Shy.    Is  it  true  ?  is  it  true  ? 
Tub.   I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  es- 
caped the  wreck. 

Shy.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal  ;  —  Good  news, 
good  news  :   ha  !  ha  !  —  Where  ?  in  Genoa  ? 

Tub.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard, 
one  night,  fourscore  ducats. 

Shy.   Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me  : T  shall 

never  see  my  gold  again  :    Fourscore  ducats  at  a 
sitting !  fourscore  ducats. 

Tub.  ITiere  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors 
in  my  company  to  Venice,  that  swear  he  cannot 
choose  but  break. 

Shy.  I  am  very  glad  of  it :  I'll  plague  him  ;  I'll 
torture  him  ;   I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tub.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he  had 
of  your  daughter  for  a  monkey. 

Shy.  Out  upon  her  !  Thou  torturest  me.  Tubal  ; 
it  was  my  torquoise-*  ;  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I  was 
a  bachelor  :  I  would  not  have  given  it  for  a  w  ilder- 
ness  of  monkeys. 

Tub.  But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 
Shy.  Nay,  that's  true,  that's  very  true :  Go, 
Tubal,  fee  me  an  officer,  bespeak  him  a  fortnight" 
before :  I  will  have  the  heart  of  him,  if  he  forfeit ; 
for  were  he  out  of  Venice,  I  can  make  what  mer- 
chandize T  will ;  Go,  go.  Tubal,  and  meet  me  at 
our  synagogue ;  go,  good  Tubal ;  at  our  syna- 
gogue, Tubal.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    II.  —  Belmont.     A    Room   in   Portia'* 
House. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Portia,  Gratiano,  Nerissa,  a»(i 
Attendants.      The  caskets  are  set  out. 
Par.    I  pray  you,  tarry  ;  pause  a  day  or  two. 
Before  you  hazard  ;  for  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company  ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while  : 
There's  something  tells  me,  (but  it  is  not  love,) 
I  would  not  lose  you  ;  and  you  know  yourself, 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality : 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well, 
(  And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought,) 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two, 
Before  you  venture  for  me.      I  could  teach  you. 
How  to  clioose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn  ; 
So  will  I  never  be  :    Beshrew  your  eyes, 
'lliey  have  o'er-look'd  me,  and  divided  me  ; 
One  half  of  me  is  yours  ;  tlic  other  lialf  yours,  — 

<  A  precious  stone 
N  3 


182 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  III. 


Mine  own,  I  would  say  ;  but  if  mine,  then  yours, 
And  so  all  yours  :    O  !  these  naughty  times 
Put  bars  between  the  owners  and  their  rights ; 
And  so,  tliough  yours,  not  yours.  —  Prove  it  so, 
Let  fortune  bear  the  blame  of  it,  —  not  I. 
I  speak  too  long  :  but  'tis  to  peize  *  the  time ; 
To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length, 
To  stay  you  from  election. 

Bass.  Let  me  choose ; 

For,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

For.   Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio  ?  then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bass.   None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love  : 
Tliere  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

For.   Ay,  but,  I  fear,  you  speak  upon  the  rack. 
Where  men  enforced  do  speak  any  thing. 

Bass.    Promise  me  life,  and  I'll  confess  the  truth. 

For.   Well  then,  confess  and  live. 

Bass.  Confess  and  love. 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession  : 

0  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance ! 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

For.   Away  then  :    I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them  ; 
If  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out.  — 
Nerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof.  — 
Let  musick  sound  while  he  doth  make  his  choice. 
Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end. 
Fading  in  musick  :   that  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream. 
And  wat'ry  death -bed  for  him  :    He  may  win  ; 
And  what  is  musick  then  ?  then  musick  is 
Even  as  the  flourish  when  true  subjects  bow 
To  a  new-crowned  monarch  :   such  it  is, 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day. 
That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear, 
And  summon  him  to  marriage.      Now  he  goes. 
With  no  less  presence  ^,  but  with  much  more  love. 
Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea-monster  :    I  stand  for  sacrifice,    ■ 
The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives. 
With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 
The  issue  of  the  exploit.      Go,  Hercules  ! 
Live  thou,  I  live :  —  With  much  much  more  dismay 

1  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

Musick,  whilst  Bassanio  comments  on  the  caskets 
to  himself. 

SONG. 

I.  Tell  me,  where  isfancy'J  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart  or  in  the  head  9 
How  begot,  hoio  nourished  ? 

Reply.     2.   It  is  engender' d  in  the  eyes, 

With  gazing  fed  ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies  : 

Let  us  all  ringfancy^s  knell  ; 
JVZ  begin  it,  —  Ding,  dong,  bell. 
All.  Ding,  dong,  bell, 

Bass.  —  So   may   the    outward    shows   be   least 
themselves ;  . 
The  world  is  still  deceiv'd  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious  voice. 


Delay. 


6  Dignity  of  mien. 


Obscures  the  show  of  evil?  In  religion. 
What  dangerous  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text. 
Hiding  tlie  grossness  with  fair  ornament? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules,  and  frowning  Mars  ; 
Who,  inward  search'd,  have  livers  white  as  milk  ? 
And  these  assume  but  valour's  countenance, 
To  render  them  redoubted.      Look  on  beauty. 
And  you  shall  see  'tis  purchas'd  by  the  weight; 
Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature. 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it : 
So  are  those  crisped  8  snaky  golden  locks. 
Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind. 
Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 
The  scull  that  bred  them,  in  the  sepulchre 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  9  shore 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea ;  the  beauteous  scarf 
Veiling  an  Indian  beauty  ;  in  a  word. 
The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold. 
Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee  : 
Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
'Tween  man  and  man  :  but  thou,  thou  meagre  lead. 
Which  rather  threat'nest  than  dost  promise  aught. 
Thy  plainness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence. 
And  here  choose  I :   Joy  be  the  consequence  ! 
For.   How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air. 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embrac'd  despair. 
And  shudd'ring  fear  and  green-ey'd  jealousy. 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy. 

In  measure  rein  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing,  make  it  less. 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

Bass.  What  find  I  here  ? 

[Opening  the  leaden  casket. 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?   What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?  Move  these  eyes  ? 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?  Here  are  sever'd  lips. 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  ;  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends  :  Here  in  her  hairs 
The  painter  plays  the  spider ;  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men. 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs  :    But  her  eyes,  — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?  having  made  one, 
Methinks,  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his. 
And  leave  itself  unfurnish'd  :    Yet  look,  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  this  shadow 
In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance,  — Here's  the  scroll. 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 

You  that  choose  not  by  the  view. 
Chance  as  fair  and  choose  as  true! 
Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 
Be  contejit  and  seek  no  new. 
If  you  be  well  pleas' d  with  this. 
And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss, 
Turn  you  where  your  lady  is. 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss. 

A  gentle  scroll ;  —  Fair  lady,  by  your  leave  ; 

[Kissing  her, 
I  come  by  note,  to  give  and  to  receive. 


Curled. 


Treacherous. 


Scene  II. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


183 


Like  one  of  two  contending  in  a  prize, 
That  thinks  he  hath  done  well  in  people's  eyes, 
Hearing  applause  and  universal  shout, 
Giddy  in  spirit,  still  gazing,  in  a  doubt 
Whether  those  peals  of  praise  be  his  or  no  : 
So,  thrice  fair  lady,  stand  I,  even  so ; 
As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true, 
Until  confinn'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you. 

Por.    You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am  :   though,  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 
To  wish  myself  much  better  ;  yet,  for  you, 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself ; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
More  rich  : 

That  only  to  stand  high  on  your  account, 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties.  Livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account :   but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something  ;  which,  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractis'd : 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn ;  and  happier  than  this, 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn  ; 
Happiest  of  all,  is,  tliat  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed. 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself  and  what  is  mine,  to  you,  and  yours 
Is  now  converted :   but  now  I  ^as  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 
Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now, 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself. 
Are  yours,  my  lord  ;   I  give  them  with  this  ring  ; 
Which  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away. 
Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love. 
And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 

Buss.   ]Madam,  you  have  bereft  me  of  all  words, 
Only  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins : 
And  there  is  such  confusion  in  my  powers, 
As,  after  some  oration  fairly  spoke 
By  a  beloved  prince,  there  doth  appear 
Among  the  buzzing  pleased  multitude  ; 
Where  every  something,  being  blent '  together. 
Turns  to  a  wild  of  nothing,  save  of  joy, 
Express'd  and  not  express'd  :   But  when  tliis  ring 
Parts  from  this  finger,  then  parts  life  from  hence ; 
O,  then  be  bold  to  say,  Bassanio's  dead. 

Ner.   My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  our  time. 
That  have  stood  by,  and  seen  our  wishes  prosper. 
To  cry,  good  joy ;  Good  joy,  my  lord  and  lady  ! 

Gra.   My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
I  wish  you  all  the  joy  tliat  you  can  wish  ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  can  wish  none  from  me ; 
And,  when  your  honours  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass.  With  all  my  heart,  so  thou  canst  get  a  wife. 

Gra.  I  thank  your  lordship;  you  have  got  me  one. 
My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours  : 
You  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid ; 
You  lov'd,  I  lov'd  ;  for  intermission 
No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  you. 
Your  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there  ; 
And  so  did  mine  too,  as  the  matter  falls  : 
For  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  again  ; 
And  swearing,  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 
With  oatJis  of  love  ;  at  last,  —  if  promise  last,  — 
I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here, 
To  have  her  love,  provided  that  your  fortune 
Achiev'd  her  mistress. 


For.  Is  this  true,  Nerissa  ? 

Ner.   Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  plcas'd  withal. 
Jiass.    And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith? 
Gra.    Yes,  'faith,  ray  lord. 
Bass.    Our  feast  shall  be  much  honour'd  in  your 

marriage. 
Gra.   But  who  comes  here?    Lorenzo,  and  his 
infidel. 
What,  my  old  Venetian  friend,  Salerio  ? 

Enter  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and  Salerio. 

Bass.    Lorenzo  and  Salerio,  welcome  hither ; 
If  that  the  youth  of  my  new  interest  here 
Have  power  to  bid  you  welcome  :  —  By  your  leave, 
I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen. 
Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 

Por.  So  do  I,  my  lord  ; 

They  are  entirely  welcome. 

Lor.  I  thank  your  honour :  —  For  my  part,  my  lord, 
My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here ; 
But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way, 
He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay. 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Sale.  I  did,  my  lord. 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.      Signior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.       [Gives  Bassanio  a  letter. 

Bass.  Ere  I  ope  this  letter, 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  how  my  good  friend  doth 

Sale.   Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind; 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind:  his  letter  there 
Will  show  you  his  estate. 

Gra.  Nerissa,  cheer  yon' stranger ;  bid  her  welcome. 
Your  hand,  Salerio  :    What's  tlie  news  from  Venice  ? 
How  doth  that  royal  merchant,  good  Antonio? 
I  know,  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success ; 
We  are  the  Jasons,  we  have  won  the  fleece. 

Sale  Would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  he  hath  lost ! 

Por.   There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon' 
same  paper. 
That  steal  the  colour  from  Bassanio's  cheek  : 
Some  dear  friend  dead ;    else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse  ? — 
With  leave,  Bassanio  ;   I  am  half  yourself, 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  any  thing 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass.  O  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasant'st  words. 
That  ever  blotted  paper  !   Gentle  lady. 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you,  all  the  wealtli  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins,  I  was  a  gentleman  ; 
And  then  I  told  you  true :  and  yet,  dear  lady. 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart :   When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you 
That  I  was  worse  than  nothing  ;  for,  indeed, 
I  have  engag'd  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 
Engag'd  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy. 
To  feed  my  means.      Here  is  a  letter,  lady  ; 
The  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend. 
And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound, 
Issuing  life-blood.  —  But  is  it  true,  Salerio  ? 
Have  all  his  ventures  fail'd  ?     What,  not  one  hit  ? 
From  Tripolis,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 
From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India? 
And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  mercliant-marring  rocks  ? 

Sale.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear,  that  if  he  had 
N  4 


184 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  III.    Scene  IV. 


The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 
He  would  not  take  it :  never  did  I  know 
A  creature,  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man, 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man : 
He  plies  the  duke  at  morning,  and  at  night ; 
And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state, 
If  they  deny  him  justice :  twenty  merchants, 
The  duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes  2 
Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  with  him ; 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Jes.  When  I  was  with  him,  I  have  heard  himswear, 
To  Tubal,  and  to,  Chus,  his  countrymen. 
That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh. 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him  :   and  I  know,  my  lord. 
If  law,  authority,  and  power  deny  not, 
It  will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 

For.  Is  it  your  dear  friend,  that  is  thus  in  trouble  ? 

Bass.   The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man, 
The  best  condition'd  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies ;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears, 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

For.   What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 

Bass.   For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

For.  What,  no  more? 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond  ; 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that. 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Shall  lose  a  hair  through  my  Bassanio's  fault. 
First,  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife  : 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.      You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over  ; 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along : 
My  maid  Nerissa,  and  myself,  mean  time. 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.      Come,  away ; 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day  : 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer  3  ; 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  love  you  dear. — 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  [Reads.]  Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have  all 
miscarried,  my  creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate  is  very 
low,  my  bond  to  the  Jew  is  forfeit ;  and  since,  in  jmy- 
ing  it,  it  is  impossible  I  should  live,  all  debts  are 
cleared  between  you  and  I,  if  I  might  but  see  you  at 
my  death :  notwithstanding,  use  your  pleasure  :  if 
your  love  do  not  persuade  you  to  come,  let  not  my 
letter. 

For.    O  love,  despatch  all  business,  and  be  gone. 

Bass.    Since  I  have  your  good  leave  to  go  away, 

1  will  make  haste  :   but  till  I  come  again. 
No  bed  shall  e'er  be  guilty  of  my  stay. 

No  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain. 

\^Exeunt, 

SCENE  III.    Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Shylock,  Salakio,  Antonio,  and  Gaoler. 
Shy.     Gaoler,  look  to  him ;  —  Tell   not   me   of 

mercy ; 

This  is  the  fool  that  lent  out  money  gratis  ;  — 
Gaoler,  look  to  him. 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 

Shy.  I'll  have  my  bond;  speak  not  against  my  bond; 
I  have  sworn  an  oath,  that  I  will  have  my  bond : 
Thou  call'st  me  dog,  before  thou  hadst  a  cause : 

2  The  chief  men.  3  Face. 


But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs  : 
The  duke  sJiall  grant  me  justice.  —  I  do  wonder. 
Thou  naughty  gaoler,  that  thou  art  so  fond  * 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Ant.   I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

Shy.  I'll  have  my  bond;  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak : 
I'll  have  my  bond ;  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I'll  not  be  made  a  soft  and  duU-ey'd  fool. 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.      Follow  not ; 
I'll  have  no  speaking  ;   I'll  have  my  bond. 

lExit  Shylock. 

Solan,  It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur. 
That  ever  kept  with  men. 

Ant.  Let  him  alone  ; 

I'll  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 
He  seeks  my  life  ;  his  reason  well  I  know  ; 
I  oft  deliver'd  from  his  forfeitures 
Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me 
Therefore  he  hates  me. 

Salan.  I  am  sure  the  duke 

Will  never  grant  this  forfeiture  to  hold. 

Ant.   The  duke  cannot  deny  the  course  of  law  ; 
For  the  commodity  that  strangers  have 
With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  be  denied. 
Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  the  state  ; 
Since  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  city 
Consisteth  of  all  nations.      Therefore,  go  : 
These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  'bated  me. 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  flesh 
To-morrow  to  my  bloody  creditor.  — — 
Well,  gaoler,  on :  —  Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 
To  see  me  pay  his  debt,  and  then  I  care  not ! 

\^Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV. — Belmont.  ARoominVortWsHouse. 

Enter   Portia,    Nerissa,   Lorenzo,   Jessica,   and 
Balthazar. 

Lor.   Madam,  although  I  speak  it  in  your  pre- 
sence, 
You  have  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  god-like  amity  ;  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honour. 
How  true  a  gentleman  you  send  relief. 
How  dear  a  lover  of  my  lord  your  husband, 
I  know,  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work. 
Than  customary  bounty  can  enforce  you. 

For.   I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good. 
Nor  shall  not  now  :   for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love. 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit  ; 
Which  makes  me  think,  that  this  Antonio, 
Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  lord. 
Must  needs  be  like  my  lord  :   If  it  be  so. 
How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestow'd. 
In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  my  soul 
From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty? 
This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself; 
Therefore,  no  more  of  it :   hear  other  things.  — 
Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 
Tlie  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house, 
Until  my  lord's  return  ;  for  mine  own  part, 
I  have  toward  heaven  breath'd  a  secret  vow, 
To  live  in  prayer  and  contemplation. 
Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here, 
Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return  : 
<  Foolish. 


I 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


185 


There  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off, 

And  there  we  will  abide.      I  do  desire  you, 

Not  to  deny  this  imposition ; 

The  which  my  love,  and  some  necessity, 

Now  lays  upon  you. 

Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart ; 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

For.   My  people  do  already  know  my  mind, 
And  will  acknowledge  you  and  Jessica 
I  n  place  of  lord  Bassanio  and  myself. 
So  fare  you  well,  till  we  shall  meet  again. 

Lor.  Fair  thoughts,  and  happy  hours,  attend  on 
you. 

Jes.    I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 

For.   I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well 
pleas'd 
To  wish  it  back  on  you  :  fare  you  well,  Jessica.  — 
[Exeutit  Jessica  and  Lorenzo. 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true. 
So  let  me  find  thee  still :   Take  this  same  letter, 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a  man, 
In  speed  to  Padua  ;  see  thou  render  this 
Into  my  cousin's  hand,  doctor  Bellario  ; 
And,  look  what  notes  and  garments  he  doth  give 

thee, 
Bring  them,  I  pray  tlice,  with  imagin'd  speed 
Unto  the  tranect,  to  the  common  ferry 
Which  trades  to  Venice :  —  waste  no  time  in  words, 
But  get  thee  gone ;   I  shall  be  there  before  thee. 

Balth'   Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed. 

[Exit. 

For.  Come  on,  Nerissa ;  I  have  work  in  hand. 
That  you  yet  know  not  of:    we'll  see  our  hus- 
bands. 
Before  they  think  of  us. 

Ner.  Shall  they  see  us  ? 

For.   They  shall,  Nerissa  ;  but  in  such  a  habit, 
That  they  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  what  we  lack.      I'll  hold  thee  any  wager. 
When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 
I'll  prove  tlie  prettier  fellow  of  the  two. 
And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace ; 
And  speak,  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy. 
But  come,  I'll  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device, 
"NVhen  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 
At  the  park  gate ;  and  therefore  haste  away, 
For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.   A  Garden. 
Enter  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and  Launcelot. 

Lor.   Go  in,  sirrali ;  bid  them  prepare  for  dinner. 

Laun.   That  is  done  sir ;  they  have  all  stomachs. 

Lor.  What  a  wit-snapper  are  you  !  then  bid  them 
prepare  dinner 

Laun.  That  is  done  too  sir ;  only,  cover  is  the  word. 

Lor.   "Will  you  cover  then,  sir  ? 

Latin.   Not  so,  sir,  neither ;   I  know  my  duty. 

Lor.  Yet  more  quarrelling  with  occasion  !  Wilt 
thou  show  the  whole  wealth  of  thy  wit  in  an  in- 
stant? I  pray  thee,  understand  a  plain  man  in  his 
plain  meaning  :  go  to  thy  fellows  ;  bid  them  cover 
the  table,  serve  in  the  meat,  and  we  will  come 
in  to  dinner. 

Laun.  For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served  in ; 
for  the  meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered  ;  for  your  coming 
in  to  dinner,  sir,  why,  let  it  be  as  humours  and  con- 
ceits shall  govern.  [Exit  Launcelot. 

Lor.   O  dear  discretion,  how  his  words  are  suited  ! 
The  fool  hath  planted  in  his  memory 
An  army  of  good  words  ;   And  I  do  know 
A  many  fools,  that  stand  in  better  place, 
Gamish'd  like  him,  that  for  a  tricksy  word 
Defy  the  matter.     How  cheer'st  thou,  Jessica  ? 
And  now,  good  sweet,  say  thy  opinion, 
How  dost  thou  like  the  lord  Bassanio's  wife  ? 

Jes.   Past  all  expressing :   It  is  very  meet, 
The  lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life  j 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady. 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth  ; 
And,  if  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  it 
Is  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match.. 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women. 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn'd  with  the  other ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

Hast  thou  of  me,  as  she  is  for  a  wife. 

Jes.   Nay,  but  ask  my  opinion  too  of  that. 

Lor.   I  will  anon ;  first,  let  us  go  to  dinner. 

Jes.   Nay,  let   me  praise  you,   while  I  have   a 
stomach. 

Lor.   No,  pray  thee,  let  it  serve  for  table-talk  ; 
Then,  howsoe'er  thou  speak'st,  'mong  other  things 
I  shall  digest  it. 

Jes.  Well,  I'll  set  you  forth.    [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  Venice.    A  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  the  Duke,  the  Mngnificoes ;  Antonio,  Bas- 
sanio, Gratiano,  Salarino,  Salanio,  and 
others. 

Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 
j4nt.    Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 
Duke.   I  am  sorry  for  thee;  thou  art  come  to 
answer 

A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 

(incapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 

From  any  dram  of  mercy. 
^  AtU.  I  have  heard, 

Your  grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 

His  rigorous  course ;  but  since  he  stands  obdurate, 


And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  envy's  reach,  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fury  ;  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit. 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Duke.   Go  one,  and  caJl  the  Jew  into  the  court. 

Salan.   He's   ready  at  the  door:    he  comes,  my 
lord. 

Enter  Shtlock. 
Duke.   Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our 
face. — 
Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 
TImt  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  tlie  last  hour  of  act ;  and  tlien,  'tis  thought, 


186 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  IV. 


Thou'lt  show  thy  mercy,  and  remorse'',  more  strange 

Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty  : 

And  where  6  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 

(Which  is  a  pound  of  tliis  poor  merchant's  flesh,) 

Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture. 

But  touch'd  with  human  gentleness  and  love. 

Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal ; 

G  lancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  las  losses, 

That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back  ; 

Enough  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down. 

And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 

From  brassy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 

From  stubborn  Turks,  and  Tartars,  never  train'd 

To  oflSces  of  tender  courtesy. 

We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy.  I  have  possess'd  your  grace  of  what  I  purpose ; 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn. 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond  : 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter,  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You'll  ask  me,  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats  :    I'll  not  answer  that : 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humour  ;   Is  it  answer'd  ? 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat. 
And  I  be  pleas'd  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned  ?  What,  are  you  answer'd  yet  ? 
Some  men  there  are,  love  not  a  gaping  pig  ; 
Some,  that  are  mad,  if  they  behold  a  cat ;  — 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd. 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 
Wily  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat ; 
So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not. 
More  than  a  lodg'd  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing, 
I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 
A  losing  suit  against  him.      Are  you  answer'd  ? 

Bass.   This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man, 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shy.   I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with   my 
answer. 

Bass.  Do  all  men  kill  the  things  they  do  not  love  ? 

Shy.  Hates  any  man  the  thing  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bass.   Every  offence  i§  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shy.   What,  would'st  thou  have  a  serpent  sting 
thee  twice  ? 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  think  you  question  with  the  Jew : 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach. 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf. 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb  ; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise, 
When  they  are  fretted  with  the  gusts  of  heaven  ; 
You  may  as  well  do  any  thing  most  hard, 
As  seek  to  soften  that  (than  which  what's  harder  ?) 
His  Jewish  heart :  —  Therefore,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Make  no  more  oflTers,  use  no  further  means. 
But,  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 
Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

Bass.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  are  six. 

Shy.   If  eveiy  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them,  I  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.  How  shalt  thou  hope  for  mercy,  rend'ring 
none? 

Shy.   What  judgment   shall  I  dread,  doing   no 
wrong  ? 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchas'd  slave. 


Pity. 


6  Whereas. 


Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs,  and  mules, 
You  use  in  alvject  and  in  slavish  parts, 
Because  you  bought  them  :  —  Shall  I  say  to  you. 
Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your  heirs  ? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burdens  ?  let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 
Be  season'd  with  such  viands  ?  You  will  answer, 
The  slaves  are  ours  :  —  So  do  I  answer  you  : 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him. 
Is  dearly  bought,  is  mine,  and  I  will  have  it : 
If  you  deny  me,  fye  upon  your  law  ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice  : 
I  stand  for  judgment :  answer  ;  shall  I  have  it  ? 

Duke.  Upon  my  power,  I  may  dismiss  this  cour 
Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  doctor. 
Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this. 
Come  here  to-day. 

Salar  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor. 
New  come  from  Padua. 

Duke.    Bring  us  the  letters  ;   Call  the  messengerj 

Bass.    Good  cheer,  Antonio !  What,  man  ?  cou.« 
rage  yet ! 
The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant.   I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death  ;  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground,  and  so  let  me : 
You  cannot  better  be  employ'd,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

Enter  Nerissa,  dressed  like  a  Lawyers  Clerk. 

Duke.    Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  ? 

Her.    From  both,  my  lord  :    Bellario  greets  your 
grace.  [Presents  a  letter. 

Bass.   Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly  ? 

Shy.    To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt 
there. 

Gra.   Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh  Jew, 
Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen  :  but  no  metal   can. 
No,  not  the  hangman's  ax,  bear  half  the  keenness 
Of  thy  sharp  envy.      Can  no  prayers  pierce  thee  ? 

Shy.   No,  none  that  thou  hast  wit  enough  to  make. 

Gra.   O,  be  thou  curst,  inexorable  dog ! 
And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accus'd. 
Thou  almost  mak'st  me  waver  in  my  faith. 
To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 
That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 
Into  the  trunks  of  men  :   thy  currish  spirit 
Govern'd  a  wolf,  who,  hang'd  for  human  slaughter. 
Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet. 
And,  whilst  thou  lay'st  in  thy  unhallow'd  dam, 
Infus'd  itself  in  thee ;  for  thy  desires 
Are  wolfish,  bloody,  starv'd,  and  ravenous. 

Shy.  Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  my  bond. 
Thou  but  ofFend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud : 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall 
To  cureless  ruin.  —  I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duke.   This  letter  from  Bellario  doth  commend 
A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court :  — 
Where  is  he  ? 

Ner.  He  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you'll  admit  him. 

Duke.   With  all  my  heart :  —  some  three  or  four 
of  you. 
Go  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place.  — 
Mean  time,  the  court  shall  hear  Bellario's  letter. 

[Clerk  reads.]  Your  grace  shall  understand,  that, 
at  the  receipt  of  your  letter,  I  am  very  sick :  but  in 
the  instant  that  your  messenger  came,  in  loving  visit- 


I 
I 


Scene  I. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


187 


fUion  was  with  me  a  young  doctor  of  Rome ;  his  name 
is  Bdlthasar :  I  acquainted  him  with  the  cause  in 
co?Uroversi/  between  the  Jew  and  Antonio  the  mer- 
chant :  we  turned  o'er  many  books  together :  he  i^ 
furnish' d  with  my  opinion;  which,  better  d  with  his 
oivn  learning,  {t/ie  greatness  whereof  I  cannot 
enough  commend,)  comes  with  him,  at  my  impor- 
tunity, to  fUl  v.p  your  grace's  request  in  my  stead. 
I  beseech  you,  let  his  lack  of  years  be  no  impediment 
to  let  him  lack  a  reverend  estimation ;  for  I  never 
knew  so  young  a  body  uith  so  old  a  head.  I  leave 
him  to  your  gracious  acceptance,  whose  trial  shall 
better  publish  his  commendation. 

Duke.  You  hear  the  learn'd  Bellario,   what  he 
writes  : 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  tlie  doctor  come.  — 

Enter  Portia,  dressed  like  a  Doctor  of  Laws. 
Give  me  your  hand  :   Came  you  from  old  Bellario  ? 

For.    I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome  :   take  your  place. 

Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court  ? 

For.   I  am  informed  throughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew  ? 

Duke.  Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

For.   Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

For.    Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow  ; 
Yet  in  such  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  7  you,  as  you  do  proceed.  — 
You  stand  within  his  danger  »,  do  you  not  ? 

[To  Antonio. 

Ant.   Ay,  so  he  says.  • 

For.  Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Ant.   I  do. 

For.  Tlien  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy.   On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that. 

For.   The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd  ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven. 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :   it  is  twice  bless 'd ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  tlironed  monarch  better  than  his  crown  : 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 
But  mercy  is  above  his  scepter'd  sway. 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this,  — 
That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  :   we  do  pray  for  mercy  ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
riie  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much, 
I'o  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  pleaj 
Which,  if  tliou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Shy.   My  deeds  upon  my  head !   I  crave  the  law, 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

For.   Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bass.   Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court ; 
Yea,  twice  tlie  sum  :   if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er. 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart ; 
If  tins  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 


Oi»posc. 


*  Reach  or  controu- 


That  malice  bears  down  truth.    And  I  beseech  you, 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority  : 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong  : 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

For.   It  must  not  be  ;  there  is  no  power  in  Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree  established  : 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  precedent; 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example. 
Will  rush  into  the  state :   it  cannot  be. 

Shy.  A  Daniel  cometojudgment !  yea  a  Daniel !  — 
O  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honour  thee  ! 

For.   I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.   Here  'tis,  most  reverend  doctor,  here  it  is. 

For.    Shylock,  tliere's  thrice  thy   money  off*er'd 
thee. 

Shy.   An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven : 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul  ? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

For.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit ; 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh  J  to  be  by  him  cut  oft' 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart :  —  Be  merciful ; 
Take  thrice  thy  money  ;  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

Shy.   When,  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenour. — 
It  doth  appear,  you  are  a  M'orthy  judge  ; 
You  know  the  law,  your  exposition 
Hath  been  most  sound :    I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar. 
Proceed  to  judgment :  by  my  soul  I  swear. 
There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me  :    I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

A7it.   Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

For.  Why  then,  thus  it  is. 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife : 

Shy.    O  noble  judge  !   O  excellent  young  man  ! 

For.   For  the  intent-  and  purpose  of  the  law 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty. 
Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.   'Tis  very  true  :    O  wise  and  upright  judge  ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks  ! 

For.   Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.  Ay,  his  breast : 

So  says  the  bond ;  —  Doth  it  not,  noble  judge  ?  — 
Nearest  his  heart,  those  are  the  very  words. 

For.   It  is  so.     Are  there  balance  here,  to  weigh 
The  flesh. 

Shy.         I  have  them  ready. 

For.   Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your 
charge. 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 

Shy.   Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 

For.   It  is  not  so  express'd  :    But  what  of  that  ? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

Shy.    I  cannot  find  it ;  'tis  not  in  tlie  bond. 

For.    Come,  merchant,  have  you  any  tiling  to  say? 

Ant.  But  little  ;  I  am  arm'd,  and  well  prepar'd.— 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio  ;  fare  you  well ! 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you  ; 
For  herein  fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  her  use. 
To  let  the  wretched  man  out-live  his  wealth 
To  view  with  hollow  eye,  and  wrinkled  brow, 
An  age  of  poverty  ;  from  which  lingering  penance 
Of  such  a  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off*. 
Commend  me  to  your  honourable  wife : 
Tell  her  tlie  process  of  Antonio's  end, 
Say,  how  I  lov'd  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death  ; 
And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge. 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 


188 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  IV. 


Ilepent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I'll  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass.    Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife. 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world. 
Are  not  with  me  esteem'd  above  thy  life  : 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

For.   Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks  for 
that, 
If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Gra.   I  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest,  I  love ; 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jjw. 

Ner.   'Tis  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back  ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 

S/iJ/.   These  be  the  Christian  husbands  :    I  have  a 
daughter ; 
'Would,  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas 
Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian  ! 

Inside. 
We  trifle  time ;   I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 

For.   A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is 
thine ; 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

Shj/.   Most  rightful  judge  ! 

For.   And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his 
breast ; 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 

Sht/.  Most  learned  judge  !  —  A  sentence  ;  come, 
prepare. 

For.   Tarry  a  little  ;  —  there  is  something  else. 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood  ; 
The  words  expressly  are  a  pound  of  flesh  : 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh  ; 
But,  in  thecutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

Gra.    O    upright    judge  !  —  Mark,     Jew  ;  —  O 
learned  judge ! 

Sht/.   Is  that  the  law  ? 

For.  Thyself  shall  see  the  act : 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assur'd. 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desir'st. 

Gra.  O  learned  judge  !  — Mark,  Jew  j — a  learned 
judge  !^ 

Ski/.    I  take  this  offer  then  ;  — pay  the  bond  thrice. 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass.  Here  is  the  money. 

For.   Soft; 
The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice  ; — soft ! — no  haste  ;  — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gra.   O  Jew  !  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge ! 

For.   Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh. 
Slied  thou  no  blood ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh  :  if  thou  tak'st  more. 
Or  less,  than  a  just  pound,  —  be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance, 
(^r  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple  ;  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair,  — 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.   A  second  Daniel !  a  Daniel,  Jew  ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

For.   Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?    take  thy  for- 
feiture. 

Shi/.   Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 


Bass.   I  have  it  ready  for  thee  ;  here  it  is. 

For.    He  hath  refus'd  it  in  the  open  court ; 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.   A  Daniel,  still  say  I ;  a  second  Daniel  — 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

S/i7/.   Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

For.   Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture, 
To  be  so  fciken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 

Shi/.   Why  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it ! 
I'll  stay  no  longer  question. 

For.  Tarry,  Jew  j 

Tlie  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice,  — 
If  it  be  prov'd  against  an  alien, 
That  by  direct,  or  indirect  attempts, 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party,  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive, 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods  ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state ; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st : 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding. 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too. 
Thou  hast  contriv'd  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant :   and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehears'd. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Gra.   Beg,  that  thou  mayst  have  leave  to  hang 
thyself: 
And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state, 
Tliou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord  ; 
Therefore  thou  must  he  hang'd  at  the  state's  charge. 

Duke.   That  tliou  shalt  see  the  difference  of  our 
spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it : 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's  : 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  into  a  fine. 

For.   Ay,  for  the  state  ;  not  for  Antonio. 

Shi/.   Nay,  take  my  life  and  all,  pardon  not  that : 
You  take  my  house,  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house  :   you  take  my  life, 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live. 

For.   What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio  ? 

Gra.   A  halter  gi'atis ;  nothing  else,  I  hope. 

Ant.  So  please  my  lord  the  duke,  and  all  the  court. 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods  ; 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use,  —  to  render  it, 
Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
That  lately  stole  his  daughter : 
Provided,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 
Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd, 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo,  and  his  daughter. 

Duke.    He  shall  do  this ;  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon,  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

For.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew,  what  dost  thou  say? 

Shi/.   I  am  content. 

For.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shi/.   I  pray  you,  give  me  leave  to  go  from  hence  : 
I  am  not  well ;  send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Du/ce.  Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

[Exit  Shylock. 
Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

Fo7'.   I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace  of  pardon  ; 
I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet,  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  that  your  leisure  serves  you  not. 


Act  V.    Scene  I. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


189 


Antonio,  gratify  tljis  gentleman; 

For,  in  my  mind,  you  are  much  bound  to  him. 

{^Exeunt  Duke,  Magnificoes,  and  Train. 

Bass.   Most  worthy  gentleman,  I  and  my  friend, 
Have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted 
Of  grievous  penalties  ;  in  lieu  whereof. 
Three  thousand  ducats,  due  unto  the  Jew, 
We  freely  cope  your  courteous  pains  withal. 

Ant.   And  stand  indebted,  over  and  above, 
In  love  and  service  to  you  evermore. 

For.   He  is  well  paid,  that  is  well  satisfied ; 
And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied, 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid: 
My  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary. 
I  pray  you,  know  me,  when  we  meet  again  ; 
I  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Bass.  Dear  sir,  of  force  I  must  attempt  you  further ; 
Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  tribute, 
Not  as  a  fee ;  grant  me  two  things,  I  pray  you. 
Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 

Por.   You  press  me  far,  and  therefore  I  will  yield. 
Give  me  your  gloves,  I'll  wear  them  for  your  sake; 
And,  for  your  love,  I'll  take  this  ring  from  you  :— 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand  ;  I'll  take  no  more ; 
And  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 

Bass.   This  ring,  good  sir,  —  alas,  it  is  a  tnfle  ; 
I  will  not  shame  myself  to  give  you  tliis. 

Por.   1  will  have  nothing  else  but  only  this  ; 
And  now,  methinks,  I  liave  a  mind  to  it. 

Bass.   There's  more  depends  on  this,  than  on  the 
value. 
Tlie  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you. 
And  find  it  out  by  proclamation ; 
Only  for  this,  I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

Por.    I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in  offers  : 
You  taught  me  first  to  beg  ;  and  now,  methinks, 
You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  should  be  answer'd. 

Bass.  Good  sir,  this  ring  was  given  me  by  my  wife : 
And,  when  she  put  it  on,  she  made  me  vow, 
'ITiat  I  should  neither  sell,  nor  give,  nor  lose  it. 

Por.   That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save  their 
gifts ; 
An  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman. 
And  know  how  well  I  have  deserv'd  this  ring, 


She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  for  ever, 

For  giving  it  to  me.      Well,  peace  be  with  you  ! 

[Exeunt  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

jint.   My  lord  Bassanio,  let  him  have  the  ring ; 
Let  his  deservings,  and  my  love  withal. 
Be  valued  'gainst  your  wife's  commandment. 

Bass.    Go,  Gratiano,  run  and  overtake  him. 
Give  him  tlie  ring  ;  and  bring  him  if  tliou  canst. 
Unto  Antonio's  house  :  —  away,  make  haste. 

[Eadt  Gratiano. 
Come,  you  and  I  will  thither  presently  ; 
And  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 
Fly  toward  Belmont :    Come,  Antonio.      [Exeutit. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street. 

Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

Por.   Inquire  the  Jew's  house  out,  give  him  tliis 
deed, 
And  let  him  sign  it :   we'll  away  to-night. 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home : 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 

Enter  Gratiano. 

Gra.    Fair  sir,  you  are  well  overtaken  : 
My  lord  Bassanio,  upon  more  advice  9, 
Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring  ;  and  doth  entreat 
Your  company  at  dinner. 

Par.  That  cannot  be  : 

This  ring  I  do  accept  most  thankfully. 
And  so,  I  pray  you  tell  him  :    Furthermore, 
I  pray  you  show  my  youth  old  Shylock's  house. 

Gra.    Tliat  will  I  do. 

Ner.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you : — 

I'll  see  if  I  can  get  my  husband's  ring,  [To  Portia. 
Which  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  for  ever. 

Por.   Thou  mayst,  I  warrant :   We  shall  have  old 
swearing. 
That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men ; 
But  we'll  outface  them,  and  outswear  tliem  too. 
Away,  make  haste ;  thou  know'st  where  I  will  tarry. 

Ner.   Come,  good  sir,  will  you  show  me  to  this 
house  ?  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  — Belmont  Avenue  to  Portia'^  House. 

Enter  Lorenzo  and  Jessica. 

Lor.  The  moon  shines  bright :  —  In  such  a  night 
as  this. 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise  ;  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents. 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night. 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew  ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismay'd  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
U|K)n  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  wav'd  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night. 


Medea  gather'd  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  ^son. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night. 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew  ; 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jes.  And  in  such  a  night. 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  lov'd  her  well ; 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor.  And  in  such  a  night, 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew. 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jes.    I  would  out^night  you,  did  no  body  come : 
But,  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  Stefhano. 
Lor.   Who  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night  ? 

>  Reflection. 


190 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  V. 


Steph.   A  friend. 

Lor.  A  friend  ?  wliat  friend  ?  your  name,  I  pray 
you,  friend? 

Stej)h>   Stephano  is  my  name ;  and  I  bring  word, 
My  mistress  will  before  the  break  of  day 
Be  here  at  Belmont :  she  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her  ? 

Steph.  None,  but  a  holy  hermit,  and  her  maid. 
I  pray  you,  is  my  master  yet  return'd  ? 

Lor.  He  is  not,  nor  we  have  not  heard  from  him. — 
But  go  we  in,  I  pray  thee,  Jessica, 
And  ceremoniously  let  us  prepare 
Some  welcome  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Enter  Launcelot. 

Laun.    Sola,  sola,  wo  ha,  ho,  sola,  sola ! 

Lor.   Who  calls  ? 

Laun.  Sola  !  did  you  see  master  Lorenzo,  and 
mistress  Lorenzo  !  sola,  sola  ! 

Lor.   Leave  hollaing,  man  ;  here. 

Laun.   Sola!  where?  where? 

Lor.   Here. 

Laun.  Tell  him,  there's  a  post  come  from  my 
master,  with  his  horn  full  of  good  news ;  my  master 
will  be  here  ere  morning.  {Exit. 

Lor.   Sweet  soul,  let's  in,  and  there  expect  their 
coming. 
And  yet  no  matter ;  —  Why  should  we  go  in  ? 
My  friend  StephAno,  signify,  I  pray  you. 
Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand  ; 
And  bring  your  musick  forth  into  the  air.  — 

\_Exit  Stephano. 
How  sweet  the  moon-light  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  musick 
Creep  in  our  ears ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night. 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica  :   Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  behold'st. 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-ey'd  cherubins  : 
Such  hannony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it.  — 

Enter  Musicians. 
Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn  ; 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear. 
And  draw  her  home  with  musick. 

Jes.  I  am  never  merry,  when  I  hear  sweet  musick. 

[Musick. 

Lor.   The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive  : 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd. 
Or  race  of  youthful,  and  unhandled  colts, 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing  loud. 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood ; 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound. 
Or  any  air  of  musick  touch  their  ears. 
You.  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 
Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze, 
By  the  sweet  power  of  musick  :  Therefore,  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods ; 
Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage. 
But  musick  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature  : 
The  man  that  hath  no  musick  in  himself. 
Nor  is  not  mov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds. 
Is  fit  for  ti-easons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  : 
Tlie  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 


And  his  afTectlons  dark  as  Erebus  : 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted.  —  Mark  the  musick. 

Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa,  at  a  distance. 

For.   That  light  we  see,  is  burning  in  my  hall. 
How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams  ! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

JSfer.  When  the  moon  shone,  we  did  not  see  the 
candle. 

For.   So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less  : 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king. 
Until  a  king  be  by  ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.      Musick  !  hark  ! 

A^er.   It  is  your  musick,  madam,  of  the  house. 

For.   Nothing  is  good,  I  see,  without  respect ; 
Methinks,  it  sounds  much  sweeter  than  by  day. 

Ner.   Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madam. 

For.   The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark, 
When  neither  is  attended  ;  and,  I  think. 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season  season'd  are 
To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection  !  — 
Peace,  hoa  !  the  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion 
And  would  not  be  awak'd  !  [Musick  ceases. 

Lor.  That  is  the  voice. 

Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  of  Portia. 

For.   He  knows  me,  as  the  blind  man  knows  the 
cuckoo. 
By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home. 

For.   We  have  been  praying  for  our  husbands' 
welfare. 
Which  speed,  we  hope,  the  better  for  our  words ; 
Are  they  return'd  ? 

Lor.  Madam,  they  are  not  yet ; 

But  there  is  come  a  messenger  before. 
To  signify  their  coming. 

For.  Go  in,  Nerissa, 

Give  order  to  my  servants,  that  they  take 
No  note  at  all  of  our  being  absent  hence  ; 
Nor  you,  Lorenzo  ;  —  Jessica,  nor  you. 

[A  tucket '  soti 

Lor.  Your  husband  is  at  hand,  I  hear  his  trumpet: 
We  are  no  tell-tales,  madam ;  fear  you  not. 

For.  This  night,  methinks,  is  but  the  day-light  sick. 
It  looks  a  little  paler  ;  'tis  a  day. 
Such  as  the  day  is  when  the  sun  is  hid. 

Enter  Bassanio,    Antonio,    Gratiano,  and  their 
Followers. 

Bass.   We  should  hold  day  with  the  Antipodes, 
If  you  would  walk  in  absence  of  the  sun. 

For.   Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be  light 
For  a  light  wife  doth  make  a  heavy  husband. 
And  never  be  Bassanio  so  for  me  ; 
You  are  welcome  home,  my  lord. 

Bass.   I  thank  you,  madam  :  give  welcome  to  m 
friend.  — 
This  is  the  man,  this  is  Antonio, 
To  whom  I  am  so  infinitely  bound. 

For.   You  should  in  all  sense  be  much  bound  to 
him. 
For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  bound  for  you. 

Ant.   No  more  than  I  am  well  acquitted  of. 

For.   Sir,  you  are  very  welcome  to  our  house  : 

'  A  flourish  on  a  trumpet. 


I 


II 
II 


I 


ScENK  I. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


191 


J I  must  appear  in  other  ways  than  words, 
Therefore,  I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy /2 

[Gratiano  and  Nerissa  seem  to  talk  apart. 
Gra.  By  yonder  moon,  I  swear,  you  do  me  wrong; 
In  faith,  I  gave  it  to  the  judge's  clerk. 

Por.    A  quarrel,  ho,  already  ?  what's  the  matter  ? 
Gra.   About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  me  ;  wliose  posy  was 
For  all  the  world,  like  cutler's  poetry 
Upon  a  knife,  Love  vie,  and  leave  me  not. 

Ner.   What  talk  you  of  the  posy,  or  the  value  ? 
You  swore  to  me,  when  I  did  give  it  you, 
That  you  would  wear  it  till  your  hour  of  death  ; 
And  that  it  should  lie  with  you  in  your  grave  : 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths, 
You  should  have  been  respective 3,  and  have  kept  it 
Gave  it  a  judge's  clerk  !  —  but  well  I  know, 
The  clerk  will  ne'er  wear  hair  on  his  face,  that  had  it. 

Gra.   He  will,  an  if  he  live  to  be  a  man. 

Ner.   Ay,  if  a  woman  live  to  be  a  man. 

Gra.  Now,  by  this  hand,  I  gave  it  to  a  youth,  — 
A  kind  of  boy  ;  a  little  scrubbed  boy, 
No  higher  than  thyself,  the  judge's  clerk  ; 
A  prating  boy,  that  begg'd  it  as  a  fee ; 
I  could  not  for  my  heart  deny  it  him. 

Por.  You  were  to  blame,  I  must  be  plain  with  you. 
To  part  so  slightly  with  your  wife's  first  gift ; 
A  thing  stuck  on  with  oaths  upon  your  finger, 
And  riveted  so  with  faith  upon  your  flesh. 
I  gave  my  love  a  ring,  and  made  him  swear 
Never  to  part  with  it ;  and  here  he  stands  ; 
I  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  would  not  leave  it. 
Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger,  for  the  wealth 
That  the  world  masters.      Now,  in  faith,  Gratiano, 
You  give  your  wife  too  unkind  a  cause  of  grief ; 
An  'twere  to  me,  I  should  be  mad  at  it. 

Bass.   Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  my  left  hand  off. 
And  swear,  I  lost  the  ring  defending  it.        [Aside. 

Gra.   My  lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 
Unto  the  judge  that  begg'd  it,  and  indeed, 
Deserv'd  it  too  ;  and  then  the  boy  his  clerk, 
That  took  some  pains  in  writing,  he  begg'd  mine  : 
And  neither  man,  nor  master,  would  take  aught 
But  the  two  rings. 

Por.  What  ring  gave  you,  my  lord  ? 

Not  that,  I  hope,  which  you  receiv'd  of  me. 

Bass.   If  I  could  add  a  lie  unto  a  fault, 
I  would  deny  it ;  but  you  see  my  finger 
Hath  not  the  ring  upon  it,  it  is  gone. 

Por.   Even  so  void  is  your  false  heart  of  truth. 
By  heaven,  I  will  ne'er  come  in  your  bed 
Until  I  see  the  ring. 

Ner.  Nor  I  in  yours, 

Till  I  again  see  mine. 

Bass.  Sweet  Portia, 

If  you  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  tlie  ring, 
If  you  did  know  for  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  would  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring. 
When  nought  would  be  accepted  but  the  ring, 
Vou  would  abate  the  strength  of  your  displeasure. 

Por.   If  you  had  known  the  virtue  of  the  ring. 
Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring, 
Or  your  own  honour  to  contain  the  ring. 
You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 
What  man  is  there  so  much  unreasonable. 
If  you  had  pleas'd  to  have  defended  it 
With  any  terms  of  zeal,  wanted  the  modesty 


■^  Verbal,  complimentary  form. 


'  Reganlful 


To  urge  the  thing  held  as  a  ceremony  ? 

Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe ; 

I'll  die  for't,  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 

Baf^s    No,  by  mine  honour,  madam,  by  my  soul. 
No  woman  liad,  but  a  civil  doctor. 
Which  did  refuse  three  thousand  ducats  of  me. 
And  begg  d  the  ring ;  the  which  I  did  deny  him. 
And  sufier'd  him  to  go  disjileas'd  away  ; 
Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 
Of  my  dear  friend.    What  should  I  say,  sweet  lady  ? 
I  was  enforc'd  to  send  it  after  him  ; 
I  was  beset  with  shame  and  courtesy  ; 
My  honour  would  not  let  ingratitude 
So  much  besmear  it :    Pardon  me,  good  lady  ; 
For,  by  these  blessed  candles  of  the  night, 
Had  you  been  there,  I  think,  you  would  have  begg'd 
The  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 

Por.  Let  not  that  doctor  e'er  come  near  my  house  : 
Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  lov'd, 
And  tliat  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 
I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you  :  . 

I'll  not  deny  him  any  thing  I  have,  ^    I 

Know  him  I  shall,  I  am  well  sure  of  it : 
Lie  not  a  night  from  home ;  watch  me,  like  Argus  : 
If  you  do  not,  if  I  be  left  alone, 
Now,  by  mine  honour,  which  is  yet  my  own, 
I'll  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 

Ner.   And  I  his  clerk;  therefore  be  well  advis'd, 
How  you  do  leave  me  to  mine  own  protection. 

Gra.   Well,  do  you  so  :  let  not  me  take  him  then.    ^    / 

Ant.  I  am  the  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrels. 

Por.   Sir,  grieve  not  you  ;   You  are  welcome  not- 
withstanding. 

Bass,   Portia,  forgive  me  this  enforced  wrong  ; 
And  in  the  hearing  of  these  many  friends, 
I  swear  to  thee,  even  by  thine  own  fair  eyes. 
Wherein  I  see  myself, 

PiTT.  Mark  you  but  that ! 

In  both  mine  eyes  he  doubly  sees  himself: 
In  each  eye,  one  :  — s'wear  by  your  double  self. 
And  there's  an  oath  of  credit. 

Bass.  Nay,  but  hear  me : 

Pardon  this  fault,  and  by  my  soul  I  swear, 
I  never  more  will  break  an  oath  with  thee. 

Ant.   I  once  did  lend  my  body  for  his  wealth  ^  : 
Which,  but  for  him  that  had  your  husband's  ring, 

[To  Portia. 
Had  quite  miscarried :   I  dare  be  bound  again, 
My  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  that  your  lord 
Will  never  more  break  faith  advisedly. 

Por.  Then  you  shall  be  his  surety  :  Give  him  this ; 
And  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other. 

Ant.  Here,  lord  Bassanio  ;  swear  to  keep  tliisring. 

Bass.    By  heaven,  it  is  the  same  I  gave  the  doctorj/    Ci 

Por.   I  had  it  of  him.  -<l^ou  are  an  amaz  d*:        >w     I 
Here  is  a  letter,  read  it  at  your  leisure  ; 
It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  : 
There  you  shall  find,  that  Portia  was  the  doctor ; 
Nerissa  there,  her  clerk  :    Lorenzo  here 
Shall  witness,  I  set  forth  as  soon  as  you. 
And  but  even  now  return'd ;   I  have  not  yet 
Enter'd  my  house.  —  Antonio,  you  are  welcome ; 
And  I  have  better  news  in  store  for  you. 
Than  you  expect :   unseal  this  letter  soon  ; 
There  you  shall  find,  three  of  your  argosies 
Are  richly  come  to  harbour  suddenly  : 
You  shall  not  know  by  what  strange  accident 
I  chanced  on  this  letter. 

Ant.  I  am  dumb. 

*  Advantage 


192 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Act  V 


Bass.  "Were  you  the  doctor,  and   I   knew  you 

not? 
Gra.   Were  you  the  clerk,  that  is  to  make  me 

cuckold  ? 
Ner,    Ay ;    but  the  clerk  that  never  means  to 
do  it, 
Unless  he  live  until  he  be  a  man. 

Bass.   Sweet  doctor,  you  shall  be  my  bedfellow ; 
When  I  am  absent,  then  lie  with  my  wife. 

j4nt.   Sweet  lady,  you  have  given  me  life,  and 
living ;  »• 

For  here  I  read  for  certain,  that  my  ships 
Are  safely  come  to  road. 


For.  How  now,  Lorenzo  ? 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts  too  for  you. 

Ner.   Ay ,  and  I'll  give  them  him  without  a  fee. 
There  do  I  give  to  you,  and  Jessica, 
From  the  rich  Jew,  a  special  deed  of  gift. 
After  his  death,  of  all  he  dies  possessed  of. 

Lor.    Fair  ladies,  you  drop  manna  iu  the  way 
Of  starved  people. 

For.  It  is  almost  morning, 

And  yet,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  satisfied 
Of  these  events  at  full :   Let  us  go  in  ; 
And  charge  us  there  upon  inter'gatories. 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully.   [Ex 


?y 


if 

en) 
33 


\ 


\^ 


AS   YOU    LIKE   IT. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Duke,  living  in  exile. 

Frederick,  brother  to  the  Duke,  and   Usurper  of 


the  Duke  in  his 


his  dominions. 
Amiens,  "1    Lords  attending  upon 
Jaques,  J  banishment. 

Le  Beau,  a  Courtier  attending  upon  Frederick. 
Charles,  his  Wrestler. 
Oliver, 

Jaques,       |-  Sons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 
Orlando, 
Adam, 
Dennis, 
Touchstone,  a  Clown, 

The  SCENE  lies,  first,  near  Oliver's 


} 

u,  c 

jiS,  hts 

DO,  J 

J-  Servants  to  Oliver. 


Sir  Oliver  Mar-xext,  a  Vicar. 

William,  a  country  Fellow,  in  love  with  Audrey. 
A  Person  representing  Hymen. 

Rosalind,  Daughter  to  the  banished  Duke. 
Celia,  Daughter  to  Frederick. 
Phebe,  a  Shepherdess. 
Audrey,  a  country  Girl. 

Lords  belonging  to  the  two  Dukes  ;  Pages,  Foresters,] 
and  other  Attendants. 

House ;  afterwards,  partly  in  the  Usurper  s  Court,  and  partly  in\ 
the  Forest  of  Arden. 


1 


^ 


WEAK    1  HIS    FOR    MR 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  ^n   Orchard,   near   Oliver's   House. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Orl.  A  s  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon  this  fashion 
bequeath'd  me  :  By  will,  but  a  poor  thousand 
crowns ;  and,  as  thou  say'st,  charged  my  brother, 
on  his  blessing,  to  breed  me  well  :  and  there  begins 
my  sadness.  My  brotiier  Jaques  he  keeps  at 
school,  and  report  speaks  goldenly  of  his  j)rofit : 
for  my  part,  he  keeps  me  rustically  at  home,  or,  to 
speak  more  properly,  stays  tTie  here  at  home  un- 
kept :  For  call  you  that  keeping  for  a  gentleman  of 
my  birth  that  differs  not  from  tlie  stalling  of  an  ox  ? 
His  horses  are  bred  better;  for,  besides  that  they 
are  fair  with  their  feeding,  they  are  taught  their 
manage,  and  to  that  end  riders  dearly  hired :  but 
I,  his  brother,  gain  nothing  under  him  but  growth  ; 
<or  the  which  liis  animals  on  his  dunghills  are  as 
much  bound  to  him  as  I.  Besides  this  nothing  that 
he  so  j)lentifully  gives  me,  the  something  that 
nature  gave  me,  his  countenance  seems  to  take 
from  me :  he  lets  me  feed  with  his  hinds,  bars  me 
(he  place  of  a  brother,  and,  as  much  as  in  him  lies, 
mines  my  gentility  with  my  education.  This  is  it, 
Adam,  that  grievi-s  me  ;  and  the  spirit  of  my  father, 
which  I  think  is  within  me,  begins  to  mutiny 
against  this  servitude  :  I  will  no  longer  endure  it, 
though  yet  I  know  no  wise  remedy  how  to  avoid  it. 


Enter  Oliver. 

yfdam.    Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother. 

Orl.  Go  apart.  Adam,  and  thou  shall  hear  how  he 
will  shake  me  up. 

Oli.   Now,  sir,  what  make  you  here  ?  ' 

Orl.  Nothing  :  I  am  not  taught  to  make  any  thing. 

Oli.   What  mar  you  then,  sir? 

Orl.  Marry,  sn-,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that 
which  God  made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother  of  yours, 
with  idleness. 

Oli.  Marry,  sir,  be  better  employ'd,  and  be  naught 
awhile. 

Orl.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husks  with 
ihem?  What  prodigal  portion  have  I  spent,  that  I 
should  come  to  such  penurj'  ? 

Oli.    Know  you  where  you  are,  sir? 

Orl.    O,  sir,  very  well  :   here  in  your  orchard. 

Oli     Know  you  before  whom,  sir? 

Orl.  Ay,  better  than  he  I  am  before  knows  me. 
I  know,  you  are  my  eldest  lirother ;  and,  m  the 
gentle  condition  of  l)lood,  you  should  so  know  me: 
The  courtesy  of  nations  allows  you  my  better,  in 
that  you  are  the  first-born  ;  but  the  same  tradition 
takes  not  away  my  blood,  were  there  twenty 
brothers  betwixt  us:  I  have  as  much  of  my  father 
in  me,  as  you ;  albeit,  I  confess,  your  coming 
l>eforc  me  is  nearer  to  his  reverence. 
'  What  do  you  here? 


194 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  1. 


OH.  What,  boy ! 

Orl.  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too 
young  in  this. 

OH.   Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain  ? 

Orl.  I  am  no  villain  • :  I  am  the  youngest  son 
of  sir  Rowland  de  Bois ;  he  was  my  father,  and  he 
is  thrice  a  villain,  that  says,  such  a  father  begot 
villains :  Wert  thou  not  my  brother,  I  would  not 
take  this  hand  from  thy  throat,  till  this  other  had 
pulled  out  thy  tongue  for  saying  so;  thou  hast 
railed  on  thyself. 

Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient;  for  your 
father's  remembrance,  be  at  accord. 

OH.   Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orl.  I  will  not,  till  I  please  :  you  shall  hear  me. 
My  father  charged  you  in  his  will  to  give  me  good 
education :  you  have  trained  me  like  a  peasant, 
obscuring  and  hiding  from  me  all  gentleman-like 
qualities :  the  spirit  of  my  father  grows  strong  in 
me,  and  I  will  no  longer  endure  it ;  therefore 
allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  become  a  gentle- 
man, or  give  me  the  poor  allottery  ray  father  left 
me  by  testament ;  with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  for- 
tunes. 

OH.  And  what  wilt  thou  do  ?  beg,  when  that  is 
spent  ?  Well,  sir,  get  you  in  :  I  will  not  long  be 
troubled  with  you :  you  shall  have  some  part  of 
your  will :    I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Orl.  I  will  no  further  offend  you  than  becomes 
me  for  my  good. 

OH.    Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

Adam.   Is  old  dog  mj  reward  ?  most  true,  I  have 

lost  my  teeth  in  your  service.  —  God  be  with  my 

old  master  !  he  would  not  have  spoke  such  a  word. 

[Exeunt  Orlando  and  Adam. 

OH.  Is  it  even  so  ?  begin  you  to  grow  upon  me  ? 
I  will  physick  your  rankness,  and  yet  give  no  thou- 
sand crowns  neither.     Hola,  Dennis  ! 

Enter  Dennis. 

Den.    Calls  your  worship  ? 

OH.  Was  not  Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler,  here, 
to  speak  with  me  ? 

Den.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door,  and 
importunes  access  to  you. 

OH.  Call  him  in.  [Exit  Dennis.]  —  'Twill  be  a 
good  way ;  and  to-morrow  the  wrestling  is. 

Enter  Charles. 

Cha.  Good  morrow  to  your  worship. 

OH.  Good  monsieur  Charles  !  —  what's  the  new 
news  at  the  new  court  ? 

Cka.  There's  no  news  at  the  court,  sir,  but  the 
old  news  :  that  is,  the  old  duke  is  banished  by  his 
younger  brother  the  new  duke ;  and  three  or  four 
loving  lords  have  put  themselves  into  voluntary 
exile  with  him,  whose  lands  and  revenues  enrich 
the  new  duke ;  therefore  he  gives  them  good  leave 
to  wander. 

OH.  Can  you  tell,  if  Rosalind,  the  duke's 
daughter,  be  banished  with  her  father  ? 

Cha.  O,  no  ;  for  the  duke's  daughter,  her  cousin, 
so  loves  her,  —  being  ever  from  their  cradles  bred 
together,  — that  she  would  have  followed  her  exile, 
or  have  died  to  stay  behind  her.  She  is  at  the 
court,  and  no  less  beloved  of  her  uncle  than  his 
own  daughter  ;  and  never  two  ladies  loved  as  they  do. 

OIL  Where  will  the  old  duke  live  ? 

'^  Villain  is  used  in  a  double  sense ;  by  Oliver  for  a  worth, 
less  fellow,  and  by  Orlando  for  a  man  of  base  extraction. 


Cha.  They  say  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of 
Arden,  and  a  many  merry  men  with  him ;  and 
there  they  live  like  the  old  Robin  Hood  of  Eng- 
land :  they  say,  many  young  gentlemen  flock  to 
him  every  day  ;  and  fleet  the  time  carelessly,  as  they 
did  in  the  golden  world. 

OH.  What,  you  wrestle  to-morrow  before  the  new 
duke? 

Cha.  Marry,  do  I,  sir ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint 
you  with  a  matter.  I  am  given,  sir,  secretly  to  un- 
derstand, that  your  younger  brother,  Orlando,  hath 
a  disposition  to  come  in  disguis'd  against  me  to  try 
a  fall :  To-morrow,  sir,  I  wrestle  for  my  credit ; 
and  he  that  escapes  me  without  some  broken  limb, 
shall  acquit  him  well.  Your  brother  is  but  young, 
and  tender ;  and,  for  your  love,  I  would  be  loath  to 
foil  him,  as  1  must,  for  my  own  honour,  if  he  come 
in:  therefore,  out  of  my  love  to  you,  I  came  hither 
to  acquaint  you  withal ;  that  either  you  might  stay 
him  from  his  intendment,  or  brook  such  disgrace 
well  as  he  shall  run  into  ,  in  that  it  is  a  thing  of  his 
own  search,  and  altogether  against  my  will. 

OH.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me, 
which  thou  shalt  find  I  will  most  kindly  requite.  I 
had  myself  notice  of  my  brother's  purpose  herein, 
and  have  by  underhand  means  laboured  to  dissuade 
him  from  it ;  but  he  is  resolute.  I'll  tell  thee, 
Charles,  —  it  is  the  stubbornest  young  fellow  of 
France ;  full  of  ambition,  an  envious  emulator  of 
every  man's  good  parts,  a  secret  and  villainous 
contriver  against  me  his  natural  brother  ;  therefore 
use  thy  discretion ;  I  had  as  lief  thou  didst  break 
his  neck  as  his  finger:  And  thou  wert  best  look 
to't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  disgrace,  or  it 
he  do  not  mightily  grace  himself  on  thee,  he  will 
practise  against  thee  by  poison,  entrap  thee  by  some 
treacherous  device,  and  never  leave  thee  till  he  hath 
ta'en  thy  life  by  some  indirect  means  or  other ;  for, 
I  assure  thee,  and  almost  with  tears  I  speak  it,  there 
is  not  one  so  young  and  so  villainous  this  day  living, 
I  speak  but  brotherly  of  him;  but  should  I  anatomize 
him  to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush  and  weep 
thou  must  look  pale  and  wonder. 

Cha.    I  am  heartily  glad,  I  came  hither  to  you 
If  he  come  to-morrow,  I'll  give  him  his  payment  r! 
If  ever  he  go  alone  again,   I'll  never  wrestle  for 
prize  more :   And  so,  heaven  keep  your  worship  ! 

[Exit. 

OH.  Farewell,  good  Charles.  —  Now  will  I  stir 
this  gamester  3 :  I  hope  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him  ; 
for  my  soul,  yet  I  know  not  why,  hates  nothing 
more  than  he.  Yet  he's  gentle ;  never  school'd, 
and  yet  learned ;  full  of  noble  device  ;  of  all  sorts  ^ 
enchantingly  beloved ;  and,  indeed,  so  much  in  the 
heart  of  the  world,  and  especially  of  my  own  people, 
who  best  know  him,  that  I  am  altogether  misprised : 
but  it  shall  not  be  so  long ;  this  wrestler  shall  clear 
all :  nothing  remains,  but  that  I  kindle  the  boy 
thither,  which  now  I'll  go  about.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II A  Lawn  before  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Cel.  I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be  merry. 
Ros.  Dear  Celia,  I  show  more  mirth  than  I  am 
mistress  of:  and  would  you  yet  I  were  merrier? 
Unless  you  could  teach  me  to  forget  a  banished 
father,  you  must  not  learn  me  how  to  remember 
any  extraordinary  pleasure. 

3  Frolicksome  fellow.  4  Of  all  ranks. 


nize 

ou:|^H| 
mtr^ll 

for^l 


i 


Scene  II. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


195 


Cel,  Herein,  I  see,  thou  lovest  me  not  with  tlie 
full  weight  that  1  love  thee :  if  my  uncle,  thy  ba- 
nished father,  had  banished  thy  uncle,  the  duke  my 
father,  so  thou  hadst  been  still  with  me,  I  could 
have  taught  my  love  to  take  thy  father  for  mine ; 
so  wouldst  thou,  if  the  truth  of  thy  love  to  me  were 
so  righteously  temper'd  as  mine  is  to  thee. 

Ros.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition  of  my 
estate,  to  rejoice  in  yours. 

Cel.  You  know,  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I, 
nor  none  is  like  to  have  ;  and,  truly,  when  he  dies, 
thou  shalt  be  his  heir :  for  what  he  hath  taken  away 
from  thy  father  perforce,  I  will  render  thee  again 
in  affection  ;  by  mine  honour,  I  will ;  and  when  I 
break  that  oath,  let  me  turn  monster :  therefore,  my 
sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  be  merry. 

Ros.  From  henceforth  I  will,  coz,  and  devise 
sports ;  let  me  see ;  What  think  you  of  falling  in  love? 

Cel.  Marry,  I  pr'ythee,  do,  to  make  sport  withal : 
but  love  no  man  in  good  earnest ;  nor  no  further  in 
sport  neither,  than  with  safety  of  a  pure  blush  thou 
may'st  in  honour  come  off  again. 

Ros.   What  shall  be  our  sport  then  ? 

Cel.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  housewife, 
Fortune,  from  her  wheel,  that  her  gifts  may  hence- 
forth be  bestowed  equally. 

Ros.  I  would,  we  could  do  so ;  for  her  benefits 
are  mightily  misplaced :  and  the  bountiful  blind 
woman  doth  most  mistake  in  her  gifts  to  women. 

Cel.  'Tis  true  :  for  those,  that  she  makes  fair,  she 
scarce  makes  honest;  and  those,  that  she  makes 
honest,  she  makes  very  ill-favour'dly. 

Ros.  Nay,  now  thou  goest  from  fortune's  office 
to  nature's :  fortune  reigns  in  gifts  of  the  world,  not 
in  the  lineaments  of  nature. 

ErUer  Touchstone. 

Cel.  No  ?  Wlien  nature  hath  made  a  fair  creature, 
may  she  not  by  fortune  fall  into  the  fire? — Though 
nature  hath  given  us  wit  to  flout  at  fortune,  hath  not 
fortune  sent  in  this  fool  to  cut  off'  the  argument  ? 

Ros.  Indeed,  there  is  fortune  too  hard  for  nature ; 
when  fortune  makes  nature's  natural  the  cutter  off 
of  nature's  wit. 

Cel.  Peradventure,  tliis  is  not  fortune's  work 
neither,  but  nature's :  who  perceiving  our  natural 
wits  too  dull  to  reason  of  such  goddesses,  hath  sent 
this  natural  for  our  whetstone  :  for  always  the  dul- 
ness  of  the  fool  is  the  whetstone  of  his  wits.  —  How 
now,  wit  ?  whither  wander  yoii  ? 

Touch.  Mistress,  you  must  come  away  to  your 
father. 

Cel.  Were  you  made  the  messenger  ? 

Touch.  No,  by  mine  honour ;  but  I  was  bid  to 
come  for  you. 

Ros.   Where  learned  you  that  oath,  fool  ? 

Touch.  Of  a  certain  knight,  that  swore  by  his 
honour  they  were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his 
honour  the  mustard  was  naught :  now,  I'll  stand  to 
it,  the  pancakes  were  naught,  and  the  mustard  was 
good  ;  and  yet  was  not  the  knight  forsworn. 

Cel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heap  of 
your  knowledge  ? 

Ros.   Ay,  marry ;  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touch.  Stand  you  both  forth  now  :  stroke  your 
chins,  and  swear  by  your  beards  that  I  am  a  knave. 

Cel.    By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them,  thou  art. 

Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were  : 
but  if  jou  swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  not 
forsworn  :  no  more  was  this  knight,  swearing  by  his 


honour,  for  he  never  had  any ;  or  if  he  had,  he  had 
sworn  it  away,  before  ever  he  saw  those  pancakes 
or  that  mustard. 

Cel.   Pr'ythee,  who  is't  that  thou  mean'st? 

Touch.  One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father  loves. 

Cel.  My  father's  love  is  enough  to  honour  him. 
Enough  !  speak  no  more  of  him  ;  you'll  be  whipp'd 
for  taxation  *,  one  of  these  days. 

Touch.  The  more  pity,  that  fools  may  not  speak 
wisely,  what  wise  men  do  foolishly. 

Cel.  By  my  troth,  thou  say'st  true :  for  since  the 
little  wit,  that  fools  have,  was  silenced,  the  little 
foolery,  that  wise  men  have,  makes  a  great  show. 
Here  comes  monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Enter  Le  Beau. 

Ros.   With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 

Cel.  Which  he  will  put  on  us,  as  pigeons  feed 
their  young. 

Ros.   Then  shall  we  be  news-cramm'd. 

Cel.  All  the  better ;  we  shall  be  the  more  mar- 
ketable. Bon  jour,  monsieur  Le  Beau  ;  What's  the 
news? 

Le  Beau.  Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much  good 
sport. 

Cel.    Sport  ?     Of  what  colour  ? 

Le  Beau.  What  colour,  madam  ?  How  shall  I 
answer  you  ? 

Ros.   As  wit  and  fortune  will. 

Touch.   Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 

Cel.   Well  said ;  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel. 

Le  Beau.  You  amaze  me,  ladies ;  I  would  have 
told  you  of  good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost  the 
sight  of. 

Ros.   Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning,  and,  if  it 
please  your  ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end ;  for  the 
best  is  yet  to  do ;  and  here,  where  you  are,  they  are 
coming  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Well,  —  the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and 
buried. 

Le  Beau.  There  comes  an  old  man,  and  his  three 
sons,  — ^ 

Cel.  I  could  match  this  beginning  with  an  old  tale. 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  excellent 
growth  and  presence ; 

Ros.  With  bills  on  their  necks,  —  Be  it  known 
unto  all  men  by  these  jrresents, 

Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  tnree  wrestled  with 
Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler ;  which  Charles  in  a 
moment  threw  him,  and  broke  three  of  his  ribs,  that 
there  is  little  hope  of  life  in  him  :  so  he  served  tlie 
second,  and  so  the  third  :  Yonder  they  lie  ;  the  poor 
old  man,  their  father,  making  such  pitiful  dole  over 
them,  that  all  the  beholders  take  his  part  with 
weeping. 

Ros.   Alas! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the 
ladies  have  lost? 

Le  Beau.   Why,  this  that  I  speak  of 

Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day  !  it 
is  the  first  time  that  I  ever  heard,  breaking  of  ribs 
was  sport  for  ladies. 

Cel.  Or  1,  1  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken 
musick  in  his  sides?  is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon 
rib-breaking? —  Shall  we  see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 

Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here  :  for  here  is 

»  Satire. 
O  2 


196 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  I. 


the  place  appointed  for  the  wrestling,  and  they  are 
ready  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming  :  Let  us  now 
stay  and  see  it. 

Flourish.     Enter   Duke    Frederick,    Lords,   Or- 
lando, Charles,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Come  on  ;  since  the  youth  will  not  be 
entreated,  his  own  peril  on  his  forwardness. 

Ros.   Is  yonder  the  man  ? 

Le  Beau-   Even  he,  madam. 

Cel.  Alas,  he  is  too  young :  yet  he  looks  suc- 
cessfully. 

Duke  F.  How  now,  daughter,  and  cousin  ?  are 
you  crept  hither  to  see  the  wrestling. 

Ros.   Ay,  my  liege  !  so  please  you  give  us  leave. 

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I  can 
tell  you,  there  is  such  odds  in  the  men :  In  pity  of 
the  challenger's  youth,  I  would  fain  dissuade  him, 
but  he  will  not  be  entreated  :  Speak  to  him,  ladies; 
see  if  you  can  move  him. 

Cel.    Call  him  hither,  good  monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Duke  F.  Do  so:  I'll  not  be  by.  [Tiv%.v.  goes  apart. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  princesses 
call  for  you. 

Orl-   I  attend  them,  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles 
the  wrestler  ? 

Orl.  No,  fair  princess ;  he  is  the  general  chal- 
lenger :  I  come  but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him 
the  strength  of  my  youth. 

Cel.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold 
for  your  years  :  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this 
man's  strength  ;  if  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes, 
or  knew  yourself  with  your  judgment,  the  fear  of 
your  adventure  would  counsel  you  to  a  more  equal 
enterprise.  We  pray  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to 
embrace  your  own  safety,  and  give  over  this  attempt. 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir ;  your  reputation  shall  not 
tlierefore  be  misprised  :  we  will  make  it  our  suit  to 
the  duke,  that  the  wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 

Orl.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your 
hard  thoughts  ;  wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty, 
to  deny  so  fair  and  excellent  ladies  any  thing.  But 
let  your  fair  eyes,  and  gentle  wishes,  go  with  me  to 
my  trial :  wherein  if  I  be  foiled,  there  is  but  one 
shamed  that  was  never  gracious ;  if  killed,  but  one 
dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so  :  I  shall  do  my  friends 
no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament  me  ;  the  world 
no  injury,  for  in  it  I  have  nothing  ;  only  in  the 
world  I  fill  up  a  place,  which  may  be  better  sup- 
plied when  I  have  made  it  empty. 

Ros.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it 
were  with  you. 

Cel.    And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 

Ros.  Fare  you  well.  Pray  heaven,  I  be  deceived 
in  you ! 

Cel.   Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you. 

Cha.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant,  that  is 
so  desirous  to  lie  with  his  mother  earth  ? 

Orl.    Ready,  sir. 

Duke  F.   You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Clia.  No,  I  warrant  your  grace ;  you  shall  not 
entreat  him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  per- 
suaded liim  from  a  first. 

Orl.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should 
not  have  mocked  me  before  :   but  come  your  ways. 

Ros.   Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man  ! 

Cel.  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong 
fellow  by  the  leg.    [Charles  and  Orlando  wrestle. 


Ros.   O  excellent  young  man  ! 

Cel.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can  tell 
who  should  down.  [Charles  is  thrown.     Shout. 

Duke  F.   No  more,  no  more. 

Orl.  Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace;  I  am  not  yet 
well  breathed. 

Duke  F.   How  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 

Le  Beau.    He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  F.  Bear  him  away.  [Charles  15  borne  out. 
What  is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

Orl.  Orlando,  my  liege  ;  the  youngest  son  of  sir 
Rowland  de  Bois. 

Duke  F.   I  would  thou  hadst  been  son  to  somej 
man  else. 
The  world  esteem'd  thy  father  honourable. 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy : 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleas'd  me  with  this  deed, ' 
Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 
But  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth ; 
I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 

{Exeunt  Duke  Fred.  Train,  and  Le  Beau. 

Cel.   Were  I  my  father,  coz,  would  I  do  this  ? 

Orl.   I  am  more  proud  to  be  sir  Rowland's  son, 
His  youngest  son  ;  —  and  would  not  change  that 

calling. 
To  be  adopted  heir  to  Frederick. 

Ros.   My  father  lov'd  sir  Rowland  as  his  soul, 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind  : 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  his  son, 
I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventur'd. 

Cel.  Gentle  cousin. 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him  : 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart.  —  Sir,  you  have  well  deserv'd  : 
If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love. 
But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  promise. 
Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 

Ros.  Gentleman, 

\_Giving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck. 
Wear  this  for  me  ;  one  out  of  suits  with  fortune ; 
That   could   give   more,  but  that  her  hand  lacks 

means.  — 
Shall  we  go,  coz  ? 

Cel.  Ay :  —  Fare  you  well,  fair  gentleman. 

Orl.  Can  I  not  say,  I  thank  you  ?  My  better  parts 
Are  all  thrown  down  ;  and  that  which  here  stands  up. 
Is  but  a  quintain  6,  a  mere  lifeless  block. 

Ros.    He  calls  us  back :    My  pride  fell  with  my 
fortunes : 
I'll  ask  him  what  he  would :  —  Did  you  call,  sir  ?  — 
Sir  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

Cel.  Will  you  go,  coz  ? 

Ros.   Have  with  you  :  — Fare  you  well. 

\^Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Orl.   What  passion  hangs  these  weights  upon  my 
tongue  ? 
I  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urg'd  conference. 

Re-enter  Le  Beau. 
O,  poor  Orlando  !  thou  art  qyerthrown  ; 
Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee. 

Le  Beau.  Good  sir,  I  do  in  friendship  counsel  you 
To  leave  this  place :    Albeit  you  have  deserv'd 
High  commendation,  true  applause,  and  love ; 
Yet  such  is  now  the  duke's  condition?. 
That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have  done 

6  The  object  to  dart  at  in  martial  exercises. 

7  Temper,  disposition. 


Scene  III. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


197 


The  duke  is  humorous  ;  what  he  is,  indeed, 
More  suits  you  to  conceive,  than  me  to  speak  of. 

Orl.    I  thank  you,  sir:    and  pray  you,  tell   me 
this ; 
Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  duke, 
Tliat  here  was  at  the  wrestling  ? 

Le  Beau.    Neither  his  daughter,  if  we  judge  by 
manners ; 
But  yet,  indeed,  the  shorter  is  his  daughter  : 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banish'd  duke, 
And  here  detain'd  by  her  usurping  uncle. 
To  keep  his  daughter  company  ;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you,  that  of  late  this  duke 
Hath  ta'cn  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece ; 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument. 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues, 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake  : 
And,  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth.  —  Sir,  fare  you  well ; 
Hereafter,  in  a  better  world  than  this, 
I  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of  you. 

OH.   I  rest  much  bounden  to  you  :  fare  you  well ! 
{Exit  Le  Beau. 
Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  tiie  smother  ; 
From  tyrant  duke,  unto  a  tyrant  brother  :  — 
But  heavenly  Rosalind  !  \^ExU. 

SCENE  III.  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Celia  and  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  cousin  ;  why,  Rosalind ;  — Cupid  have 
mercy  !  —  Not  a  word  ? 

Rns.   Not  one  to  tlirow  at  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  be  cast 
away  upon  curs,  throw  some  of  them  at  me  ;  come, 
lame  me  with  reasons. 

Ros.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up  ;  when 
the  one  should  be  lamed  with  reasons,  and  the  other 
mad  without  any. 

Cel.   But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  for  my  father's  child:  O, 
how  full  of  briars  is  this  working-day  world  ! 

Cel.  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee 
in  holiday  foolery  ;  if  we  walk  not  in  the  trodden 
paths,  our  very  petticoats  will  catch  them. 

Ros.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat;  these  burs 
are  in  my  heart. 

Cel.   Hem  them  away. 

Ros.  I  would  try  ;  if  I  could  cry  hem,  and  have 
him. 

Cel.   Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Ros.  O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler 
than  myself. 

Cel.  O,  a  good  wish  upon  you  !  —  But,  turning 
these  jests  out  of  service,  let  us  talk  in  good  earnest : 
Is  it  possible,  on  such  a  sudden,  you  should  fall  into 
so  strong  a  liking  with  old  sir  Rowland's  youngest 
son? 

Ros.   The  duke  my  father  lov'd  his  father  dearly. 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue,  that  you  should  love 
his  son  dearly  ?  By  this  kind  of  chase,  I  should  hate 
him,  for  my  father  hated  his  father  dearly;  yet 
I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Ros.   No ;  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

Cel.   Why  should  I  not  ?    doth  he  not  deserve 
well? 

Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you  love 
him,  because  I  do  :  —  Look,  here  comes  the  duke. 

Cel.   With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 


Enter  Duke  Frederick,  with  Lords. 

Duke  F-    Mistress,  despatch  you  witli  your  safest 
haste. 
And  get  you  from  our  court. 

Ros.  Me,  uncle? 

Duke  F.  You,  cousin  ; 

Within  these  ten  days  if  that  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles. 
Thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace, 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  witii  ine  : 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence. 
Or  have  acquaintance  with  mine  own  desires  ; 
If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantick, 
(As  I  do  trust  I  am  not,)  then,  dear  uncle, 
Never,  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn. 
Did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Duke  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors ; 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 
They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself;  — 
Let  it  suffice  thee,  that  I  trust  thee  not. 

Ros.   Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor  : 
Tell  me  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 

Duke  F.    Thou  art  thy  fatlier's  daughter,   there's 
enough. 

Ros.     So  was  I,  when   your  highness  took   his 
dukedom  ; 
So  was  I  when  your  highness  banish'd  him  : 
Treason  is  not  inherited  my  lord  ; 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends. 
What's  that  to  me  ?  my  father  was  no  traitor  : 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much. 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cel.   Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  F.  Ay,  Celia ;  we  stay'd  her  for  your  sake^ 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  rang'd  along. 

Cel.   I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay. 
It  was  your  pleasure,  and  your  own  remorse  * : 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her. 
But  now  I  know  her  :   if  she  be  a  traitor. 
Why  so  am  I ;  we  still  have  slept  together. 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans. 
Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparable.  I 

Duke  F.    She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ;    and  her   ^ 
smoothness,  / 

Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience,  \ 

Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 
And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more 

virtuous. 
When  she  is  gone  :  then  open  not  thy  lips ; 
Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 
Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her ;  she  is  banish'd. 

Cel.   Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my 
liege ; 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 

DuJce  F.   You  are  a  fool :  —  You,  niece,  provide 
yourself; 
If  you  out-stay  the  time,  upon  mine  honour, 
And  in  tlie  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

[Exeunt  Duke  Frederick  and  Lords* 

Cel.   O  my  poor  Rosalind  !  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers?  I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  tliec,  be  not  thou  more  griev'd  than  I  am. 

Ros.   I  have  more  cause. 

Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin  ; 

Pr'ythee,  l)e  cheerful :  know'st  thou  not,  the  duke 
Hath  banish'd  me  his  daughter  ? 
"  Compassion. 
O  3 


198 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  II. 


Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cel.   No  ?  hath  not  ?  Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one : 
Shall  we  be  sunder'd?  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl? 
No ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me,  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us  : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon  you. 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out ; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale. 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I'll  go  along  with  thee. 

JRos.   Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Cel.   To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Ros.   Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  ? 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Cel.   I'll  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire. 
And  with  a  kind  of  umber9  smirch  my  face  ; 
The  like  do  you  ;  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better. 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall. 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 


A  gallant  curtle-ax«  upon  my  thigh, 

A  boar  spear  in  my  hand ;  and  (in  my  heart 

Lie  there  what  liidden  woman's  fear  there  will,) 

We'll  have  a  swashing 3  and  a  martial  outside  ; 

As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have. 

That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 

Cel.   What  shall  I  call  thee,  when  thou  art  a  man  ? 

Ros.   I'll  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's  own 
page, 
And  therefore  look  you  call  me,  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  call'd? 

Cel.   Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Ros.   But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assay'd  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 

Cel.   He'll  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him  :   Let's  away. 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together ; 
Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight :   Now  go  we  in  content. 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment  [Exeunt. 


I 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I The  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  Duke  Senior,  Amiens,  and  other  Lords,  in 
the  dress  of  Foresters. 

Duke  S.  Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in  exile* 
I  Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
'  Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?  Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  seasons'  difference  ;  as,  the  icy  fang, 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind  ; 
Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say,  — 
This  is  no  flattery  :   these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity  ; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous. 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head  ; 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt. 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks. 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 

Ami.  I  would  not  change  it :  Happy  is  your  grace. 
That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 

Dulce  S.   Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools, — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, — 
Should  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads ' 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd. 

1  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord. 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish'd  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens,  and  myself. 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood  : 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequester'd  stag. 
That  from  the  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt. 


Did  come  to  languish  ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord. 
The  wretched  animal  heav'd  forth  such  groans. 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting  ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Cours'd  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase  :   and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook. 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1  Lord.   O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream  ; 

j  Poor  deer,  quoth  he,  thou  mak'st  a  testament 
As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much  :   Then,  being  alone. 
Left  and  abandon'd  of  his  velvet  friends  ;  ■ 

'  Tis  right,  quoth  he ;  thus  misery  doth  part  > 

The  flux  of  company :   Anon,  a  careless  herd. 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 
And  never  stays  to  greet  him ;  Ay,  quoth  Jaques, 
Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens  ; 
'  Tis  just  the  fashion  :  Wherefore  do  you  look 
Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  T 
Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 
The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court. 
Yea,  and  of  this  our  life  :   swearing,  that  we 
Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what's  worse 
To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up. 
In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling-place. 

Duke  S.   And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contem- 
plation ? 

2  Lord.  We  did,  my  lord,  weeping  and  comment- 

ing 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place  ; 

I  love  to  cope*  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 
For  then  he's  full  of  matter. 

2  Lord.  I'll  bring  you  to  him  straight.    {Exeuni. 


'  A  dusky,  yellow. coloured  earth. 


Barbed  arrows. 


II 


Cutlass, 


Swaggering. 


Encounter. 


Scene  II. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


199 


SCENE  II — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

DukeF.  Can  it  be  possible,  that  no  man  saw  them  ? 
It  cannot  be  :   some  villains  of  my  court 
Are  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 

1  Lord.   I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 
The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber. 

Saw  her  a-bed  ;  and,  in  the  morning  early. 
They  found  the  bed  untreasur'd  of  their  mistress. 

2  Lord.  My  lord,  the  roynish*  clown,  at  whom  so  oft 
Your  grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also  missing 
Hesperia,  the  princess'  gentlewoman. 
Confesses,  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 

Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much  commend 
The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler 
That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sinewy  Charles  ; 
And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone. 
That  youth  is  surely  in  tlieir  company. 

Duke  F.   Send  to  his  brother  ;  fetch  that  gallant 
hither ; 
If  he  be  absent,  bring  liis  brother  to  me, 
I'll  make  him  find  him  :  do  this  suddenly  ; 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail  6 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways.      {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  lll.—Bef<yre  OUver'«  Hmse. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Adam,  meeting. 

Orl.   Who's  there  ? 

Adam.  "What !  my  yoimg  master  ? —  O,  my  gentle 
master, 
O,  my  sweet  master,  O  you  memory  7 
Of  old  sir  Rowland  !  why,  what  make  you  here  ? 
Why  are  you  virtuous  ?  Why  do  people  love  you  ? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  vaUant  ? 
Why  should  you  be  so  fond 8  to  overcome 
The  bony  prizer  of  the  humorous  duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 
Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 
Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 
No  more  do  yours ;  your  virtues.  {;fentl^  matitprj 
Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 
O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 
Envenoms  him  that  bears  it  ? 

Orl.   Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Adam.  O  unhappy  youth. 

Come  not  within  these  doors ;  within  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives  : 
Your  brother — (no,  no  brother ;  yet  the  son  — 
Yet  not  the  son  ;  —  I  will  not  call  him  son — 
Of  him  I  was  about  to  call  his  father,)  — 
Hatli  heard  your  praises  ;  and  this  night  he  means 
To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  use  to  lie, 
And  you  within  it :  if  he  fail  of  that. 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off: 
I  overheard  him,  and  his  practices. 
Tliis  is  no  place,  this  house  is  but  a  butchery  ; 
Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 

Orl.  Why,whither,  Adam,wouldstthouhavemego? 

Adam.  No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here. 

Orl.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  and  beg  my 
food? 
Or,  with  a  base  and  boisterous  sword,  enforce 
A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road  ? 
This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do  : 
Yet  tliis  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can  ; 


*  Scurvy. 
f  Memorial 


*  Sink  into  dejection. 

•  Inconsiderate 


I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted  blood^,  and  bloody  brother. 

Adam.  But  do  not  so  :  I  have  five  hundred  crowns 
The  tlirifty  hire  I  sav'd  under  your  father, 
Which  I  did  store,  to  be  my  foster-nurse, 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame, 
And  unregarded  age  in  corners  thrown : 
Take  that :  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens  feed. 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow. 
Be  comfort  to  my  age  !   Here  is  the  gold ; 
All  this  I  give  you :   Let  me  be  your  servant ; 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty  : 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood  ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter. 
Frosty,  but  kindly  :   let  me  go  with  you ; 
I'll  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

OrU   O  good  old  man  ;  how  well  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world. 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed  ! 
ITiou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times. 
Where  none  will  sweat,  but  for  promotion  ; 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having :  it  is  not  so  with  thee. 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prun'st  a  rotten  tree. 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield. 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry  : 
But  come  thy  ways,  we'll  go  along  together ; 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent, 
We'll  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.   Master,  go  on  ;  and  I  will  follow  thee. 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty.  — 
From  seventeen  years  till  now  almost  fourscore 
Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek ; 
But  at  fourscore,  it  is  too  late  a  week  : 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better. 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  lY.  — The  Fared  of  Kx^en. 

Enter  Rosalind  in  Boy's  clothes,  Celia  dresl  like 
a  Slieplierdess,  and  Touchstone. 

Ros.   O  Jupiter  !  how  weary  are  my  spirits  ! 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were 
not  weary. 

Ros.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my 
man's  apparel,  and  to  cry  like  a  woman  :  but  I  must 
comfort  the  weaker  vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought 
to  show  itself  courageous  to  petticoat ;  therefore, 
courage,  good  Aliena. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me;  I  can  go  no  further. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with  you, 
than  bear  you  :  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross ',  if  I  did 
bear  you  :  for,  I  think,  you  have  no  money  in  your 
purse. 

Ros.   Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden  :  the  more  fool 
I ;  when  I  was  at  home,  I  was  in  a  better  place ; 
but  travellers  must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone:  —  Look  you, 
who  comes  here;  a  young  man  and  an  old,  in 
solemn  talk. 

Enter  Corin  and  SiLvius. 

Cor.  That  is  the  way  to  make  her  scorn  you  still. 

Sil.  O  Corin,  that  lliou  knew'st  how  I  do  love  her ! 

9  Blood  turned  from  it»  natural  course 
'  A  piece  of  money  stamped  with  a  cross. 
O   4 


200 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  II. 


Cor.   I  partly  guess ;  for  I  have  lov'd  ere  now. 

SU.   No,  Corin,  being  old  thou  canst  not  guess ; 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lover 
As  ever  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow : 
But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine; 
(  As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so,) 
How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
Hast  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy  ? 

Cor.   Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 

SU.   O,  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily  : 
If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into. 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd  : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  sat  as  I  do  now, 
Wearying  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praise. 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd  : 

Or  if  thou  hast  not  broke  from  company. 
Abruptly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me. 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd:    O  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phebe  ! 

\^Exit  SiLvius. 

Ros.  Alas,  poor  shepherd !  searching  of  thy  wound, 
I  have  by  hard  adventure  found  my  own. 

Touch.  And  I  mine  :  We,  that  are  true  lovers,  run 
into  strange  capers ;  but  as  all  is  mortal  in  nature, 
so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal  in  folly. 

Mos.  Thou  speak'st  wiser  than  thou  art  'ware  of. 

Touch.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  'ware  of  mine  own 
wit,  till  I  break  my  shins  against  it. 

Ros.  Jove  !  Jove  !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fashion. 

Touch.   And  mine ;  but  it  grows  something  stale 
with  me. 

Cel.   I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond  man, 
If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food ; 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 

Touch.   Holla ;  you,  clown  ! 

Ros.  Peace,  fool,  he's  not  thy  kinsman. 

Cor.   Who  calls  ? 

Touch.   Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.   Else  are  they  very  wretched. 

Ros.  Peace,  I  say  :  — 

Good  even  to  you,  friend. 

Cor.    And  to  you  gentk  sir,  and  to  you  all. 

Ros.   I  pr'ythee,  shepherd,  if  that  love,  or  gold, 
Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment, 
Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves,  and  feed : 
Here's  a  young  maid  with  travail  much  oppress'd. 
And  faints  for  succour. 

Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her, 

And  wish  for  her  sake,  more  than  for  mine  own, 
My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her ; 
But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man. 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze ; 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition. 
And  little  recks  2  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality  : 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed, 
Are  now  on  sale,  and  at  our  sheepcote  now. 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on  :  but  what  is,  come  see. 
And  in  my  voice  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

Ros.  What  is  he  that  shall  buy  his  flock  and  pasture? 

Cor.   That  young  swain  that  you  saw  here  but 
erewhile. 
That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing, 

Ros.  I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty. 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock, 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

2  Cares. 


Cel.  And  we  will  mend  thy  wages:  I  like  this  place, 
And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 

Cor.    Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  be  sold  ; 
Go  with  me  ;  if  you  like  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be. 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  same. 
Enter  Amiens,  Jaques,  and  others. 

^  SONG. 

Ami.    Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note. 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 
Here  shall  lie  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.   More,  more,  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  It  will  make  you  melancholy,  monsieur 
Jaques. 

Jaq.  I  thank  it.  More,  I  pr'ythee,  more.  _T  ^'•" 
suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a  weazel  sucks 


eggsj^viore,  I  pr  ythee,  more. 

Ami.  My  voice  is  ragged  3 ;  I  know,  I  cannot 
please  you. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me,  I  do  de- 
sire you  to  sing :  Come,  more ;  another  stanza : 
Call  you  them  stanzas  ? 

Ami.   What  you  will,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  their  names ;  they  owe 
me  nothing  :   Will  you  sing  ? 

Ami.  More  at  your  request,  than  to  please  myself. 

Jaq.  Well  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any  man,  I'll 
thank  you ;  but  that  they  call  compliment,  is  like 
the  encounter  of  two  dog-apes ;  and  when  a  man 
thanks  me  heartily,  methinks,  I  have  given  him  a 
penny,  and  he  renders  me  the  beggarly  thanks.  Come, 
sing  ;  and  you  that  will  not,  hold  your  tongues. 

Ami.  Well,  I'll  end  the  song.  —  Sirs,  cover  the 
while  ;  the  duke  will  drink  under  this  tree :  —  he 
hath  been  all  this  day  to  look  you. 

Jaq.  And  I  have  been  all  this  day  to  avoid  him. 
He  is  too  disputable  *  for  my  company  :  I  think  of 
as  many  matters  as  he ;  but  I  give  heaven  thanks, 
and  make  no  boast  of  them.     Come,  warble,  come. 

SONG. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun,   [All  together  here. 
And  loves  to  Hoe  i  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats. 
And  pleas' d  with  what  he  gets. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither , 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.  I'll  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that  I  maC 
yesterday  in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami.  And  I'll  sing  it. 
Jaq.   Thus  it  goes  :  — 

If  it  do  come  to  pass. 
That  any  man  turn  ass. 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 

3  Ragged  and  rugged  had  formerly  the  same  meaning. 
*  Disputatious. 


Scene  VI. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Ducdame^  ducddme,  ducddme  ,- 
Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he, 
An  if  he  will,  come  to  me. 
Ami.   What's  that  ducddme  ? 

cirdT  Tn  ^  ^?^^  invocation,  to  call  fools  into  a 
circle  I II  go  sleep  if  I  can  ;  if  I  cannot.  I'll  rail 
against  all  the  first-born  of  Egypt 

prep^^td."""'  ''"  ^°  "^'  '^^  ^''^^^  ^-  »^-1-t  is 
\_Exeunt  severally. 


201 


SCENE  VI.  ^  The  same. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

dielbrTnni^'S  "^T'i  I  '^"  ^^  "°  ^"^^^^  =  O,  I 
die  lor  food !  Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure  out  mv 
grave.     Farewell,  kind  master.  ^^^^^  out  my 

thee  ?''  u!7'  ^Z  "°'''  ^^™  •  "°  g'^*^'  heart  in 
I  httle  If'i  "'  '^^f^^/ kittle;  cheer  thyself 
a  nttle  If  this  uncouth  forest  yield  any  thin^ 
savage,  I  will  either  be  food  for  it,  or  brinl  t  fo? 
food  to  thee.  Thy  conceit  is  neare^  death  thai  tt 
powers.  For  my  sake,  be  comfortable  j  hold  death 
awhile  at  the  arm's  end:  I  will  here  be  w  th  thee 
presently  ;  and  if  I  bring  thee  not  something  to  eat! 
i  come'  1?  ^T  *°  ^f  =  ''"^  ^  *^«"  diesi  befc^^ 
sVh  .  S       ,    f^  ^  ™°^''^'"  °f  "^y  ^^bour.     Well 

qu.ckl^^YTt';^^*  'r^^^'^=  ^"^  ^'"  »^«  -'th  Vhee 
quickly.  -  Yet  thou  best  m  the  bleak  air  :   come    I 

will  bear  thee  to  some  shelter;  and  thou  shXnot 

die  for  lack  of  a  dinner,  if  there  live  any  hTn  "S 

this  desert.      Cheerly,  good  Adam  !  \Zeun^. 

SCENE  Vll.^  The  same. 

A  Table  set  out      Enter  Dcke  Senior,  Amikns, 

l^ords,  and  others. 
Duke  S.   I  think  he  be  transform'd  into  a  beast  • 
For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man.  ' 

Go,  «ek  lum ;  u,U  him,  I  would  spe4  ^ft  Ur.. 
Enter  Jaqdes. 

Is  this  "'"''  ■»''"™"  •'  "hit  a  !ift 

w.     .  '^.7.^  ''^  ^°«^'  I  "^et  a  fool ;   ' 
\  n  I      -.1    ""  ,'^°'^"  ^"^  hask'd  him  in  the  sun 
And  rail'd  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms         ' 
n  good  set  tenns,  -and  yet  alotley  S 
(^ood  morrow  fool,  quoth  I :    iVb,  «>,  quoth  he 

5tt^'i«i:;:V7*i:t-rr- 

■ytlT^  7  '"'•  '^""'^  ^^'  ''''«'  '''^  ^o^id  wags: 
I  IS  but  an  hour  ago,  since  it  was  nine;  ^ 

^  d  Ihenfrom  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  Z, 
And  therebj^  hangs  a  tale.      When  I  did  heir 


Made  up  of  discords. 


le  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
y  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer 
lat  fools  should  be  so  deep  contemplative ; 
And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission, 
'^n  hour  by  his  dial.  —  O  noble  fool ' 
worthy  fool  !   Motley's  the  only  wear." 
Duke  S.   What  fool  is  this  ? 
Jaq.   O  worthy  fool !  —  One  that  hath  been 
courtier ; 
And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young,  and  fair. 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it :  and  in  his  brain,  -- 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  bisket 
After  a  voyage,-he  hath  strange  places  cramm'd 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forms  j  —  O,  that  I  were  a  fool ! 
1  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 
Duke  S.   Thou  shalt  have  one. 

r>      •  J    1     ,  ^*  is  my  only  suit : 

Provuled,  that  you  weed  your  better  judgments 

Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them, 

Ihat  I  am  wise.     I  must  have  liberty 

Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 

To  blow  on  whom  I  please  ;  for  so  fools  have  • 

And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly. 

They  most  must  laugh :  And  why,  sir,  must  Ihey  so? 

1  he  why  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church  :  — -— 

He,  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit. 

Doth  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart, 

Not  to  seem  senseless  of  the  bob  :  if  not, 

The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomiz'd 

Even  by  the  squand'ring  glances  of  the  fool. 

Invest  me  in  my  motley  ;  give  me  leave 

To  speak  my  0^1^  I  will  through  and  through 

Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world. 

If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 

Duke  S.   Fye   on    thee !    I  can   tell  what   thou 

would  st  do. 
Jaq.  What,  for  a  counter,  would  I  do,  but  good? 
Duke  S.  Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin  • 
l<or  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  Ubertine. 
Jizy.   Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride. 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea. 
Till  that  the  very  means  do  ebb  ? 
What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name. 
When  that  I  say.  The  city-woman  bears 
The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders  ? 
Who  can  come  in,  and  say,  that  I  mean  her, 
Wheirsuch  a  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbour? 
Or  what  is  he  of  basest  function. 
That  says,  his  bravery  7  is  not  on  my  cost, 

Vr-  '1?''*"^  ^^^^  ^  ™^^"  hJm»)  but  therein  suits 
His  folly  to  the  mettle  of  my  speech  ? 
There  then;  How,  what  then?  Let  me  see  wherein 
My  tongue  hath  wrong'd  him  :   if  it  do  him  right, 
Ihen  he  hath  wrong'd  himself;  if  he  be  free. 
Why  then,  my  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies, 
Unclaim'd  of  any  man.  —  But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Orlando,  with  his  suford  drawn. 
Orl.   Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

^J^,'  XT      ,.  ,  ^hy,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

Orl.   Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  serv'd. 

Jaq.   Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of? 

Duke  S.    Art  thou  thus  boldcn'd,  man,  by  thy 
distress ; 
Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners, 
That  m  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty  ? 

'  Jinct^'  **"  •'"'^'^""y  ^'^^'^  '"  a  party-coloured  coat 


202 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  II.    Scene  VII 


Orl.   You  touch'd  my  vein  at  first ;  the  thorny 
point 
Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 
Of  smooth  civility  :  yet  am  I  inland  bred, 
And  know  some  nurture  :    But  forbear,  I  say  ; 
He  dies,  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit, 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaq.   An  you  will  not  be  answered  with  reason, 
I  must  die. 

Duke  S.  What  would  you  have  ?  Your  gentle- 
ness shall  force 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness. 

Orl   I  almost  die  for  food,  and  let  me  have  it. 

Duke  S.   Sit  down  and  feed,  and  welcome  to  our 
table. 

Orl  Speak  you  so  gently?  Pardon  me,  I  pray  you, 
I  thought  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here ; 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment :    But  whate'er  you  are, 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs. 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time  j 
If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  dayi ; 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoll' d  to  church  ; 
If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast ; 
If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wip'd  a  tear, 
And  know  what  'tis  to  pity,  and  be  pitied ; 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be  : 
In  the  which  hope,  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke  S.  True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days , 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to  church  ; 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts  ;  and  wip'd  our  eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engender'd  : 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness. 
And  take  upon  command  what  help  we  have. 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  minister'd. 

Orl    Then,  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while, 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn, 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old  poor  man, 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limp'd  in  pure  love  ;  till  he  be  first  suffic'd,  — 
Oppress'd  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger,  — 
X  vnW.  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go  find  him  out. 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  your  return. 

Orl   I  thank  ye ;  and  be  bless'd  for  your  good 
comfort !  \_Exit. 

Duke  S.  Thou  seest,  we  are  not  all  alone  unhappy : 
This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woeful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in. 

Jaq.  All  the  world's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players  : 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.      At  first,  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms  ; 
And  then,  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school :    And  then,  the  lover ; 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow :   Then,  a  soldier ; 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard. 
Jealous  in  honour,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 


Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth  :  And  then,  the  justice  ; 

In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lin'd, 

With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  8  instances, 

And  so  he  plays  his  part :   The  sixth  age  shifts 

Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon  j 

With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side ; 

His  youthful  hose  well  sav'd,  a  world  too  wide 

For  his  shrunk  shank ;  and  his  big  manly  voice. 

Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 

And  whistles  in  his  sound  :   Last  scene  of  all 

That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history. 

Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion ; 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thing. 

Re-enter  Orlando,  imth  Adam. 

Duke  S.    Welcome :    set   down  your  venerable 
burden, 
And  let  him  feed. 

Orl  I  thank  you  most  for  him. 

Adam.   So  had  you  need  ; 
I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 

Duke  S.   Welcome,  fall  to  :    I  will  not  trouble  you 
As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes  ; — 
Give  us  some  musick  ;  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 

Amiens  sings. 

SONG. 
I. 

Slow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  mans  ingratitude  ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen. 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh,  ho  !  sing,  heigh,  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly  : 

Then,  heigh,  ho,  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

IL 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember  d  9  not. 
Heigh,  ho  !  sing,  heigh,  ho  !  ^c. 

Duke  S.   If  that  you  were  the  good  sir  Rowland's 
son,  — 
As  you  have  whisper'd  faithfully,  you  were  j" 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  eflSgies  witness 
Most  truly  limn'd,  and  living  in  your  face,  — 
Be  truly  welcome  hither  :    I  am  the  duke, 
That  lov'd  your  father  :  The  residue  of  your  fortune 
Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me.  —  Good  old  man. 
Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is  : 
Support  him  by  the  arm.  —  Give  me  your  hand. 
And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand.  [JExeunt 


I 
I 


Trite,  common. 


»  Remembering. 


«l 


Act  III.   Scene  I 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 


203 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Oliver,  Lords,  and 
/Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Not  see  him  since  ?  Sir,  sir,  that  cannot 
be: 
But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument 
Of  my  revenge,  thou  present :    But  look  to  it ; 
Find  out  thy  brother,  wheresoe'er  he  is : 
Seek  him  with  candle ;  bring  him  dead  or  living, 
"Within  this  twelvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no  more 
To  seek  a  living  in  our  territory. 
Thy  lands,  and  all  things  that  thou  dost  call  thine. 
Worth  seizure,  do  we  seize  into  our  hands ; 
Till  thou  canst  quit  thee  by  thy  brother's  mouth, 
Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 

on  O,  that  your  highness  knew  my  heart  in  this  ! 
I  never  lov'd  my  brother  in  my  life. 

Duke  F.   More  villain  thou.  —  Well,  push  him 
out  of  doors ; 
And  let  my  officers  of  such  a  nature 
Make  an  extent '  upon  his  house  and  lands : 
Do  this  expediently  «,  and  turn  him  going.   {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  77t«  Forest. 

Enter  Orlando,  with  a  paper. 

Orl.  Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my  love : 

And  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,  survey 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 

Thy  huntress'  name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
O  Rosalind !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books, 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I'll  character ; 
That  every  eye,  which  in  this  forest  looks. 

Shall  see  thy  virtue  witness'd  every  where. 
Run,  run,  Orlando ;  carve,  on  every  tree, 
The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  3  she.   {^Exit. 

Enter  Corin  and  Touchstone. 

Cor.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life, 
master  Touchstone  ? 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is 
a  good  Life  ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepherd's 
life,  it  is  naught.  In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I 
like  it  very  well ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  private, 
it  is  a  very  vile  life.  Now  in  respect  it  is  in  the 
fields,  it  pleaseth  me  well ;  but  in  respect  it  is  not 
in  the  court,  it  is  tedious.  As  it  is  a  spare  life,  look 
you,  it  fits  my  humour  well ;  but  as  there  is  no  more 
plenty  in  it,  it  goes  much  against  my  stomach. 
Hast  any  philosophy  in  thee,  shepherd? 

Cor.  No  more,  but  that  I  know,  the  more  one 
sickens,  the  worse  at  ease  he  is ;  and  that  he  that 
wants  money,  means,  and  content,  is  without  three 
good  friends :  —  That  the  property  of  rain  is  to  wet, 
and  fire  to  bum  :  That  good  pasture  makes  fat 
sheep  ;  and  that  a  great  cause  of  the  night,  is  lack 
of  the  sun  :  That  he,  that  hath  learned  no  wit  by 
nature  nor  art,  may  complain  of  good  breeding,  or 
comes  of  a  very  dull  kindred. 

Touch.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher. 
Wast  ever  in  court,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.   No,  sir ;   I  am  a  true  labourer  ;   I  earn  that 


S<'izure. 


2  Expeditiously. 


9  Incxpretsiblc. 


I  eat,  get  that  I  wear ;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no 
man's  happiness ;  glad  of  other  men's  good,  content 
with  my  harm  :  and  the  greatest  of  my  pride  is,  to 
see  my  ewes  graze,  and  my  lambs  suck.  —  Here 
comes  young  master  Ganymede,  my  new  mistress's  ^ 
brother. 

Enter  Rosalind,  reading  a  paper. 
Ros.  From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind, 
Her  worth,  being  Tnounted  on  the  wind. 
Through  all  the  world  bears  Rosalind 
All  the  pictures,  fairest  lin*dS 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind, 
Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind, 
But  the  fair  *  of  Rosalind. 

Touch.  I'll  rhyme  you  so,  eight  years  together  ; 
dinners  and  suppers,  and  sleeping  hours  excepted : 
it  is  the  right  butter-woman's  rank  to  market. 

Ros.   Out,  fool ! 

Touch.   For  a  taste  : 

If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind. 
Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind. 
If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 
So,  be  sure,  udll  Rosalind.  \y^ 
Tliey  that  reap,  must  sheaf  and  bind} 
Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 
Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind, 
Such  a  nut  is  Rosalind. 
This  the  very  false  gallop  of  vers'es ;  Why  do  you 
infect  yourself  with  them  ? 

Ros.  Peace,  you  dull  fool ;  I  found  them  on  a 
tree. 

Touch.   Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 
Ros.   I'll  grafF  it  with  you,  and  then  I  shall  graff 
it  with  a  medlar  :  then  it  will  be  the  earliest  fruit  in 
the  country :  for  you'll  be  rotten  e're  you  be  half 
ripe,  and  that's  the  right  virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said ;  but  whether  wisely  or  no, 
let  the  forest  judge. 

Eiiter  Celia,  reading  a  paper. 
Ros.   Peace ! 
Here  comes  my  sister,  reading  ;  stand  aside. 
Cel.    IVhi/  should  this  desert  silent  be  9 

For  it  is  unpeopled  ?    No; 
Tongues  Fll  hang  on  every  tree. 

That  shall  civil  ^  sayings  show. 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man  / 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage  ; 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

'  Twixt  the  souls  ^friend  and  friend  : 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs 

Or  at  every  sentence*  end. 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write; 

Teaching  all  that  read,  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  heaven  nature  ehargd 

That  one  body  should  befWd 
With  all  graces  wide  enlarg'd  : 

Nature  presently  di^ilVd 


*  Ddincatcil. 


Complexion,  beauty. 


Grave,  solemn. 


204? 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  III. 


Helen  s  cheek,  but  not  her  heart  ; 

Cleopatra  s  majesty  ; 
Atalantas  better  part  ; 

Sad  Lucretid's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devis'd  ; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts. 

To  have  the  touches'^  dearest  jrriz'd. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have. 
And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 
Ros.     O  most  gentle  Jupiter  !  —  what   tedious 
homily  of  love  have  you  wearied  your  parishioners 
withal,  and  never  cry'd,  Have  patience,  good  people  ! 
Cel.   How  now  !  back  friends  ;  —  Shepherd,  go 
off  a  little  :  —  Go  with  him,  sirrah. 

Touch.  Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make  an  honour- 
able retreat ;  though  not  with  bag  and  baggage,  yet 
with  scrip  and  scrippage. 

([^Exeunt  Corin  and  Touchstone. 
Cel.   Didst  thou  hear  these  verses  ? 
Ros.    O  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more  too ;  for 
some  of  them  had  in  them  more  feet  than  the  verses 
would  bear. 
Cel.   That's  no  matter ;   the  feet  might  bear  the 
.  verses. 
f      Ros.   Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame,  and  could  not 
/    bear  themselves  without  the  verse,  and  therefore  stood 
^    lamely  in  the  verse. 

Cel.  But  didst  thou  hear,  without  wondering  how 
thy  name  should  be  hang'd  and  carved  upon  these 
trees? 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the 
wonder,  before  you  came ;  for  look  here  what  I 
found  on  a  palm-tree  :  I  was  never  so  be-rhymed 
since  Pythagoras'  time,  that  I  was  an  Irish  rat, 
which  I  can  hardly  remember. 

Cel.  Trow  you,  who  hath  done  this  ? 

Ros.   Is  it  a  man  ? 

Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about  his 
neck  :    Change  you  colour  ? 

Ros.   I  pr'ythee,  who  ? 

Cel.  O  lord,  lord  !  it  is  a  hard  matter  for  friends 
to  meet :  but  mountains  may  be  removed  with  earth- 
quakes, and  so  encounter. 

Ros.   Nay,  but  who  is  it  ? 

Cel.   Is  it  possible  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  I  pray  thee  now,  with  most  petitionary 
vehemence,  tell  me  who  it  is, 

Cel.  O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonder- 
ful wonderful,  and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after 
that  out  of  all  whooping  ! 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion !  dost  thou  think, 
though  I  am  caparison'd  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet 
and  hose  in  my  disposition  ?  One  inch  of  delay  more 
is  a  South-sea-off  discovery.  I  pr'ythee,  tell  me, 
who  is  it  ?  quickly,  and  speak  apace  :  I  would  thou 
couldst  stammer,  that  thou  mightst  pour  this  con- 
cealed man  out  of  thy  mouth,  as  wine  comes  out  of 
narrow-mouth'd  bottle ;  either  too  much  at  once,  or 
none  at  all.  I  pr'ythee  take  the  cork  out  of  thy 
mouth,  that  I  may  drink  thy  tidings.  —  What  man- 
ner of  man  ?  Is  his  head  worth  a  hat,  or  his  chin 
worth  a  beard  ? 

Cel.   Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 

Ros.  Why,  let  me  stay  the  growth  of  his  beard, 
if  thou  delay  me  not  the  knowledge  of  his  chin, 

Cel.  It  is  young  Orlando;  that  tripp'd  up  the 
wrestler's  heels,  and  your  heart,  both  in  an  instant. 

f  Features 


Ros.  Nay,  no  mocking ;  speak  sad  brow,  and 
true  maid.  8 

Cel.   V  faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Ros.   Orlando? 

Cel.    Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day !  what  shall  I  do  with  my 
doublet  and  hose  ?  — What  did  he,  when  thou  saw'st 
him  ?  What  said  he  ?  How  look'd  he  ?  Wherein 
went  he  ?  9  What  makes  he  here  ?  Did  he  ask  for 
me  ?  Where  remains  he  ?  How  parted  he  with  thee  ? 
and  when  slialt  thou  see  him  again  ?  Answer  me  in 
one  word. 

Cel.  You  must  borrow  me  Garagantua's  '  mouth 
first :  'tis  a  word  too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this 
age's  size  :  To  say,  ay,  and  no,  to  these  particulars, 
is  more  than  to  answer  in  a  catechism. 

Ros.  But  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest, 
and  in  man's  apparel  ?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  he  did 
the  day  he  wrestled  ? 

Cel.  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies  "-,  as  to  resolve 
the  propositions  of  a  lover :  —  but  take  a  taste  of 
my  finding  him,  and  relish  it  with  a  good  observance, 
I  found  him  under  a  tree,  like  a  dropp'd  acorn. 

Ros.  It  may  well  be  called  Jove's  tree,  when  it 
drops  forth  such  fruit. 

Cel.   Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Ros.   Proceed. 

Cel.  There  lay  he,  stretch'd  along  like  a  wounded 
knight. 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it 
well  becomes  the  ground. 

Cel.  Cry,  holla !  to  thy  tongue,  I  pr'ythee ;  it 
curvets  very  unseasonably.  He  was  furnish'd  like 
a  hunter. 

Ros.   O  ominous  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

Cel.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden : 
thou  bring'st  me  out  of  tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  when  I 
think,  I  must  speak.      Sweet,  say  on. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Jaques. 

Cel.  You  bring  me  out :  —  Soft !  comes  he  not 
here? 

Ros.   'Tis  he  ;  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

[Celia  and  Rosalind  retire. 

Jaq.  I  thank  you  for  your  company ;  but,  good 
faith,  I  had  as  lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

Orl.  And  so  had  I ;  but  yet,  for  fashion  sake,  I 
thank  you  too  for  your  society. 

Jaq.  Peace  be  with  you  j  let's  meet  as  little  as 
we  can. 

Orl.   I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strangers. 

Jaq.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with  writing 
love-songs  in  their  barks. 

Orl.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with 
reading  them  ill-favouredly, 

Jaq.    Rosalind  is  your  love's  name  ? 

Orl.    Yes,  just 

Jaq.   I  do  not  like  her  name. 

Orl.  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you,  when 
she  was  christen'd. 

Jnq.    What  stature  is  she  of? 

Orl.   Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 

Jaq.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers  :  Have  you 
not  been  acquainted  with  goldsmiths'  wives,  and 
conn'd  them  out  of  rings  ? 

Orl.   Not  so;    but   I  answer  you  right  painted 


II 


8  Speak  seriously  and  honestly. 
'  The  giant  of  Rabelais. 


^  How  was  he  dressed  ? 
2  Atoms. 


^1 


Scene  II. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


205 


cloth'',  from  whence  you  have  studied  your  ques- 
tions. 

Jaq.  You  have  a  nimble  wit ;  I  tliink  it  was  made 
of  Atalanta's  heels.  Will  you  sit  down  with  me? 
and  we  two  will  rail  against  our  mistress  the  world, 
and  all  our  misery. 

Orl.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world,  but 
myself;  against  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaq.   The  worst  fault  you  have,  is  to  be  in  love. 

Orl.  'Tis  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your  best 
virtue.      I  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool,  when  I 
found  you. 

Orl.  He  is  drown'd  in  the  brook ;  look  but  in, 
and  you  shall  see  him. 

Jaq.    There  shall  I  see  mine  own  figure. 

Orl.  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool,  or  a 
cipher. 

Jaq.  I'll  tarry  no  longer  with  you  :  farewell,  good 
signior  love. 

Orl.  I  am  glad  of  your  departure ;  adieu,  good 
monsieur  melancholy. 

\Exit  Jaquks.  —  Celia  amd  Rosalind 
come  forward. 

Hos.  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  lacquey, 
and  under  that  habit  play  the  knave  with  him.  — 
Do  you  hear,  forester  ? 

Orl.    Very  well ;  what  would  you  ? 

Ros.   I  pray  you,  what  is't  a  clock  ? 

Orl.  You  should  ask  me  what  time  o'day  ;  there's 
no  clock  in  the  forest. 

Ros.  Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ; 
else  sighing  every  minute,  and  groaning  every  hour, 
would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of  time,  as  well  as  a  clock. 

Orl.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  ?  had  not 
that  been  as  proper? 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir :  Time  travels  in  divers 
paces  with  divers  persons :  I'll  tell  you  who  time 
ambles  withal,  who  time  trots  withal,  who  time 
gallops  withal,  and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Orl.   I  pr*ythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid, 
between  the  contract  of  her  marriage,  and  the  day 
it  is  solemnized  :  if  the  interim  be  but  a  se'nnight, 
time's  pace  is  so  hard  that  it  seems  the  length  of 
seven  years. 

Orl.   Who  ambles  time  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich 
man  that  hath  not  the  gout ;  for  the  one  sleeps 
easily,  because  he  cannot  study;  and  the  other  lives 
merrily,  because  he  feels  no  pain  :  the  one  lacking 
the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful  learning  ;  the  other 
knowing  no  burden  of  heavy  tedious  penury  :  Tliese 
time  ambles  withal. 

Orl.   Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows  ;  for  though  he 
go  as  softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too 
soon  there. 

Orl.   Who  stays  it  still  withal? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation  :  for  they  sleep 
between  term  and  term,  and  then  they  perceive  not 
how  time  moves. 

Orl.   Where  dwell  you  pretty  youth? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister  ;  here  in  the 
skirts  of  the  forest. 

Orl.   Are  you  a  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.  As  the  rabbit,  that  you  see  dwell  where  she 
is  kindled. 

'An  allusion  to  the  moral  sentences  iMUing  from  the  mouths 
of  figures  on  old  tapestry  hangings. 


Orl.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you 
could  purchase  in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many  :  but,  indeed, 
an  old  religious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak, 
who  was  in  his  youth  an  in-land  man  ;  one  that 
knew  courtship  too  well,  for  there  he  fell  in  love.  I 
have  heard  him  read  many  lectures  against  it ;  and 
I  thank  fortune,  I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be  touch'd 
with  so  many  giddy  offences  as  he  hath  generally 
tax'd  their  whole  sex  withal. 

Orl.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils, 
that  he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were  all 
like  one  another,  as  half-pence  are  :  every  one  fault 
seeming  monstrous,  till  his  fellow  fault  came  to 
match  it. 

Orl.    I  pr'ythee  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No ;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physick,  but 
on  those  that  are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the 
forest,  that  abuses  our  young  plants  with  carving 
Rosalind  on  their  barks ;  hangs  odes  upon  hawthorns, 
and  elegies  on  brambles  ;  all,  forsooth,  deifying  the 
name  of  Rosalind :  if  I  could  meet  that  fancy- 
monger,  I  would  give  him  some  good  counsel,  for  he 
seems  to  have  the  quotidian  of  love  upon  him. 

Orl.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked ;  I  pray  you, 
tell  me  your  remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon  you  : 
he  taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love  ;  in  which 
cage  of  rushes,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  prisoner. 

Orl.   What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek  ;  which  you  have  not :  a  blue 
eye,  and  sunken ;  which  you  have  not :  an  un- 
questionable spirit*  ;  which  you  have  not :  a  beard 
neglected  ;  which  you  have  not :  —  but  I  pardon  you 
for  that ;  for,  simply,  your  having  *  in  beard  is  a 
younger  brother's  revenue :  — Then  your  hose  should 
be  ungarter'd,  your  bonnet  unhanded,  your  sleeve 
unbuttoned,  your  shoe  untied,  and  every  thing  about 
you  demonstrating  a  careless  desolation.  But  you 
are  no  such  man  ;  you  are  rather  point-device  ^  in 
your  accoutrements ;  as  loving  yourself,  than  seem- 
ing the  lover  of  any  other. 

Orl.  Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  tliee  be- 
lieve I  love. 

Ros,  Me  believe  it  ?  you  may  as  soon  make  her 
that  you  love  believe  it ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is 
apter  to  do,  than  to  confess  she  does  :  that  is  one  of 
the  points  in  the  which  women  still  give  the  lie  to 
their  consciences.  But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you  he 
that  hangs  the  verses  on  the  trees,  wherein  Rosalind 
is  so  admired? 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of 
Rosalind,  I  am  that  he,  that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes 
speak  ? 

Orl.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how 
much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness  ;  and,  I  tell  you, 
deserves  as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip,  as  mad- 
men do  :  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  punish- 
ed and  cured,  is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary,  that 
the  whippers  are  in  love  too :  Yet  I  profess  curing 
it  by  counsel. 

Orl.    Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one ;  and  in  this  manner.  He  was  to 
imagine  me  his  love,  his  mistress;  and  I  set  him 
every  day  to  woo  me  :    At  which  time  would  I,  being 


*  A  spirit  averse  to  conversation. 
«  Over- exact. 


*  Estate. 


206 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  III. 


but  a  moonish?  youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate,  change- 
able, longing,  and  liking  ;  proud,  fantastical,  apish, 
shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles  ;  for 
every  passion  something,  and  for  no  passion  truly 
any  thing,  as  boys  and  women  are  for  the  most  part 
cattle  of  this  colour ;  would  now  like  him,  now 
loath  him ;  then  entertain  him,  then  forswear  him  ; 
now  weep  for  him,  then  laugh  at  him,  that  I  drave 
my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour  of  love,  to  a  living 
humour  of  madness  ;  which  was,  to  forswear  the  full 
stream  of  the  world,  and  to  live  in  a  nook  merely 
monastick :  And  thus  I  cured  him ;  and  this  way 
will  I  take  upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean  as 
a  sound  sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall  not  be  one 
spot  of  love  in't. 

Orl.   1  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Ros.  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call 
me  Rosalind,  and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and 
woo  me. 

Orl,  Now  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will  j  tell  me 
where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I'll  show  it  you ; 
and,  by  the  way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the 
forest  you  live  :   Will  you  go  ? 

Orl.   With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind  :  —  Come, 
sister,  will  you  go  ?  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey  ;  Jaques  at  a 
distance,  observing  them. 

Touch.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey :  I  will  fetch 
up  your  goats,  Audrey :  And  how,  Audrey  ?  am 
I  the  man  yet?  Doth  my  simple  feature  content  you  ? 

Aud.    Your  features  !  what  features  ? 

Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats,  as  the 
most  capricious  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among  the 
Goths. 

Jaq.  O  knowledge  ill-inhabited !  8  worse  than 
Jove  in  a  thatch'd  house  !  {^Aside. 

Touch.  When  a  man's  verses  cannot  be  under- 
stood, nor  a  man's  good  wit  seconded  with  the  for- 
ward child,  understanding,  it  strikes  a  man  more 
dead  than  a  great  reckoning  in  a  little  room  :  — 
Truly,  I  would  the  gods  had  made  thee  poetical. 

Aud.  I  do  not  know  what  poetical  is :  Is  it  honest 
in  deed,  and  word  ?   Is  it  a  true  thing  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly ;  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the 
most  feigning  ;  and  lovers  are  given  to  poetry  ;  and 
what  they  swear  in  poetry,  may  be  said,  as  lovers, 
they  do  feign. 

Aud.  Do  you  wish  then,  that  the  gods  had  made 
me  poetical? 

Touch.  I  do,  truly :  for  thou  swearest  to  me, 
thou  art  honest ;  now,  if  thou  wert  a  poet,  I  might 
have  some  hope  thou  didst  feign. 

Aud.   Would  you  not  have  me  honest  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly,  unless  thou  wert  hard-favour'd : 
for  honesty  coupled  to  beauty,  is  to  have  honey  a 
sauce  to  sugar. 

Jaq.    A  material  fool !  9  [Aside. 

Aud.  Well,  I  am  not  fair ;  and  therefore  I  pray 
the  gods  make  me  honest ! 

Touch.  Truly,  and  to  cast  away  honesty  upon  a 
foul  slut,  were  to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean  dish. 

Aud.  I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank  the  gods 
I  am  foul.  I 


7  Variable. 

*  A  fool  with  matter  in  him. 


«  Ill-lodged. 
1  Homely. 


Touch.  Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foulness  I 
sluttishiiess  may  come  hereafter.  But  be  as  it  may 
be,  I  will  marry  thee  :  and  to  that  end,  I  have  been 
with  sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  tlie  vicar  of  the  next  vil- 
lage ;  who  hath  promised  to  meet  me  in  this  place 
of  the  forest,  and  to  couple  us. 

Jag.   I  would  fain  see  this  meeting.  \^Amle. 

Aud.   Well,  tlie  gods  give  us  joy  ! 

Touch.  Amen.  A  man  may,  if  he  were  of  a  fear- 
ful heart,  stagger  in  this  attempt ;  for  here  we  have 
no  temple  but  the  wood,  no  assembly  but  horn- 
beasts.  But  what  though  ?  Courage  !  As  horns  are 
odious,  they  are  necessary.  It  is  said,  —  Many  a  man 
knows  no  end  of  his  goods  :  right ;  many  a  man  has 
good  horns,  and  knows  no  end  of  them.  Well,  that 
is  the  dowry  of  his  wife  ;  'tis  none  of  his  own  getting. 

Horns  ?   Even  so :  Poor  men  alone  ; No, 

no ;  the  noblest  deer  hath  them  as  huge  as  the 
rascal.  2  Is  the  single  man  therefore  blessed  ?  No  : 
as  a  wall'd  town  is  more  worthier  than  a  village,  so 
is  the  forehead  of  a  married  man  more  honourable 
than  the  bare  brow  of  a  bachelor  :  and  by  how  much 
defences  is  better  than  no  skill,  by  so  much  is  a 
horn  more  precious  than  to  want. 

Enter  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text. 
Here  comes  sir  Oliver  :  —  Sir  Oliver  Mar- text,  you 
are  well  met :  Will  you  despatch  us  here  under  this 
tree,  or  shall  we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel  ? 

Sir  OH-   Is  there  none  here  to  give  the  woman  ? 

Touch.   I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of  any  man. 

Sir  Oli.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  the  mar- 
riage is  not  lawful. 

Jaq.  [Discovering  himself.]  Proceed,  proceed ; 
I'll  give  her. 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  master  IFliat  ye  calCt  : 
How  do  you,  sir?  You  are  very  well  met:  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you :  —  Even  a  toy  in  hand  here, 
sir  :  —  Nay  ;  pray  be  cover'd. 

Jaq.   Will  you  be  married,  motley  ? 

T'ouch.  As  the  ox  hath  his  bow  ^,  sir,  the  horse 
his  curb,  and  the  falcon  he^  bells,  so  man  hath  his 
desire  towards  wedlock.  '^ 

Jaq.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of  your  breeding, 
be  married  under  a  bush,  Uke  a  beggar  ?  Get  you  to 
church,  and  have  a  good  priest  that  can  tell  you 
what  marriage  is :  this  fellow  will  but  join  you  to- 
gether as  they  join  wainscot ;  then  one  of  you  will 
prove  a  shrunk  pannel,  and,  like  green  timber, 
warp,  warp. 

Touch.  I  am  not  in  the  mind  but  I  were  better 
to  be  married  of  him  than  of  another :  for  he  is  not 
like  to  marry  me  well ;  and  not  being  well  married, 
it  will  be  a  good  excuse  for  me  hereafter  to  leave 
my  wife.  [Aside. 

Jaq.  Go  thou  with  me,  and  let  me  counsel  thee. 

Touch.   Come,  sweet  Audrey  ; 
Farewell,  good  master  Oliver  ! 

Not  —  O  sweet  Oliver, 
O  brave  Oliver, 
Leave  me  not  belli'  thee ; 
But — Wind  away. 
Begone,  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wedding  wi'  thee. 

[Exeunt  Jaq.  Touch,  and  Audret. 

Sir  Oli.  'Tis  no  matter;  ne'er  a  fantastical  knave 
of  them  all  shall  flout  me  out  of  my  calling.   [Eiit. 

2  Lean  deer  are  called  rascal  deer.       3  The  art  of  fencing. 
4  Yoke. 


Scene  IV. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


207 


I 


SCENE  IV.  —  Before  a  Cottage. 

Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Ros.   Never  talk  to  me,  I  will  weep. 

Cel.  Do,  I  pr'ythee ;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to 
consider,  that  tears  do  not  become  a  man. 

Ros.    But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep  ? 

Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire ;  there- 
fore weep. 

Ros.  Why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this  morn- 
ing, and  comes  not? 

Cel.   Nay  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

Ros.   Do  you  think  so? 

Cel.  Yes :  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purse,  nor  a 
horse-stealer ;  but  for  his  verity  in  love,  I  do  think 
him  as  concave  as  a  cover'd  goblet,  or  a  worm- 
eaten  nut. 

Ros.   Not  true  in  love  ? 

Cel.  Yes,  when  he  is  in ;  but,  I  think  he  is  not  in. 

Ros.  You  have  heard  him  swear  downright,  he  was. 

Cel.  IVas  is  not  is  :  besides  the  oath  of  a  lover 
is  no  stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster  ;  they  are 
both  the  confirmers  of  false  reckonings, :  He  attends 
here  in  the  forest  on  the  duke  your  father. 

Ros.  I  met  the  duke  yesterday,  and  had  much 
question  *  with  him  :  He  asked  me,  of  what  parent- 
age I  was :  I  told  him,  of  as  good  as  he  ;  so  he 
laugh 'd,  and  let  me  go.  But  what  talk  we  of  fathers, 
when  there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando  ? 

Cel.  O,  that's  a  brave  man !  he  writes  brave 
verses,  speaks  brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths,  and 
breaks  them  bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart  the 
heart  of  his  lover ;  as  a  puny  tilter,  that  spurs  his 
horse  but  on  one  side,  breaks  his  staff  like  a  noble 
goose ;  but  all's  brave,  that  youth  mounts,  and  folly 
guides  :  —  Who  comes  here  ? 

JEnter  Corny. 

Cor.  Mistress,  and  master,  you  have  oft  enquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complain'd  of  love ; 
Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf. 
Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 

Cel.  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.   If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd, 
Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain. 
Go  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
If  you  will  mark  it. 

Ros.  O,  come,  let  us  remove ; 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love  :  — 
Bring  us  unto  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
I'll  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play  [Exeunt. 

.SCENE  V.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Silvius  and  Fhebe. 
SU.  Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me;  do  not,  Fhebe: 
Say,  that  you  love  me  not ;  but  say  not  so 
In  bitterness  :    The  common  executioner. 
Whose  heart  the  accustom'd  sight  of  death  makes 

hard, 
Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck, 
But  first  begs  pardon  :   Will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  dies  and  lives  by  bloody  drops? 

Enter  Rosalind,  Cf.lia,  and  Corin,  at  a  distance. 

Phe.    I  would  not  be  thy  executioner  ; 
I  fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  liiee. 

*  Convcr«alion. 


n 


Thou  tell'st  me,  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye  : 

'Tis  pretty,  sure,  and  very  probable. 

That  eyes,  —  tliat  are  the  frail'st  and  softest  thinj 

Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies, - 

Should  be  call'd  tyrants,  butchers,  murderers 

Now  I  do  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart ; 

And,  if  mine  eyes  can  wound,  now  let  them  kill  thee; 

Now  counterfeit  to  swoon  ;  why  now  fall  down  ; 

Or,  if  thou  canst  not,  O,  for  shame,  for  shame, 

Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murderers. 

Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made  in  thee: 

Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 

Some  scar  of  it ;  lean  but  upon  a  rush. 

The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure 

Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps :  but  now  mine  eyes, 

Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not ; 

Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 

That  can  do  hurt. 

SU.  O  dear  Fhebe, 

If  ever,  (as  that  ever  may  be  near,) 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy" 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 

Phe.  But,  till  that  time. 

Come  not  thou  near  me;  and,  when  that  time  comes. 
Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks,  pity  me  not ; 
As,  till  that  time,  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Ros.  And  why,  I  pray  you?  [Advancing.']    Who 
might  be  your  mother. 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once. 
Over  the  wretched  ?    What  though  you  have  more 

beauty, 
(As,  by  my  faidi,  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed,) 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  ? 
Why,  what  means  thij  ?  Why  do  you  look  on  me  ? 
I  see  no  more  in  you,  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work  :  —  Od's  my  little  life  ! 
I  think,  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too :  — 
No,  faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it ; 
'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair. 
Your  bugle  eye-balls,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream, 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship.  — 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her. 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain  ? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  propercr  man, 
Than  she  a  woman  :   'Tis  such  fools  as  you, 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favour'd  children  : 
'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you  that  flatters  her  ; 
And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper, 
Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her.  — 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself;  down  on  your  knees. 
And  thank  heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love  : 
For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear,  — 
Sell  when  you  can  ;  you  are  not  for  all  markets  : 
Cry  the  man  mercy  ;  love  him  ;  take  his  offer  ; 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer. 
So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd  ;  —  fare  you  well. 

Phe.   Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you  chide  a  year  to- 
gether ; 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide,  than  this  man  woo. 

Ros.  He's  fallen  in  love  witli  her  foulness,  and 
she'll  fall  in  love  with  my  anger :  If  it  be  so,  as 
fast  as  she  answers  thee  with  frowning  looks,  I'll 
sauce  her  with  bitter  words.  —  Why  look  you  so 
upon  me  ? 

Phe.    For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 

Ros.   I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  witli  me. 
For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine  : 

6    I.OVC 


208 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  IV. 


Besides,  1  like  you  not :  If  you  will  know  my  house, 

'Tis  at  the  tuft  of  olives,  here  hard  by  :  — 

Will  you  go,  sister  ?  —  Shepherd,  ply  her  hard  :  — 

Come,  sister  :  —  Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better, 

And  be  not  proud  :  though  all  the  world  could  see, 

None  could  be  so  abus'd  in  sight  as  he. 

Come  to  our  flock. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  Corin. 

Phe.  Dead  shepherd!  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might; 
WTio  ever  lov'd,  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight  ? 

SU.   Sweet  Phebe,  — 

Phe.  Ha  !  what  say'st  thou,  Silvius  ? 

SU.   Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 

Phe.   Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Silvius. 

SU.    Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be  ; 
If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love. 
By  giving  love,  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 
Were  both  extermin'd. 

Phe.  Thou  hast  my  love :  Is  not  that  neighbourly? 

SU.   I  would  have  you. 

Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was,  that  I  hated  thee ; 
And  yet  it  is  not,  that  I  bear  thee  love  : 
But,  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so  well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  will  endure ;  and  I'll  employ  thee  too  : 
But  do  not  look  for  further  recompense. 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employ'd. 

SU.   So  holy,  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 
That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps  :   lose  now  and  then 
A  scatter'd  smile,  and  that  I'll  live  upon. 

Phe.  Know'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke  to  me 
ere  while  ? 


SU.   Not  very  well,  but  I  have  met  him  oft ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage,  and  the  bounds. 
That  the  old  car  lot  8  once  was  master  of. 

Phe.  Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him; 
'Tis  but  a  peevish  9  boy  :  —  yet  he  talks  well ;  — 
But  what  care  I  for  words?  yet  words  do  well, 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear 
It  is  a  pretty  youth  :  —  not  very  pretty  :  — 
But,  sure,  he's  proud;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him; 
He'll  make  a  proper  man  :   the  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he's  tall : 
His  leg  is  but  so  so  ;  and  yet  'tis  well : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip  ; 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 
Than    that   mix'd   in   his   cheek ;    'twas  just    tl 

difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red,  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  mark'd  hii 
In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  in  love  with  him  :   but,  for  my  part, 
I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not ;  and  yet 
I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him 
For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 
He  said,  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black  j 
And,  now  I  am  remember'd,  scorn'd  at  me  : 
I  marvel,  why  I  answer'd  not  again  : 
But  that's  all  one  ;  omittance  is  no  quittance. 
I'll  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 
And  thou  shalt  bear  it :   Wilt  thou,  Silvius  ? 

SU.   Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 

Phe.  I'll  write  it  straight  \ 

The  matter's  in  my  head,  and  in  my  heart : 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him,  and  passing  short : 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  [Exeur 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  Jaques. 

Jaq.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better 
acquainted  with  thee. 

Ros.   They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 

Jaq.   I  am  so ;  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 

Ros.  Those  that  are  in  extremity  of  either,  are 
abominable  fellows ;  and  betray  themselves  to  every 
modern  censure,  worse  than  drunkards. 

Jaq.   Wliy,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

Ros.    Why  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy, 
which  is  emulation ;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is 
fantastical ;  nor  the  courtier's,  which  is  proud  ;  nor 
the  soldier's,  which  is  ambitious ;  nor  the  lawyer's, 
which  is  politick ;  nor  the  lady's,  which  is  nice  1 ; 
nor  the  lover's,  which  is  all  these  :  but  it  is  a  melan- 
choly of  mine  own,  compounded  of  many  simples, 
extracted  from  many  objects :  and,  indeed,  the 
sundry  comtemplation  of  my  travels,  in  which  my 
often  rumination  wraps  me,  is  a  most  humorous 
sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller  !  By  my  faith,  you  have  great 
reason  to  be  sad  :  I  fear,  you  have  sold  your  own 
lands,  to  see  other  men's ;  then,  to  have  seen  much, 

?  Trifling. 


and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  pc 
hands. 

Jaq.   Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 

Enter  Orlando. 

Ros.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad :  I 
had  rather  have  a  fool  to  make  me  merry,  than 
experience  to  make  me  sad;  and  to  travel  for  it  too. 

Orl.    Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind  ! 

Jaq.  Nay  then,  farewell,  an  you  talk  in  blank 
verse.  [ExU. 

Ros.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller:  Look,  you 
lisp,  and  wear  strange  suits ;  disable '  all  the  benefits 
of  your  own  country  ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  na- 
tivity, or  I  will  scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a 
gondola.  —  Why,  how  now,  Orlando  !  where  have 
you  been  all  this  while  ?  You  a  lover  ?  —  An  you 
serve  me  such  another  trick,  never  come  in  my 
sight  more. 

Orl.   My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hoi 
of  my  promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  ?  He  that 
will  divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and 
break  but  a  part  of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute 
in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him,  that 
Cupid  hath  clapp'd  him  o'the  shoulder,  but  I  war- 
rant him  hear^  whole. 

8  Peasant  ^  Silly.  '  Undervalue. 


^1 


Scene  I. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


209 


I 


Orl.   Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

llos.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in 
my  sight ;   I  had  as  lief  be  woo'd  of  a  snail. 

Orl.    Of  a  snail? 

Rus.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly, 
he  carries  his  house  on  his  head  ;  a  better  jointure, 
I  think,  tlian  you  can  make  a  woman :  Besides,  he 
brings  his  destiny  with  him. 

Orl.   What's  that  ? 

Jios.   Why,  horns. 

Orl.  Virtue  is  no  horn-maker ;  and  my  Rosalind 
is  virtuous. 

Ros.   And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Cel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so ;  but  he  hath 
a  Rosalind  of  a  better  leer  *  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me  ;  for  now  I  am  in 
a  holiday  humour,  and  like  enough  to  consent : 
What  would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I  were  your 
very  very  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.   I  would  kiss,  before  I  spoke. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first ;  and  when 
you  were  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter,  you  might 
take  occasion  to  kiss. 

Orl.   How,  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ? 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there 
begins  new  matter. 

Orl.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloved 
mistress  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  tliat  should  you,  if  I  were  your 
mistress. 

Orl.   What,  of  my  suit  ? 

Ros.  Out  of  your  suit.    Am  not  I  your  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I 
would  be  talking  of  her. 

Ros.  Well,  in  her  person,  I  say —  I  will  not  have 
you. 

Orl.  Then,  in  mine  own  person,  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world 
is  almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this 
time  there  was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own  person, 
videlicet,  in  a  love-cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains 
dashed  out  with  a  Grecian  club ;  yet  he  did  what 
he  could  to  die  before ;  and  he  is  one  of  the  pat- 
terns of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have  lived  many 
a  fair  year,  though  Hero  had  turned  nun,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  a  hot  midsummer  night:  for,  good 
youth,  he  went  but  forth  to  wash  him  in  the  Hel- 
lespont, and  being  taken  with  the  cramp,  was 
drowned;  and  the  foolish  chroniclers  of  that  age 
found  it  was  —  Hero  of  Sestos.  But  these  are  all 
lies ;  men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms 
have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this 
mind  ;  for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly  :  But 
come,  now  I  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more  com- 
ing-on  disposition;  and  ask  me  what  you  will,  I 
will  grant  it. 

Orl.   Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Yes,faith  will  I,  Fridays,  and  Saturdays,and  all. 

Orl.   And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Ros.    Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

Orl.   What  say'st  thou  ? 

Ros.   Are  you  not  good  ? 

Ori.   I  hope  so. 

Ros.  Why  then,  can  orte  desire  too  much  of  a 
good  thing?  —  Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the  priest, 
and  marry  us.  —  Give  me  your  hand,  Orlando  ;  — 
What  do  you  say,  sister  ? 

3  Complexion. 


Orl.    Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.   I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Ros.  You  must  begin, —  WUlyou^  Orlando^  — 

Cel.  Go  to ;  —  Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wife 
this  Rosalind? 

Orl.    I  will. 

Ros.    Ay,  but  when? 

Orl.   Why  now  ;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say, —  /  take  thecj  Rosalind, 
for  wife. 

Orl.   I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission ; 
but,  —  I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband : 
There  a  girl  goes  before  the  priest ;  and,  certainly, 
a  woman's  thought  runs  before  her  actions. 

Orl.   So  do  all  thoughts  ;  they  are  winged 

Ros.  Now  tell  me  how  long  you  would  have  her, 
after  you  have  married  her. 

Orl.    For  ever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever :  No,  no,  Or- 
lando ;  men  are  April  when  they  woo,  December 
when  they  wed  :  maids  are  May  when  they  are 
maids,  but  the  sky  changes  when  they  are  wives.  I 
will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary  cock- 
pigeon  over  his  hen  ;  more  clamorous  than  a  parrot 
against  rain  ;  more  new-fangled  than  an  ape  ;  more 
giddy  than  a  monkey  :  I  will  weep  for  nothing,  like 
Diana  in  the  fountain,  and  I  will  do  that  when  you 
are  disposed  to  be  merry  ;  I  will  laugh  like  a  hyen, 
and  that  when  thou  art  inclined  to  sleep. 

Orl.   But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 

Ros.    By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

Orl.   O,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do 
this:  the  wiser,  the  way  warder:  Make  tlie  doors  3 
upon  a  woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at  the  case- 
ment ;  shut  that,  and  'twill  out  at  the  key-hole ; 
stop  that,  'twill  fly  with  the  smoke  out  at  the  chim- 
ney. 

Orl.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  viith  such  a  wit,  he 
might  say,  —  Wit  whither  unit  ? 

Ros.  You  shall  never  take  her  without  her  an- 
swer, unless  you  take  her  without  her  tongue. 

Orl.  For  diese  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave 
thee. 

Ros.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 

Orl.  I  must  attend  tlie  duke  at  dinner ;  by  two 
o'clock  I  will  be  with  thee  again. 

Ros.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways;  —  I  knew 
what  you  would  prove  ;  my  friends  told  me  as  much, 
and  I  thought  no  less :  —  that  flattering  tongue  of 
yours  won  me  :  — 'tis  but  one  cast  away,  and  so,  — 
come,  death.  —  Two  o'clock  is  your  hour  ? 

Orl.    Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Ros.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  by 
all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not  dangerous,  if  you  break 
one  jot  of  your  promise,  or  come  one  minute  be- 
hind your  hour,  I  will  think  you  the  most  pathetical 
break-promise,  and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the 
most  unwortliy  of  her  you  call  Rosalind,  that  may 
be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band  of  the  unfaithful : 
therefore,  beware  my  censure,  and  keep  your  pro- 
mise. 

Ori.  With  no  less  religion,  tlian  if  tliou  wert  in- 
deed my  Rosalind  :    So  adieu. 

Ros.  Well,  time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines 
all  such  ofienders,  and  let  time  try  :    Adieu. 

[Exit  Orlando. 

Cd.   You  have  simply  misus'd  our  sex  in   your 
'  Bar  the  door*. 
P 


9A0 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  IV' 


love-prate :  we  must  have  your  doublet  and  hose 
plucked  over  your  head. 

lios.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that 
thou  did'st  know  how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in 
love  !  But  it  cannot  be  sounded  ;  my  affection  hath 
an  unknown  bottom,  like  the  bay  of  Portugal. 

Cel.  Or  rather,  bottomless;  that  as  fast  as  you 
pour  affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Ros.  No,  that  same  wicked  boy  of  Venus,  that 
was  begot  of  thought,  conceived  of  spleen,  and  born 
of  madness ;  that  blind  rascally  boy,  that  abuses 
every  one's  eyes,  because  his  own  are  out,  let  him 
be  judge,  how  deep  I  am  in  love :  —  I'll  tell  thee, 
Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando : 
I'll  go  find  a  shadow,  and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Cel.   And  I'll  sleep.  ^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Jaques  and  Lords,  in  the  habit  of  Foresters. 
*  Jaq.   Which  is  he  that  killed  the  deer? 

1  Lord.    Sir,  it  was  I. 

Jaq.  Let's  present  him  to  the  duke,  like  a  Roman 
conqueror ;  and  it  would  do  well  to  set  the  deer's 
horns  upon  his  head,  for  a  branch  of  victory  :  — 
Have  you  no  song,  forester,  for  this  purpose  ? 

2  Lord.    Yes,  sir. 

Jaq.  Sing  it;  'tis  no  matter  how  it  be  in  tune, 
so  it  make  noise  enough. 

SONG. 

1.  What  shall  he  have  that  kilVd  the  deer  ? 

2.  His  leather  skin  ayid  horns  to  wear. 

1.    Then  sing  him  home  : 
Tdke  thou  no  scorfi,  to  wear  the  horn  ;  1  The  rest  shall 


■}• 


1.  Thy  father  s  father  wore  it; 

2.  And  thy  father  bore  it  : 

All.    The  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horrid 

Ls  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  _  The  Forest. 

Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Ros.  How  say  you  now  ?  Is  it  not  past  two 
o'clock  ?  and  here  much  Orlando  ! 

Cel.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love,  and  troubled 
brain,  he  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and  arrows,  and  is  gone 
forth  —  to  sleep  :   Look,  who  comes  here. 

Enter  Silvius. 

SU.   My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth  ;  — 
My  gentle  Phebe  bid  me  give  you  this ; 

[Giving  a  letter. 
I  know  not  the  contents ;  but,  as  I  guess, 
By  the  stern  brow,  and  waspish  action 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it, 
It  bears  an  angry  tenour  :  pardon  me, 
I  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger. 

Ros.    Patience  herself  would  startle  at  this  letter, 
And  play  the  swaggerer  ;  bear  tliis,  bear  all : 
She  says,  I  am  not  fair ;  that  1  lack  manners  ; 
She  calls  me  proud;  and,  that  she  could  not  love  me 
Were  man  as  rare  as  phoenix  ;   Od's  my  will  ! 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt : 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me?  —  Well,  shepherd,  well, 
Tiiis  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 

Sil.   No,  I  protest,  I  know  not  the  contents ; 
Phebe  did  write  it. 

Ros.  Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool, 


And  turn'd  into  the  extremity  of  love. 

I  saw  her  hand :   she  has  a  leathern  hand, 

A  freestone-colour'd  hand  ;   I  verily  did  think 

That  her  old  gloves  were  on,  but  'twas  her  hands ; 

She  has  a  huswife's  hand  :   but  that's  no  matter  : 

I  say,  she  never  did  invent  this  letter ; 

This  is  a  man's  invention,  and  his  hand. 

Sil.    Sure,  it  is  hers. 

Ros.   Why,  'tis  a  boisterous  and  cruel  style, 
A  style  for  challengers ;  why  she  defies  me. 
Like  Turk  to  Christian  :   woman's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention. 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 
Than  in  their  countenance :  —  Will  you  hear  the 
letter  ? 

5"^^.   So  please  you,  for  I  never  heard  it  yet  j 
Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 

Ros.   She    Phebes  me:    Mark   how   the   tyrant 
writes. 

Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turn'd,  [Reads, 

That  a  maiden's  heart  hath  burned?  — 

Can  a  woman  rail  thiis  ? 
Sil.   Call  you  this  railing  ? 

Ros.    Why,  thy  godhead  laid  apart, 

Warr'st  thou  with  a  woman's  heart  9 

Did  you  ever  hear  such  railing  ?  — 

Whiles  the  eye  of  man  did  woo  me, 
That  could  do  no  vengeance  to  me.  — 

Meaning  me  a  beast.  — 

If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mi7ie. 
Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect  ? 
Whiles  you  chid  me,  I  did  love  ,- 
How  then  might  your  prayers  move  9 
He,  that  brings  this  love  to  thee, 
Little  knows  this  love  in  me  : 
And  by  him  seal  up  thy  mind; 
Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind  * 
Will  the  faithful  offer  take 
Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make  ; 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny. 
And  then  I'll  study  how  to  die, 

Sil.    Call  you  this  chiding? 

Cel.  Alas,  poor  shepherd ! 

Ros.  Do  you  pity  him  ?  no,  he  deserves  no  pity. 
—  Wilt  thou  love  such  a  woman  ? — What,  to  make 
thee  an  instrument,  and  play  false  strains  upon 
thee  !  not  to  be  endured  !  —  Well,  go  your  way  to 
her,  (for  I  see,  love  hath  made  thee  a  tame  snake,) 
and  say  this  to  her ;  —  That  if  she  love  me,  I  charge 
her  to  love  thee :  if  she  will  not,  I  will  never  have 
her,  unless  thou  entreat  for  her.  —  If  you  be  a  true 
lover,  hence,  and  not  a  word ;  for  here  comes  more 
company.  [Exit  Silvius. 

Enter  Oliver. 

Oli.   Good-morrow,  fair  ones  :    Pray  you,  if  you  ^ 
know 
Where,  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest,  stands 
A  sheep-cote,  fenc'd  about  with  olive-trees? 

Cel.   West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neighbour 
bottom. 
The  rank  of  osiers,  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place : 

■*  Nature. 


Act  V.    Scene  I. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


211 


t 


But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself, 
There's  none  witliin. 

Oli.    If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Tlicn  I  should  know  you  by  description : 
Sucli  garments,  and  such  years  :    The  boy  is  fair, 
-    Of  female  favour,  and  bestows  himself 
Like  a  ripe  sister :  but  the  woman  low. 
And  browner  than  her  brother.      Are  not  you 
The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for? 

Cel.   It  is  no  boast,  being  ask'd,  to  say,  we  are. 

Oli.    Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both ; 
And  to  that  youth,  he  calls  his  Rosalind, 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin  ;  Are  you  he  ? 

Ros.    I  am  :   What  must  we  understand  by  this  ? 

OH.    Some  of  my  shame  ;  if  you  will  know  of  me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
TJiis  handkerchief  was  stain'd. 

Cel.  I  pray  you  tell  it. 

OU.   When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from 
you. 
He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Witliin  an  hour ;  an,d,  pacing  through  the  forest, 
Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
Lo,  what  befell !  he  threw  his  eye  aside. 
And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itdelf ! 
Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd  with  age 
And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  wretched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 
Lay  sleeping  on  his  back  :   about  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreathed  itself. 
Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approach'd 
The  opening  of  his  mouth  ;  but  suddenly 
Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlink'd  itself. 
And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 
Into  a  bush  :   under  which  bush's  sliade 
A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry. 
Lay  couching,  liead  on  ground,  with  cat-like  watch. 
When  that  the  sleejjing  man  should  stir ;  for  'tis 
Tlie  royal  disposition  of  that  beast. 
To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead : 
This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man, 
And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brother. 

Cd.   O,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  bro- 
ther; 

And  he  did  render  *  him  the  most  unnatural 
Tliat  liv'd  'mongst  men. 

OIL  And  well  he  might  so  do. 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 

Ros.   But,  to  Orlando ;  —  Did  he  leave  him  there. 
Food  to  the  suck'd  and  hungry  lioness  ? 

Oli.   Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  purpos'd  so: 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge. 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion. 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness. 
Who  quickly  fell  before  him  ;  in  which  hurtling  ^ 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awak'd. 


Cel.   Are  you  his  brother  ? 

Ros*  Was  it  you  he  rescu'd  ? 

Cel.   Was't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill 
him? 

on.   'Twas  I ;  but  'tis  not  I ;   I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 

Ros.   But  for  the  bloody  napkin  ?  — 

Oli.  By,  andljy. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two. 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bath'd. 

As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place  ; 

In  brief,  he  led  me  lo  the  gentle  duke, 

Who  gave  me  fresh  array,  and  entertainment. 

Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love ; 

Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave. 

There  stripp'd  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away. 

Which  all  this  while  had  bled  ;  and  now  he  fainted, 

And  cry'd,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 

Brief,  I  recover'd  him  ;  bound  up  his  wound  ; 

And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart, 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am. 

To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 

His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 

Dy'd  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 

That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why  how  now,  Ganymede?  sweet  Gany- 
mede? \'Ros\i.i'HD  faints. 

Oli.  Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood. 

Cel.  There  is  more  in  it:  —  Cousin  — Ganymede ! 

OIL   Look,  he  recovers. 

Ros.  I  would,  I  were  at  home. 

Cel.   We'll  lead  you  thither  :  — 
I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm? 

Oh.  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth  :  —  You  a  man  ?— 
You  lack  a  man's  heart. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah,  sir,  a  body  would 
think  this  was  well  counterfeited :  I  pray  you,  tell 
your  brother  how  well  I  counterfeited.  —  Heigh 
ho!  — 

Oli.  This  was  not  counterfeit ;  there  is  too  great 
testimony  in  your  complexion,  that  it  was  a  passion 
of  earnest. 

Ros.   Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

Oli.  Well  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and  counter- 
feit to  be  a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do :  but,  i'faith  I  should  have  been  a 
woman  by  right. 

Cel.  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler  ;  pray  you, 
draw  homewards  :  —  Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

OIL    That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back 
How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  devise  something  :  But,  I  pray  you, 
commend  my  counterfeiting  to  iiim :  —  Will  you  go? 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.—  The  same. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audret. 

Touch.   We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey  ;  patience, 
gentle  Audrey. 

Aud.  '  Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for  all 
Uie  old  gentleman's  saying. 

»  Dncribe  »  Scuffle. 


Tottch.  A  most  wicked  sir  Oliver,  Audrey,  a  most 
vile  Mar-text.  But,  Audrey,  there  is  a  youtli  here 
in  tlie  forest  lays  claim  to  you. 

Aud.  Ay,  I  know  who  'tis ;  he  hath  no  interest 
in  me  in  the  world :  here  comes  the  man  you  mean. 

Enter  William. 

Touch.   It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to  see  a  clown  : 
P  2 


212 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  V. 


By  my  troth,  we  that  have  good  wits,  have  much  to 
answer  for  ;  we  shall  be  flouting  ;  we  cannot  hold. 

Will.    Good  even,  Audrey. 

yiud.    Good  even,  William. 

Will.   And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  even,  gentle  friend:  Cover  thy 
head,  cover  thy  head ;  nay,  pr'ythee,  be  covered. 
How  old  are  you,  friend  ? 

Will.    Five  and  twenty,  sir. 

Touch.   A  ripe  age :    Is  thy  name  William? 

WUl.   William,  sir. 

Touch.  A  fair  name;  SVast  bom  i' the  forest  here  ? 

WUl.    Ay,  sir.  ^ 

Touch.    Art  rich  ?    ^ 

WUl.   'Faith,  sir,  so  so. 

Touch.  So,  so,  is  good,  very  good,  very  excellent 
good ;  —  and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is  but  so,  so.  Art 
thou  wise  ? 

WUl.    Ay,  sir,  1  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touch.  Why,  thou  say'st  well.  I  do  now  re- 
member a  saying ;  The  fool  doth  think  he  is  wise,  but 
the  wise  man  knows  himself  to  be  a  fool.  The  heathen 
philosopher,  when  he  had  a  desire  to  eat  a  grape, 
would  open  his  lips  when  he  put  it  into  his  mouth ; 
meaning  thereljy,  that  grapes  were  made  to  eat,  and 
lips  to  open.      You  do  love  this  maid  ? 

Will.    I  do,  sir. 

Touch.    Give  me  your  hand  ;    Art  thou  learned  ? 

Will.    No,  sir. 

Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me  ;  To  have,  is  to 
have  :  For  it  is  a  figure  in  rhetorick,  that  drink,  being 
poured  out  of  a  cup  into  a  glass,  by  filling  the  one 
doth  empty  the  other :  For  all  your  writers  do  con 
sent,  that  ipse  is  he  ;  now  you  are  not  ipse,  for  I  am  he. 

WUl.   Which  he,  sir? 

Touch.  He,  sir,  that  must  marry  this  woman  : 
Therefore,  you  clown,  abandon,  —  which  is  in  the 
vulgar,  leave,  —  the  society,  —  which  in  the  boorish 
is  company,  —  of  this  female,  —  which  in  the  com- 
mon is,  — woman,  which  together  is,  abandon  the 
society  of  this  female  ;  or,  clown,  thou  perishest;  or, 
to  thy  better  understanding,  diest ;  to  wit,  I  kill 
thee,  make  thee  away,  translate  thy  life  into  death, 
thy  liberty  into  bondage :  I  will  deal  in  poison  with 
thee,  or  in  bastinado,  or  in  steel ;  I  will  bandy  with 
thee  in  faction ;  I  will  o'er-run  thee  with  policy  ;  I 
will  kill  thee  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways  j  therefore 
tremble,  and  depart. 

jiud.   Do,  good  William. 

WUl.    Rest  you  merry,  sir.    /  [ExU. 

Enter  Corin. 

Cor.  Our  master  and  mistress  seek  you ;  come, 
away,  away. 

Touch.  Trip,  Audrey,  trip,  Audrey  ;  —  I  attend, 
I  attend.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. -^  The  same. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Oliver. 

Orl.  Is't  possible,  that  on  so  little  acquaintance 
you  should  like  her  ?  that,  but  seeing,  you  should 
love  her  ?  and,  loving,  woo?  and,  wooing,  she  should 
grant  ?  and  will  you  pers^ver  to  marry  her  ? 

Oli.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question, 
the  poverty  of  her,  the  small  acquaintance,  my  sud- 
den wooing,  nor  her  sudden  consenting ;  but  say 
with  me,  I  love  Aliena  ;  say  with  her,  that  she  loves 
me ;  consent  with  both,  that  we  may  enjoy  each 
other :  it  shall  be  to  your  good  ;  for  my  father's 
house,  and  all  the  revenue  that  was  old  sir  Row- 


land's, will  I  estate  upon  you,  and  here  live  and  die 
a  shepherd. 

Enter  Rosalind. 

Orl.    You  have  my  consent.      Let  your  wedding 

be  to-morrow ;  thither  will   I  invite  the  duke,  and 

all  his  contented  followers  :    Go  you,  and  prepare 

Aliena  ;  for,  look  you,  here  comes  my  Rosalind. 

Ros.   God  save  you,  brother. 

Oli.   And  you,  fair  sister. 

Ros.   O,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  mc 
see  thee  wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf. 
Orl.   It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  1  thought,  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  wil 
the  claws  of  a  lion. 

Orl.  Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady.' 
Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counterfeited 
to  swoon,  when  he  showed  me  your  handkerchief? 
Orl.  Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 
Ros.  O,  I  know  where  you  are :  —  Nay,  'tis  true : 
there  was  never  any  thing  so  sudden,  but  the  fight 
of  two  rams,  and  Caesar's  thrasonical  brag  of —  I 
came,  saw,  and  overcame :  For  your  brother  and  my 
sister  no  sooner  met,  but  they  looked;  no  sooner 
looked,  but  they  loved ;  no  sooner  loved,  but  they 
sighed ;  no  sooner  sighed,  but  they  asked  one  an- 
other the  reason ;  no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  but 
they  sought  the  remedy:  and  in  these  degrees  have 
they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage  :  they  are  in 
the  very  wrath  of  love,  and  they  will  together ;  clubs 
cannot  part  them. 

Orl.  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow ;  and  I  will 
bid  the  duke  to  the  nuptial.  But,  O,  how  bitter  a 
thing  it  is  to  look  into  happiness  through  another 
man's  eyes  !  By  so  much  the  more  shall  I  to-morrow 
be  at  the  height  of  heart-heaviness,  by  how  much  I 
shall  think  my  brother  happy,  in  having  what  he 
wishes  for. 

Ros.  Why  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve  your 
turn  for  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 
Ros.  I  will  weary  you  no  longer  then  with  idle 
talking.  Know  of  me  then,  (for  now  I  speak  to 
some  purpose,)  that  I  know  you  are  a  gentleman  of 
good  conceit:  I  speak  not  this,  that  you  should  bear 
a  good  opinion  of  my  knowledge,  insomuch,  I  say, 
I  know  you  are ;  neither  do  I  labour  for  a  greater 
esteem  than  may  in  some  little  measure  draw  a  belief 
from  you,  to  do  yourself  good,  and  not  to  grace  me. 
Believe  then,  if  you  please,  that  I  can  do  strange 
things :  I  have,  since  I  was  three  years  old,  con- 
versed with  a  magician,  most  profound  in  this  art. 
If  you  do  love  Rosalind  so  near  the  heart  as  your 
gesture  cries  it  out,  when  your  brother  marries 
Aliena,  shall  you  marry  her :  I  know  into  what 
straits  of  fortune  she  is  driven ;  and  it  is  not  impos- 
sible to  me,  if  it  appear  not  inconvenient  to  you,  to 
set  her  before  your  eyes  to-morrow,  human  as  she 
is,  and  without  any  danger. 

Orl.  Speakest  thou  in  sober  meanings  ? 
Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do ;  which  I  tender  dearly, 
though  I  say  I  am  a  magician  :  Therefore,  put  you 
in  your  best  array,  bid  your  friends  ;  for  if  you  will 
be  married  to-morrow,  you  shall ;  and  to  Rosalind, 
if  you  will. 

Enter  SiLvius  and  Phebe. 
Look,  here  comes  a  lover  of  mine,  and  a  lover  of  hers. 
Phe.  Youth,  you  have  done  me  much  ungentleness. 
To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  you. 

Ros.   I  care  not,  if  I  have  :  it  is  my  study, 


1 


Scene  III. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


213 


/ 


To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you  : 
You  are  there  follow'd  by  a  faithful  shepherd ; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him  ;  he  worships  you. 

Pile.    Good  shepherd,  tell  this  youth  wliat  'tis  to 
love. 

Sil.   It  is  to  be  all  made  of  sighs  and  tears  ;  — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.   And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.    And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.    And  I  for  no  woman. 

SU.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and  service  ;  — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.   And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.    And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.    And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy, 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes  ; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  observance, 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience. 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance ;  — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.    And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.   And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.    And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 

Phe.   If  tliis  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love 
you  ?  l^To  Rosalind. 

SU.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

{To  Phebe. 

Orl.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

Ros.   Who  do  you  speak  to,  why  blame  you  me  to 
love  yc  u  ? 

Orl.   To  her,  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth  not  hear. 

Rns.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this ;  'tis  like  the 
howling  of  Irish  wolves  against  the  moon.  —  I  will 
help  you,  [To  Silvius.]  if  I  can:  — I  would  love 
you,  [To  Phebe.]  if  I  could.  —  To-morrow  meet 
me  all  together.  —  I  will  marry  you,  [To  Phebe.]  if 
ever  I  marry  woman,  and  I'll  be  married  to-morrow : 

—  I  will  satisfy  you,  [To  Orlando.]  if  ever  I 
satisfied  man,  and  you  shall  be  married  to  morrow  : 

—  I  will  content  you,  f  To  Silvius.]  if  what  pleases 
you  contents  you,  and  you  shall  be  married  to- 
morrow. —  As  you  [To  Orlando.]  love  Rosalind, 
meet;  —  as  you  [To  Silvius.]  love  Phebe,  meet; 
and  as  I  love  no  woman,  I'll  meet.  —  So,  fare  you 
well  ;    I  have  left  you  commands. 

SU.   I'll  not  fail,  if  I  live. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

Orl.  Nor  I. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  III.—  TJiesame. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey; 
to-morrow  will  we  be  married. 

Aud.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart :  and  hope 
it  is  no  dishonest  desire,  to  desire  to  be  a  woman  of 
tlie  world.7  Here  comes  two  of  the  banished  duke's 
pages. 

Enter  two  Pages. 

1  Page.   Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  well  met :  Come,  sit,  sit,  and 
a  song. 

2  Page.   We  are  for  you  :  sit  i'the  middle. 

1  Page.  Shall  we  clap  into't  roundly,  without 
hawking,  or  saying  we  are  hoarse ;  which  are  the 

nly  prologues  to  a  bad  voice  ? 

2  Page.  And  both  in  a  tune,  like  two  gipsies  on 
a  horse. 

'  A  married  woman. 


SONG. 
I. 

It  was  a  lover,  and  his  luss. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino. 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  puss. 

In  the  spring  time,  the  onty  pretty  rank  time,      ^ 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

II. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

How  that  a  life  was  but  afiower 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

III. 

And  therefore  take  the  present  titne, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino  i 
For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 

In  spring  time,  &c. 
Touch.   Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though  there 
was  no  greater  matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the  note  was 
very  untuneable. 

1  Page.   You  are  deceived,  sir ;  we  kept  time,  we 
lost  not  our  time.  •' 

Touch.    By  my  troth,  yes ;  I  count  it  but  time      X 
lost  to  hear  such  a  foolish  song.      Come,  Audrey.      \/^ 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   IV.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Duke  Senior,  Amiens,  Jaques,  Orlando, 
Oliver,  and  Celia. 

Duffe  S.  Dost  thou  believe,  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 

Orl.   I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do 
not ; 
As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear. 

Enter  Rosalind,  Silvius,  and  Phebe. 

Ros.   Patience  once  more,  whiles  our  compact  is 

urg'd: - 

You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind, 

[To  the  Duke. 
You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here  ? 
Duke  S.   Tliat  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to  give 

with  her. 

Ros.   And  you  say,  you  will  have  her  when  I 

bring  her  ?  [To  Orlando. 

Orl.  That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 

Ros.    You  say,  you'll  marry  me,  if  I  be  willing  ? 

[To  Phebe. 
P/ie.   That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 
Ros.    But,  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me. 
You'll  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd  ? 
Phe.   So  is  the  bargain. 

Ros.  You  say,  that  you'll  have  Phebe,  if  she  will  ? 

[To  Silvius. 
iS"/7.  Tliough  to  have  her  and  death  were  both  one 

thing. 
Ros.  I  have  promis'd  to  make  all  this  matter  even. 
Keep '  you   your   word,    O   duke,    to    give    your 

daughter ;  — 
You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter  :  — 
Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you'll  marry  me  ; 
Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd  :  — 
Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you'll  marry  her. 
If  she  refuse  me :  —  and  from  hence  I  go. 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even. 

[Exeunt  Rosaund  and  Celia. 
P  3 


214 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Act  V. 


Duke  S.   I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favour. 

Orl.   My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter ; 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born  ; 
And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Jaq.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and 
these  couples  are  coming  to  the  ark !  Here  comes  a 
pair  of  very  strange  beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are 
called  fools. 

Touch.   Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaq.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome :  This  is 
the  motley-minded  gentleman,  that  I  have  so  often 
met  in  the  forest;  he  hath  been  a  courtier,  he  swears. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to 
my  purgation.  I  have  trod  a  measure  8  ;  1  have  flat- 
tered a  lady ;  I  have  been  politick  with  my  friend, 
smooth  with  mine  enemy;  I  have  undone  three 
tailors ;  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have 
fought  one. 

J(tq.    And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 

Touch.  'Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel 
was  upon  the  seventh  cause. 

Jaq.  How  seventh  cause  ?  —  Good  my  lord,  like 
this  fellow. 

Duke  S.  I  like  him  very  well. 
y  Touch.  Sir  ;  I  desire  you  of  the  like.  I  press  in 
here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the  country  folks,  to 
swear,  and  to  forswear;  according  as  marriage  binds, 
and  blood  breaks :  —  A  poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill- 
favoured  thing,  sir,  J)ut  mine  own  ;  a  poor  humour 
of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that  no  man  else  will : 
Rich  honesty  dwells  like  a  miser,  sir,  in  a  poor- 
house  ;  as  your  pearl,  in  your  foul  oyster. 

Duke  S.    By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sen- 
tentious. 
I    Touch.   According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir. 

Jaq.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause ;  how  did  you 
find  the  quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed ;  —  Bear 
your  body  more  seeming,  Audrey  :  —  as  thus,  sir. 
I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard  ; 
he  sent  me  word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut  well, 
he  was  in  the  mind  it  was  :  This  is  called  the  Retort 
courteous.  If  I  sent  him  word  again,  it  was  not  well 
cut,  he  would  send  me  word,  he  cut  it  to  please 
himself:  This  is  called  the  Quip  modest.  If  again, 
it  was  not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my  judgment :  This 
is  call'd  the  Reply  churlish.  If  again,  it  was  not 
well  cut,  he  would  answer,  I  spake  not  true :  This 
is  call'd  the  Reproof  valiant.  If  again,  it  was  not 
well  cut,  he  would  say,  I  lie :  This  is  called  the 
Countercheck  quarrelsome :  and  so  to  the  Lie  cir- 
cumstantial, and  the  Lie  direct. 

Jaq.  And  how  oft  did  you  say,  his  beard  was  not 
well  cut  ? 

Touch.  I  durst  go  no  further  than  the  Lie  cir- 
cumstantial, nor  he  durst  not  give  me  the  Lie  di- 
rect ;  and  so  we  measured  swords  and  parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  degrees 
of  the  lie  ? 

Touch.    O  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book ; 
as  you  have  books  for  good  manners  :    I  will  name  i 
you  the  degrees.     The  first,  tlie  Retort  courteous 
8  A  stately  solemn  dance. 


the  second,  the  Quip  modest ;  the  third,  the  Reply 
churlish;  the  fourth,  the  Reproof  valiant;  the  fifth, 
the  Countercheck  quarrelsome  ;  the  sixth,  the  Lie 
with  circumstance ;  the  seventh,  the  Lie  direct. 
All  these  you  may  avoid  but  the  lie  direct ;  and 
you  may  avoid  that  too,  with  an  If.  I  knew  when 
seven  justices  could  not  take  up  a  quarrel :  but  when 
the  parties  were  met  themselves,  one  of  them  thought 
but  of  an  7j^  as  If  you  said  so,  then  I  saitl  so ;  and. 
they  shook  hands,  and  swore  brothers.  Your  If '19 
the  only  peace-maker  ;  much  virtue  in  If. 

Jaq.   Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  he's 
good  at  any  thing,  and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.    He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse, 
and  under  the  presentation  of  that  he  shoots  his  wit. 

Enter  Hymen,  leading  Rosalind  in  womaiis  clothes; 
and  Celia. 

Still  Musick. 

Hym.    Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 
Good  duke,  receive  thy  daughter. 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her, 

Yea,  brought  her  hither  ; 
That  thou  mightst  join  her  hand  with  hii 
Whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is. 
Ros.   To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 

[To  Duke  S. 
To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 

[To  Orlando. 
Duke  S.   If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my 

daughter. 
Orl.   If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  Ross^ 

lind. 
Phe.   If  sight  and  shape  be  true. 
Why  then,  —  my  love,  adieu  ! 

Ros.   I'll  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he  :  — 

[  To  Duke  S. 
I'll  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  :  — 

[To  Orlando. 
Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she. 

[To  Phebe. 
Hym.    Peace,  ho  !   I  bar  confusion  : 
'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events  : 
Here's  eight  that  must  take  hands. 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands. 
If  truth  holds  true  contents.  9 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part : 

[To  Orlando  anrf  Rosalind. 
You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 

[To  Oliver  and  Celia. 
You  [To  Phebe.]  to  his  love  must  accord. 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord  :  — 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

[To  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock-hymn  we  sing. 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning ; 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 

SONG. 

Wedding  is  great  Juno's  croivn  ; 

0  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed  ! 
'  Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town  ; 

High  wedlock  then  be  honoured  : 

9  Unless  truth  fail  of  veracity. 


Scene  IV. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


215 


Honour,  high  honour  and  renown, 
To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town  I 

DvJce  S.  O  my  dear  niece,  welcome  thou  art  to  me ; 
Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 

Phe.   I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now  thou  art  mine  j 
Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine. 

[To  SiLVIUS. 

Enter  Jaques  de  Bois. 

Jaq.  de  B.  Let  me  have  audience  for  a  word,  or 
two; 
I  am  the  second  son  of  old  sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  fair  assembly  :  — 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Address'd  a  mighty  power !  which  were  on  foot, 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the  sword  : 
And  to  the  skirts  of  tliis  wild  wood  he  came  j 
Where,  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man. 
After  some  questions  with  him,  was  converted 
Both  from  his  enterprize,  and  from  the  world  : 
His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banish'd  brother. 
And  all  their  lands  restor'd  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exil'd :   Tliis  to  be  true, 
I  do  engage  my  life. 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  young  man  ; 

Thou  offer'st  fairly  to  thy  brothers'  wedding  : 
To  one,  his  lands  withheld  :   and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  tliis  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun,  and  well  begot : 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number. 
That  have  endur'd  shrewd  days  and  nights  with  us, 


Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune. 

According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 

Meantime,  forget  this  new-fall'n  dignity, 

And  fall  into  our  rustick  revelry  :  — 

Play,  musick  ;  —  and  you  brides  and  bridegrooms  all, 

With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,  to  the  measures  fall. 

Jaq.  Sir,  by  your  patience  ;  if  I  heard  you  rightly. 
The  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life, 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court  ? 
Jaq.  de  B.    He  hath. 

Jaq.   To  him  will  I :  out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learn 'd.  — 
You  to  your  former  honour  I  bequeath  ; 

{To  Duke  S. 
Your  patience,  and  your  virtue,  well  deserves  it :  — 
You   {To  Orlando.]  to  a  love,  that  your  true  faith 

doth  merit :  — 
You  {To  Oliver.]  to  your  land,  and  love,  and  great 

allies :  — 
You   {To   SiLvius.]  to  a  long  and  well   deserved 

bed;  — 
And  you   {To  Touchstone.]   to  wrangling,  for  thy 

loving  voyage 
Is  but  for  two  months  victual'd  :  —  So  to  your  plea- 
sures ; 
I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 
Duke  S.   Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 

Jaq.   To  see  no  pastime,   I :  —  what  you  would 
have 
I'll  stay  to  know  at  your  abandon'd  cave.         {Erit. 
Duke  S.    Proceed,  proceed  :  we  wiU  begin  these 
rites, 
And  we  do  trust  they'll  end,  in  true  delights. 

{A  dance. 


EPILOGUE. 


lio.s.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the  lady  the 
epilogue  :  but  it  is  no  more  unhandsome,  than  to 
see  the  lord  the  prologue.  If  it  be  true,  that  good 
nine  needs  no  bush,  'tis  true,  that  a  good  play  needs 
no  epilogue .  Yet  to  good  wine  they  do  use  good 
bushes  ;  and  good  plays  prove  the  better  by  the 
help  of  good  epilogues.  What  a  case  am  I  in  then, 
that  am  neither  a  good  epilogue,  nor  cannot  insinuate 
with  you  in  the  behalf  of  a  good  play  ?  I  am  not 
furnished  i  like  a  beggar,  therefore  to  beg  will  not 
become  me :  my  way  is,  to  conjure  you  j  and  I'll 

1  Dressed. 


begin  with  the  women.  I  charge  you,  O  women, 
for  the  love  you  bear  to  men,  to  like  as  much  of 
this  play  as  pleases  them  :  and  so  I  charge  you,  O 
men,  for  the  love  you  bear  to  women,  (as  I  perceive 
by  your  simpering,  none  of  you  hate  them,)  that 
between  you  and  the  women,  the  play  may  please. 
If  I  were  a  woman,  I  would  kiss  as  many  of  you  as 
had  beards  that  pleased  me,  and  complexions  that 
liked  me  '^  :  and,  I  am  sure,  as  many  as  have  good 
beards,  or  good  faces,  will,  for  my  kind  offer,  when 
I  make  cuit'sy,  bid  me  farewell.  {Exeunt. 

«  That  I  liked. 


F  4 


v? 


-^ 


,f 


^^ 


ALL'S  WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  of  France 
Duke  of  Florence. 
Bertram,  Count  of  Rousillon. 
Lafeu,  an  old  Lord. 
Parolles,  a  Follower  of  Bertram. 
Several  young  French  Lords,  that  serve  tvith  Bertram 
in  the  Florentine  War. 

Steward,  1    Servants  to  the  Countess  of  Rousillon. 
Clown,     J  -^ 

A  Page. 


Countess  of  Rousillon,  Mother  to  Bertram. 

Helena,  a  Gentlewoman  protected  by  the  Countess. 

An  old  IVidow  of  Florence. 

Diana,  Daughtei-  to  the  Widow. 

Violenta, " 

Mariana, 


'  >  Nfighbo 


urs  and  Friemls  tc  the  WidoW' 


Lords,  attmding  on  tfie  King;   Officers,  Soldiers,  ^c. 
French  ami  Florentine. 


SCENE, — partly  in  France,  a7id  partly  in  Tuscany. 


JAY,    BY    YOUR    r.KAVE.    HOr.:3    YOUR    RAMUS. 


ALL'S    WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  L —  Ilousillon.   A  Room  rn  the  Countess's 
Palace. 

Enter  Bertram,  the  Countess  of  Rousillon, 
Helena,  and  Lafeu,  in  mourning. 
-  Countess.    In  delivering  my  son  from  me,  I  bury 
a  second  husband. 

Ber.  And  I,  in  going,  madam,  weep  o'er  my 
father's  death  anew  :  but  I  must  attend  his  majesty's 
command,  to  wliom  I  am  now  in  ward ',  evermore 
in  subjection. 

Laf.  You  shall  find  of  the  king  a  husband,  madam; 
—  you,  sir,  a  father  :  He  that  so  generally  is  at  all 
times  good,  must  of  necessity  hold  his  virtue  to 
you ;  whose  worthiness  would  stir  it  up  where  it 
wanted,  rather  than  lack  it  where  there  is  such 
abundance. 

Count.  What  hope  is  there  of  his  majesty's  amend- 
ment ? 

Laf.  He  hath  abandoned  his  physicians,  madam  ; 
under  whose  practices  he  hath  persecuted  time  with 
hope ;  and  finds  no  other  advantage  in  the  process 
but  only  the  losing  of  hope  by  time. 

Count.  This  young  gentlewoman  had  a  father, 
(O,  that  had!  how  sad  a  passage  'tis!)  whose  skill 
was  almost  as  great  as  his  honesty  ;  had  it  stretched 
so  far,  would  have  made  nature  immortal,  and 
death  should  have  play  for  lack  of  work.  'Would, 
for  the  king's  sake,  he  were  living !  I  think,  it 
would  be  the  death  of  the  king's  disease. 

Laf.  How  called  you  the  man  you  speak  of, 
madam  ? 

'  Under  his  particular  care,  as  my  guardian. 


Count.  He  was  famous,  sir,  in  his  profession,  and 
it  was  his  great  right  to  be  so  ;    Gerard  de  Narbon. 

Laf.  He  was  excellent,  indeed,  madam  ;  the  king 
very  lately  spoke  of  him,  admiringly,  and  mourn- 
ingly ;  he  was  skilful  enough  to  have  lived  still,  if 
knowledge  could  be  set  up  against  mortality.  — 
Was  this  gentlewoman  the  daughter  of  Gerard  de 
Narbon  ? 

Count.  His  sole  child,  my  lord  ;  and  bequeathed 
to  my  overlooking.  I  have  those  hopes  of  her 
good,  that  her  education  promises  :  her  dispositions 
she  inherits,  which  make  fair  gifts  fairer  ;  for  where 
an  unclean  mind  carries  virtuous  qualities,  there 
commendations  go  with  pity,  they  are  virtues  and 
traitors  too ;  in  her  they  are  the  better  for  their 
simpleness;  she  derives  her  honesty,  and  achieves 
her  goodness. 

Laf.  Your  commendations,  madam,  get  from  her 
tears. 

Count.  'Tis  the  best  brine  a  maiden  can  season 
her  praise  in.  The  remembrance  of  her  father  never 
approaches  her  heart,  but  the  tyranny  of  her  sor- 
rows takes  all  livelihood  from  her  cheek.  No  more 
of  this,  Helena,  go  to,  no  more ;  lest  it  be  rather 
thought  you  affect  a  sorrow,  than  to  have. 

Hel.  I  do  affect  a  sorrow,  indeed,  but  I  have  it  too. 

Laf.  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of  the 
dead,  excessive  grief  the  enemy  to  the  living. 

Count.  If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief, 
excess  makes  it  soon  mortal. 

Ber.   Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes. 

Laf.   How  understand  we  that  ? 


Act  I.  Scene  I.         ALL'S  WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


21' 


Count.   Be  thou  blest,  Bertram  !  and  succeed  thy 
father 
In  manners,  as  in  shape  !  thy  blood,  and  virtue, 
Contend  for  empire  in  thee ;  and  thy  goodness 
Share  with  thy  birth-right !   Love  all,  tnist  a  few, 
Do  wrong  to  none  :   be  able  for  thine  enemy 
Ilather  in  power,  than  use  ;  and  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key  :   be  check'd  for  silence. 
But  never  tax'd  for  speech.   What  heaven  more  will, 
That  thee  may  furnish,  and  my  prayers  pluck  down, 
Fall  on  thy  head  !    Farewell.  —  My  lord, 
*Tis  an  unseasoned  courtier ;  good  my  lord. 
Advise  him. 

Laf.  He  cannot  want  the  Ijest 

That  shall  attend  his  love. 

Count.  Heaven  bless  him  !  —  Farewell,  Bertram. 
[Exit  Countess. 

£er.  The  best  wishes,  that  can  be  forged  in  your 
thoughts,  [To  Helena.]  be  servants  to  you  !  Be 
comfortable  to  my  mother,  your  mistress,  and  make 
much  of  her. 

Laf.  Farewell,  pretty  lady:  You  must  hold  the 
credit  of  your  father. 

[Exeunt  Bertram  and  Lafeu. 

Hel.  O,  were  that  all !  —  I  think  not  on  my  father ; 
And  these  great  tears  grace  his  remembrance  more 
Than  those  I  shed  for  him.      What  was  he  like? 
I  have  forgot  him  :   my  unagination 
Carries  no  favour  in  it,  but  Bertram's. 
I  am  undone ;  there  is  no  living,  none, 
If  Bertram  be  away.      It  were  all  one. 
That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star. 
And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me  : 
In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 
Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 
The  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself: 
The  hind,  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion, 
Must  die  for  love.     'Twas  pretty,  though  a  plague, 
To  see  him  every  hour ;  to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls. 
In  our  heart's  table  ;  heart,  too  capable 
Of  every  line  and  trick     of  his  sweet  favour  ^  : 
But  now  he's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 
Must  sanctify  his  relicks.     Who  comes  here  ? 

Ejiter  Parolles. 
One  that  goes  with  him  :   I  love  him  for  his  sake ; 
And  yet  1  know  liim  a  notorious  liar. 
Think  him  a  great  way  fool,  solely  a  coward; 
Yet  these  fix'd  evils  sit  so  fit  in  him. 
That  they  take  place,  when  virtue's  steely  bones 
Look  bleak  in  the  cold  wind  :  withal,  full  oft  we  see 
Cold  wisdom  waiting  on  superfluous  folly. 

Par.   Save  you,  fair  queen.^  Pl^  ythu^  o/«  ''^"t'^  > 

Hel.  And  you,  mon4.rch.  —  You're  for  the  court. 
There  shall  your  master  have  a  tliousand  loves, 
A  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  a  friend, 
A  phoenix,  captain,  and  an  enemy, 
A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign, 
\  counsellor,  a  traitress,  and  a  dear ; 
His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility. 
His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  dulcet. 
His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster ;  with  a  world 
Of  pretty,  fond,  adoptions  Christendoms, 

Tlmt  blinking  Cupid  gossips.      Now  shall  he 

1  know  not  wliat  lie  shall ;  —  God  send  him  well !- — 
The  court's  a  learning-place  ;  —  and  he  is  one 

Par.   What  one,  i'faith  ? 

Hel.   That  I  wish  well.  -^  'Tis  pity 

3  rcculiarity  of  feature.  '  Coumcnance. 


Par.   What's  pity  ? 

Hel.   That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in't. 
Which  might  be  felt :   that  we,  the  poorer  born, 
Whose  baser  stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes. 
Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  friends. 
And  show  what  we  alone  must  think  ;  which  never 
Retifrns  us  thanks. 

Enter  a  Page. 

Page.   Monsieur  Parolles,  my  lord  calls  for  you. 

[Exit  Page. 

Par.  Little  Helen,  farewell :  If  I  can  remember 
thee,  I  will  think  of  thee  at  court. 

Hel.  Monsieur  Parolles,  you  were  bom  under  a 
charitable  star. 

Par.    Under  Mars,  I. 

Hel.   I  especially  think,  under  Mars. 

Par.   Why  under  Mars  ? 

Hel.  The  wars  have  so  kept  you  under,  that  you 
must  needs  be  bom  under  Mars. 

Par.   When  he  was  predominant. 

Hel.   When  he  was  retrograde,  I  tln'nk,  rather. 

Par.   Why  think  you  so? 

Hel.  You  go  so  much  backward,  when  you  fight. 

Par.   That's  for  advantage. 

Hel.  So  is  running  away,  when  fear  proposes  the 
safety :  But  the  composition,  that  your  valour  and 
fear  makes  in  you,  is  a  virtue  of  a  good  wing,  and  I 
like  the  wear  well. 

Par.  I  am  so  full  of  businesses,  I  cannot  answer 
thee  acutely :  I  will  return  perfect  courtier ;  in  the 
which,  my  instruction  shall  serve  to  naturalize  thee, 
so  thou  wilt  be  capable  of  a  courtier's  counsel,  and 
understand  what  advice  shall  thrust  upon  thee  ;  else 
thou  diest  in  thine  unthank fulness,  and  thine  igno- 
rance makes  thee  away  :  farewell.  Remember  thy 
friends  :  get  thee  a  good  husband,  and  use  him  as 
he  uses  thee  :   so  farewell.  [Exit. 

Hel.   Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie. 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven :   the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope ;  only,  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs,  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 
What  power  is  it,  wliich  mounts  my  love  so  high. 
That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye  ? 
Tlie  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 
To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things. ■♦ 
Impossible  be  strange  attempts,  to  those 
That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense  ;  and  do  suppose. 
What  hatili  been  cannot  be  :   Who  ever  strove 
To  show  her  merit,  that  did  miss  her  love  ? 
The  king's  disease  —  my  project  may  deceive  mo, 
But  my  intents  are  fix'd,  and  will  not  leave  me. 

[Exit. 

SCE^E  II.  —  Paris.     J  Room  in  the  King's 

Palace. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.      Enter  the  Kino  or  France 
unth  letters  ;  Lords  and  others  attending. 

Xing.  The  Florentines  and  Senoys  *  are  by  the 
ears  ; 
Have  fought  with  equal  fortune,  and  continue 
A  braving  war. 

1  Lord.  So  'tis  reported,  sir. 

King.   Nay,  'tis  most  credible ;  we  here  receive  it 
A  certainty,  vouch'd  from  our  cousin  Austria, 
With  caution,  that  the  Florentine  will  move  us 

*  Things  formed  bv  nature  for  each  other. 
»  The  citizens  of  Ine  small  republic  of  which  Sienna  is  th 
capital. 


218 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Act  L 


For  speedy  aid  ;  wherein  our  dearest  friend 
Prejudicates  the  business,  and  would  seem 
To  have  us  make  denial. 

1  Lord.  His  love  and  wisdom, 
Approv'd  so  to  your  majesty,  may  plead 

For  amplest  credence. 

King.  He  hath  arm*d  our  answer. 

And  Florence  is  denied  before  he  comes : 
Yet,  for  our  gentlemen,  that  mean  to  see 
The  Tuscan  service,  freely  have  they  leave 
To  stand  on  either  part. 

2  Lord.  It  may  well  serve 
A  nursery  to  our  gentry,  who  are  sick 

For  breathing  and  exploit. 

King.  What's  he  comes  here  ? 

ErUer  Bertram,  Lafeu,  and  Parolles. 

1  Lord.  It  is  the  count  Rousillon,  my  good  lord, 
Young  Bertram. 

King.  Youth,  thou  bear'st  thy  father's  face ; 

Frank  nature,  rather  curious  than  in  haste. 
Hath  well  compos'd  thee.     Thy  father's  moral  parts 
Mayst  thou  inherit  too  !   Welcome  to  Paris. 

Ber.   My  thanks  and  duty  are  your  majesty's. 

King.  I  would  I  had  that  corporal  soundness  now. 
As  when  thy  father,  and  myself,  in  friendship 
First  try'd  our  soldiership  !   He  did  look  far 
Into  the  service  of  the  time,  and  was 
Discipled  of  the  bravest :   he  lasted  long  j 
But  on  us  both  did  haggish  age  steal  on, 
And  wore  us  out  of  act.     It  much  repairs  me 
To  talk  of  your  good  father  :    In  his  youth 
He  had  the  wit,  which  I  can  well  observe 
To-day  in  our  young  lords  ;  but  they  may  jest, 
Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  unnoted. 
Ere  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honour. 
So  like  a  courtier,  contempt  nor  bitterness 
Were  in  his  pride  or  sharpness  ;  if  they  were, 
His  equal  had  awak'd  them ;  and  his  honour, 
Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 
Exception  bid  him  speak,  and,  at  this  time. 
His  tongue  obey'd  his  hand :   who  were  below  him 
He  us'd  as  creatures  of  another  place ; 
And  bow'd  his  eminent  top  to  their  low  ranks, 
Making  them  proud  of  his  humility, 
In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled ;    Such  a  man 
Might  be  a  copy  to  these  younger  times  ; 
Which,  follow'd  well,  would  demonstrate  them  now 
But  goers  backward. 

Ber.  His  good  remembrance,  sir. 

Lies  richer  in  your  thoughts,  than  on  his  tomb  ; 
So  in  approof  ^  lives  not  his  epitaph. 
As  in  your  royal  speech. 

King.  'Would,  I  were  with   him  !     He  would 
always  say, 
(Methinks,  I  hear  him  now  ;  his  plausive  words 
He  scatter'd  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them, 
To  grow  there,  and  to  bear,)  —  Let  me  not  live,  — 
Thus  his  good  melancholy  oft  began, 
On  the  catastrophe  and  heel  of  pastime. 
When  it  was  out,  —  let  me  not  live,  quoth  he, 
After  myjlame  lacks  oil,  to  be  the  snuff 
Of  younger  spirits,  whose  apprehensive  senses 
All  but  new  things  disdain  ;  whose  judgments  are 
Mere  fathers  of  their  garments ;  whose  constancies 

Expire  before  t/ieir  fashions : This  he  wish'd  : 

I,  after  him,  do  after  him  wish  too. 

Since  I  nor  wax,  nor  honey,  can  bring  home, 

6  Approbation. 


I  quickly  were  dissolved  from  my  hive, 
To  give  some  labourers  room. 

2  Lord.  You  are  lov'd,  sir  ; 

They,  that  least  lend  it  you,  shall  lack  you  first. 

Kirig.   I  fill  a  place,  I  know't.  —  How  long  is't, 
count. 
Since  the  physician  at  your  father's  died  ? 
He  was  much  fam'd. 

Jier.  Some  six  months  since,  my  lord. 

King.  If  he  were  living,  I  would  try  him  yet ;  — 
Lend  me  an  arm  ;  —  the  rest  have  worn  me  out 
With  several  applications  :   nature  and  sickness 
Debate  it  at  their  leisure.     Welcome,  count ; 
My  son's  no  dearer. 

Ber.  Thank  your  majesty. 

[Exeunt.     Flourish. 

SCENE  III.  —  Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Coun- 
tess'* Palace. 
Enter  Countess,  Steward,  and  Clown. 

Count.  I  will  now  hear :  what  say  you  of  this 
gentlewoman  ? 

Stew.  Madam,  the  care  I  have  had  to  even  your 
content  7,  I  wish  might  be  found  in  the  calendar  of 
my  past  endeavours ;  for  then  we  wound  our  mo- 
desty, and  make  foul  the  clearness  of  our  deserv- 
ings,  when  of  ourselves  we  publish  them. 

Count.  What  does  this  knave  here?  Get  you  gone, 
sirrali :  The  complaints,  I  have  heard  of  you,  I  do 
not  all  believe :  'tis  my  slowness,  that  I  do  not : 
for,  I  know,  you  lack  not  folly  to  commit  them,  and 
have  ability  enough  to  make  such  knaveries  yours. 

Clo.  'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  madam,  1  am  a 
poor  fellow. 

Count.   Well,  sir. 

Clo.  No,  madam,  'tis  not  so  well,  that  I  am  poor  ; 
though  many  of  the  rich  perish  :  But,  if  I  may  have 
your  ladyship's  good  will  to  go  to  the  worlds,  Isbel 
the  woman  and  I  will  do  as  we  may. 

Count.   Wilt  thou  needs  be  a  beggar  ? 

Clo.   1  do  beg  your  good  will  in  this  case. 

Count.   In  what  case  ? 

Clo.  In  Isbel's  case,  and  mine  own.  Service  is 
no  heritage  :  and,  I  think,  I  shall  never  have  the 
blessing  of  God,  till  I  have  issue ;  for,  they  say, 
beams  9  are  blessings. 

Count.   Is  this  all  your  worship's  reason  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  madam,  I  have  other  holy  reasons, 
such  as  they  are. 

Count.   May  the  world  know  them  ? 

Clo.  I  have  been,  madam,  a  wicked  creature ; 
and,  indeed,  I  do  marry,  that  I  may  repent. 

Cou7it.  Thy  marriage,  sooner  than  thy  wickedness. 

Clo.  I  am  out  of  friends,  madam  ;  and  I  hope  to 
have  friends  for  my  wife's  sake. 

Count.    Such  friends  are  thine  enemies,  knave. 

Clo.  You  are  shallow,  madam  ;  e'en  great  frieni 

Count.  Get  you  gone,  sir ;  I'll  talk  with  you  mo: 
anon. 

Stexo.  May  it  please  you,  madam,  that  he  bid 
Helen  come  to  you  ;  of  her  I  am  to  speak. 

Count.  Sirrah,  tell  my  genilewoman,  I  would 
speak  with  her ;  Helen  I  mean. 

Clo.    Was  this  fair  face  the  cause,  quoth  she, 

[Singing. 
Why  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy  ? 
Fond  done  ',  done  fond. 
Was  this  king  Priani'sjoy. 


?  to 

41 


7  To  act  up  to  your  desires. 
9  Children, 


8  To  be  married. 
'  Foolishly  done. 


Scene  III. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


219 


With  that  sfie  sighed  as  she  stoodt 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stoodt 

And  gave  this  sentence  then  ; 
ylmon-i  nine  bad  if  one  be  good. 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good. 

There's  yet  one  good  in  ten. 

Count.  What,  one  good  in  ten  ?  you  corrupt  the 
song,  sirrah. 

Clo.  One  good  woman  in  ten,  madam  ;  which  is 
a  purifying  o'  the  song  :  'Would  Fortune  serve  the 
world  so  all  the  year !  we'd  find  no  fault  with  the 
tythe-woman.  One  in  ten  quoth  a' !  an  we  might 
have  a  good  woman  born  but  every  blazing  star,  or 
at  an  earthquake,  'twould  mend  the  lottery  well ;  a 
man  may  draw  his  heart  out,  ere  he  pluck  one. 

Count.  You'll  be  gone,  sir  knave,  and  do  as  I 
command  you? 

Clo.  That  man  should  be  at  woman's  command, 
and  yet  no  hurt  done  !  —  Though  honesty  be  no 
puritan,  yet  it  will  do  no  hurt ;  it  will  wear  the 
surplice  of  humility  over  the  black  gown  of  a  big 
heart.  —  I  am  going,  forsooth  :  the  business  is  for 
Helen  to  come  hither.  {_Exit  Clown. 

Count.   Well,  now. 

Stew.  I  know,  madam,  you  love  your  gentle- 
woman entirely. 

Count.  Indeed,  I  do ;  her  father  bequeathed  her 
to  me  ;  and  she  herself,  without  other  advantage, 
may  lawfully  make  title  to  as  much  love  as  she 
finds :  there  is  more  owing  her,  than  is  paid ;  and 
more  shall  be  paid  her,  than  she'll  demand. 

Stew.  Madam,  I  was  very  late  more  near  her 
than,  I  think,  she  wished  me  :  alone  she  was,  and 
did  communicate  to  herself,  her  own  words  to  her 
own  ears ;  she  thought,  I  dare  vow  for  her,  they 
touched  not  any  stranger  sense.  Her  matter  was, 
she  loved  your  son  :  Fortune,  she  said,  was  no 
goddess,  that  had  put  such  difference  betwixt  their 
two  estates ;  Love,  no  god,  that  would  not  extend 
his  might,  only  where  qualities  were  level  :  Diana, 
no  queen  of  virgins,  that  would  suffer  her  poor  knight 
to  be  surprised,  without  rescue,  in  the  first  assault, 
or  ransome  afterwards:  This  she  delivered  in  tlie 
most  bitter  touch  of  sorrow,  that  e'er  1  heard  virgin 
exclaim  in :  which  I  held  my  duty,  speedily  to 
acquaint  you  withal ;  sithence^,  in  the  loss  that  may 
happen,  it  concerns  you  something  to  know  it. 

Count.  You  have  discharged  this  honestly  ;  keep 
it  to  yourself:  many  likelihoods  informed  me  of 
this  before,  which  hung  so  tottering  in  the  balance, 
tJiat  I  could  neither  believe,  nor  misdoubt :  Pray 
you,  leave  me;  stall  this  in  your  bosom,  and  I 
thank  you  for  your  honest  care :  I  will  speak  wiUi 
you  further  anon.  \^Exit  Steward. 

Enter  Helena. 
Count.  Even  so  it  was  with  me,  when  I  was  young : 
If  we  are  nature's,  these  are  ours  :   this  thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong  ; 

Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  bom  ; 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth, 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impress'd  in  youth  : 
By  our  remembrances  of  days  foregone. 
Such  were  our  faults :  —  or  then  we  thought  them 

none. 
Her  eye  is  sick  on't ;   I  observe  her  now. 
Hel.   What  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ? 
Count.  You  know,  Helen, 

I  am  a  mother  to  you. 

»  Since. 


Hel.   Mine  honourable  mistress. 

Count.  Nay,  a  mother  ; 

Why  not  a  mother  ?  When  I  said,  a  mother, 
Methought  you  saw  a  serpent :   What's  in  mother, 
That  you  start  at  it  ?   1  say,  I  am  your  mother  j 
And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine  :  'Tis  often  seen. 
Adoption  strives  with  nature ;  and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds : 
You  ne'er  oppress'd  me  with  a  mother's  groan. 
Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care :  — 
Gramercy,  maiden  !  does  it  curd  thy  blood. 
To  say,  I  am  thy  mother  ?  What's  the  matter. 
That  this  distemper'd  messenger  of  wet. 
The  many-colour'd  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye  ? 
Why  ? that  you  are  my  daughter  ? 

Hel.  That  I  am  not. 

Count.   I  say,  I  am  your  mother. 

Hel.  Pardon,  madam ; 

The  count  Rousillon  cannot  be  my  brother : 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honour'd  name ; 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble  : 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is ;  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die  : 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

Count.  Nor  I  your  mother? 

Hel.   You  are  my  mother,  madam  j  'Would  you 
were 
(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother,) 
Indeed,  my  mother ! — or  were  you  both  our  mothers, 
So  I  were  not  his  sister  :    Can't  no  other. 
But  I,  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother  ? 

Count.   Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter- 
in-law  ; 
I  hope  you  mean  it  not !  daughter,  and  mother 
So  strive  3  upon  your  pulse  :   What,  pale  again  ? 
My  fear  hath  catch'd  your  fondness :   Now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Yoiu"  salt  tears'  head.''     Now  to  all  sense  'tis  gross. 
You  love  my  son ;  invention  is  asham'd. 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion. 
To  say  thou  dost  not :   therefore  tell  me  true  ; 
But  tell  me  then,  'tis  so  :  — for,  look,  thy  cheeks 
Confess  it,  one  to  the  other ;  and  thine  eyes 
See  it  so  grossly  shown  in  thy  behaviours. 
That  in  their  kind  they  speak  it :   only  sin 
And  perverse  obstinacy  tie  thy  tongue. 
That  truth  should  be  suspected  :   Speak,  is't  so  ? 
If  it  l)e  so,  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clue  ; 
If  it  be  not,  forswear't :  howe'er,  I  charge  thee. 
As  heaven  shall  work  in  me  for  thine  avail, 
To  tell  me  truly. 

Hel.  Good  madam,  pardon  me  I 

Count,  Do  you  love  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Your  pardon,  noble  mistress  ! 

Count.   Love  you  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Do  not  you  love  him,  madam  ? 

Count.   Go  not  about ;  my  love  hath  in't  a  bond. 
Whereof  the  world  takes  note  :  come,  come,  disclose 
The  state  of  your  affection  ;  for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 

Hel.  Then,  I  confess. 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  heaven  and  you, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  heaven, 
I  love  your  son  :  — 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest ;  so's  my  love 
Be  not  offended  ;  for  it  hurts  not  him. 
That  he  is  lov'd  of  me :   I  follow  him  not 


s  Contend. 


<  The  lourcc,  the  utue  of  your  griet 


220 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Act  n. 


By  &iiy  token  of  presumptuous  suit ; 

Nor  would  I  have  him,  till  I  do  deserve  him  ; 

Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 

I  know  I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope ; 

Yet,  in  this  captious  and  intenible  sieve, 

I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 

And  lack  not  to  lose  still :   thus,  Indian-like, 

Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 

The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper. 

But  knows  of  him  no  more.      My  dearest  madam. 

Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 

For  loving  where  you  do  :  but,  if  yourself, 

Whose  aged  honour  cites  a  virtuous  youth, 

Did  ever,  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking, 

Wish  chastely,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 

Was  both  herself  and  love  ;   O  then,  give  pity 

To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  choose 

But  lend  and  give,  where  she  is  sure  to  lose  ; 

That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies. 

But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 

Count.   Had  you  not  lately  an  intent,  speak  truly. 
To  go  to  Paris  ? 

Hel.  Madam,  I  had. 

Count.  Wherefore  ?  tell  true. 

Hel.   I  will  tell  true ;  by  grace  itself,  I  swear. 
You  know,  my  father  left  me  some  prescriptions 
Of  rare  and  prov'd  effects,  such  as  his  reading. 
And  manifest  experience,  had  collected 
For  general  sovereignty ;  and  that  he  will'd  me 
In  heedfullest  reservation  to  bestow  them. 
As  notes,  whose  faculties  inclusive  were 
More  than  they  were  in  note  ^  :   amongst  the  rest, 
There  is  a  remedy,  approv'd,  set  down. 
To  cure  the  desperate  languishes,  whereof 
The  king  is  render'd  lost. 


Count.  This  was  your  motive 

For  Paris,  was  it  ?  speak. 

Hel.   My  lord  your   son   made   mc  to  think  of 
this ; 
Else  Paris,  and  the  medicine,  and  the  king, 
Had,  from  the  conversation  of  my  thoughts, 
Haply,  been  absent  then. 

Count.  But  think  you,  Helen 

If  you  should  tender  your  supposed  aid. 
He  would  receive  it  ?  He  and  his  physicians 
Are  of  a  mind  ;  he,  that  they  cannot  help  him  ; 
They,   that  they  cannot   help  :     How   shall    thi 

credit 
A  poor  unlearned  virgin,  when  the  schools, 
Embowell'd  of  their  doctrine  8,  have  left  off 
The  danger  to  itself? 

Hel.  There's  something  hints, 

More  than  my  father's  skill,  which  was  the  greatest 
Of  his  profession,  that  his  good  receipt 
Shall,  for  my  legacy,  be  sanctified 
By  the  luckiest  stars  in  heaven  :   and,  would  your 

honour  ' 
But  give  me  leave  to  try  success,  I'd  venture 
The  well-lost  life  of  mine  on  his  grace's  cure. 
By  such  a  day,  and  hour. 

Count.  Dost  thou  believ't  ? 

Hel.   Ay,  madam,  knowingly. 

Count.    Why,  Helen,  thou  shalt  have  my  leave, 
and  love, 
Means,  and  attendants,  and  my  loving  greetings 
To  those  of  mine  in  court ;  I'll  stay  at  home, 
And  pray  God's  blessing  into  thy  attempt : 
Be  gone  to-morrow  ;  and  be  sure  of  this. 
What  I  can  help  thee  to,  thou  shalt  not  miss. 

\_Exeunt. 


jn, 

I 


ACT  II, 


SCENE  I. — Paris.    A  Room  in  the  King's  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  King,  with  young  Lords  taking 
leave  for  the  Florentine  war;  Bertram,  Parolles, 
and  Attendants. 
King.  Farewell,  young  lord,  these  warlike  principles 

Do  not  throw  from  you  :  — and  you,  my  lord,  fare- 
well :  — 

Share  the  advice  betwixt  you  ;  if  both  gain  all. 

The  gift  doth  stretch  itself  as  'tis  receiv'd, 

And  is  enough  for  both. 

1  Lord.  It  is  our  hope,  sir. 
After  well-enter'd  soldiers,  to  return 

And  find  your  grace  in  health. 

King.   No,  no,  it  cannot  be  ;  and  yet  my  heart 
Will  not  confess  he  owes  the  malady 
That  doth  my  life  besiege.      F'arewell,  young  lords  ; 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  be  you  the  sons 
Of  worthy  Frenchmen  :   let  higher  Italy 
(Those  'bated,  that  inherit  but  the  fall 
Of  the  last  monarchy  6)  see,  that  you  come 
Not  to  woo  honour,  but  to  wed  it ;  when 
The  bravest  questant  7  shrinks,  find  what  you  seek, 
That  fame  may  cry  you  loud  :    I  say,  farewell. 

2  Lord.    Health,  at   your   bidding,    serve   your 

majesty  ! 
King.   Those  girls  of  Italy,  take  heed  of  them  ; 


^  A])pearance. 

7  Seeker,  enquirer. 


6  /.  e.  The  Roman  empire. 


They  say,  our  French  lack  language  to  deny, 
If  they  demand  :  beware  of  being  captives. 
Before  you  serve.  9 

Both.  Our  hearts  receive  your  warnings. 

King.   Farewell.  —  Come  hither  to  me. 

The  King  retires  to  a  couch. 

1  Lord.   O  my  sweet  lord  that  you  will  stay  be- 

hind us  ! 
Par.   'Tis  not  his  fault ;  the  spark  — — 

2  Lord.  O,  'tis.brave  wars. 
Par.   Most  admirable  :    I  have  seen  those  wars. 
JBer.   I  am  commanded  here,  and  kept  a  coil  • 

with  — 
Too  young,  and  the  next  year,  and  *tis  too  early. 
Par.   An  thy  mind  stand  to  it,  boy,  steal  away 

bravely. 
Ber.   I  shall  stay  here 
Creaking  my  shoes  on  the  plain  masonry. 
Till  honour  be  bought  up,  and  no  sword  worn. 
But  one  to  dance  with  !   By  heaven,  I'll  steal  away. 

1  Lord.   There's  honour  in  the  theft. 

Par.  *  Commit  it,  count. 

2  Lord.    I  am  your  accessary ;  and  so  farewell. 
Ber.   I  grow  to  you,  and  our  parting  is  a  tortured 

body. 

1  Lord.    Farewell,  captain. 

8  Exhausted  of  their  skill 

9  Be  not  captives  before  you  are  soldiers. 
•  In  a  bustle. 


Scene  I. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


221 


2  L(yrd.   Sweet  monsieur  ParoUes  ! 

Par.  Noble  heroes,  my  sword  and  yours  are  kin. 
Good  sparks  and  lustrous,  a  word,  good  metals  :  — 
You  shall  find  in  the  regiment  of  the  Spinii,  one 
captain  Spurio,  with  his  cicatrice,  an  emblem  of  war, 
here  on  his  sinister  cheek ;  it  was  this  very  sword 
entrenched  it :  say  to  him,  I  live  ;  and  observe  his 
reports  for  me. 

2  Lord.   We  shall,  noble  captain. 

Par.  Mars  dote  on  you  for  his  novices  !  [^Exeunt 
Lords.]     What  will  you  do ? 

Ber.   Stay  :   the  king [Seeing  hiin  rise. 

Par.  Use  a  more  spacious  ceremony  to  the  noble 
lords ;  you  have  restrained  yourself  within  the  list 
of  too  cold  an  adieu  ;  be  more  expressive  to  them  ; 
for  they  wear  themselves  in  the  cap  of  the  time  % 
there,  do  muster  true  gait '',  eat,  speak,  and  move 
under  the  influence  of  the  most  received  star ;  and 
though  the  devil  lead  the  measure  •♦,  such  are  to  be 
followed :  after  them,  and  take  a  more  dilated  fare- 
well. 

Ber.   And  I  will  do  so. 

Par.  Worthy  fellows;  and  like  to  prove  most 
sinewy  sword-men. 

\_Exeunt  Bertram  and  Parolles. 

Enter  Lafeu. 

Lnf.   Pardon,  my  lord,  \_Kneeling.']   for  me  and 
for  my  tidings. 

King.   rU  fee  thee  to  stand  up. 

I^af.  Then  here's  a  man 

Stands,  that  has  brought  his  pardon.      I  would,  you 
Had  kneel'd,  my  lord,  to  ask  me  mercy ;  and 
That,  at  my  bidding,  you  could  so  stand  up. 

King.   I  would  I  had ;  so  I  had  broke  thy  pate, 
And  ask'd  thee  mercy  for't. 

Lnf.  Goodfaith,  across  ^  : 

But,  my  good  lord,  'tis  thus ;   Will  you  be  cur'd 
Of  your  infirmity  ? 

King.  No. 

Ldf.  O,  will  you  eat 

No  grapes,  my  royal  fox  ?  yes,  but  you  will. 
My  noble  grapes,  an  if  my  royal  fox 
Could  reach  them  :    I  have  seen  a  medicine  ^, 
That's  able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone  ; 
Quicken  a  rock,  and  make  you  dance  canary?, 
With  spritely  fire  and  motion ;  whose  simple  touch 
Is  powerful  to  araise  king  Pepin,  nay, 
To  give  great  Charlemain  a  pen  in  his  hand. 
And  write  to  her  a  love-ljne. 

King.  What  her  is  this  ? 

Lcf.  Why,  doctor  she  ;   My  lord,  there's  one  ar- 
riv'd, 
I  f  you  will  see  her,  —  now,  by  my  faith  and  honour. 
If  seriously  I  may  convey  my  thoughts 
In  this  my  light  deliverance,  I  have  spoke 
With  one,  that,  in  her  sex,  her  years,  profession, 
Wistlom,  and  constancy,  hath  amaz'd  me  more 
Than  I  dare  blame  my  weakness :  Will  you  see  her, 
(  For  that  is  her  demand,)  and  know  her  business  ? 
That  done,  laugh  well  at  me. 

A'lrj^.  Now,  good  Lafeu, 

Bring  in  tlie  admiration  ;  that  we  with  thee 
May  spend  our  wonder  too,  or  take  off  thine, 
By  wond'ring  how  thou  took'st  it, 

'  They  arc  the  foreinoet  in  the  fashion. 
^  Have  the  true  miliUry  step.  •♦  The  dance. 

^  Un.skiirully  ;  a  phrase  taken  fronrj  the  exercise  at  a  quin- 
tain. 
«  A  female  physiciaa  '  A  kind  of  dance. 


Laf.  •  Nay  I'll  fit  you, 

And  not  be  all  day  neither.  [Exit  Lafeu. 

King.   Thus  he  his  special  nothing  ever  prologues. 

Re-enter  Lafeu  with  Helena. 

Laf.   Nay,  come  your  ways. 

King.  This  haste  hath  wings  indeed. 

Laf.   Nay,  come  your  ways ; 
This  is  his  majesty,  say  your  mind  to  him  : 
A  traitor  you  do  look  like ;  but  such  traitors 
His  majesty  seldom  fears  :    I  am  Cressid's  uncle  ", 
That  dare  leave  two  together ;  fare  you  well.    ( Exil» 

King.    Now,  fair  one,  does  your  business  follow 
us? 

Hel.    Ay,  my  good  lord.     Gerard  de  Narbon  was 
My  father;  in  what  he  did  profess,  well  found. 9 

King.    1  knew  him. 

Hel.   The  rather  will  I  spare  my  praises  towards 
him  ; 
Knowing  him,  is  enough.      On  his  bed  of  death 
Many  receipts  he  gave  me ;  chiefly  one. 
Which,  as  the  dearest  issue  of  his  practice. 
And  of  his  old  experience  the  only  darling, 
He  bade  me  store  up,  as  a  triple  eye ', 
Safer  than  mine  own  two,  more  dear;   I  have  so: 
And,  hearing  your  high  majesty  is  touch 'd 
With  that  malignant  cause  wherein  the  honour 
Of  my  dear  father's  gift  stands  chief  in  power^ 
I  come  to  tender  it,  and  my  appliance. 
With  all  bound  humbleness. 

King.  We  thank  you,  maiden  ; 

But  may  not  be  so  credulous  of  cure,  — 
When  our  most  learned  doctors  leave  us  ;  and 
The  congregated  college  have  concluded 
That  labouring  art  can  never  ransom  nature 
From  her  inaidable  estate,  —  I  say  we  must  not 
So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope, 
To  prostitute  our  past-cure  malady 
To  ^mpiricks  ;  or  to  dissever  so 
Our  great  self  and  our  credit,  to  esteem 
A  senseless  help,  when  help  past  sense  we  deem. 

Hel.   My  duty  then  shall  pay  me  for  my  pains: 
I  will  no  more  enforce  mine  ofKce  on  you  ; 
Humbly  entreating  from  your  royal  thoughts 
A  modest  one,  to  bear  me  back  again. 

King.  I  cannot  give  thee  less,  to  be  call'd  grateful: 
Thou  thought'st  to  help  me ;  and  such  thanks  I 

give. 
As  one  near  death  to  those  that  wish  him  live: 
But  what  at  full  I  know,  thou  know'st  no  part ; 
I  knowing  all  my  peril,  thou  no  art. 

Hel.   What  I  can  do,  can  do  no  hurt  to  trj', 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest  'gainst  remedy ; 
He  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher. 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister  : 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  sliown. 
When  judges  have  been  babes.      Great  floods  have 

flown 
From  simple  sources  ;  and  great  seas  have  dried. 
When  miracles  have  by  the  greatest  been  denied. 
Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  ofl  there 
Where  most  it  promises  ;  and  od  it  hits. 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  sits. 

King.    I  must  not  hear  tliee  ;  fare  thee  well,  kind 
maid  ; 
Thy  pains  not  us'd,  must  by  thyself  be  paid : 
Proffers,  not  took,  reap  thanks  for  their  reward. 

Hei.   Inspired  merit  so  by  breath  is  barr'd  : 

"  I  am  like  Pandania.  ^  Well  informed. 

>  A  third  eye. 


222 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Act  IL 


It  is  not  so  with  him  that  all  things  knows, 

As  'tis  with  us  that  square  our  guess  by  shows  : 

But  most  it  is  presumption  in  us,  when 

The  help  of  heaven  we  count  the  act  of  men. 

Dear  sir,  to  my  endeavours  give  consent ; 

Of  heaven,  not  me,  make  an  experiment. 

I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim 

Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim ; 

But  know  I  think,  and  think  I  know  most  sure, 

My  art  is  not  past  power,  nor  you  past  cure. 

King.    Art  thou  so   confident  ?    Within    what 
space 
Hop'st  thou  my  cure  ? 

Hel.  The  greatest  grace  lending  grace. 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fiery  torcher  his  diurnal  ring ; 
Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Hesperus  hath  quench'd  his  sleepy  lamp ; 
Or  four  and  twenty  times  the  pilot's  glass 
Hath  told  the  thievish  minutes  how  they  pass ; 
What  is  infirm  from  the  sound  part  shall  fly, 
Health  shall  live  free,  and  sickness  freely  die. 

Mng.    Upon  thy  certainty  and  confidence, 
What  dar'st  thou  venture  ? 

Hel.  Tax  of  impudence,  — 

And  of  rash  boldness,  a  divulged  shame,  — 
Traduc'd  by  odious  ballads  ;  my  maiden's  name 
Sear'd  otherwise  ;  no  worse  of  worst  extended. 
With  vilest  torture  let  my  life  be  ended. 

Alng.   Methinks,  in  thee  some  blessed  spirit  doth 
speak ; 
His  powerful  sound,  within  an  organ  weak  : 
And  what  impossibility  would  slay 
In  common  sense,  sense  saves  another  way. 
Thy  life  is  dear ;  for  all,  that  life  can  rate 
Worth  name  of  life,  in  thee  hath  estimate ; 
Youth,  beauty,  wisdom,  courage,  virtue,  all 
That  happiness  and  prime  can  happy  call : 
Thou  this  to  hazard,  needs  must  intimate 
Skill  infinite,  or  monstrous  desperate. 
Sweet  practiser,  thy  physick  I  will  try  ; 
That  ministers  thine  own  death,  if  I  die. 

Hel.    If  I  break  time,  or  flinch  in  property 
Of  what  I  spoke,  unpitied  let  me  die ; 
And  well  deserv'd  :    Not  helping,  death's  my  fee  ; 
But,  if  I  help,  what  do  you  promise  me  ? 

King.   Make  thy  demand. 

Hel.  But  will  you  make  it  even  ? 

Xing.  Ay,  by  my  sceptre  and  my  hopes  of  heaven. 

Hel.    Then  shalt  thou  give  me,  with  thy  kingly 
hand. 
What  husband  in  thy  power  I  will  command  : 
Exempted  be  from  me  the  arrogance 
To  choose  from  forth  the  royal  blood  of  France  ; 
My  low  and  humble  name  to  propagate 
With  any  branch  or  image  of  thy  state : 
But  such  a  one,  thy  vassal,  whom  I  know 
Is  free  for  me  to  ask,  thee  to  bestow. 

Jung.   Here  is  my  hand ;  the  premises  observ'd, 
Thy  will  by  my  performance  shall  be  serv'd ; 
So  make  the  choice  of  thine  own  time ;  for  I, 
Thy  resolv'd  patient,  on  thee  still  rely. 
More  should  I  question  thee,  and  more  I  must ; 
Though,  more  to  know,  could  not  be  more  to  trust ; 
From  whence  thou  cam'st,  how  'tended  on,  —  But 

rest 
Unquestion'd  welcome,  and  undoubted  blest.  — 
Give  me  some  help  here,  ho  !  —  If  thou  proceed 
As  high  as  word,  my  deed  shall  match  thy  deed. 

[Flourish.      Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  —  Rousillon.     ^  Room   in  the 
Countess's  Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  Come  on,  sir ;  I  shall  now  put  you  to  the 
height  of  your  breeding. 

Clo.  I  will  show  myself  highly  fed,  and  lowly 
taught :    I  know  my  business  is  but  to  the  court. 

Count.  To  the  court !  why,  what  place  make  you 
special,  when  you  put  off  that  with  such  contempt  ? 
But  to  the  court. 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  if  nature  have  lent  a  man  any 
manners,  he  may  easily  put  it  off  at  court ;  he  that 
cannot  make  a  leg,  put  off 's  cap,  kiss  his  hand,  and 
say  nothing,  has  neither  leg,  hands,  lip,  nor  cap  ; 
and,  indeed,  such  a  fellow,  to  say  precisely,  were  not 
for  the  court :  but,  for  me,  I  have  an  answer  will 
serve  all  men. 

Count.  Will  your  answer  serve  fit  to  all  questions  ? 

Clo.  As  fit  as  ten  groats  for  the  hand  of  an  attor- 
ney, as  a  pancake  for  Shrove- Tuesday,  or  a  morris 
for  May-day. 

Count.  Have  you,  I  say,  an  answer  of  such  fitness 
for  all  questions  ? 

Clo.  From  below  your  duke,  to  beneath  your 
constable,  it  will  fit  any  question. 

Count.  It  must  be  an  answer  of  most  monstrous 
size,  that  must  fit  all  demands. 

Clo.  But  a  trifle  neither,  in  good  faith,  if  the 
learned  should  speak  truth  of  it :  here  it  is,  and  all 
that  belongs  to't :  Ask  me,  if  I  am  a  courtier  ;  it 
shall  do  you  no  harm  to  learn. 

Count.  An  end,  sir,  to  your  business :  Give  Helen 
this. 
And  urge  her  to  a  present  answer  back  : 
Commend  me  to  my  kinsmen,  and  my  son  ; 
This  is  not  much. 

Clo.   Not  much  commendation  to  them. 

Count.  Not  much  employment  for  you :  You 
understand  me  ? 

Clo.   Most  fruitfully  ;   I  am  there  before  my  legs. 

Count.   Haste  you  again.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  III.  —  Paris.     A  Room  in  the  King's 
Palace. 

Enter  Bertram,  Lafeu,  and  Parolles. 

Lqf  They  say,  miracles  are  past ;  and  we  have 
our  philosophical  persons,  to  make  modern-  and 
familiar  things,  supernatural  and  causeless.  Hence 
is  it,  that  we  make  trifles  of  terrors;  ensconcing 
ourselves  into  seeming  knowledge,  when  we  should 
submit  ourselyes  to  an  unknown  fear. 

Par.  Why,  'tis  the  rarest  argument  of  wonder, 
that  hath  shot  out  in  our  latter  times. 

JSer.    And  so  'tis. 

Laf.   To  be  relinquished  of  the  artists, 

Par.   So  I  say  ;  both  of  Galen  and  Paracelsus. 

Laf.   Of  all  the  learned  and  authentic  fellows,  • 

Par.    Right,  so  I  say. 

Laf.   That  gave  him  out  incurable,  — 

Par.   Why,  there  'tis  ;  so  say  I  too. 

Laf.   Not  to  be  helped,  — 

Par.    Right :   as  'twere,  a  man  assured  of  an  — 

Laf.   Uncertain  life,  and  sure  death. 

Par.  Just,  you  say  well ;  so  would  I  have  said. 

L,af.  I  may  truly  say,  it  is  a  novelty  to  the  world. 

Par.  It  is,  indeed  :  if  you  will  have  it  in  showing, 

you  shall  read  it  in What  do  you  call  there  ?  — 

'  Ordinary 


Scene  III. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


223 


Laf.  A  showing  of  a  heavenly  effect  in  an  earthly 
actor. 

Par.    That's  it  I  would  have  said  ;  the  very  same. 

Lnf.  Why,  your  dolphin  3  is  not  lustier  ;  'fore  me 
I  speak  in  respect 

Par.  Nay,  'tis  strange,  'tis  very  strange,  that  is 
the  brief  and  the  tedious  of  it ;  and  he  is  of  a  most 
facinorous  •»  spirit,  that  will  not  acknowledge  it  to 
be  the 

Laf.   Very  hand  of  heaven. 

Par.   Ay,  so  I  say. 

Laf.   In  a  most  weak  — — 

Par.  And  debile  minister,  great  power,  great 
transcendence  :  which  should,  indeed,  give  us  a 
further  use  to  be  made,  than  alone  the  recovery  of 
the  king,  as  to  be 

La/.    Generally  thankful. 

Enter  King,  Heleva,  and  Attendants. 

Par.  I  would  have  said  it ;  you  say  well.  Here 
comes  the  king. 

Laf.  Lustick  5,  as  the  Dutchman  says :  I'll  like 
a  maid  the  better,  whilst  I  have  a  tooth  in  my  head  : 
Why,  he's  able  to  lead  her  a  coranto. 

Par.   Is  not  this  Helen  ? 

Laf.  I  think  so  ? 

I^irig.  Go,  call  before  me  all  the  lords  in  court.  — 
[Exit  an  Attendant. 
Sit,  my  preserver,  by  thy  patient's  side ; 
And  with  this  healthful  hand,  whose  banish'd  sense 
Thou  hast  repeal'd,  a  second  time  receive 
The  confirmation  of  my  promis'd  gift. 
Which  but  attends  thy  naming. 

Enter  several  Lords. 
Fair  maid,  send  forth  thine  eye  :  this  youthful  parcel 
Of  noble  bachelors  stand  at  my  bestowing. 
O'er  whom  both  sovereign  power  and  father's  voice 
I  have  to  use  :   thy  frank  election  make  ; 
Thou  hast  power  to  choose,  and  they  none  to  forsake. 

Hel.  To  each  of  you  one  fair  and  virtuous  mistress 
Fall,  when  love  please  !  —  marry,  to  each,  but  one  ! 

Laf.    I'd  give  bay  Curtal  6,  and  his  furniture. 
My  mouth  no  more  were  broken  than  these  boys'. 
And  writ  as  little  beard. 

J^ifig-  Peruse  them  well  : 

Not  one  of  those  but  had  a  noble  father. 

Hel.   Gentlemen, 
Heaven  hath  through  me  restor'd  the  king  to  health. 

All.  We  understand  it,  and  thank  heaven  for  you. 

Hel.  I  am  a  simple  maid  ;  and  therein  wealthiest, 

Tliat,  I  protest,  I  simply  am  a  maid  : 

Please  it  your  majesty,  I  have  done  already  : 
The  blushes  in  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 
WV  blush,  that  thou  shonldst  choose  ;  but  be  refused. 
Let  the  white  death  sit  on  thy  cheek  for  ever  ; 
We'll  ne'er  come  there  again. 

Kinfi.  Make  choice ;  and,  see. 

Who  shuns  thy  love,  shuns  all  his  love  in  me. 

Hel.   Now,  Dian,  from  thy  altar  do  I  fly  ; 
And  to  imperial  Love,  that  god  most  high. 
Do  my  sighs  stream Sir,  will  you  hear  my  suit  ? 

1  Lord.    And  grant  it. 

Hel.  Thanks,  sir  ;  all  the  rest  is  mute. 

Laf.  I  had  rather  be  in  this  choice,  than  throw 
ames-ace  7  for  my  life. 

\  ThP  Pauphin.  *  Wicked. 

»  Lustigh  IS  the  Dutch  word  for  lusty,  cheerful. 
A  docked  hone.  ^  The  lowe«t  chance  of  the  dice. 


Hel.  The  honour,  sir,  that  flames  in  your  fair  eyes, 
Before  I  speak,  too  threateningly  repUes  : 
Love  make  your  fortunes  twenty  times  above 
Her  that  so  wishes,  and  her  humble  love. 

2  Lord.   No  better,  if  you  please. 

Hel.  My  wish  receive. 

Which  great  love  grant !  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Lnf,  Do  all  they  deny  her  ?  An  they  were  sons 
of  mine,  I'd  have  them  whipped. 

Hel.  Be  not  afraid  [To  a  Lord.]  that  I  your  hand 
should  take ; 
I'll  never  do  you  wrong  for  your  own  sake : 
Blessing  upon  your  vows  !  and  in  your  bed, 
Find  fairer  fortune,  if  you  ever  wed  ! 

Lnf.  These  boys  are  boys  of  ice,  tliey'll  none 
have  her. 

Hel.   You  are  too  young,  too  happy,  and  too  good. 

4  Lord.    Fair  one,  I  think  not  so. 

Laf.  There's  one  grape  yet,  —  I  am  sure,  thy 
father  drank  wine.  —  But  if  thou  be'st  not  an  ass,  I 
am  a  youth  of  fourteen  ;   I  have  known  thee  already. 

Hel.  I  dare  not  say,  I  take  you ;  [To  Bertram.] 
but  I  give 
Me,  and  my  service,  ever  whilst  I  live. 
Into  your  guiding  power.  —  This  is  the  man. 

King.   Why  then,  young  Bertram,  take  her,  she's 
thy  wife. 

Ber.  My  wife,  my  liege?  I  shall  beseech  your 
highness. 
In  such  a  business  give  me  leave  to  use 
The  help  of  mine  own  eyes. 

King.  Know'st  thou  not,  Bertram, 

What  she  has  done  for  me  ? 

Ber.  Yes,  my  good  lord  ; 

But  never  hope  to  know  why  I  should  marry  her. 

King.   Thou  know'st,  she  has  rais'd  me  from  my 
sickly  bed. 

Ber.   But  follows  it,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  down 
Must  answer  for  your  raising  ?  I  know  her  well  ; 
She  had  her  breeding  at  my  father's  charge  : 
A  poor  physician's  daughter  my  wife  !  —  Disdain 
Rather  corrupt  me  ever  ! 

King.  'Tisonly  title  8  thou  disdain'stin  her,  the  which 
I  can  build  up.      Strange  is  it  that  our  bloods. 
Of  colour,  weight,  and  heat,  pour'd  all  together, 
Would  quite  confound  distinction,  yet  stand  off 
In  differences  so  mighty  :    If  she  be 
All  tliat  is  virtuous,  (save  what  thou  dislik'st, 
A  poor  physician's  daughter,)  thou  dislik'st 
Of  virtue  for  the  name :  but  do  not  so : 
From  lowest  place  wlien  virtuous  things  proceed, 
The  place  is  dignified  by  the  doer's  deed : 
Where  great  additions  9  swell,  and  virtue  none. 
It  is  a  dropsied  honour  :  good  alone 
Is  good,  without  a  name  ;  vileness  is  so  : 
The  property  by  what  it  is  should  go. 
Not  by  tiie  title.      She  is  young,  wise,  fair ; 
In  tliese  to  nature  she's  immediate  heir  ; 
And  these  breed  honour :   that  is  honour's  scorn, 
Which  challenges  itself  as  honour's  bom. 
And  is  not  like  the  sire :    Honours  best  thrive. 
When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive 
Than  our  fore-goers  :   the  mere  word's  a  slave. 
Debauch 'd  on  every  tomb ;  on  every  grave, 
A  lying  trophy,  and  as  oft  is  dumb. 
Where  dust,  and  deep  oblivion,  is  the  tomb 
Of  honour'd  bones  indeed.      What  should  be  said  ? 
If  thou  canst  like  this  creature  as  a  maid. 


i.  e.  The  want  of  tiUe. 


»  Titles 


22* 


ALLS  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Act  IL 


I  can  create  the  rest :  virtue,  and  she. 

Is  her  own  dower ;  honour  and  wealth  from  me. 

Ber.    I  cannot  love  her,  nor  will  strive  to  do't. 

King.  Thou   wrong'st  thyself,   if  thou   shouldst 
strive  to  choose. 

Hel.    That  you  are  well  restor'd,  my  lord,  I'm 
glad; 
Let  the  rest  go. 

King.   My  honour's  at  the  stake;  which  to  defeat, 
I  must  produce  my  power  :   Here,  take  her  hand. 
Proud  scornful  boy,  unworthy  this  good  gift ; 
That  dost  in  vile  misprision  shackle  up 
My  love  and  her  desert ;  that  canst  not  dream. 
We,  poising  us  in  her  defective  scale. 
Shall  weigh  thee  to  the  beam  :   that  wilt  not  know. 
It  is  in  us  to  plant  thine  honour,  where 
We  please  to  have  it  grow  :    Check  thy  contempt : 
Obey  our  will,  which  travails  in  thy  good  : 
Believe  not  thy  disdain,  but  presently 
Do  thine  own  fortunes  that  obedient  right 
Which  both  thy  duty  owes,  and  our  power  claims ; 
Or  I  will  throw  thee  from  my  care  for  ever. 
Into  the  staggers,  and  the  careless  lapse 
Of  youth  and  ignorance  ;  both  my  revenge  and  hate, 
Loosing  upon  thee  in  the  name  of  justice, 
Without  all  terms  of  pity  :    Speak  ;  thine  answer. 

Ber.    Pardon,  my  gracious  lord ;   for  I  submit 
My  fancy  to  your  eyes  ;    When  I  consider. 
What  great  creation,  and  what  dole  of  honour. 
Flies  where  you  bid  it,  I  find,  that  she,  which  late 
Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  is  now 
The  praised  of  the  king  ;  who,  so  ennobled, 
Is,  as  'twere,  born  so. 

King.  Take  her  by  the  hand. 

And  tell  her,  she  is  thine :   to  whom  I  promise 
A  counterpoise  ;  if  not  to  thy  estate, 
A  balance  more  replete. 

Ber.  I  take  her  hand. 

King.    Good  fortune,  and  the  favour  of  the  king. 
Smile  upon  this  contract ;  whose  ceremony 
Shall  seem  expedient  on  the  now-born  brief, 
And  be  perform'd  to-night :   the  solemn  feast 
Shall  more  attend  upon  the  coming  space. 
Expecting  absent  friends.      As  thou  lov'st  her, 
Thy  love's  to  me  religious  ;  else,  does  err, 

\_Exeunt  King,  Bertram,  Helena,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

Lnf.   Do  you  hear,  monsieur  ?  a  word  with  you. 

Par.   Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Laf.  Your  lord  and  master  did  well  to  make  his 
recantation. 

Par.    Recantation?  —  my  lord  ?  —  my  master  ? 

Laf.   Ay  ;   Is  it  not  a  language,  I  speak  ? 

Par.  A  most  harsh  one  ;  and  not  to  be  understood 
without  bloody  succeeding.      My  master? 

Laf.   Are  you  companion  to  the  count  Rousillon  ? 

Par.  To  any  count ;  to  all  counts ;  to  what  is  man. 

Laf.  To  what  is  count's  man  ;  count's  master  is 
of  another  style. 

Par.  You  are  too  old,  sir ;  let  it  satisfy  you,  you 
are  too  old. 

Laf.  I  must  tell  thee,  sirrah,  I  write  man ;  to 
which  title  age  cannot  bring  thee. 

Par.  What  I  dare  too  well  do,  I  dare  not  do. 

Laf.  I  did  think  thee,  for  two  ordinaries  ',  to  be 
a  pretty  wise  fellow ;  thou  didst  make  tolerable  vent 
of  thy  travel :  it  might  pass  :  yet  the  scarfs,  and  the 
bannerets,  about  thee,  did  manifoldly  dissuade  me 

'  I.  e.  While  T  sat  twice  with  thee  at  dinnsr. 


from  believing  thee  a  vessel  of  too  great  a  burden. 
I  have  now  found  thee ;  when  I  lose  thee  again,  I 
care  not :  yet  art  thou  good  for  nothing  but  taking 
up  ;  and  that  thou  art  scarce  worth. 

Par.  Hadst  thou  not  the  privilege  of  antiquity 
upon  thee, 

Laf  Do  not  plunge  thyself  too  far  in  anger,  lest 
thou  hasten  thy  trial ;  which  if — mercy  on  thee  for 
a  hen  !  So  my  good  window  of  lattice,  fare  thee 
well :  thy  casement  I  need  not  open,  for  I  look 
through  thee.      Give  me  thy  hand. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  give  me  most  egregious  in- 
dignity. 

Laf  Ay,  with  all  my  heart ;  and  thou  art  worthy 
of  it. 

Par.    I  have  not,  my  lord,  deserved  it. 

Ljof.  Yes,  good  faith,  every  dram  of  it;  and  I 
will  not  bate  thee  a  scruple. 

Par.   Well,  I  shall  be  wiser. 

Laf.  E'en  as  soon  as  thou  canst,  for  thou  hast  to 
pull  at  a  smack  o'  the  contrary.  If  ever  thou  be'st 
bound  in  thy  scarf,  and  beaten,  thou  shalt  find  what 
it  is  to  be  proud  of  thy  bondage.  I  have  a  desire  to 
hold  my  acquaintance  with  thee,  or  rather  my 
knowledge  ;  that  I  may  say,  in  the  default ",  he  is  a 
man  I  know. 

Par,  My  lord,  you  do  me  most  insupportable 
vexation. 

Laf.  For  doing  I  am  past ;  as  I  will  by  thee,  in 
what  motion  age  will  give  me  leave.  \^Exit. 

Par.  Well,  thou  hast  a  son  shall  take  this  dis- 
grace off  me  ;  scurvy,  old  lord  !  —  Well,  I  must  be 
patient ;  there  is  no  fettering  of  authority.  I'll 
beat  him,  by  my  life,  if  I  can  meet  him  with  any 
convenience,  and  he  were  double  and  double  a  lord. 
I'll  have  no  more  pity  of  his  age,  than  I  would, 
have  of —  I'll  beat  him,  an  if  I  could  but  meet 
him  again. 

Re-enter  La  feu. 

Laf.  Sirrah,  your  lord  and  master's  married, 
there's  news  for  you  ;  you  have  a  new  mistress. 

Par.  I  most  unfeignedly  beseech  your  lordship 
to  make  some  reservation  of  your  wrongs :  He  is 
my  good  lord :   whom  I  serve  above,  is  my  master. 

Lnf.  Who?  God? 

Par.    Ay,  sir. 

Laf  The  devil  it  is,  that's  thy  master.  Why  dost 
thou  garter  up  thy  arms  o'  this  fashion  ?  dost  make 
hose  of  thy  sleeves  ?  do  other  servants  so  ?  By  mine 
honour,  if  I  were  but  two  hours  younger,  I'd  beat 
thee ;  methinks,  thou  art  a  general  offence,  and 
every  man  should  beat  thee.  I  think,  thou  wast 
created  for  men  to  breathe  ^  themselves  upon  thee. 

Par.  This  is  hard  and  undeserved  measure,  my 
lord. 

Laf.  Go  to,  sir;  you  were  beaten  in  Italy  for 
picking  a  kernel  out  of  a  pomegranate ;  you  are  a 
vagabond,  and  no  true  traveller :  you  are  more 
saucy  with  lords,  and  honourable  personages,  than 
the  heraldry  of  your  birth  and  virtue  gives  you  com- 
mission. You  aie  not  worth  another  word,  else  I'd 
call  you  knave.      I  leave  you.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Bertram. 

Par.  Good,  very  good ;  it  is  so  then.  —  Good, 
very  good  ;  let  it  be  concealed  a  while. 

Ber.    Undone,  and  forfeited  to  cares  for  ever ! 
Par.   What  is  the  matter,  sweet-heart  ? 


2  At  a  need. 


3  Exercise. 


Scene  IV. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


225 


Ber.    Although  before  the  solemn  priest  I  have 
sworn. 

Par.   What?  what,  sweet-heart? 

Ber.  O  my  Parolles,  they  have  married  me :  — 
I'll  to  the  Tuscan  wars,  and  never  bed  her. 

Par.  France  is  a  dog-hole,  and  yet  no  more  merits 
The  tread  of  a  man's  foot :   to  the  wars  ! 

Ber.   There's  letters  from  my  mother ;  what  the 
import  is, 
I  know  not  yet. 

Par.   Ay,  that  would  be  known  :    To  tlie  wars, 
my  boy,  to  the  wars  ! 
He  wears  his  honour  in  a  box  unseen, 
That  hugs  his  kicksy-wicksy*,  here  at  home; 
Which  should  sustain  the  bond  and  high  curvet 
Of  Mars's  fiery  steed :    To  other  regions  ; 
France  is  a  stable ;  we  that  dwell  in't  jades ; 
Therefore  to  the  war  ! 

Ber.   It  shall  be  so  ;   I'll  send  her  to  my  house, 
Acquaint  my  mother  with  my  hate  to  her. 
And  wherefore  I  am  fled ;  write  to  the  king 
That  which  I  durst  not  speak  :    His  present  gift 
Shall  furnish  me  to  those  Italian  fields. 
Where  noble  fellows  strike  :    War  is  no  strife 
To  the  dark  house  ^,  and  the  detested  wife. 

Par.  Will  this  capricio  hold  in  thee,  art  sure  ? 

Ber.   Go  with  me  to  my  chamber,  and  advise  me. 
I'll  send  her  straight  a^vay  :    To-morrow 
I'll  to  the  wars,  she  to  her  single  sorrow. 

Par.  Why,  these  balls  bound ;  there's  noise  in  it. 
—  'Tis  hard ; 
A  young  man,  married,  is  a  man  that's  marr'd  : 
Therefore  away,  and  leave  her  bravely  ;  go  : 
The  king  has  done  you  wrong  ;  but,  hush  !   'tis  so. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Anotlier  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Helena  and  Clown. 

Hel.  My  mother  greets  me  kindly  :   Is  she  well  ? 

Clo.  She  is  not  well ;  but  yet  she  has  her  health : 
she's  very  merry ;  but  yet  she  is  not  well :  but  thanks 
be  given,  she's  very  well,  and  wants  nothing  i'the 
world ;  but  yet  she  is  not  well  ? 

Hel.  If  she  be  very  well,  what  does  she  ail,  that 
she's  not  very  well  ? 

Clo.   Truly,  she's  very  well,  indeed. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.   Bless  you,  my  fortunate  lady  ! 

Hel.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  your  good  will  to  have 
mine  own  good  fortunes. 

Par.  You  had  my  prayers  to  lead  them  on  :  and 
to  keep  them  on,  have  them  still.  —  O,  my  knave ! 
How  does  my  old  lady  ? 

Clo.  So  that  you  had  her  wrinkles,  and  I  her 
money,  I  would  she  did  as  you  say. 

Par.   Why,  I  say  nothing. 

Clo.  Marry,  you  are  the  wiser  man ;  for  many  a 
man's  tongue  shakes  out  his  master's  undoing :  To 
say  nothing,  to  do  nothing,  to  know  nothing,  and  to 
have  nothing,  is  to  be  a  great  part  of  your  title ; 
which  is  within  a  very  little  of  nothing. 

Par.  Away,  thou'rt  a  knave. 

Clo.  You  should  have  said,  sir,  before  a  knave 
thou  art  a  knave :  that  is,  before  me  thou  art  a 
knave  :   this  had  been  trutli,  sir. 

*  A  cant  term  for  a  wife. 

*  The  house  made  gloomy  by  discontent. 


Par.  Go  to,  thou  art  a  witty  fool,  I  have  found 
thee. 

Clo.  Did  you  find  me  in  yourself,  sir?  or  were 
you  taught  to  find  me  ?  Tlie  search,  sir,  was  pro- 
fitable ;  and  much  fool  may  you  find  in  you,  even 
to  the  world's  pleasure,  and  the  increase  of  laughter. 

Par.    A  good  knave,  i'faith,  and  well  fed.  — 
Madam,  my  lord  will  go  away  to-night ; 
A  very  serious  business  calls  on  him. 
The  great  prerogative  and  rite  of  love, 
Wliich,  as  your  due,  time  claims,  he  does  acknow- 
ledge ; 
But  puts  it  off  by  a  compell'd  restraint ; 
Whose  want,  and  whose  delay,  is  strewed  with  sweets, 
Which  they  distil  now  in  the  curbed  time. 
To  make  the  coming  hour  o'erflow  with  joy. 
And  pleasure  drown  the  brim. 

Hel.  What's  his  will  else  ? 

Par.   Tliat  you  will  take  your  instant  leave  o'the 
king, 
And  make  this  haste  as  your  own  good  proceeding, 
Strengthen'd  with  what  apology  you  think 
May  make  it  probable  need.*' 

Hel.  What  more  commands  he  ? 

Par.   That,  having  this  obtain'd,  you  presently 
Attend  his  further  pleasure. 

Hel.   In  every  thing  I  wait  upon  his  will. 

Par.   I  shall  report  it  so. 

Hel,  I  pray  you.  —  Come,  sirrah. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Lafeu  and  Bertram. 

Laf.  But  I  hope,  your  lordship  thinks  not  him  a 
soldier. 

Ber.   Yes,  my  lord,  and  of  very  valiant  approof. 

Laf.   You  have  it  from  his  own  deliverance. 

Ber.    And  by  other  warranted  testimony. 

Laf.  Then  my  dial  goes  not  true ;  I  took  this  lark 
for  a  bunting.' 

Ber.  I  do  assure  you,  my  lord,  he  is  very  great  in 
knowledge,  and  accordingly  valiant. 

Laf.  I  have  then  sinned  against  his  experience, 
and  transgressed  against  his  valour ;  and  my  state 
that  way  is  dangerous,  since  I  cannot  yet  find  in  my 
heart  to  repent.  Here  he  comes ;  I  pray  you,  make 
us  friends,  I  will  pursue  the  amity. 

Enter  Parolles, 

Par.   These  things  shall  be  done,  sir. 

[To  Bertram. 

Laf.   Pray  you,  sir,  who's  liis  tailor  ? 

Par.    Sir? 

Laf.  O,  I  know  him  well :  Ay,  sir;  he,  sir,  is  a 
good  workman,  a  very  good  tailor. 

Ber.   Is  she  gone  to  the  king  ? 

\^Aside  to  Parollu. 

Par.    S)ie  is. 

Ber.   Will  she  away  to-night  ? 

Par.    As  you'll  have  her. 

Ber.  I  have  writ  my  letters,  casketed  my  treasure. 
Given  order  for  our  horses ;  and  to-night. 
When  I  should  take  possession  of  the  bride, 

jMf  A  good  traveller  is  something  at  the  latter 
end  of  a  dinner  ;  but  one  that  lies  three  tliirds,  and 
uses  a  known  truth  to  pass  a  thousand   notliings 

•  A  specious  appearance  of  necessity. 
7  The  bunting  nearly  resembles  the  sky.lark ,  but  has  little 
or  no  song,  which  gives  estimation  to  the  sky.lark. 

Q 


226 


ALLS  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Act  m. 


with,  should  be  once  heard,  and  thrice  beaten.  — 
Heaven  save  you,  captain. 

Ber.  Is  there  any  unkindness  between  my  lord 
and  you,  monsieur  ? 

Par.  I  know  not  how  I  liave  deserved  to  run  into 
my  lord's  displeasure. 

Laf.  You  have  made  shift  to  run  into't,  boots  and 
spurs  and  all,  like  him  that  leaped  into  the  custard  ; 
and  out  of  it  you'll  run  again,  rather  than  suffer 
question  for  your  residence. 

Ber.  It  may  be,  you  have  mistaken  him,  my  lord. 

Lnf.  And  sliall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him  at 
his  prayers.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord ;  and  believe 
this  of  me,  there  can  be  no  kernel  in  this  light  nut ; 
the  soul  of  this  man  is  his  clothes  :  trust  him  not  in 
matter  of  heavy  consequence  :  I  have  kept  of  them 
tame,  and  know  their  natures.  —  Farewell,  mon- 
sieur !  I  have  spoken  better  of  you,  than  you  have 
or  will  deserve  at  my  hand ;  but  we  must  do  good 
against  evil.  [_Exit. 

Par.    An  idle  lord,  I  swear. 

Ber.   I  think  so. 

Par.   Why  do  you  not  know  him  ? 

Ber.  Yes,  I  do  know  him  well ;  and  common  speech 
Gives  him  a  worthy  pass.     Here  comes  my  clog. 

Enter  Helena. 

Hel.   I  have,  sir,  as  I  was  commanded  from  you, 
Spoke  with  the  king,  and  have  procured  his  leave 
For  present  parting  ;  only,  he  desires 
Some  private  speech  with  you. 

Ber.  I  shall  obey  his  will. 

You  must  not  marvel,  Helen,  at  my  course. 
Which  holds  not  colour  with  the  time,  nor  does 
The  ministration  and  required  office 


On  my  particular :   prepar'd  I  was  not 
For  such  a  business ;  therefore  am  I  found 
So  much  unsettled  :    This  drives  me  to  entreat  you, 
That  presently  you  take  your  way  for  home  ; 
And  rather  muse  ^,  than  ask,  why  I  entreat  you  : 
For  my  respects  are  better  than  they  seem  ; 
And  my  appointments  have  in  them  a  need, 
Greater  than  shows  itself,  at  the  first  view. 
To  you  that  know  them  not.     This  to  my  mother. 

{^Giving  a  letter. 
'Twill  be  two  days  ere  I  shall  see  you  ;  so 
I  leave  you  to  your  wisdom. 

Hel.  Sir,  I  can  nothing  say. 

But  that  I  am  your  most  obedient  servant. 

Ber.    Come,  come,  no  more  of  that. 

Hel.  And  ever  shall 

With  true  observance  seek  to  eke  out  that, 
Wherein  toward  me  my  homely  stars  have  fail'd 
To  equal  my  great  fortune. 

Ber.  Let  that  go : 

My  haste  is  very  great :    Farewell ;  hie  home. 

Hel.    Pray,  sir,  your  pardon. 

Ber.  Well,  what  would  you  say  ? 

Hel.   I  am  not  worthy  of  the  wealth  I  owe  9  ; 
Nor  dare  I  say,  'tis  mine ;  and  yet  it  is ; 
But,  like  a  timorous  thief,  most  fain  would  steal 
What  law  does  vouch  mine  own. 

Ber.   I  pray  you,  stay  not,  but  in  haste  to  horse. 

Hel.  I  shall  not  break  your  bidding,  good  my  lord. 

Ber.   Where  are   my  other  men,  monsieur?^ 
Farewell.  \^Ent  Helena. 

Go  thou  toward  home  ;  where  I  will  never  come. 
Whilst  I  can  shake  my  sword,  or  hear  the  drum :  — 
Away,  and  for  our  flight. 

Par.  Bravely,  coragio  !  {^Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's 
Palace. 

Floui-ish.    Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  attended  ; 
txvo  French  Lords,  and  others. 

Duke.   So  that,  from  point  to  point,  now  have 
you  heard 
The  fundamental  reasons  of  this  war  ; 
Whose  great  decision  hath  much  blood  let  forth. 
And  more  thirsts  after. 

1  Lord.  Holy  seems  the  quarrel 
Upon  your  grace's  part ;  black  and  fearful 

On  the  opposer. 

Duke.   Therefore  we  marvel  much,  our   cousin 
France 
Would,  in  so  just  a  business,  shut  his  bosom 
Against  our  borrowing  prayers. 

2  Lord.  Good  my  lord, 
The  reasons  of  our  state  I  cannot  yield. 

But  like  a  common  and  an  outward  man. 
That  the  great  figure  of  a  council  frames 
By  self-unable  motion  :   therefore  dare  not 
Say  what  I  think  of  it ;  since  I  have  found 
Myself  in  my  uncertain  grounds  to  fail 
As  often  as  I  guess'd. 

Duke.  Be  it  his  pleasure. 

2  Lord.  But  I  am  sure,  the  younger  of  our  nature, 
That  surfeit  on  their  ease,  will,  day  by  day. 
Come  here  for  physick. 


Duke.  Welcome  shall  they  be ; 

And  all  the  honours,  that  can  fly  from  us. 
Shall  on  them  settle.    You  know  your  places  well ; 
When  better  fall,  for  your  avails  they  fell : 
To-morrow  to  the  field.  {^Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Coun- 
tess's Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  It  hath  happened  all  as  I  would  have  had 
it,  save,  that  he  comes  not  along  with  her. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  I  take  my  young  lord  to  be  a 
very  melancholy  man. 

Count.   By  what  observance,  I  pray  you  ? 

Clo.  Why,  he  will  look  upon  his  boot,  and  sing  ; 
mend  the  ruff',  and  sing ;  ask  questions,  and  sing  ; 
pick  his  teeth,  and  sing :  I  know  a  man  that  had 
this  trick  of  melancholy,  sold  a  goodly  manor  for  a 
song. 

Count.  Let  me  see  what  he  writes,  and  when  he 
means  to  come.  [Opening  a  letter. 

Clo.  I  have  no  mind  to  Isbel,  since  I  was  at 
court :  our  old  ling  and  our  Isbels  o'the  country  are 
nothing  like  your  old  ling  and  your  Isbels  o'the 
court :  the  brains  of  my  Cupid's  knocked  out ;  and 


^  Wonder. 

1  The  folding  at  the  top  of  the  boot. 


Scene  II. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


227 


I  begin  to  love,  as  an  old  man  loves  money,  with 
no  stomach. 

Count.   What  have  we  here  ? 

Clo.   E'en  that  you  have  there.  [Exit. 

Count.  [Reads.]  I  have  sent  you  a  daughter-in- 
law  :  she  hath  recovcrejiJhit^ng,  and  undone  me.  I 
have  ivedded  her,  noCbeddedjher ;  and  sworn  to  make 
the  not  eternal.  YouSttaU  hear,  I  am  run  away ; 
know  it,  before  the  report  come.  If  there  be  breadth 
enough  in  the  world,  I  will  hold  a  long  distance. 
My  duty  to  you. 

Your  unfortunate  son, 

Bertram. 

This  is  not  well,  rash  and  unbridled  boy, 
To  fly  the  favours  of  so  good  a  king  ; 
To  pluck  his  indignation  on  thy  head. 
By  the  misprizing  of  a  maid  too  virtuous 
For  the  contempt  of  empire. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam,  yonder  is  heavy  news  within,  be- 
tween two  soldiers  and  my  young  lady. 

Cou7it.   What  is  the  matter  ? 

Clo.  Nay,  there  is  some  comfort  in  the  news, 
some  comfort ;  your  son  will  not  be  kill'd,  so  soon 
as  I  thought  he  would. 

Count.   Why  should  he  be  killed  ? 

Clo.  So  say  I  madam,  if  he  run  away,  as  I  hear 
he  does.  Here  they  come,  will  tell  you  more :  for 
ray  part,  I  only  hear,  your  son  was  run  away. 

[Exit  Clown. 

Enter  Helena  and  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.   Save  you,  good  madam. 

Hel.   Madam,  my  lord  is  gone,  for  ever  gone. 

2  Gent.    Do  not  say  so. 

Count.   Think  upon  patience.  — 'Pray  you,  gen- 
tlemen, — 
I  have  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy  and  grief, 
That  the  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start, 
Can  woman  me  unto't :  —  Where  is  my  son.  I  pray 
you? 
2  Gent.     Madam,  he's  gone  to  serve  the  duke  of 
Florence  ? 
We  met  him  thitherward  ;  from  thence  we  came. 
And  after  some  despatch  in  hand  at  court, 
Thitlier  we  bend  again. 

Hel.    Look  on  3iis  letter,    madam ;   here's  my 
passport. 

[Reads.]  When  thou  canst  get  the  ring  upon  my 
finger,  which  never  shall  come  off,  and  show  me  a 
child  begotten  of  thy  body,  that  I  am  father  to,  then 
call  me  husband  :  but  in  such  a  then  /  write  a  never. 

This  is  a  dreadful  sentence. 

Count.   Brought  you  this  letter,  gentlemen  ? 

1  Gent.  Ay,  madam  ; 
And,  for  the  contents'  sake,  are  sorry  for  our  pains. 

Count.    I  pr'ytliee,  lady,  have  a  better  cheer  ; 
If  thou  engrossest  all  the  griefs  are  thine. 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  a  moiety  :    He  was  my  son  ; 
But  I  do  wash  his  name  out  of  my  blood. 
And  thou  art  all  my  child.  —  Towards  Florence 
is  he  ? 

2  Gent.   Ay,  madam. 

Count.  And  to  be  a  soldier  ? 

2  Gent.   Such  is  his  noble  purpose  :  and,  believ't, 
The  duke  will  lay  upon  him  all  the  honour, 
That  good  convenience  claims. 


Count.  Return  you  thither? 

1  Gent.   Ay,  madam,  with  the  swiftest    wing  of 
speed. 

Hel   [Reads.]   Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing 
in  France. 
Tis  bitter. 

Count.  Find  you  that  there  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam. 

1  Gent.  'Tis  but  the  boldness  of  his  hand,  haply 
which 
His  heart  was  not  consenting  to. 

Count.    Nothing  in  France,  until  he  have  no  wife  I 
There's  nothing  here  tliat  is  too  good  for  him. 
But  only  she  ;  and  she  deserves  a  lord. 
That  twenty  such  rude  boys  might  tend  upon. 
And  call  her  hourly,  mistress.    Who  was  with  him  ? 

1  Gent.   A  servant  only,  and  a  gentleman 
Which  I  have  some  time  known. 

Count.  Parolles,  was't  not  ? 

1  Gent.    Ay,  my  good  lady,  he. 

Count.  A  very  tainted  fellow,  and  full  of  wicked- 
ness. 
My  son  corrupts  a  well-derived  nature 
With  his  inducement. 

1  Gent.  Indeed,  good  lady, 
The  fellow  has  a  deal  of  that,  too  much. 
Which  holds  him  much  to  have. 

Count.   You  are  welcome,  gentlemen, 
I  will  entreat  you,  when  you  see  my  son. 
To  tell  him,  that  his  sword  can  never  win 
The  honour  that  he  loses  :  more  1*11  entreat  you 
Written  to  bear  along. 

2  Gent.  We  serve  you,  madam, 
In  that  and  all  your  worthiest  affairs 

Count.   Not  so,  but  as  we  change^  our  courtesie?!. 
Will  you  draw  near  ? 

[Exeunt  Countess  and  Gentlemen. 

Hel.    Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in  France. 
Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife  ! 
Thou  shalt  have  none,  Rousillon,  none  in  France, 
Then  hast  thou  all  again.      Poor  lord  !  is't  I 
That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 
Tliose  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 
Of  the  none-sparing  war  ?  and  is  it  I 
That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  where  thou 
Was  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 
Of  smoky  muskets  ?  O  you  leaden  messengers. 
That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire. 
Fly  with  false  aim ;  move  the  still-piercing  air. 
That  sings  with  piercing,  do  not  touch  my  lord ! 
Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there ; 
Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 
I  am  the  caitiff,  that  do  hold  him  to  it ; 
And  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 
His  death  was  so  effected :  better  'twere 
I  met  the  ravin  3  lion  when  he  roar'd 
With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger ;  better  'twere 
That  all  the  miseries,  wliich  nature  owes, 
Were  mine  at  once :  No,  come  thou  home,  Rousillon, 
Whence  honour  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar. 
As  oft  it  loses  all ;  I  will  be  gone  : 
My  being  here  it  is  that  holds  thee  hence  : 
Shall  I  stay  here  to  do't  ?  no,  no,  although 
The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house. 
And  angels  offic'd  all :    I  will  be  gone  ; 
That  pitiful  rumour  may  report  my  flight. 
To  consolate  thine  ear.      Come,  night ;  end,  day  ! 
For,  with  the  dark,  poor  thief,  I'll  steal  uwav. 

'   [ExU. 
*  Exchange.  '  Ravenous 

Q  2 


228 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Act  in. 


SCENE  HI.  —  Florence.     Before  the  Duke's 
Palace. 

Flourish.   Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  Bertram, 
Lords,  Officers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Duke.  The  general  of  our  horse  thou  art ;  and  we. 
Great  in  our  hope,  lay  our  best  love  and  credence. 
Upon  tliy  promising  fortune. 

Ber.  Sir,  it  is 

A  charge  too  heavy  for  my  strength ;  but  yet 
We'll  strive  to  bear  it  for  your  worthy  sake. 
To  the  extreme  edge  of  hazard. 

Duke.  Then  go  thou  forth ; 

And  fortune  play  upon  thy  prosperous  helm. 
As  thy  auspicious  mistress  ! 

Ber.  This  very  day, 

Great  Mars,  I  put  myself  into  thy  file  : 
Make  me  but  like  my  thoughts ;  and  I  shall  prove 
A  lover  of  thy  drum,  hater  of  love.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the 
Countess's  Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Steward. 

Count.  Alas  !  and  would  you  take  the  letter  of  her  ? 
Might  you  not  know,  she  would  do  as  she  has  done, 
By  sending  me  a  letter  ?   Read  it  again. 

Stew.   I  am  Saint  Jaques^  pilgrim,  thither  gone  : 

Ambitious  love  hath  so  in  me  offended. 
That  barefoot  plod  I  the  cold  ground  upon. 

With  sainted  vow  my  faults  to  have  amended. 
Write,  write,  that  from  the  bloody  course  of  war. 

My  dearest  master,  your  dear  son  may  hie  ; 
Bless  him  at  home  in  peace,  whilst  I  from  far. 

His  name  with  zealous  fervour  sanctify  : 
His  taken  labours  bid  him  me  forgive  ; 

I,  his  despiteful  Juno  "*,  sent  him  forth 
From  courtly  friends,  with  camping  foes  to  live. 

Where  death  and  danger  dog  the  heels  of  worth  : 
He  is  too  good  and  fair  for  death  and  me  ; 
Whom  I  myself  embrace,  to  set  him  free. 

Count.    Ah,  what  sharp  stings  are  in  her  mildest 

words ! 

Rinaldo,  you  did  never  lack  advice  5  so  much, 
As  letting  her  pass  so  ;  had  I  spoke  with  her, 
I  could  have  well  diverted  her  intents. 
Which  thus  she  hath  prevented, 

Sfew.  Pardon  me,  madam: 

If  I  had  given  you  this  at  over  night, 
She  might  have  been  o'erta'en ;  and  yet  she  writes. 
Pursuit  would  be  in  vain. 

Count,  What  angel  shall 

Bless  this  unworthy  husband?  he  cannot  thrive, 
Unless  her  prayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to  hear. 
And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  greatest  justice.  —  Write,  write,  Rinaldo, 
To  this  unworthy  husband  of  his  wife  ; 
Let  every  word  weigh  heavy  of  her  worth, 
That  he  does  weigh  tx>o  light :   my  greatest  grief. 
Though  little  he  do  feel  it,  set  down  sharply. 
Despatch  the  most  convenient  messenger :  — 
When,  haply,  he  shall  hear  that  she  is  gone. 
He  will  return ;  and  hope  I  may,  that  she. 
Hearing  so  much,  will  speed  her  foot  again. 
Led  hither  by  pure  love  :   which  of  them  both 
Is  dearest  to  me,  I  have  no  skill  in  sense 


,*  Alluding  to  the  story  of  Hercules. 
'  Discretion  or  thought. 


To  make  distinction  :  —  Provide  this  messenger:  — 
My  heart  is  heavy,  and  mine  age  is  weak  ; 
Grief  would  have  tears,  and  sorrow  bids  me  speak. 

{^Exeunt. 
SCENE  V.  —  Without  the  Walls  of  Florence. 
A  Tucket  afar  off.   Enter  an  old  Widow  o/"  Florence, 
Diana,  Violenta,  Mariana,  and  other  Citizens. 

Wid.  Nay,  come ;  for  if  they  do  approach  the 
city,  we  shall  lose  all  the  sight. 

Dia.  Tliey  say,  the  French  count  has  done  most 
honourable  service. 

Wid.  It  is  reported  that  he  has  taken  their  great- 
est commander  ;  and  that  with  his  own  hand  he 
slew  the  duke's  brother.  We  have  lost  our  labour ; 
they  are  gone  a  contrary  way  :  hark  !  you  may  know 
by  their  trumpets. 

Mar.  Come,  let's  return  again,  and  suffice  our- 
selves with  the  report  of  it.  Well,  Diana,  take  heed 
of  this  French  earl :  the  honour  of  a  maid  is  her 
name ;  and  no  legacy  is  so  rich  as  honesty. 

Wid.  I  have  told  my  neighbour,  how  you  have 
been  solicited  by  a  gentleman  his  companion. 

Mar.  I  know  that  knave ;  hang  him !  one  Pa- 
rolles :  a  filthy  officer  he  is  in  those  suggestions  ^ 
for  the  young  earl.  —  Beware  of  them,  Diana ; 
their  promises,  enticements,  oaths,  tokens,  and  all 
these  engines,  are  not  the  things  they  go  under  7  ; 
many  a  maid  hath  been  seduced  by  them  ;  and  the 
misery  is,  example,  that  so  terrible  shows  in  the 
wreck  of  maidenhood,  cannot  for  all  that  dissuade 
succession,  but  that  they  are  limed  with  the  twigs 
that  threaten  them.  I  hope,  I  need  not  to  advise 
you  further ;  but,  I  hope,  your  own  grace  will  keep 
you  where  you  are,  though  there  were  no  further 
danger  known,  but  the  modesty  which  is  so  lost. 

Dia.   You  shall  not  need  to  fear  me. 

Enter  Helena,  in  the  dress  of  a  PUgrirru 

Wid.   I   hope  so. liOok,  here  comes   a  pil- 
grim.     I  know  she  will  lie  at  my  house :    thither 
they  send  one  another  :    I'll  question  her.  — 
God  save  you,  pilgrim  !   Whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Hel.   To  Saint  Jaques  le  grand. 
Where  do  the  palmers  ^  lodge,  I  do  beseech  you  ? 

Wid.   At  the  Saint  Francis  here,  beside  the  port. 

Hel.   Is  this  the  way  ? 

Wid.  Ay,  marry,  is  it.  —  Hark  you  ! 

\^A  march  afar  off^ 
They  come  this  way  :  —  If  you  will  tarry,  holy  pil- 
grim. 
But  till  the  troops  come  by, 
I  will  conduct  you  where  you  shall  be  lodg'd  ; 
The  rather,  for,  I  think,  I  know  your  hostess 
As  ample  as  myself. 

Hel.    Is  it  yourself? 

Wid.   If  you  shall  please  so,  pilgrim. 

Hel.   I  thank  you,  and  will  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Wid.  You  came,  I  think,  from  France? 

Hel.  I  did  so. 

Wid.  Here  you  shall  see  a  countryman  of  yours. 
That  has  done  worthy  service. 

Hel.  His  name,  I  pray  you. 

Dia.  The  count  Rousillon  :  Know  you  such  a  one  ? 

Hel.  But  by  the  ear,  that  hears  most  nobly  of  him : 
His  face  I  know  not. 

Dia.  Whatsoe'er  he  is. 

He's  bravely  taken  here.     He  stole  from  France, 

6  Temptations.  ?  Not  what  their  names  express. 

"  Pilgrims  5  so  called  from  a  staff  or  bough  of  palm  they 
were  wont  to  carry. 


Scene  V. 


ALL'S  WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


229 


As  'tis  reported,  for  9  the  king  had  married  him 
Against  his  liking  :    Think  you  it  is  so  ? 

Hel.   Ay,  surely,  mere  the  truth  ;  I  know  his  lady. 

Dia.   There  is  a  gentleman,  that  serves  the  count, 
Reports  but  coarsely  of  her. 

Hel.  What's  his  name  ? 

Dia.  Monsieur  Parolles, 

Hel.  O,  I  believe  with  him. 

In  argument  of  praise,  or  to  the  worth 
Of  the  great  count  himself,  she  is  too  mean 
To  have  her  name  repeated ;  all  her  deserving 
Is  a  reserved  honesty,  and  that 
I  have  not  heard  examin'd. 

Dia.  Alas  poor  lady ! 

'Tis  a  hard  bondage,  to  become  the  wife 
Of  a  detesting  lord. 

Wid.   A  right  good  creature  :   wheresoe'er  she  is, 
Her  heart  weighs  sadly  :  this  young  maid  might  do 

her 
A  shrewd  turn,  if  she  pleas'd. 

Hel.  How  do  you  mean  ? 

May  be,  the  amorous  count  solicits  her 
In  the  unlawful  purpose. 

Wid.  He  does,  indeed  ; 

And  brokes'  with  all  that  can  in  such  a  suit 
Corrupt  the  tender  honour  of  a  maid  : 
But  she  is  arm'd  for  him,  and  keeps  her  guard 
In  honestest  defence. 

Enter,  with  Drum  and  Colours,  a  Party  of  the  Flo- 
rentine Army,  Bertram  and  Parolles. 

^[ar.   The  gods  forbid  else  ! 

Wid.  So,  now  they  come  :  — 

That  is  Antonio,  the  duke's  eldest  son  ; 
That,  Escalus. 

Hel.  Which  is  the  Frenchman  ? 

Dia.  He ; 

That  with  the  plume  :    'tis  a  most  gallant  fellow ; 
I  would,  he  lov'd  his  wife  :   if  he  were  honester, 
He  were   much  goodlier :  —  Is't  not  a  handsonie 
gentleman  ? 

Hel.   I  like  him  well. 

Dia.    'Tis  pity,   he   is  not  honest :    Yond's  that 
same  knave. 
That  leads  him  to  these  places ;  were  I  his  lady, 
I'd  poison  that  vile  rascal. 

Hel.  Which  is  he? 

Dia.   That  jack-an-apes  with  scarfs :   Why  is  he 
melancholy  ? 

Hd.    Perchance  he's  hurt  i'the  battle. 

Par,   Lose  our  drum  !  well. 

Mar.  He's  shrewdly  vexed  at  something ;   Look, 
he  has  spied  us. 

Wid.   Marry,  hang  yon  ! 

Mar-    And  your  courtesy,  for  a  ring-carrier  ! 

[Exeunt  Bertram,  Pakolles,  Qffkers, 
and  Soldiers. 

Wid.    The   troop  is  past :   Come,  pilgrim,  I  will 
bring  you 
Wliere  you  shall  host :   of  enjoin'd  penitents 
There's  four  or  five,  to  great  Saint  Jaques  bound, 
Already  at  my  house. 

Hel.  I  humbly  thank  you  : 

Please  it  this  matron,  and  this  gentle  maid, 
To  cat  with  us  to-night,  the  charge,  and  thanking. 
Shall  be  for  me  ;  and,  to  requite  you  further, 
I  will  bestow  some  precepts  on  this  virgin. 
Worthy  the  note. 

Both.  We'll  take  your  offer  kindly. 

[Exeunt. 
•  Because  >  Demli. 


SCENE  VI.  —  Camp  before  Florence. 
Enter  Bertram,  and  the  tivo  French  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  put  him  to't ;  let 
him  have  his  way. 

2  Lord.  If  your  lordship  find  him  not  a  hilding  -, 
hold  me  no  more  in  your  respect. 

1  Lord.   On  my  life,  my  lord,  a  bubble. 

J3er.    Do  you  think,  I  am  so  far  deceived  in  him  ? 

1  Lord.  Believe  it,  my  lord,  in  mine  own  direct 
knowledge,  without  any  malice  but  to  speak  of  him 
as  my  kinsman,  he's  a  most  notable  coward,  an  in- 
finite and  endless  liar,  an  hourly  promise-breaker, 
the  owner  of  no  one  good  quality  worthy  your  lord- 
ship's entertainment. 

2  Lord.  It  were  fit  you  knew  him  ;  lest,  reposing 
too  far  in  his  virtue,  which  he  hath  not,  he  might 
at  some  great  and  trusty  business,  in  a  main  danger, 
fail  you. 

Ber  I  would,  I  knew  in  what  particular  action 
to  try  him. 

2  Lord.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  off  his 
drum,  which  you  hear  him  so  confidently  undertake 
to  do. 

1  Lord.  I,  with  a  troop  of  Florentines,  will  sud- 
denly surprise  him  ;  such  I  will  have,  whom,  I  am 
sure,  he  knows  not  from  the  enemy :  we  will  bind 
and  hood-wink  him  so,  that  he  shall  suppose  no 
other  but  that  he  is  carried  into  the  leaguer  3  of  the 
adversaries,  when  we  bring  him  to  our  tents  :  Be 
but  your  lordship  present  at  his  examination;  if  he 
do  not,  for  the  promise  of  his  life,  and  in  the  highest 
compulsion  of  base  fear,  offer  to  betray  you,  and 
deliver  all  the  intelligence  in  his  power  against  you, 
and  that  with  the  forfeit  of  his  soul  upon  oath,  never 
trust  my  judgment  in  any  thing. 

2  Lord.  O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  let  him  fetch 
his  drum  ;  he  says  he  has  a  stratagem  for't :  when 
your  lordship  sees  the  bottom  of  his  success  in't, 
and  to  what  metal  this  counterfeit  lump  of  ore  will 
be  melted,  if  you  give  him  not  John  Drum's  enter- 
taiment,  your  inclining  cannot  be  removed.  Here 
he  comes. 

Enter  Parolles. 

1  Lord.  O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder  not 
the  humour  of  his  design ;  let  him  fetch  off  his 
drum  in  any  hand. 

Bei'.  How  now,  monsieur?  this  drum  sticks 
sorely  in  your  disposition. 

2  Lord.  A  plague  on't,  let  it  go ;  'tis  but  a  drum. 
Par.   But  a  drum  !   Is't  but  a  drum  ?   A  drum  so 

lost !  —  There  was  an  excellent  command  !  to  charge 
in  with  our  horse  upon  our  own  wings,  and  to  rend 
our  own  soldiers. 

2  Lord.  Tliat  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  the  com- 
mand of  the  service  ;  it  was  a  disaster  of  war  that 
Caesar  himself  could  not  have  prevented,  if  he  had 
been  there  to  command. 

Ber.  Well,  we  cannot  greatly  condemn  our  suc- 
cess :  some  dishonour  we  had  in  the  loss  of  that 
drum  ;  but  it  is  not  to  be  recovered. 

Par.    It  might  have  been  recovered. 

Ber.    It  might,  but  it  is  not  now. 

Par.  It  is  to  be  recovered :  but  that  the  merit  of 
service  is  seldom  attributed  to  the  true  and  exact 
performer,  I  would  have  that  drum  or  another,  or 
hicjacet.  * 


»  A  paltry  fellow,  a  coward. 
^  The  lines,  entrenchments. 

Q  3 


<  i.  e.  An  epitaph. 


230 


ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL.     Act  IIL   Scene  VII. 


Ber.  Why,  if  you  have  a  stomach  to't,  monsieur, 
if  you  think  your  mystery  in  stratagem  can  bring 
this  instrument  of  honour  again  into  its  native 
quarter,  be  magnanimous  in  the  enterprize,  and  go 
on  ;  I  will  grace  the  attempt  for  a  worthy  exploit ; 
if  you  speed  well  in  it,  the  duke  shall  both  speak 
of  it,  and  extend  to  you  what  further  becomes  his 
greatness,  even  to  the  utmost  syllable  of  your  wor- 
thiness. 

Par.  By  the  hand  of  a  soldier,  I  will  undertake  it. 
Ber.  But  you  must  not  now  slumber  in  it. 
Par.  I'll  about  it  this  evening  :  and  I  will  pre- 
sently pen  down  my  dilemmas,  encourage  myself 
in  my  certainty,  put  myself  into  my  mortal  pre- 
paration, and,  by  midnight,  look  to  hear  further 
from  me. 

Ber.  May  I  be  bold  to  acquaint  his  grace,  you 
are  gone  about  it  ? 

Par.  I  know  not  what  the  success  will  be,  my 
lord  ;  but  the  attempt  I  vow. 

Ber.  I  know  thou  art  valiant ;  and,  to  the  pos- 
sibility of  thy  soldiership,  will  subscribe  for  thee. 
Farewell. 

Par.    I  love  not  many  words.  {Exit. 

1  Lord.  No  more  than  a  fish  loves  water.  —  Is 
not  this  a  strange  fellow,  my  lord  ?  that  so  confi- 
dently seems  to  undertake  this  business,  which  he 
knows  is  not  to  be  done. 

2  Lord.  You  do  not  know  him,  my  lord,  as  we 
do  ;  certain  it  is,  that  he  will  steal  himself  into  a 
man's  favour,  and,  for  a  week,  escape  a  great  deal  of 
discoveries ;  but  when  you  find  him  out,  you  have 
him  ever  after. 

Ber.  Why,  do  you  think,  he  will  make  no  deed  at 
all  of  this,  that  so  seriously  he  does  address  himself 
unto? 

1  Lord.  None  in  the  world ;  but  return  with  an 
invention,  and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three  probable 
lies  :  but  we  have  almost  embossed  him  5 ;  you  shall 
see  his  fall  to-night ;  for,  indeed,  he  is  not  for  your 
lordship's  respect. 

2  Lord.  We'll  make  you  some  sport  with  the  fox, 
ere  we  case  him. 6  He  was  first  smoked  by  the  old 
lord  Lafeu  :  when  his  disguise  and  he  is  parted,  tell 
me  what  a  sprat  you  shall  find  him;  which  you 
shall  see  this  very  night. 

1  Lord.  I  must  go  look  my  twigs ;  he  shall  be 
caught. 

Ber.  Your  brother,  he  shall  go  along  with  me. 

1  Lord.  As't  please  your  lordship  :  I'll  leave  you. 

lExU. 
Ber.   Now  will  I  lead  you  to  the  house,  and  show 
you 
The  lass  I  spoke  of. 

2  Lord.  But,  you  say,  she's  honest. 
Ber.  That's  all  the  fault:  I  spoke  with  her  but  once. 

And  found  her  wondrous  cold ;  but  I  sent  to  her. 
By  this  same  coxcomb  that  we  have  i'the  wind, 
Tokens  and  letters  which  she  did  re-send; 
And  this  is  all  I  have  done :   She's  a  fair  creature ; 
Will  you  go  see  her  ? 

2  Lord.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord. 

\^Exeunt. 
o  To  emboss  a  deer,  is  to  enclose  him  in  a  wood. 
6  Before  we  strip  him  naked. 


SCENE  VII Florence.     A  Room  in  i/ie 

Widow's  House. 

Enter  Helena  and  Widow. 

Hel.   If  you  misdoubt  me  that  I  am  not  she, 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  assure  you  further, 
But  I  shall  lose  the  grounds  I  work  upon. 

md.   Though  my  estate  be  fallen,  I  was  well 
bom, 
Nothing  acquainted  with  these  businesses 
And  would  not  put  my  reputation  now 
In  any  staining  act. 

Hel.  Nor  would  I  wish  you. 

First  give  me  trust,  the  count  he  is  my  husband  ; 
And,  what  to  your  sworn  counsel  I  have  spoken, 
Is  so,  from  word  to  word  ;  and  then  you  cannot. 
By  the  good  aid  that  I  of  you  shall  borrow. 
Err  in  bestowing  it. 

md.  I  should  believe  you ; 

For   you   have   show'd   me   that,   which   well   ap- 
proves 
You  are  great  in  fortune. 

ffel.  Take  this  purse  of  gold. 

And  let  me  buy  your  friendly  help  thus  far, 
Wliich  I  will  over-pay,  and  pay  again. 
When  I  have  found  it.     The  count  he  wooes  your 

daughter. 
Lays  down  his  wanton  siege  before  her  beauty, 
Resolves  to  carry  her ;  let  her,  in  fine,  consent. 
As  we'll  direct  her  how  'tis  best  to  bear  it. 
Now  his  important  7  blood  will  nought  deny 
Tliat  she'll  demand  :    A  ring  the  county  8  wears, 
That  downward  hath  succeeded  in  his  house, 
From  son  to  son,  some  four  or  five  descents 
Since  the  first  father  wore  it :  this  ring  he  holds 
In  most  rich  choice ;  yet  in  his  idle  fire, 
To  buy  his  will,  it  would  not  seem  too  dear, 
Howe'er  repented  after. 

md.  Now  I  see 

The  bottom  of  your  purpose. 

Hel.   You  see  it  lawful  then  :    It  is  no  more. 
But  that  your  daughter,  ere  she  seems  as  won, 
Desires  this  ring ;  appoints  him  an  encounter ; 
In  fine,  delivers  me  to  fill  the  time. 
Herself  most  chastely  absent :   after  this. 
To  marry  her,  I'll  add  three  thousand  crowns 
To  what  is  past  already. 

md.  I  have  yielded : 

Instruct  my  daughter  how  she  shall  pers^ver. 
That  time  and  place,  with  this  deceit  so  lawful, 
May  prove  coherent.      Every  night  he  comes 
With  musicks  of  all  sorts,  and  songs  compos'd 
To  her  unworthiness :    It  nothing  steads  us. 
To  chide  him  from  our  eaves;  for  he  persists. 
As  if  his  life  lay  on't. 

Hel.  Why  then  to-night 

Let  us  assay  our  plot ;  which,  if  it  speed. 
Is  wicked  meaning  in  a  lawful  deed. 
And  lawful  meaning  in  a  lawful  act ; 
Where  both  not  sin,  and  yet  a  sinful  fact : 
But  let's  about  it.  [Exeunt. 


7  Importunate. 


8  Count. 


Act  IV^.   Scene  I.      ALL'S  WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


2i^l 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  WUhout  the  Florentine  Camp. 

ErUer  first  Lord,  with  five  or  six  Soldiers  in  ambush. 

1  Lord.  He  can  come  no  other  way  but  by  this 
hedge'  comer :  When  you  sally  upon  him,  speak 
what  terrible  language  you  will ;  tliough  you  under- 
stand it  not  yourselves,  no  matter  :  for  we  must  not 
seem  to  understand  him  j  unless  some  one  among  us, 
whom  we  must  produce  for  an  interpreter. 

1  Sold.    Good  captain,  let  me  be  the  interpreter. 

1  Lord.  Art  not  acquainted  with  him  ?  knows  he 
not  thy  voice? 

1  Sold.   No  sir,  I  warrant  you. 

1  Lord.  But  wliat  linsy-woolsy  hast  thou  to  speak 
to  us  again  ? 

1  Sold.   Even  such  as  you  speak  to  me. 

1  Lord.  He  must  think  us  some  band  of  strangers 
i'  the  adversary's  entertainment.  ^  Now  he  hath  a 
smack  of  all  neighbouring  languages ;  therefore  we 
must  every  one  be  a  man  of  his  own  fancy,  not  to 
know  what  we  speak  one  to  another ;  so  we  seem  to 
know,  is  to  know  straight  our  purpose :  chough's  ' 
language,  gabble  enough,  and  good  enough.  As 
for  you,  interpreter,  you  must  seem  very  politick. 
But  couch,  ho!  here  he  comes;  to  beguile  two 
hours  in  a  sleep,  and  then  to  return  and  swear  the 
lies  he  forges. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  Ten  o'clock  :  within  these  three  hours  'twill 
be  time  enough  to  go  home.  What  shall  I  say  I 
have  done?  It  must  be  a  very  plausive  invention 
that  carries  it :  They  begin  to  smoke  me  ;  and  dis- 
graces have  of  late  knocked  too  often  at  my  door.  J 
find,  my  tongue  is  too  fool-hardy ;  but  my  heart 
hath  the  fear  of  Mars  before  it,  and  of  his  creatures, 
not  daring  the  reports  of  my  tongue. 

1  Lord.  This  is  the  first  truth  that  e'er  thine  own 
tongue  was  guilty  of.  \_Aside. 

Far.  What  the  devil  should  move  me  to  under- 
take the  recovery  of  this  drum  ;  being  not  ignorant 
of  the  impossibility,  and  knowing  I  had  no  such 
purpose  ?  I  must  give  myself  some  hurts,  and  say, 
I  got  them  in  exploit :  Yet  slight  ones  will  not 
carry  it :  They  will  say,  Came  you  off  with  so  little  ? 
and  great  ones  I  dare  not  give.  Wherefore  ?  what's 
the  instance  ?  2  Tongue,  I  must  put  you  into  a 
butter-woman's  mouth,  and  buy  another  of  Bajazet's 
mule,  if  you  prattle  me  into  these  perils. 

1  Lord:  Is  it  possible,  he  should  know  what  he 
is,  and  be  that  he  is?  [Aside. 

Par.  I  would  the  cutting  of  my  garments  would 
serve  the  turn ;  or  the  breaking  of  my  Spanish 
sword. 

1  Lord.  We  cannot  afford  you  so.  [Aside. 

Par.  Or  the  baring  of  my  beard  ;  and  to  say,  it 
was  in  stratagem. 

1  Lord.  'Twould  not  do.  [Aside. 

Par.  Or  to  drown  my  clothes,  and  say,  I  was 
stripped. 

1  Lord.   Hardly  serve.  [Asule. 

Par.  Though  I  swore  I  leaped  from  the  window 
of  the  citadel 

1  Lord.   How  deep?  [Aside. 

*  i.  e.  Foreign  troops  in  the  enemy's  pay. 

•  A  bird  like  a  jack-daw.  «  The  proof. 


Par.   Thirty  fathom. 

1  Lord.   Three  great  oaths  would  scarce  make 
that  be  believed.  [Aside. 

Par.   I  would,  I  had  any  drum  of  the  enemy's  ; 
I  would  swear,  I  recovered  it. 

1  Lord.   You  shall  hear  one  anon.  [Aside. 

Par.   A  drum  now  of  the  enemy's  ! 

[Alarum  within. 

1  Lord.    Throca  movousus,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.    Cargo,  cargo,  villianda  par  corbo,  cargo. 

Par.  O !  ransome,  ransome  :  — Do  not  liide  mine 
eyes.  [  They  seize  him,  and  blindfold  Idm. 

1  Sold.   Boskos  thromuldo  boskos. 

Par.   I  know  you  are  the  Muskos'  regiment. 
And  I  shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language  : 
If  there  be  here  German,  or  Dane,  low  Dutch, 
Italian,  or  French,  let  him  speak  to  me, 
I  will  discover  that  which  shall  undo 
The  Florentine. 

1  Sold.  Boskos  vauvado  : 

I  understand  thee,  and  can  speak  thy  tongue  :  ■ 

Kcrelybonto  : Sir, 

Betake  thee  to  thy  faith,  for  seventeen  poniards 
Are  at  thy  bosom. 

Par.  Oh ! 

1  Sold.  O,  pray,  pray,  pray. 

Manka  revania  dulche. 

1  Lord.  Oscitrbi  dulchos  voliuorca. 

1  Sold.   The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee  yet ; 
And  hood-wink'd  as  thou  art,  will  lead  thee  on 
To  gather  from  thee  :   haply,  thou  mayst  inform 
Something  to  save  tliy  life. 

Par.  O,  let  me  live, 

And  all  the  secrets  of  our  camp  I'll  show, 
Their  force,  their  puqioses  :   nay,  I'll  speak  that 
Which  you  will  wonder  at. 

1  Sold.  But  wilt  thou  faithfully? 

Par.   If  I  do  not,  kill  me. 

1  Sold.  Acordo  linta.  -^ 

Come  on,  thou  art  granted  space. 

[Exit,  with  Parolles  guarded. 

1  Lord.   Go,  tell  the  count  Rousillon,  and  my 

brother. 
We  have  caught  the  woodcock,  and  will  keep  him 

muffled, 
Till  we  do  hear  from  them. 

2  Sold.  Captain,  I  will. 

1  Lord.   He  will  betray  us  all  unto  ourselves ;  — 
Inform  'em  that. 

2  Sold.  So  I  will,  sir. 

1  Lord.   Till  then,  I'll  keep  him  dark,  and  safely 
lock'd.  [ExeuiU, 


SCENE  n. 


Florence.    A  Room  in  the  Widow'* 
House. 


Enter  Bertram  arul  Diana. 

Ber.  They  told  me,  that  your  name  was  Fontil)ell. 

Dia.  No,  my  good  lord,  Diana. 

Ber.  Titled  goddess ; 

And  worth  it,  with  addition  !   But,  fair  soul, 
In  your  fine  frame  hath  love  no  quality  ? 
If  the  quick  fire  of  youtli  light  not  your  mind. 
You  are  no  maiden,  but  a  monument : 
When  you  are  dead,  you  should  be  such  a  one 
Q  4 


232 


ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


Act  IV. 


As  you  are  now,  for  you  are  cold  and  stern  ; 
And  now  you  should  be  as  your  mother  was, 
Before  yourself  were  born. 

Dia.    Slie  then  was  honest. 

Ber.  So  should  you  be. 

Dia.  No : 

My  mother  did  but  duty ;  such,  my  lord. 
As  you  owe  to  your  wife. 

Her.  No  more  of  that ! 

I  pr'ythee,  do  not  strive  against  my  vows  : 
I' was  compeird  to  her ;  but  I  love  thee 
By  love's  own  sweet  constraint,  and  will  for  ever 
Do  thee  all  rights  of  service. 

Dia.  Ay,  so  you  serve  us. 

Till  we  serve  you  :   but  when  you  have  our  roses, 
You  barely  leave  our  thorns  to  wound  ourselves, 
And  mock  us  with  our  bareness. 

Ber.  How  have  I  sworn  ? 

Dia.  'Tis  not  the  many  oaths  that  make  the  truth  ; 
But  the  plain  single  vow,  that  is  vow'd  true. 
What  is  not  holy,  that  we  swear  not  by. 
But  take  the  Highest  to  witness :    Then,  pray  you, 

tell  me. 
If  I  should  swear  by  Jove's  great  attributes, 
I  lov'd  you  dearly,  would  you  believe  my  oaths. 
When  I  did  love  you  ill  ?  this  has  no  holding. 
To  swear  by  him  whom  I  protest  to  love. 
That  I  will  work  against  him :  Therefore,  your  oaths, 
Are  words  and  poor  conditions  j  but  unseal'd  j 
At  least,  in  my  opinion. 

Ber.  Change  it,  change  it ; 

Be  not  so  holy-cruel ;   love  is  holy  ; 
And  my  integrity  ne'er  knew  the  crafts. 
That  you  do  charge  men  with  :    Stand  no  more  off, 
But  give  thyself  unto  my  sick  desires. 
Who  then  recover :   say,  thou  art  mine,  and  ever 
My  love,  as  it  begins,  shall  so  pers^ver. 

Dia.  I  see,  that  men  make  hopes,  in  such  affairs. 
That  we'll  forsake  ourselves.      Give  me  that  ring. 

Ber.   I'll  lend  it  thee,  my  dear,   but  have  no 
power 
To  give  it  from  me. 

Dia.  Will  you  not,  my  lord  ? 

Ber.   It  is  an  honour  'longing  to  our  house. 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors  ; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'the  world 
In  me  to  lose. 

Dia.  Mine  honour's  such  a  ring  : 

My  chastity's  the  jewel  of  our  house. 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors ; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'the  world 
In  me  to  lose  :    Thus  your  own  proper  wisdom 
Brings  in  the  champion  honour  on  my  part, 
Against  your  vain  assault. 

Ber.  Here,  take  my  ring  : 

My  house,  mine  honour,  yea,  my  life  be  thine. 
And  I'll  be  bid  by  thee. 

Dia.   When  midnight  comes,  knock  at  my  cham- 
ber window  ; 
I'll  order  take,  my  mother  shall  not  hear. 
Now  will  I  charge  you  in  the  band  of  truth. 
Remain  then  but  an  hour  nor  speak  to  me : 
My  reasons  are  most  strong ;  and  you  shall  know 

them, 
When  back  again  this  ring  shall  be  deliver'd : 
And  on  your  finger,  in  the  night  I'll  put 
Another  ring ;  that,  what  in  time  proceeds, 
May  token  to  the  future  our  past  deeds. 
Adieu,  till  then  ;  then  fail  not :    You  have  won 
A  wife  of  me,  though  there  my  hope  be  done. 


Ber.    A  heaven  on  earth  I  have  won  by  wooing 
thee.  [ExU. 

Dia.   For  which  live  long  to  thank  both  heaven 
and  me ! 
You  may  so  in  the  end.  — — > 
My  mother  told  me  just  how  he  would  woo. 
As  if  she  sat  in  his  heart ;  she  says,  all  men 
Have  the  like  oaths  :   he  had  sworn  to  marry  me, 
When  his  wife's  dead ;  therefore  I'll  lie  with  him, 
When  I  am  buried.   Since  Frenchmen  are  so  braid  3, 
Marry  that  will,  I'll  live  and  die  a  maid  : 
Only,  in  this  disguise,  I  think't  no  sin 
To  cozen  him,  that  would  unjustly  win.  \^Exit, 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Florentine  Camp. 

Enter  the  two  French   Lords,  and  two  or  three 
Soldiers. 

1  Lord.  You  have  not  given  him  bis  mother's 
letter  ? 

2  Lord.  I  have  delivered  it  an  hour  since  :  there 
is  something  in't  that  stings  his  nature :  for,  on  the 
reading  it,  he  changed  almost  into  another  man. 

1  Lord.  He  has  much  worthy  blame  laid  upon 
him,  for  shaking  off  so  good  a  wife,  and  so  sweet  a 
lady. 

2  Lord.  Especially  he  hath  incun-ed  the  everlast- 
ing displeasure  of  the  king,  who  had  even  tuned  his 
bounty  to  sing  happiness  to  him.  I  will  tell  you  a 
thing,  but  you  shall  let  it  dwell  darkly  with  you. 

1  Lord.  When  you  have  spoken  it,  'tis  dead,  and 
I  am  the  grave  of  it. 

2  Lord.  He  hath  perverted  a  young  gentlewoman 
here  in  Florence,  of  a  most  chaste  renown ;  he  hath 
given  her  his  monumental  ring,  and  thinks  himself 
made  in  the  unchaste  composition. 

1  Lord.  Now,  heaven  delay  our  rebellion ;  as  we 
are  ourselves,  what  things  are  we  ! 

2  Lord.  Merely  our  own  traitors.  And  as  in  the 
common  course  of  all  treasons,  we  still  see  them 
reveal  themselves,  till  they  attain  to  their  abhorred 
ends ;  so  he,  that  in  this  action  contrives  against  his 
own  nobility,  in  his  proper  stream  o'erflows  himself. 

1  Lord.  Is  it  not  meant  confoundedly  in  us,  to 
be  trumpeters  of  our  unlawful  intents  ?  We  shall 
not  then  have  his  company  to-night  ? 

2  Lord.    Not  till  after  midnight. 

1  Lord.  That  approaches  apace  :  I  would  gladly 
have  him  see  his  company  4  anatomised ;  that  he 
might  take  a  measure  of  his  own  judgments,  wherein 
so  curiously  he  had  set  this  counterfeit. 

2  L^ord.  We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  he 
come;  for  his  presence  must  be  the  whip  of  the 
other. 

1  Lord.  In  the  mean  time,  what  hear  you  of  these 
wars? 

2  Lord.    [  hear,  there  is  an  overture  of  peace. 

1  Lord.   Nay,  I  assure  you,  a  peace  concluded. 

2  Lord.  What  will  count  Rousillon  do  then  ?  will 
he  travel  higher,  or  return  again  into  France? 

1  Lord.  I  perceive,  by  this  demand,  you  are  not 
altogether  of  his  council. 

2  Lord.  Let  it  be  forbid,  sir !  so  should  I  be  a 
great  deal  of  his  act. 

1  Lord.  Sir,  his  wife,  some  two  months  since 
fled  from  his  house;  her  pretence  is  a  pilgrimage 
to  Saint  Jaques  le  grand ;  which  holy  undertaking, 
with  most  austere  sanctimony,   she  accomplished : 


Crafty,  deceitful. 


<  For  companion. 


Scene  III. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


238 


and,  there  residing,  the  tenderness  of  her  nature 
became  as  a  prey  to  her  grief;  in  fine  made  a  groan 
of  her  last  breath,  and  now  she  sings  in  heaven. 
2  Lord.    How  is  this  justified  ?  • 

1  Lord.  The  stronger  part  of  it  by  her  own 
letter  which  makes  her  story  true,  even  to  the  point 
of  her  death  :  her  death  itself,  which  could  not  be 
her  oflfice  to  say,  is  come,  was  faithfully  confirmed 
by  the  rector  of  the  place. 

2  Lord.   Hath  the  count  all  this  intelligence  ? 

1  Lord.  Ay,  and  the  particular  confirmations, 
point  from  point,  to  the  full  arming  of  the  verity. 

2  Lord.  I  am  heartily  sorry,  that  he'll  be  glad 
of  this. 

1  Lord.  How  mightily  sometimes  we  make  us 
comforts  of  our  losses  ! 

2  Lord.  And  how  mightily,  some  other  times, 
we  drown  our  gain  in  tears  !  The  great  dignity,  that 
his  valour  hath  here  acquired  for  him,  shall  at  home 
be  encountered  with  a  shame  as  ample. 

1  Lord.  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn, 
good  and  ill  together  :  our  virtues  would  be  proud, 
if  our  faults  whipped  them  not ;  and  our  crimes 
would  despair,  if  they  were  not  cherish'd  by  our 
virtues.  — 

Enter  a  Servant. 
How  now  ?  Where's  your  master  ? 

Serv.  He  met  the  duke  in  tlie  street,  sir,  of  whom 
he  hath  taken  a  solemn  leave  ;  his  lordsliip  will  next 
morning  for  France.  The  duke  hath  offered  him 
letters  of  commendations  to  the  king. 

2  Lord.  They  shall  be  no  more  than  needful 
there,  if  they  were  more  than  they  can  commend. 

Enter  Bertram. 

1  Lord.  They  cannot  be  too  sweet  for  the  king's 
tartness.  Here's  his  lordship  now.  How  now,  my 
lord,  is't  not  after  midnight. 

Ber.  I  have  to-night  despatched  sixteen  busi- 
nesses, a  month's  length  a-piece,  by  an  abstract  of 
success :  I  have  co7ig6'd  with  the  duke,  done  my 
adieu  with  his  nearest ;  buried  a  wife,  mourned  for 
her ;  writ  to  my  lady  mother,  I  am  returning ;  en- 
tertained my  convoy ;  and,  between  these  main 
parcels  of  despatch,  effected  many  nicer  needs  ;  the 
last  was  the  greatest,  but  that  I  have  not  ended  yet. 

2  Lord.  If  the  business  be  of  any  difficulty,  and 
this  morning  your  departure  hence,  it  requires  haste 
of  your  lordship. 

Ber.  I  mean,  the  business  is  not  ended,  as  fearing 
to  hear  of  it  hereafter :  But  shall  we  have  this  dia- 
logue between  the  fool  and  the  soldier  ? Come, 

bring  forth  this  counterfeit  module  * ;  he  has  de- 
ceived me,  like  a  double-meaning  prophesier. 

2  Lord.  Bring  him  forth  :  [^Exeunt  Soldiers.]  he 
has  sat  in  the  stocks  all  night,  poor  gallant  knave. 

Jier.  No  matter ;  his  heels  have  deserved  it,  in 
usuqiing  his  spurs  ^  so  long.  How  does  he  carry 
himself? 

1  Lord.  I  have  told  your  lordship  already  ;  the 
stocks  carry  him.  But,  to  answer  you  as  you  would 
he  understood ;  he  weeps :  he  hath  confessed  him- 
self to  Morgan,  whom  he  supposes  to  be  a  friar, 
from  the  time  of  his  remembrance,  to  this  very  in- 
stant disaster  of  his  sitting  i'the  stocks :  And  what 
think  you  he  hath  confessed  ? 

Ber.   Nothing  of  me,  has  he  ? 

■'  Model,  pattern. 

«  An  allusion  to  the  degradation  of  a  knight  by  hacking  off 

MIS  spurs. 


2  Lord.  His  confession  is  taken,  and  it  shall  be 
read  to  his  face :  if  your  lordship  be  in't,  as  I  believe 
you  are,  you  must  have  the  patience  to  hear  it. 

Re-enter  Soldiers,  with  Parolles. 

Ber.  A  plague  upon  him  !  muffled  !  he  can  say 
nothing  of  me  ;  hush  !   hush  ! 

1  Lord.    Hoodman  comes  !  —  Porto  tartarossa. 

1  Sold.  He  calls  for  the  tortures ;  What  will  you 
say  without  'em  ? 

Par.  I  will  confess  what  I 'know  without  con- 
straint ;  if  he  pinch  me  like  a  pasty,  I  can  say  no 
more. 

1  Sold.   Bosko  chimurcho. 

2  Lord.   Boblibindo  chicurmurcho. 

1  Sold.  You  are  a  merciful  general  :  —  Our 
general  bids  you  answer  to  what  I  shall  ask  you  out 
of  a  note. 

Par.   And  truly,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  First  demand  of  him  how  many  horse  the 
duke  is  strong.     What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  ;  but  very  weak  and 
unserviceable :  the  troops  are  all  scattered,  and  the 
commanders  very  poor  rogues,  upon  my  reputation 
and  credit,  and  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.   Shall  I  set  down  your  answer  so  ? 

Par.  Do  ;  I'll  take  my  oath  on't,  how  and  which 
way  you  will. 

Ber.  All's  one  to  him.  What  a  past-saving  slave 
is  this  ! 

1  Lord.  You  are  deceived,  my  lord  ;  this  is  mon- 
sieur Parolles,  the  gallant  militarist,  (that  was  his 
own  phrase, )  that  had  the  whole  theorick  of  war  in 
the  knot  of  his  scarf,  and  the  practice  in  the  chape  ^ 
of  his  dagger. 

2  Lord.  I  will  never  trust  a  man  again,  for  keep- 
ing his  sword  clean  ;  nor  believe  he  can  have  every 
thing  in  him,  by  wearing  his  apparel  neatly. 

1  Sold.   Well,  that's  set  down. 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  horse,  I  said,  —  I  will 
say  true,  — or  thereabouts,  set  down, —  for  I'll  speak 
truth. 

1  Lord.   He's  very  near  the  truth  in  this. 

Ber.  But  I  con  him  no  thanks  for't,  in  the  nature 
he  delivers  it. 

Par.   Poor  rogues,  I  pray  you,  say. 

1  Sold.   Well,  that's  set  down. 

Par.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir :  a  truth's  a  truth, 
the  rogues  are  marvellous  poor. 

1  Sold.  Demand  of  him,  of  what  strength  they  are 
a-foot.     What  say  you  to  tliat  ? 

Par.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  I  were  to  live  this 
present  hour,  I  will  tell  true.  Let  me  see  :  Spurio 
a  hundred  and  fifty,  Sebastian  so  many,  Corambus 
so  many,  Jaques  so  many  ;  Guiltian,  Cosmo,  Lo- 
dowick,  and  Gratii,  two  hundred  fifty  each ;  mine 
own  company,  Chitopher,  Vaumond,  Bentii,  two 
hundred  and  fifty  each  :  so  that  the  muster-file, 
rotten  and  sound,  upon  my  life,  amounts  not  to 
fifleen  thousand  poll ;  half  of  which  dare  not  shake 
the  snow  from  off  their  cassocks  8,  lest  they  shake 
themselves  to  pieces. 

Ber.   What  shall  be  done  to  him  ? 

1  Lord.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks.  De- 
mand of  him  my  conditions  9,  and  what  credit  I 
have  with  the  duke. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that's  set  down.     You  shall  demand 

'  The  point  of  the  scabbard. 

f*  CaMock  then  signified  a  horseman's  loote  coat 

*  Disposition  and  character. 


234 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Act  IV. 


nj  him,  whether  one  captain  Dumain  be  {the  camp, 
a  Frenchman  ;  what  his  reputation  is  with  the  duke, 
what  his  valour ^  honest'/,  and  erpertness  in  imrs ;  or 
ivhether  he  thinks  it  were  not  possible,  with  well- 
weighing  sums  of  tiold,  to  corrupt  him  to  a  revolt. 
What  say  you  to  this  ?  what  do  you  know  of  it  ? 

Par.  I  beseech  you,  let  me  answer  to  the  par- 
ticular of  tlie  interrogatories  :   Demand  them  singly. 

1  Sold.    Do  you  know  this  captain  Dumain  ? 

Par.  I  know  him :  he  was  a  botcher's  'prentice  in 

Paris,  from  whence  he  was  whipped  for  ill  conduct. 

[DaaiAiN  li/ls  up  his  hand  in  anger. 

Per.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands ; 
though  I  know,  his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next  tile 
that  falls. 

1  Sold.  Well,  is  this  captain  in  the  duke  of  Flo- 
rence's camp  ? 

Par.    Upon  my  knowledge,  he  is,  and  lousy. 

1  Lo7'd.  Nay,  look  not  so  upon  me;  we  shall 
hear  of  your  lordship  anon. 

1  Sold.   What  is  his  reputation  with  the  duke  ? 

Par.  The  duke  knows  him  for  no  other  but  a 
poor  officer  of  mine  ;  and  writ  to  me  this  other  day, 
to  turn  him  out  o'the  band :  I  think  I  have  his  letter 
in  my  pocket. 

1  Sold.   Marry,  we'll  search. 

Par.  In  good  sadness,  I  do  not  know  ;  either  it 
is  there,  or  it  is  upon  a  file,  with  the  duke's  other 
letters  in  my  tent. 

]  Sold.  Here  'tis ;  here's  a  paper  ?  Shall  I  read 
it  to  you  ? 

Par.   I  do  not  know  if  it  be  it  or  nd. 

Per.   Our  interpreter  does  it  well. 

1  Lord.   Excellently. 

I  Sold.  Dian.  The  counfsafool,andJullof  gold, — 

Par.  That  is  not  the  duke's  letter,  sir ;  that  is  an 
advertisement  to  a  proper  maid  in  Florence,  one 
Diana,  to  take  heed  of  the  allurements  of  one  count 
llousillon,  a  foolish  idle  boy :  I  pray  you,  sir,  put 
it  up  again. 

1  Sold.   Nay,  I'll  read  it  first,  by  your  favour. 

Par.  My  meaning  in't,  I  protest,  was  very  honest 
in  the  behalf  of  the  maid ;  for  1  knew  the  young 
count  to  be  a  dangerous  and  lascivious  boy. 

Per.   Abominable,  both  sides  rogue  ! 

1  Sold.    When  he  swears  oaths,  bid  him  drop  gold, 

and  take  it ; 
After  he  scores,  he  never  pays  the  score  : 
Half  won,  is  match  well  made ;    match,  and  well 
make  it ; 
He  ne'er  pays  after  debts,  take  it  before  ; 
And  say,  a  soldier,  Dian,  told  thee  this, 
Men  are  to  mell  with,  boys  are  not  to  kiss  : 
For  count  of  this,  the  count's  a  fool,  I  know  it, 
Who  pays  before,  but  not  when  he  does  owe  it. 

Thine,  as  he  vow'd  to  thee  in  thine  ear, 

Parollks. 
Per.   He  shall  be  whipped  through  the  army,  with 
this  rhyme  in  his  forehead. 

2  Pord.  This  is  your  devoted  friend,  sir,  the 
manifold  linguist,  and  the  armipotent  soldier. 

Per.  I  could  endure  any  thing  before  but  a  cat, 
and  now  he's  a  cat  to  me. 

1  Sold.  I  perceive,  sir,  by  the  general's  looks,  we 
shall  be  fain  to  hang  you. 

Par.  My  life,  sir,  in  any  case:  not  tliat  I  am 
afraid  to  die  :  but  that,  my  offences  being  many,  I 
would  repent  out  the  remainder  of  nature :  let  me 
live,  sir,  in  a  dungeon,  i'the  stocks,  or  any  where, 
so  I  may  live. 


1  Sold.  We*ll  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you  con- 
fess freely;  therefore,  once  more  to  this  captain 
Dumain  :  You  have  answered  to  his  reputation  with 
the  duke,  and  to  his  valour :  What  is  his  honesty  ? 

Par.  He  will  steal,  sir,  an  egg  out  of  a  cloister. 
He  professes  not  keeping  of  oaths ;  in  breaking 
them,  he  is  stronger  than  Hercules.  He  will  lie, 
sir,  with  such  volubility,  that  you  would  think  truth 
were  a  fool :  drunkenness  is  his  best  virtue.  I  have 
but  little  more  to  say,  sir,  of  his  honesty :  he  has 
every  thing  that  an  honest  man  should  not  havej 
what  an  honest  man  should  have,  he  has  nothing. 

1  Lord.   I  begin  to  love  him  for  this. 

Per.  For  this  description  of  thine  honesty  ?  A 
plague  upon  him  for  me,  he  is  more  and  more  a  cat. 

1  Sold.   What  say  you  to  his  expertness  in  war  ? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  he  has  led  the  drum  before  the 
English  tragedians, — to  belie  him,  I  will  not, — and 
more  of  his  soldiership  I  know  not ;  except,  in  that 
country,  lie  had  the  honour  to  be  the  officer  at  a 
place  there  called  Mile-end,  to  instruct  for  the 
doubling  of  files  :,  I  would  do  the  man  what  honour 
I  can,  but  of  this  I  am  not  certain. 

1  Lord.  He  hath  out-villained  villainy  so  far, 
that  the  rarity  redeems  him. 

Per.   A  plague  on  him  !  he's  a  cat  still. 

1  Sold.  His  qualities  being  at  this  poor  price,  I 
need  not  ask  you,  if  gold  will  corrupt  him  to  revolt. 

Par.  Sir,  for  a  quart  d'ecu  '  he  will  sell  the  fee- 
simple  of  his  salvation,  the  inheritance  of  it ;  and 
cut  the  entail  from  all  remainders,  and  a  perpetual 
succession  for  it  perpetually. 

1  Sold.  What's  his  brother,  the  other  captain 
Dumain  ? 

2  Lord.   Why  does  he  ask  liim  of  me  ? 
1  Sold.   What's  he  ? 

Par.  E'en  a  crow  of  the  same  nest ;  not  altogether 
so  great  as  the  first  in  goodness,  but  greater  a  great 
deal  in  evil.  He  excels  his  brother  for  a  coward, 
yet  his  brother  is  reputed  one  of  the  best  that  is  : 
In  a  retreat  he  outruns  any  lackey ;  marry,  in 
coming  on  he  has  the  cramp. 

1  Sold.  If  your  life  be  saved,  will  you  undertake 
to  betray  the  Florentine  ? 

Par.  Ay,  and  the  captain  of  his  horse,  count 
Rousillon. 

1  Sold.  I'll  whisper  with  the  general,  and  know 
his  pleasure. 

Par.  I'll  no  more  drumming ;  a  plague  of  all 
drums  !  Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to  beguile 
the  supposition  ^  of  that  lascivious  young  boy,  the 
count,  have  I  run  into  this  danger  :  Yet,  who  would 
have  suspected  an  ambush  where  I  was  taken  ? 

[Aside. 

1  Sold.  There  is  no  remedy,  sir,  but  you  must  die : 
the  general  says,  you,  that  have  so  traitorously  dis- 
covered the  secrets  of  your  army,  and  made  such 
pestiferous  reports  of  men  very  nobly  held,  can 
serve  the  world  for  no  honest  use ;  therefore  you 
must  die.      Come,  headsmen,  off  with  his  head. 

Par.  O  Lord,  sir ;  let  me  live,  or  let  me  see  my 
death. 

1  Sold.  That  shall  you,  and  take  your  leave  of  all 
your  friends.  [  Unmxiffling  him. 
So,  look  you  about  you  ;  Know  you  any  here  ? 

Per.   Good  morrow,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.   Bless  you,  captain  Parolles. 
1  Lord.    Save  you,  noble  captain. 

>  The  fourth  part  of  the  smaller  French  crowa 
2  To  deceive  the  opinion. 


Scene  IV. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


235 


2  Lord.  Captain,  what  greeting  will  you  to  my 
lord  Lafeu  ?   I  am  for  France. 

1  Lord.  Good  captain,  will  you  give  me  a  copy 
of  the  sonnet  you  writ  to  Diana  in  belialf  of  the 
count  Ilousillon  ?  an  I  were  not  a  very  coward,  I'd 
compel  it  of  you  ;  but  fare  you  well. 

[Exeiinl  Bertram,  Lords,  ^c. 

1  Sold.  You  are  undone,  captain  :  all  but  your 
scarf,  that  has  a  knot  on't  yet 

Par.   Who  cannot  be  crushed  with  a  plot  ? 

1  Sold.  If  you  could  find  out  a  country  where 
but  women  were  that  had  received  so  much  shame, 
you  might  begin  an  impudent  nation.  Fare  you 
well,  sir ;  I  am  for  France  too  j  we  shall  speak  of 
you  there.  [Exit. 

-   Par.  Yet  am  I  tliankful :  if  my  heart  were  great, 
'Twould  burst  at  this :    Captain,  I'll  be  no  more  ; 
But  I  will  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 
As  captain  shall :   simply  the  thing  I  am 
Shall  make  me  live.   Who  knows  himself  a  braggart, 
Let  him  fear  this ;  for  it  will  come  to  pass. 
That  every  braggart  shall  be  found  an  ass. 
Rust,  sword  !  cool,  blushes  !  and,  ParoUes,  live 
Safest  in  shame  !   being  fool'd,  by  foolery  thrive  ! 
Tliere's  place,  and  means,  for  every  man  alive. 
I'll  after  them.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Florence.    A  Room  in  the  Widow'* 
,  House. 

Enter  Heleka,  Widow,  arid  Diana. 

Hel.   That  you  may  well  perceive  I  have   not 
wrong'd  you, 
One  of  the  greatest  in  the  Christian  world 
Shall  be  my  surety ;  'fore  whose  tlirone,  'tis  needful. 
Ere  I  can  perfect  mine  intents,  to  kneel  : 
Time  was  I  did  him  a  desired  office. 
Dear  almost  as  his  life  ;  which  gratitude 
Through  flinty  Tartar's  bosom  would  peep  forth. 
And  answer  thanks  :    I  duly  am  inform'd 
His  grace  is  at  Marseilles ;  to  which  place 
We  have  convenient  convoy.      You  must  know, 
I  am  supposed  dead  :   the  army  breaking, 
My  husband  hies  him  home ;  where,  heaven  aiding. 
And  by  the  leave  of  my  good  lord  the  king. 
We'll  be,  before  our  welcome. 

fFid.  Gentle  madam, 

You  never  had  a  servant,  to  whose  trust 
Your  business  was  more  welcome. 

Hel.  Nor  you,  mistress, 

Ever  a  friend,  whose  thoughts  more  truly  labour 
To  recompense  your  love  ;  doubt  not,  but  heaven 
Hath  brought  me  up  to  be  your  daughter's  dower. 
As  it  hath  fated  her  to  be  my  motive 
And  helper  to  a  husband.     O  strange  men  ! 
But  more  of  this  hereafter  :  .  You,  Diana, 

Under  my  poor  instructions  yet  must  suffer 
Sometliing  in  my  behalf. 

Dia.  Let  death  and  honesty 

Go  with  your  impositions  ^  I  am  yours. 
Upon  your  will  to  suffer. 

HeL  Yet,  I  pray  you, 

But  with  the  word,  the  time  will  bring  on  summer. 
When  briars  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 
And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.     We  must  away  ; 
Our  waggon  is  prepar'd,  and  time  revives  us : 
AlCs  well  that  ends  well ;  still  the  fine's  *  the  crown  j 
Whate'er  the  course,  the  end  is  the  renown. 

[Exeunt. 
'  Command*  *  End 


SCENE   V. 


Bousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Coun- 
tess's Palace. 


Elder  Countess,  Lafeu,  and  Clown. 

Lqf.  No,  no,  no,  your  son  was  misled  with  a  snipt- 
taifata  fellow  there ;  whose  villainous  saffron  ^  would 
have  made  all  the  unbak'd  and  doughy  youth  of  a 
nation  in  his  colour  :  your  daughter-in-law  had  been 
alive  at  this  hour  ;  and  your  son  here  at  home,  more 
advanced  by  the  the  king,  than  by  that  red-tailed 
humble-bee  I  speak  of. 

Count.  I  would,  I  had  not  known  him !  it  was 
the  death  of  the  most  virtuous  gentlewoman  that 
ever  nature  had  praise  for  creating  :  if  she  had  cost 
me  the  dearest  groans  of  a  mother,  I  could  not  have 
owed  her  a  more  rooted  love. 

Laf.  'Twas  a  good  lady,  'twas  a  good  lady  :  we 
may  pick  a  thousand  salads,  ere  we  light  on  such 
another  herb. 

do-  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  the  sweet-marjoram  of 
the  salad,  or,  rather,  the  herb  of  grace.  ^ 

Lqf.  They  are  not  salad-herbs,  you  knave,  they 
are  nose-herbs. 

Clo.    Sir,  I  have  not  much  skill  in  pn—  ^^  - 

Lnf.  Go  thy  ways,  I  begin  to  be  a-weary  of  thee, 
and  I  tell  thee  so  before,  because  I  would  not  fall 
out  with  thee.  Go  thy  ways;  let  my  horses  be 
well  looked  to,  without  any  tricks. 

Clo.  If  I  put  any  tricks  upon  'em,  sir,  they  shall 
be  jades'  tricks ;  which  are  their  own  right  by  the 
law  of  nature.  [Exit. 

Lnf.   A  shrewd  knave,  and  an  unhappy.  ' 

Count.  So  he  is.  My  lord,  that's  gone,  made 
himself  much  sport  out  of  him  :  by  his  authority  he 
remains  here,  which  he  thinks  is  a  patent  for  his 
sauciness;  and,  indeed,  he  has  no  pace,  but  runs 
where  he  will. 

Laf.  I  like  him  well  ;  'tis  not  amiss :  and  I  was 
about  to  tell  you.  Since  I  heard  of  the  good  lady's 
death,  and  that  my  lord  your  son  was  upon  his  re- 
turn home,  I  moved  the  king  my  master,  to  speak 
in  the  behalf  of  my  daughter  :  which  in  the  mino- 
rity of  them  both,  his  majesty,  out  of  a  self-gracious 
remembrance,  did  first  propose  :  his  highness  hath 
promised  me  to  do  it :  and,  to  stop  up  the  displea- 
sure he  hath  conceived  against  your  son,  there  is  no 
fitter  matter.      How  does  your  ladyship  like  it  ? 

Count.  With  very  much  content,  my  lord,  and  I 
wish  it  happily  effected. 

Laf.  His  highness  comes  post  from  Marseilles,  of 
as  able  body  as  when  he  numbered  thirty  ;  he  will 
be  here  to-morrow,  or  I  am  deceived  by  him  that 
in  such  intelligence  hath  seldom  failed. 

Count.  It  rejoices  me,  that  I  hope  I  shall  see  him 
ere  I  die.  I  have  letters,  that  my  son  will  be  here 
to-night :  I  shall  beseech  your  lordship,  to  remain 
with  me  till  they  meet  together. 

Laf.  Madam,  I  was  thinking,  with  what  manners 
I  might  safely  be  admitted. 

Count.  You  need  but  plead  your  honourable  pri- 
vilege. 

Laf.  Lady,  of  that  I  have  made  a  bold  charter ; 
but,  I  thank  my  God,  it  holds  yet. 

Re-enter  Clown. 
Clo.   O  madam,  yonder's  my  lord  your  son  with 
a  patch  of  velvet  on's  face :  whether  there  be  a  scar 

>  There  was  a  fashion  of  using  yellow  starch  for  bands  and 
ruffles,  to  which  Lafeu  alludes. 
•  i.  e.  Rue.  ^  Mischievously  unhappy,  waggish. 


236 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


under  it,  or  no,  the  velvet  knows  :  but  'tis  a  goodly 
patch  of  velvet :  his  left  cheek  is  a  cheek  of  two 
pile  and  a  half,  but  his  right  cheek  is  worn  bare. 

I.nf.  A  scar  nobly  got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a  good 
livery  of  honour  !  so,  belike,  is  that. 

Clo.   But  it  is  your  carbonadoed  8  face. 


Act  V. 

Laf.  Let  us  go  see  your  son,  I  pray  you ;  I  long 
to  talk  with  the  young  noble  soldier. 

Clo.  There's  a  dozen  of  'em,  with  delicate  fine 
hats,  and  most  courteous  feathers,  which  bow  the 
head,  and  nod  at  every  man. 

\Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  Marseilles.     A  Street. 

Enter  Helena,  Widow,  and  Diana,  ivUh  two 
Attendants. 

Hel.   But  this  exceeding  posting,  day  and  night, 
Must  wear  your  spirits  low  :   we  cannot  help  it ; 
But  since  you  have  made  the  days  and  nights  as  one, 
To  wear  your  gentle  limbs  in  my  affairs, 
Be  bold,  you  do  so  grow  in  my  requital, 
As  nothing  can  unroot  you.      In  happy  time  ; 

Enter  a  gentle  Astringer.  9 
This  man  may  help  me  to  his  majesty's  ear. 
If  he  would  spend  his  power.  —  God  save  you,  sir. 

Gent.   And  you. 

Hel.  Sir,  I  have  seen  you  in  the  court  of  France. 

Gent.    I  have  been  sometimes  there. 

Hel.   I  do  presume,  sir,  that  you  are  not  fallen 
From  the  report  that  goes  upon  your  goodness ; 
And  therefore,  goaded  with  most  sharp  occasions, 
Which  lay  nice  manners  by,  I  put  you  to 
The  use  of  your  own  virtues,  for  the  which 
I  shall  continue  thankful. 

Gent.  What's  your  will  ? 

Hel.   That  it  will  please  you 
To  give  this  poor  petition  to  the  king ; 
And  aid  me  with  that  store  of  power  you  have. 
To  come  into  his  presence. 

Gent.   The  king's  not  here. 

Hel.  Not  here,  sir  ? 

Gent.  Not,  indeed  : 

He  hence  remov'd  last  night,  and  with  more  haste 
Than  is  his  use. 

Hel.   AWs  well  that  ends  well ;  yet ; 
Though  time  seem  so  adverse,  and  means  unfit.  — 
I  do  beseech  you,  whither  is  he  gone  ? 

Gent.   Marry,  as  I  take  it,  to  Rousillon  ; 
Whither  I  am  going. 

Hel.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir. 

Since  you  are  like  to  see  the  king  before  me. 
Commend  the  paper  to  his  gracious  hand  ; 
Which,  I  presume,  shall  render  you  no  blame. 
But  rather  make  you  thank  your  pains  for  it : 
I  will  come  after  you,  with  what  good  speed 
Our  means  will  make  us  means. 

Gent.  This  I'll  do  for  you. 

Hel.    And  you    shall    find  yourself  to  be  well 
thank'd, 
Whate'er  falls  more.  —  We  must  to  horse  again  ;  — 
Go,  go,  provide.  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Rousillon.     The  inner  Court  of  the 
Countess's  Palace. 

Entei  Clown  and  Parolles. 
Par.  Good  monsieur  Lavatch,  give  my  lord  Lafeu 

^  Scored  like  a  piece  of  meat  for  the  gridiron. 
9  A  gentleman  falconer. 


this  letter  :  I  have,  ere  now,  sir,  been  better  known 
to  you,  when  I  have  held  familiarity  with  fresher 
clothes ;  but  I  am  now,  sir,  muddied  in  fortune's 
moat,  and  smell  somewhat  strong  of  her  strong  dis- 
pleasure. 

Clo.   Truly,  fortune's  displeasure  is  but<;sluttishJ 
if  it  smell  so  strong  as  thou  speakest  of/^ 
here  he  comes  himself. 

Enter  Lafeu. 

Here  is  a  pur  of  fortune's,  sir,  or  of  fortune's  cat, 
(but  not  a  musk-cat,)  that  has  fallen  into  the  vmclean 
fishpond  of  her  displeasure,  and,  as  he  says,  is  mud- 
died withal :  Pray  you,  sir,  use  the  carp  as  you  may  ; 
for  he  looks  like  a  poor,  decayed,  ingenious,  foolish, 
rascally  knave.  I  do  pity  his  distress  in  my  smiles 
of  comfort,  and  leave  him  to  your  Iqrdship. 

[Exit  Clown. 

Par.  My  lord,  I  am  a  man  whom  fortune  hath 
cruelly  scratched. 

Lctf.  And  what  would  you  have  me  to  do  ?  'tis  too 
late  to  pare  her  nails  now.  Wherein  have  you  played 
the  knave  with  fortune,  that  she  should  scratch  you, 
who  of  herself  is  a  good  lady,  and  would  not  have 
knaves  thrive  long  under  her  ?  There's  a  quart  d'ecu 
for  you :  Let  the  justices  make  you  and  fortune 
friends  :    I  am  for  other  business. 

Far.  I  beseech  your  honour,  to  hear  me  one  sin- 
gle word. 

Laf.  You  beg  a  single  penny  more  :  come,  you 
shall  ha't ;  save  your  word. 

Par.   My  name,  my  good  lord,  is  Parolles. 

Laf.  You  beg  more  than  one  word  then.  —  Give 
me  your  hand :  —  How  does  your  drum  ? 

Par.  O  my  good  lord,  you  were  the  first  that 
found  me. 

Laf.  Was  I,  in  sooth?  and  I  was  the  first  that 
lost  thee. 

Par.  It  lies  in  you,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  in  some 
grace,  for  you  did  bring  me  out. 

Laf.  Out  upon  thee,  knave  !  [Trumpets  sound.] 
The  king's  coming,  I  know  by  his  trumpets.  —  Sir- 
rah, inquire  further  after  me  ;  I  had  talk  of  you  last 
night :  though  you  are  a  fool  and  a  knave,  you  shall 
eat ;  go  to,  follow. 

Par.   I  praise  heaven  for  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  ^  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  King,  Countess,   Lafeu,   Lords, 
Gentlemen,  Guards,  ^c. 

Xing.   We  lost  a  jewel  of  her  ;    and  our  esteem ' 
Was  made  much  poorer  by  it :   but  your  son. 
As  mad  in  folly,  lack'd  the  sense  to  know 
Her  estimation  home.  2 

Count.  'Tis  past  my  liege  : 

1  Reckoning  or  estimate.        2  Completely,  in  its  full  extent. 


Scene  III. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


23T 


A  nd  I  beseech  your  majesty  to  make  it 
Natural  rebellion,  done  i'the  blaze  of  youth  ; 
When  oil  and  fire,  too  strong  for  reason's  force, 
O'erbears  it,  and  burns  on. 

A'ing  My  honour'd  lady, 

I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all ; 
Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  him. 
And  watch'd  the  time  to  shoot. 

Laf.  This  I  must  say, 

But  first  I  beg  my  pardon,  —  The  young  lord 
Did  to  his  majesty,  his  mother,  and  his  lady. 
Offence  of  mighty  note  ;  but  to  himself 
The  greatest  wrong  of  all :   he  lost  a  wife, 
Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes  ;  whose  words  all  cars  took  captive ; 
Whose  dear  perfection,  hearts  that  scorn'd  to  serve. 
Humbly  caird  mistress. 

A7/?g.  Praising  what  is  lost, 

IMakes  the  remembrance  dear. Well,  call  him 

hither ; 

We  are  reconcil'd,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 

All  repetition  ^;  —  Let  him  not  ask  our  pardon  ; 

The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead. 

And  deeper  than  oblivion  do  we  bury 

The  incensing  relicks  of  it :   let  him  approach, 

A  stranger,  no  offender ;  and  inform  him, 

So  'tis  our  will  he  should. 

Gent.  I  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exit  Gentleman. 

ITing.   What  says  he  to  your  daughter  ?  have  you 
spoke  ? 

Laf.  All  that  he  is  hath  reference  to  your  highness. 

A'ing.   Then  shall  we  have  a  match.      I  have  let- 
ters sent  me. 
That  set  him  high  in  fame. 

Enter  Bertram. 

Laf.  He  looks  well  on't. 

JSTing.   I  am  not  a  day  of  season  •♦, 
For  thou  mayst  see  a  sunshine  and  a  hail 
In  me  at  once  :    But  to  the  brightest  beams 
Distracted  clouds  give  way ;  so  stand  thou  forth. 
The  time  is  fair  again. 

Ber.  My  high  repented  blames. 

Dear  sovereign,  pardon  to  me. 

Alng.  All  is  whole  ; 

Not  one  word  more  of  the  consumed  time. 
Let's  take  the  instant  by  the  forward  top  ; 
For  we  are  old,  and  on  our  quick'st  decrees 
The  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  time 
Steals  ere  we  can  effect  them  :   You  remember 
The  daughter  of  this  lord  ? 

Ber.   Admiringly,  my  liege  :   at  first 
I  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 
Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue : 
Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing. 
Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  nje. 
Which  warp'd  the  line  of  every  other  favour ; 
Scorn'd  a  fair  colour,  or  expressed  it  stol'n  ; 
Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions. 
To  a  most  hideous  object :   Thence  it  came, 
Tliat  she,  whom  all  men  prais'd,  and  whom  myself. 
Since  I  have  lost,  have  lov'd,  was  in  mine  eye 
The  dust  that  did  offend  it. 

A'ing.  Well  excus'd  : 

That  thou  didst  love  her,  strikes  some  scores  away 
From  the  great  compt :  But  love,  that  comes  too  late, 
Like  a  remorseful  pardon  slowly  carried, 
To  the  great  sender  turns  a  sour  offence, 
Crying,  That's  good  that's  gone  :  our  rash  faults 
»  Recollection  *  i.  e.  Of  uninterrupted  rata 


Make  trivial  price  of  serious  things  we  have, 
Not  knowing  them,  until  we  know  their  grave: 
Oft  our  displeasures,  to  ourselves  unjust. 
Destroy  our  friends,  and  after  weep  their  dust : 
Our  own  love  waking  cries  to  see  what's  done. 
While  sJiameful  hate  sleeps  out  the  afternoon. 
Be  this  sweet  Helen's  knell,  and  now  forget  her. 
Send  forth  your  amorous  token  for  fair  JNIaudlin  : 
The  main  consents  are  had  ;  and  here  we'll  stay 
To  see  our  widower's  second  marriage-day. 

Count.  Which  better  than  the  first,  O  dear  heaven, 
bless ! 
Or,  ere  they  meet,  in  me,  O  nature,  cease ! 

Laf.  Come  on,  my  son,  in  whom  my  house's  name 
Must  be  digested,  give  a  favour  from  you, 
To  sparkle  in  the  spirits  of  my  daughter, 
That  she  may  quickly  come.  —  By  my  old  beard, 
And  every  hair  that's  on't,  Helen,  that's  dead. 
Was  a  sweet  creature  ;  such  a  ring  as  this. 
The  last  tliat  e'er  I  took  her  leave  at  court, 
I  saw  upon  her  finger. 

Bet:  Hers  it  was  not. 

Alng.   Now,  pray  you  let  me  see  it ;  for  mine  eye, 
Wliile  I  was  speaking,  oft  was  fasten'd  to't.  — 
This  ring  was  mine ;  and,  when  I  gave  it  Helen, 
I  bade  her,  if  her  fortunes  ever  stood 
Necessitied  to  help,  that  by  this  token 
I  would  relieve  her  :  Had  you  that  craft,  to  reave  her 
Of  what  should  stead  her  most  ? 

Ber.  My  gracious  sovereign, 

Howe'er  it  pleases  you  to  take  it  so, 
The  ring  was  never  hers. 

Count.  Son,  on  my  life, 

I  have  seen  her  wear  it ;  and  she  reckon'd  it 
At  her  life's  rate. 

Laf.  I  am  sure,  I  saw  her  wear  it. 

Ber.  You  are  deceiv'd,  my  lord,  she  never  saw  it : 
In  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  paper,  which  contain'd  the  name 
Of  her  that  threw  it :   noble  she  was,  and  thought 
I  stood  ingag'd  ^  :  but  when  I  had  subscrib'd 
To  mine  own  fortune,  and  inform'd  her  fully, 
I  could  not  answer  in  that  course  of  honour 
As  she  had  made  the  overture,  she  ceas'd, 
In  heavy  satisfaction,  and  would  never 
Receive  the  ring  again. 

Mng.  Plutus  himself. 

That  knows  the  tinct  and  multiplying  medicine®, 
Hath  not  in  nature's  mystery  more  science. 
Than  I  have  in  this  ring  :  'twas  mine,  'twas  Helen's, 
Whoever  gave  it  you  :    Then,  if  you  know. 
That  you  are  well  acquainted  with  yourself, 
Confess  'twas  hers,  and  by  what  rough  enforcement 
You  got  it  from  her :  she  call'd  the  saints  to  surety. 
That  she  would  never  put  it  from  her  finger, 
Unless  she  gave  it  to  yourself  in  bed, 
(  Where  you  have  never  come)  or  sent  it  us 
Upon  her  great  disaster. 

Ber.  She  never  saw  it. 

Alng.   Thou  speak'st  it  falsely,  as  I  love  mine 
honour ; 
And  mak'st  conjectural  fears  to  come  into  me. 
Which  I  would  fain  shut  out :    If  it  should  prove 
That  thou  art  so  inhuman,  —  'twill  not  prove  so ;  — 
And  yet  I  know  not :  —thou  didst  hate  her  deadly^ 
And  she  is  dead  ;  which  nothing,  but  to  close 
Her  eyes  myself,  could  win  me  to  believe, 
More  than  to  see  this  ring.  —  Take  him  away.  — 
[Guards  seize  Bertram. 

*  In  the  lenfe  of  unengaged.       "  The  philosopher'*  stone. 


238 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Act  V. 


My  fore-past  proofs,  howe'er  the  matter  fall, 
Shall  tax  my  fears  of  little  vanity, 
Having  vainly  fear'd  too  little.  —  A  way  with  him  ;  — 
We'll  sift  this  matter  further. 

Ber.  If  you  shall  prove 

Tills  ring  was  ever  hers,  you  shall  as  easy 
Prove  that  I  husbanded  her  bed  in  Florence, 
Where  yet  she  never  was. 

\^ExU  Bertram,  guarded. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

King.   I  am  wrapp'd  in  dismal  thinkings. 

Gent.  Gracious  sovereign, 

Whether  I  have  been  to  blame,  or  no,  I  know  not ; 
Here's  a  petition  from  a  Florentine, 
Who  hath  for  four  or  five  removes  7,  come  short 
To  tender  it  herself.      I  undertook  it, 
Vanquish'd  thereto  by  the  fair  grace  and  speech 
Of  the  poor  suppliant,  who  by  this,  I  know, 
Ts  here  attending :   her  business  looks  in  her 
With  an  important  visage ;  and  she  told  me. 
In  a  sweet  verbal  brief,  it  did  concern 
Your  highness  with  herself. 

King.  [Reads.]  Upon  his  many  protestations  to 
marry  me,  when  his  wife  was  dead,  I  blush  to  say  it, 
he  won  me.  Now  is  the  count  Rousillon  a  widower  ; 
his  vows  are  forfeited  to  me,  and  my  honour^s  paid  to 
him.  He  stole  from  Florence,  taking  no  leave,  and  I 
follow  him  to  his  country  for  justice :  Grant  it  me,  0 
king ;  in  you  it  best  lies ;  otherwise  a  seducer  flou- 
rishes, and  a  poor  maid  is  undone. 

Diana  Capulet. 

Laf.  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and 
toll  him  8  :   for  this,  I'll  none  of  him. 

King.   The  heavens  have  thought  well  on  thee, 
Lafeu, 

To  bring  forth  this  discovery Seek  these  suitors :  — 

Go,  speedily,  and  bring  again  the  count. 

[Exeunt  Gentleman,  and  some  attendants. 
I  am  afeard,  the  life  of  Helen,  lady. 
Was  foully  snatch'd. 

Count.  Now,  justice  on  the  doers ! 

Enter  Bertram,  gjiarded. 

King.   I  wonder,  sir,  since  wives  are  monsters  to 
you, 
And  that  you  fly  them  as  you  swear  them  lordship, 
Yet  you  desire  to  marry.  —  What  woman's  that  ? 

Re-enter  Gentleman,  with  Widow,  and  Diana. 

Dia.   I  am,  my  lord,  a  wretched  Florentine, 
Derived  from  the  ancient  Capulet ; 
My  suit,  as  I  do  understand,  you  know. 
And  therefore  know  how  far  I  may  be  pitied. 

JVid.   I  am  her  mother,  sir,  whose  age  and  honour 
Both  suflfer  under  this  complaint  we  bring, 
And  both  shall  cease  ^,  without  your  remedy. 

King.   Come  hither,  count :    Do  you  know  these 
women  ? 

Ber.   My  lord,  I  neither  can,  nor  will  deny 
But  that  1  know  them  :    Do  they  charge  me  furtlier  ? 

Dia.   Why  do  you  look  so  strange  upon  your  wife? 

Ber.   She's  none  of  mine,  my  lord. 

Dia.  If  you  shall  marry, 

You  give  away  this  hand,  and  that  is  mine  ; 
You  give  away  heaven's  vows,  and  those  are  mine ; 
You  give  away  myself,  which  is  known  mine ; 


"  Post-stagps. 
9  Decease,  die. 


8  Pay  toll  for  him. 


For  I  by  vow  am  so  embodied  yours, 

That  she,  which  marries  you,  must  many  me, 

Either  both,  or  none. 

Lqf.   Your  reputation  [To  Bertram.]  comes  too 
short  for  my  daughter  ;  you  are  no  husband  for  her. 

Ber.   My  lord,  this  is  a  fond  and  desperate  crea- 
ture, 
Whom  sometime   I   have  laugh'd  with  :  let  your 

highness 
Lay  a  more  noble  thought  upon  mine  honour. 
Than  for  to  think  that  I  would  sink  it  here. 

King.   Sir,  for  my  thoughts,  you  have  them  ill 
friend. 
Till  your  deeds  gain  them  :   Fairer  prove  your  ho-| 

nour. 
Than  in  my  thought  it  lies ! 

I>ia.  Good  my  lord. 

Ask  him  upon  his  oath,  if  he  does  think 
He  had  not  my  virginity. 

King.   What  say'st  thou  to  her  ? 

Ber.  She's  impudent,  my  lord ; 

And  was  a  common  gamester  to  the  camp. ' 

Dia.   He  does  me  wrong,  my  lord  ;  if  I  were  so, 
He  might  have  bought  me  at  a  common  price  : 
Do  not  believe  him  :    O,  behold  this  ring. 
Whose  high  respect,  and  rich  validity, 
Did  lack  a  parallel ;  yet,  for  all  that. 
He  gave  it  to  a  commoner  o'  the  camp. 
If  I  be  one. 

Count.  He  blushes,  and  'tis  it : 

Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem 
Conferr'd  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue. 
Hath  it  been  ow'd  and  worn.      This  is  his  wife ; 
That  ring's  a  thousand  proofs. 

King.  Methought,  you  said. 

You  saw  one  here  in  court  could  witness  it. 

Dia.   I  did,  my  lord,  but  loatli  am  to  produce 
So  bad  an  instrument ;  his  name's  Parolles. 

Laf    I  saw  the  man  to-day,  if  man  he  be. 

King.  Find  him,  and  bring  him  hither. 

Ber.  What  of  him  ? 

He's  quoted  2  for  a  most  perfidious  slave. 
With  all  the  spots  o'  the  world  tax'd  and  debosh'd  3; 
Whose  nature  sickens,  but  to  speak  a  truth : 
Am  I  or  that,  or  this,  for  what  he'll  utter, 
That  will  speak  any  thing  ? 

King.  She  hath  that  ring  of  yours. 

Ber.   I  think,  she  has :   certain  it  is,  I  lik'd  her. 
She  knew  her  distance,  and  did  angle  for  me, 
Madding  my  eagerness  with  her  restraint. 
As  all  impediments  in  fancy's  ^  course 
Are  motives  of  more  fancy  ;  and,  in  fine. 
Her  insuit  coming  with  her  modern  grace  ^, 
Subdued,  me  to  her  rate  :   she  got  the  ring ; 
And  I  had  that,  which  any  inferior  might 
At  market-price  have  bought. 

Dia.  I  must  be  patient ; 

You,  that  turn'd  off  a  first  so  noble  wife. 
May  justly  diet  me.      I  pray  you  yet, 
(Since  you  lack  virtue,  I  will  lose  a  husband,) 
Send  for  your  ring,  I  will  return  it  home. 
And  give  me  mine  again. 

Ber.  I  have  it  not. 

King.   What  ring  was  yours,  I  pray  you  ? 

J^ia.  Sir,  much  like 

The  same  upon  your  finger. 

1  Gamester,  when  applied  to  a  female,  then  meant  a  common 
woman. 

2  Noted.  3  Debauch'd.  •>  Love. 

5  Her  solicitation  concurring  with  her  appearance  of  being 
common. 


Scene  III. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


239 


JRng.    Know  you  this  ring  ?  this  ring  was  his  of 

late. 
Dia.    And  this  was  it  I  gave  him,  being  a-bed. 
^ing.  The  story  then  goes  false,  you  threw  it  liim, 
Out  of  a  casement. 

Dia.  1  have  spoke  the  truth. 

Enter  Parolles. 
Ber.   My  lord,  I  do  confess,  the  ring  was  hers. 
lining.   You  boggle  shrewdly,  every  feather  starts 
you. 
Is  this  the  man  you  speak  of? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  lord. 

King.   Tell  me,  sirrah,  but  tell  me  true,  I  charge 
you, 
Not  fearing  the  displeasure  of  your  master, 
(Which,  on  your  just  proceeding,  I'll  keep  off,) 
By  him,  and  by  this  woman  here,  what  know  you  ? 
Par.   So    please    your   majesty,   my  master  hath 
oeen  an  honourable  gentleman  ;  tricks  he  hath  had 
m  him,  which  gentlemen  have. 

Jiing.    Come,  come,  to  tlie  purpose  :  Did  he  love 
this  woman  ? 

Par.   'Faith,  sir,  he  did  love  her  ;    But  how  ? 
Xing.   How,  I  pray  you. 

Par.  He  did  love  her,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  loves  a 
woman. 

JHng.   How  is  that  ? 

Par.   He  loved  her,  sir,  and  loved  her  not. 
JHrig.    As  thou  art  a  knave,  and  no  knave  :  — 
What  an  equivocal  companion  is  this  ? 

Par.   I   am  a  poor  man,  and  at  your  majesty's 
command. 

Laf.   He's  a  good  drum  my  lord,  but  a  naughty 
orator. 

Dia.   Do  you  know,  he  promised  me  maniage  ? 
Par.  'Faith,  I  know  more  than  I'll  speak. 
Xing.    But  wilt  thou  not  speak  all  thou  know'st  ? 
Par.   Yes,  so  please  your  majesty  ;    I  did  go  be- 
tween them,  as   I  said ;    but  more  than  that,  he 
loved  her,  —  for  indeed  he  was  mad  for  her,  and 
talked  of  Satan,  and  of  limbo,  and  of  furies,  and  I 
know  not  what :   yet  I  was  in  that  credit  with  them 
at  that  time,  that    I  knew  of  their  going  to  bed ; 
and  of  other  motions,  as  promising  her  marriage, 
and  things  that  would  derive  me  ill  will  to  speak  of, 
therefore  I  will  not  speak  what  I  know. 

King.    Thou  hast  spoken  all  already,  unless  thou 
canst  say  they  are  married :  But  thou  art  too  fine  in 
thy  evidence :   therefore  stand  aside  — 
This  ring,  you  say,  was  yours  ? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Xing.  Where  did  you  buy  it  ?  or  who  gave  it  you  ? 
Dia.   It  was  not  given  me,  nor  I  did  not  buy  it. 
Xing.   Who  lent  it  you  ? 

Dia.  It  was  not  lent  me  neither. 

Xing.   Where  did  you  find  it  then  ? 
Dia.  I  found  it  not 

Xing.   If  it  were  yours  by  none  of  all  these  ways. 
How  could  you  give  it  him  ? 

Dia.  I  never  gave  it  him. 

Laf.  This  woman's  an  easy  glove,  my  lord  ;    she 
goes  off  and  on  at  pleasure. 

Xing.   Tliis  ring  was  mine,  I  gave  it  his  first  wife. 
Dia.  It  might  be  yours  or  hers  for  aught  I  know. 
Xmg.    Take  her  away,  I  do  not  like  her  now  ; 
To  prison  with  her,  and  away  with  him.  — 
Unless  thou  tell'st  me  where  thou  hadst  this  ring, 
Thou  diest  within  this  hour. 

Dia.  I'll  never  tell  you. 


Xing.   Take  her  away. 

Dia.  I'll  put  in  bail,  my  liege. 

Xing.   I  think  thee  now  some  common  customer. 

Dia.    By  Jove,  if  ever  I  knew  man  'twas  you. 

Xing,    Wherefore  hast  thou  accus'd  him  all  tliis 
while? 

Dia.    Because  he's  guilty,  and  he  is  not  guilty  ; 
He  knows  I  am  no  maid,  and  he'll  swear  to't. 
I'll  swear  I  am  a  maid,  and  he  knows  not. 
Great  king,  I  am  no  strumpet,  by  my  life  ; 
I  am  either  maid,  or  else  this  old  man's  wife. 

[Pointing  to  Lafeu. 

Xing.  She  does  abuse  our  ears  ;  to  prison  with  her. 

Dia.   Good  mother,  fetch  my  bail.  —  Stay,  royal 
sir;  [Exit  Widow. 

The  jeweller,  that  owes  ^  the  ring,  is  sent  for. 
And  he  shall  surety  me.      But  for  this  lord. 
Who  hath  abus'd  me,  as  he  knows  himself, 
Though  yet  he  never  harm'd  me,  here  I  quit  him  : 
He  thinks  himself,  my  bed  he  hath  defil'd ; 
But  'twas  his  wife  who  then  became  with  child : 
And  now  behold  the  meaning. 

Re-enter  Widow,  with  Heleka. 

Xing.  Is  there  no  exorcist 

Beguiles  the  true  office  of  mine  eyes  ? 
Is't  real,  that  I  see  ? 

Hel.  No,  my  good  lord ; 

'Tis  but  the  shadow  of  a  wife  you  see. 
The  name,  and  not  tlie  thing. 

Ber.  Both,  botli ;  O,  pardon  ! 

Hel.    O,  my  good  lord,  when  I  was  like  this  maid, 
I  found  you  wondrous  kind.      There  is  your  ring, 
And,  look  you,  here's  your  letter  ;   This  it  says. 
When  from  my  finger  you  can  get  this  ring. 
And  are  by  me  with  chUd,  &c.  —  This  is  done  : 
Will  you  be  mine,  now  you  are  doubly  won  ? 

Ber.    If  she,  my  liege,  can  make   me  know  tiiis 
clearly, 
I'll  love  her  dearly,  ever,  ever  dearly. 

Hel.    If  it  appear  not  plain,  and  prove  untrue, 
Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  you  !  — 
O,  my  dear  mother,  do  I  see  you  living  ? 

Laf.  Mine  eyes  smell  onions,  I  shall  weep  anon  : 
—  Good  Tom  Drum,  [2'o  Parolles.]  lend  me  a 
handkerchief :  So,  I  thank  thee :  wait  on  me  home, 
I'll  make  sport  with  thee :  Let  thy  courtesies  alone, 
They  are  scurvy  ones. 

Xing.  Let  us  from  point  to  point  this  story  know, 
To  make  the  even  truth  in  pleasure  flow  :  — 
If  thou  be'st  yet  a  fresh  uncropped  flower, 

[To  Diana. 
Choose  thou  thy  husband,  and  I'll  pay  thy  dower ; 
For  I  can  guess,  that,  by  thy  honest  aid, 

Thou  kept'st  a  wife,  herself,  thyself  a  maid 

Of  that,  and  all  the  progress,  more  and  less, 
Resolvedly  more  leisure  shall  express  : 
All  yet  seems  well  ;  and  if  it  end  so  meet. 
The  bitter  past,  more  welcome  is  the  sweet. 

[FlimriMh. 
Advancing. 

Tlie  kings  a  beggar,  now  the  play  is  done  : 
All  is  well  ended,  if  this  suit  be  won. 
That  you  express  content ;  which  tee  unit  pay, 
With  strife  to  please  you^  day  exceeding  day  : 
Ours  be  your  patience  then,  and  yours  our  parts  7 
1  our  gentle  hands  lend  us,  and  take  our  hearts. 

lExeunU 
«  Owns. 
J  le.  Take  our  paita,  cupport  and  defend  u«. 


/ 


^ 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


A  Lord. 

Christopher   Sly,  a  drunken   Tinker.  "J  Persons  in 
Hostess,  Page,  Players,  Huntsmen  and  Ktlie  Indue- 
other  Servants  attending  on  the  Lord.  J  tion. 

Baptista,  a  rich  Gentleman  of  Padua. 
ViNCENTio,  074  old  Gentleman  of  Pisa. 
LucENTio,  Son  to  Vincentio,  in  love  with  Bianca. 
Petruchio,  a  Gentleman  of  Verona,  a  Suitor  to  Ka- 
tharina. 


Tranio,        \  Servants  to  Lucentio. 

BlONDELLO,  J 

Grumio,|^^^^^^^  /o  Petruchio. 

Curtis,  J 

Pedant,  an  old  Fellow  set  up  to  personate  Vincentio, 


Katharina,  the  Shrew . 
Bianca,  her  Sister, 
JVidow. 


>  Daughters  to  Baptista. 


Tailor,    Haberdasher,    arid     Servants    attending   on 
Baptista  and  Petruchio. 


SCEXE,  sometimes  in  Padua  ;  and  sometimes  in  Petruchio'*  House  in  the  Country 


THERE,  T4KB  IT  lO  YOD.  TRENOHKRS,  CDPM,  AND  ALL. 


TAMING   OF   THE    SHREW, 


INDUCTION. 


SCENE  I.  —  Before  an  Alehouse  on  a  Heath. 

Enter  Hostess  and  Sly. 

Sly'   I'll  pheese'  you  in  faith. 

Host.    A  pair  of  stocks,  you  rogue  ! 

Sly.  Y'are  a  baggage ;  tlie  Slies  are  no  rogues : 
Look  in  the  chronicles,  we  came  in  with  Richard 
Conqueror.  Therefore  paucas  pallabris"^ ;  let  the 
world  slide  :    Sessa  !  ^ 

Host.  You  will  not  pay  for  the  glasses  you  have 
burst  ? 

Sly.  No,  not  a  denier  :  Go  by,  says  Jeronimy  ;  — 
Go  to  thy  cold  bed,  and  warm  thee.  ^ 

Host.  I  know  my  remedy ;  1  must  go  fetch  the 
thirdborough.  ^  [Exit. 

Sly.  Third  or  fourth,  or  fifth  borough,  I'll  an- 
swer him  by  law  :  I'll  not  budge  an  inch,  boy;  let 
him  come,  and  kindly. 

[Lies  down  on  the  ground,  and  falls  asleep. 

Wind    Horns.      Enter  a   hord from  hunting,  with 
Huntsmen  and  Servants. 

Lord.   Huntsman,  I  charge  thee,  tender  well  my 
hounds : 
Brach^  Merriman,  —  the  poor  cur  is  emboss'd  7,  — 

'  Beat  or  knock.  2  pg^  words.  3  Be  quiet. 

'^  This  line  and  scrap  of  Spanish  is  used  in  burlesque  from 
in  old  play  called  Hieronymo,  or  the  Spanish  Tragedy. 
''  An  otticer  whose  authority  equals  that  of  a  constable. 
*  U'^o.h.  7  strained. 


And  couple  Clowder  with  the  deep-mouth'd  brach 
Saw'st  thou  not,  boy,  how  Silver  made  it  good 
At  the  hedge  corner,  in  the  coldest  fault? 
I  would  not  lose  the  dog  for  twenty  pound. 

1  Hun.  Why,  Belman  is  as  good  as  he,  my  lord 
He  cried  upon  it  at  the  merest  loss, 
And  twice  to-day  pick'd  out  the  dullest  scent: 
Trust  me,  I  take  him  for  the  better  dog. 

Lord.   Thou  art  a  fool  ;  if  Echo  were  as  fleet, 
I  would  esteem  him  worth  a  dozen  such. 
But  sup  them  well,  and  look  unto  them  all ; 
To-morrow  I  intend  to  hunt  again. 

1  Hun.    I  will,  my  lord. 
Lord.   What's  here  ?  one  dead,  or  drunk  ? 

doth  he  breathe  ? 

2  Hun.   He  breathes,    my  lord :    Were    he 

warm'd  with  ale. 
This  were  a  bed  but  cold  to  sleep  so  soundly. 

Lord.   O  monstrous  beast !    how  like  a  swine  he" 

lies  ! 
Grim  death,  how  foul  and  loathsome  is  thine  image  [^ 
Sirs,  I  will  practise  on  this  drunken  man.  — 
What  think  you,  if  he  were  convey 'd  to  bed, 
Wrapp'd  in  sweet  clothes,  rings  put  upon  his  fingers 
A  most  delicious  banquet  by  his  bed, 
And  brave  attendants  near  him  when  he  wakes, 
Would  not  the  beggar  then  forget  himself? 

1  Hun.  Believe  me,  lord,  I  think  he  cannot  choos 

2  Hmi.   Jt  would  seem  strange  unto  him  when 

wak'd. 


Induction.    Scene  I. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


241 


Lord.   Even  as  a  flattering  dream,  or  worthless 

fancy. 
Then  take  him  up,  and  manage  well  the  jest :  — 
Carry  him  gently  to  my  fairest  chamber, 
And  hang  it  round  with  all  my  wanton  pictures : 
Balm  his  foul  head  with  warm  distilled  waters. 
And  bum  sweet  wood  to  make  the  lodging  sweet : 
Procure  me  musick  ready  when  he  wakes, 
To  make  a  dulcet  and  a  heavenly  sound  ; 
And  if  he  chance  to  speak,  be  ready  straight, 
And,  with  a  low  submissive  reverence, 
Say,  —  What  is  it  your  honour  will  command  ? 
Let  one  attend  him  with  a  silver  bason. 
Full  of  rose-water,  and  bestrew'd  with  flowers  ; 
Another  bear  the  ewer,  the  third  a  diaper. 
And  say,  —  Will't  please  your  lordship  cool  your 

hands  ? 
Some  one  be  ready  with  a  costly  suit. 
And  ask  him  what  apparel  he  will  wear  ; 
Another  tell  him  of  his  hounds  and  horse, 
And  that  his  lady  mourns  at  his  disease  : 
Persuade  him  that  he  liath  been  lunatick  ; 
And,  when  he  says  he  is,  —  say  that  he  dreams, 
For  he  is  nothing  but  a  mighty  lord. 
This  do,  and  do  it  kindly,  gentle  sirs ; 
It  will  be  pastime  passing  excellent, 
If  it  be  husbanded  with  modesty.  8 

1  Hun.  My  lord,  I  warrant  you,  we'll  play  our 

part. 
As  he  shall  think,  by  our  true  diligence, 
He  is  no  less  than  what  we  say  he  is. 

Lord.  Take  him  up  gently,  and  to  bed  with  him  ; 
And  each  one  to  his  office  when  he  wakes.  — 

[Some  hear  out  Sly.      A  trumpet  sounds. 
Sirrah,  go  see  what  trumpet  'tis  tliat  sounds  :  — 

[Exit  Servant. 
Belike,  some  noble  gentlemen ;  that  means. 
Travelling  some  journey,  to  repose  him  here.  — 

Re-enter  a  Servant. 
How  now  ?  who  is  it  ? 

Serv.  An  it  please  your  honour, 

Players  that  offer  service  to  your  lordship. 

Lord.   Bid  them  come  near  :  — 

Enter  Players. 
Now,  fellows,  you  are  welcome. 

1  Play.   We  thank  your  honour. 

Lord.   Do  you  intend  to  stay  with  me  to-night  ? 

2  Plat/.  So  please  your  lordship  to  accept  our  duty. 
Lord.   With  all  my  heart.  —  This  fellow  I  re- 
member. 

Since  once  he  play'd  a  farmer's  eldest  son ;  — 
'Twas  where  you  woo'd  the  gentlewoman  so  well : 
I  have  forgot  your  name  ;  but  sure  that  part 
Was  aptly  fltted,  and  naturally  perform'd. 

1   Play.   I   tliink,   'twas   Soto  that  your  honour 
means. 

Lord.  'Tis  very  true  ;  —  thou  didst  it  excellent. 
Well,  you  are  come  to  me  in  happy  time ; 
Tlie  rather,  for  I  have  some  sport  in  hand, 
Wherein  your  cunning  can  assist  me  much. 
There  is  a  lord  will  hear  you  play  to-night : 
But  I  am  doubtful  of  your  modesties  ; 
Lest,  over-eying  of  his  odd  behaviour, 
(For  yet  his  honour  never  heard  a  play,) 
You  break  into  some  merry  passion. 
And  so  oflTend  him  ;  for  I  tell  you,  sirs, 
If  you  should  smile,  he  grows  impatient. 

»  Moderation. 


1  Plat/.   Fear  not,  my  lord  ;  we  can  contain  our- 
selves, 
Were  he  the  veriest  antick  in  the  world. 

Lord.    Go,  sirrah,  take  them  to  the  buttery, 
And  give  them  friendly  welcome  every  one : 
Let  them  want  nothing  that  my  house  affords.  — 

[  Exeunt  Servant  and  Players. 
Sirrah,  go  you  to  Bartholomew  my  page. 

[To  a  Servant. 
And  see  him  dress'd  in  all  suits  like  a  lady : 
That  done,  conduct  him  to  the  drunkard's  chamber, 
And  call  him  —  madam,  do  him  obeisance. 
Tell  him  from  me,  (as  he  will  win  my  love,) 
He  bear  himself  with  honourable  action. 
Such  as  he  hath  observ'd  in  noble  ladies 
Unto  their  lords,  by  them  accomplished  : 
Such  duty  to  the  drunkard  let  him  do, 
With  soft  low  tongue,  and  lowly  courtesy ; 
And  say — What  is't  your  honour  will  command. 
Wherein  your  lady,  and  your  humble  wife. 
May  show  her  duty,  and  make  known  her  love  ? 
And  then  —  with   kind   embracements,   tempting 

kisses. 
And  with  declining  head  into  his  bosom,  — 
Bid  him  shed  tears,  as  being  overjoy'd 
To  see  her  noble  lord  rcstor'd  to  health. 
Who,  for  twice  seven  years,  hath  esteemed  him 
No  better  than  a  poor  and  loathsome  beggar » 
And  if  the  boy  have  not  a  woman's  gift. 
To  rain  a  shower  of  commanded  tears, 
An  onion  will  do  well  for  such  a  shift ; 
Which  in  a  napkin  being  close  convey'd. 
Shall  in  despite  enforce  a  watery  eye. 
See  this  despatch'd  with  all  the  haste  thou  canst ; 

Anon  I'll  give  thee  more  instructions. 

[Exit  Servant. 
I  know,  the  boy  will  well  usurp  the  grace. 
Voice,  gait,  and  action  of  a  gentlewoman  : 
I  long  to  hear  him  call  the  drunkard,  husband ; 
And  how  my  men  will  stay  themselves  from  laughteff 
When  they  do  homage  to  this  simple  peasant, 
I'll  in  to  counsel  them  :   haply  my  presence 
May  well  abate  the  over-merry  spleen. 
Which  otherwise  would  go  into  extremes. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II A  Bedchamber  in  the  Lord's  House. 

Str  is  discovered  in  a  rich  night-gowHy  with  Attend- 
ants ;  some  uith  apparel,  others  with  bason,  ewery 
and  ot/ier  appurtenances.     Enter  Lord,  dressed 
like  a  Servant. 
Sly.   For  heaven's  sake,  a  pot  of  small  ale. 

1  Serv.  Will't  please  your  lordship  drink  a  cup 

of  sack  ? 

2  Serv.    Will't  please  your  honour  taste  of  these 

conserves  ? 

SServ.  What  raimentwill  yourhonourwearto-day? 

Sly.  I  am  Christopher  Sly  ;  call  not  me  —  honour, 
nor  lordship :  I  never  drank  sack  in  my  life ;  and  if 
you  give  me  any  conserves,  give  me  conserves  of 
beef :  Ne'er  ask  me  what  raiment  I'll  wear  ;  for  I 
have  no  more  doublets  than  backs,  no  more  stock- 
ings than  legs,  nor  no  more  shoes  than  feet;  nay, 
sometimes,  more  feet  tlian  shoes,  or  such  shoes  as 
my  toes  look  tlirough  the  over-leather. 

Lord.   Heaven  cease  this  idle  humour  in  your 
honour ! 
O,  that  a  mighty  man  of  such  descent. 
Of  such  possessions,  and  so  high  esteem, 
Should  be  infused  with  so  foul  a  spirit  ! 
R 


242 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW.    Induction.    Scene  II. 


Sly.  What,  would  you  make  me  mad  ?  Am  not 
I  Christopher  Sly,  old  Sly's  son  of  Burton-heath ; 
by  birth  a  pedler,  by  education  a  card-maker,  by 
transmutation  a  bear-herd,  and  now  by  present 
profession  a  tinker  ?  Ask  Marian  Hacket,  the  fat 
ale-wife  of  Wincot,  if  she  know  me  not :  if  she  say 
I  am  not  fourteen  pence  on  the  score  for  sheer  ale, 
score  me  up  for  the  lyingest  knave  in  Christendom. 
What,  I  am  not  bestraught  9 ;  Here's 

1  SerV'   O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  lady  mourn. 

2  Serv.   O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  servants 

droop. 
Lord.  Hence  comes  it  that  your  kindred  shun 
your  house. 
As  beaten  hence  by  your  strange  lunacy. 
O,  noble  lord,  bethink  thee  of  thy  birth  ; 
Call  home  thy  ancient  thoughts  from  banishment, 
And  banish  hence  these  abject  lowly  dreams : 
Look  how  thy  servants  do  attend  on  thee. 
Each  in  his  office  ready  at  thy  beck. 
Wilt  thou  have  musick  ?  hark  !  Apollo  plays, 

{Musick. 
And  twenty  caged  nightingales  do  sing  : 
Or  wilt  thou  sleep  ?  we'll  have  thee  to  a  couch. 
Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  lustful  bed 
On  purpose  trimm'd  up  for  Semiramis. 
Say,  thou  wilt  walk  ;  we  will  bestrew  the  ground  : 
Or  wilt  thou  ride  ?  thy  horses  shall  be  trapp'd, 
Their  harness  studded  all  with  gold  and  pearl. 
Dost  thou  love  hawking  ?  thou  hast  hawks  will  soar 
Above  the  morning  lark  :    Or  wilt  thou  hunt  ? 
Thy  hounds  shall  make  the  welkin  answer  them, 
And  fetch  shrill  echoes  from  the  hollow  earth. 

1  Serv.    Say,  thou  wilt  course;    thy  greyhounds 

are  as  swift 
As  breathed  stags,  ay,  fleeter  than  the  roe. 

2  Serv.   Dost  thou  love  pictures?  we  will  fetch 

thee  straight 
Adonis,  painted  by  a  running  brook  : 
And  Cytherea  all  in  sedges  hid ; 
Which  seem  to  move  and  wanton  with  her  breath. 
Even  as  the  waving  sedges  play,  with  wind. 

3  Serv.   Or  Daphne,  roaming  through  a  thorny 

wood ; 
Scratching  her  feet  that  one  shall  swear  she  bleeds  : 
And  at  that  sight  shall  sad  Apollo  weep, 
So  workmanly  the  blood  and  tears  are  drawn. 

Lord.   Thou  art  a  lord,  and  nothing  but  a  lord  : 
Thou  hast  a  lady  far  more  beautiful 
Than  any  woman  in  this  waning  age. 

1  Serv.  And,  till  the  tears  that  she  hath  shed  for  thee, 
Like  envious  floods,  o'er-ran  her  lovely  face. 

She  was  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world ; 
And  yet  she  is  inferior  to  none. 

Sly.    Am  I  a  lord  ?  and  have  I  such  a  lady  ? 
Or  do  I  dream  ?  or  have  I  dream'd  till  now  ? 
I  do  not  sleep  ;  I  see,  I  hear,  I  speak  ; 
I  smell  sweet  savours,  and  I  feel  soft  things  : — 
Upon  my  life,  I  am  a  lord,  indeed ; 
And  not  a  tinker,  nor  Christophero  Sly.  — 
Well,  bring  our  lady  hither  to  our  sight : 
And  once  again,  a  pot  o'  the  smallest  ale. 

2  Serv.  Will't  please  your  mightiness  to  wash  your 

hands  ? 
[Servants  present  an  ewer,  bason,  and  napkin. 

9  Distracted. 


O,  how  we  joy  to  see  your  wit  restor'd  ! 
O,  that  once  more  you  knew  but  what  you  are ! 
These  fifteen  years  you  have  been  in  a  dream  ; 
Or,  when  you  wak'd,  so  wak'd  as  if  you  slept. 

Sly.  These  fifteen  years  !  by  my  fay,  a  goodly  nap. 
But  did  I  never  speak  of  all  that  time  ? 

1  Serv.  O,  yes,  my  lord ;  but  very  idle  words  :  — 
For  though  you  lay  here  in  this  goodly  chamber, 
Yet  would  you  say,  ye  were  beaten  out  of  door  ; 
And  rail  upon  the  hostess  of  the  house  ; 
And  say,  you  would  present  her  at  the  leet ', 
Because  she  brought  stone  jugs  and  no  seal'd  quarts : 
Sometimes  you  would  call  out  for  Cicely  Hacket. 

Sly.   Ay,  the  woman's  maid  of  the  house 

3  Serv.    Why,  sir,  you  know  no  house,  nor  no 
such  maid ; 
Nor  no  such  men,  as  you  have  reckon'd  up,  — 
As  Stephen  Sly,  and  old  John  Naps  of  Greece, 
And  Peter  Turf,  and  Henry  Pimpemell ; 
And  twenty  more  such  names  and  men  as  these, 
Which  never  were,  nor  no  man  ever  saw. 

Sly.  Now,  Lord  be  thanked  for  my  good  amends  1 

All.  Amen. 

Sly.  I  thank  thee  ;  thou  shalt  not  lose  by  it. 

Enter  the  Page,  as  a  lady,  with  Attendants. 
Page.   How  fares  my  noble  lord  ? 
Sly.  Marry,  I  fare  well ;  for  here  is  cheer  enough. 
Where  is  my  wife  ? 

Page.  Here,  noble  lord  ;  What  is  thy  will  with  her? 
Sly.   Are  you  my  wife,  and  will  not  call  me  - 
husband  ? 
My  men  should  call  me — lord ;  I  am  your  goodman. 
Page.   My  husband  and  my  lord,  my  lord  and 
husband ; 
I  am  your  wife  in  all  obedience. 

Sly.   I  know  it  well :  —  What  must  I  call  her  ? 

Lord.    Madam. 

Sly.   Alice  madam,  or  Joan  madam  ? 

Lord.   Madam,  and  nothing  else;   so  lords  call 

ladies. 
Sly.   Madam  wife,  they  say  that  I  have  dream'd, 
and  slept 
Above  some  fifteen  year  and  more. 

Page.   Ay,  and  the  time  seems  thirty  unto  me. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Your  honour's  players,  hearing  your  amend- 
ment. 
Are  come  to  play  a  pleasant  comedy. 
For  so  your  doctors  hold  it  very  meet ; 
Seeing  too  much  sadness  hath  congeal'd  your  blood. 
And  melancholy  is  the  nurse  of  frenzy, 
Therefore,  they  thought  it  good  you  hear  a  play. 
And  frame  your  mind  to  mirth  and  men-iment. 
Which  bars  a  thousand  harms,  and  lengthens  life. 

Sly.  Marry,  I  will ;  let  them  play  it :  Is  not  a 
commonty"^  a  Christmas  gambol,  or  a  tumbling- 
trick  ? 

Page.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  it  is  more  pleasing  stuff. 

Sly.   What,  household  stuff? 

Page.   It  is  a  kind  of  history. 

Sly.  Well,  we'll  see't :  Come,  madam  wife,  sit 
by  my  side,  and  let  the  world  slip ;  we  shall  ne'er 
be  younger.  [They  sit  dotvn. 


1  Court-leet 


2  far  comedy. 


Act  I.    Scene  I. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


243 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  Padua.      A  public  Place. 
Enter  Lucentio  and  Tranio. 
Luc.   Tranio,  since  —  for  the  great  desire  I  had 
To  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts,— 
I  am  arriv'd  for  fruitful  Lombardy, 
The  pleasant  garden  of  great  Italy  : 
And,  by  my  father's  love  and  leave,  am  arm'd 
With  his  good  will,  and  thy  good  company, 
Most  trusty  servant,  well  approv'd  in  all  ; 
Here  let  us  breathe,  and  happily  institute 
A  course  of  learning,  and  ingenious  3  studies. 
Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens, 
Gave  me  my  being,  and  my  father  first, 
A  merchant  of  great  traffick  through  tlie  world, 
Vincentio,  come  of  the  Bcntivolii. 
Vincentio,  his  son,  brought  up  in  Florence, 
It  shall  become,  to  serve  all  hopes  conceiv'd, 
To  deck  his  fortune  with  his  virtuous  deeds  : 
And  therefore,  Tranio,  for  the  time  I  study, 
Virtue,  and  that  part  of  philosophy 
Will  I  apply,  that  treats  of  happiness 
By  virtue  'specially  to  be  achiev'd. 
Tell  me  thy  mind  :   for  I  have  Pisa  left, 
And  am  to  Padua  come  :   as  he  tliat  leaves 
A  shallow  plash  4,  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep 
And  with  satiety  seeks  to  quench  his  thirst. 

Tra.   Mi  perdonate  ^,  gentle  master  mine, 
I  am  in  all  affected  as  yourself ; 
Glad  that  you  thus  continue  your  resolve. 
To  suck  the  sweets  of  sweet  philosophy. 
Only,  good  master,  while  we  do  admire 
This  virtue,  and  this  moral  discipline, 
Let's  be  no  stoicks,  nor  no  stocks,  I  pray  ; 
Or  so  devote  to  Aristotle's  checks  6, 
As  Ovid  be  an  outcast  quite  abjur'd  : 
Talk  logick  with  acquaintance  that  you  have, 
And  practise  rhetoric  in  your  common  talk : 
Musick  and  poesy  use  to  quicken  you  ; 
The  mathematicks  and  the  metaphysicks, 
Fall  to  them,  as  you  find  your  stomach  serves  you : 
No  profit  grows,  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en  ;  — 
In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect. 

Luc.   Gramercies,  Tranio,  well  dost  thou  advise. 
If,  Biondello,  thou  wert  come  ashore, 
We  could  at  once  put  us  in  readiness ; 
And  take  a  lodging  fit  to  entertain 
Such  friends,  as  time  in  Padua  shall  beget. 
But  stay  a  while :   Wliat  company  is  this  ? 

Tra.  Master,  some  show,  to  welcome  us  to  town. 

i^n^erBAPTisTA,  Katharina,  Bianca,  Gremio,  and 
HoRTENsio.     Lucentio  and  Tranio  stand  aside. 
Bap.  Gentlemen,  imp6rtune  me  no  further. 
For  now  I  firmly  am  resolv'd  you  know  ; 
That  is,  —  not  to  bestow  my  youngest  daughter, 
Before  I  have  a  husband  for  the  elder : 
If  either  of  you  both  love  Katharina, 
Because  I  know  you  well,  and  love  you  well. 
Leave  shall  you  have  to  court  her  at  your  pleasure. 
Gre.  To  cart  her  rather :  Slie's  too  rough  for  me :  — 
There,  there  Hortensio,  will  you  any  wife  ? 

A'ath.   1  pray  you,  sir,  [To  Baf.]  is  it  your  will 
To  make  a  stale  of  me  amongst  these  mates  ? 


Hor.   Mates,  maid  !  how  mean  you  that  ?  no  mates 
for  you, 
Unless  you  were  of  gentler,  milder  mould. 

Aa//j.   I'faith,  sir,  you  shall  never  need  to  fear ; 
I  wis  7,  it  is  not  half  way  to  her  heart : 
But,  if  it  were,  doubt  not  her  care  should  be 
To  comb  your  noddle  with  a  three-legg'd  stool. 
And  paint  your  face,  and  use  you  like  a  fool. 

Hor.   From  all  such  devils,  heaven  deliver  us ! 

Gre.   And  me  too. 

Tra^   Hush,  master !  here  is  some  good  pastime 
toward ; 
That  wench  is  stark  mad,  or  wonderful  froward. 

Luc.    But  in  the  other's  silence  I  do  see 
Maid's  mild  behaviour  and  sobriety. 
Peace,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Well  said,  master  ;  mum !  and  gaze  your  fill. 

Bap.    Gentlemen,  that  I  may  soon  make  good 
What  I  have  said,  —  Bianca,  get  you  in  : 
And  let  it  not  displease  tliee,  good  Bianca ; 
For  I  will  love  thee  ne'er  the  less,  my  girl. 

JCath.   A  pretty  peat !  "  'tis  best 
Put  finger  in  the  eye,  —  an  she  knew  why. 

Bian.   Sister,  content  you  in  my  discontent.  — 
Sir,  to  your  pleasure  humbly  I  subscribe  ; 
My  books,  and  instruments,  shall  be  my  company ; 
On  them  to  look,  and  practise  by  myself. 

Luc.   Hark,  Tranio !  thou  mayst  hear  Minerva 
speak.  [Asitle, 

Hor.   Signior  Baptista,  will  you  be  so  strange  ? 
Sorry  am  I,  that  our  good  will  effects 
Bianca's  grief. 

Gre.  Why  will  you  mew  9  her  up, 

Signior  Baptista,  for  this  fiend  of  hell, 
And  make  her  bear  the  penance  of  her  tongue  ? 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  content  ye  j  I  am  resolv'd  :  — 
Go  in,  Bianca.  [ExU  Bianca. 

And  for  I  know,  she  taketh  most  delight 
In  musick,  instruments  and  poetry. 
Schoolmasters  will  I  keep  within  my  house 
Fit  to  instruct  her  youth.  —  If  you,  Hortensio, 
Or  signior  Grenruo,  you,  —  know  any  such, 
Prefer  them  hither;  for  to  cunning  men 
I  will  be  very  kind,  and  liberal 
To  mine  own  children  in  good  bringing  up ; 
And  so  farewell.      Katharina,  you  may  stay ; 
For  I  have  more  to  commune  with  Bianca.     [Edit. 

Kath.  Why,  and  I  trust,  I  may  go  too ;  May  I 
not? 
What  shall  I  be  appointed  hours ;  as  though,  belike, 
I  knew  not  what  tp  take,  and  what  to  leave?  [Ent. 
Gre.  You  may  go  to  Uie  devil ;  your  gifts  >  are 
so  good,  here  is  none  will  hold  you.  Our  love  is 
not  so  great,  Hortensio,  but  we  may  blow  our  nails 
togetlier,  and  fast  it  fairly  out ;  our  cake's  dough  on 
both  sides.  Farewell :  —  Yet,  for  the  love  I  bear 
my  sweet  Bianca,  if  I  can  by  any  means  light  on  a 
fit  man,  to  teach  her  that  wherein  slie  delights,  I 
will  wish  him  to  her  father. 

Hor.  So  will  I,  signior  Gremio :  But  a  word,  I 
pray.  Tliough  the  nature  of  our  quarrel  yet  never 
brook'd  parle,  know  now,  upon  advice  «,  it  toucheth 
us  both,  —  tliat  we  may  yet  again  have  access  to 


'  Ingenuous. 
*  Pardon  me. 


*  Small  piece  of  water. 

•  Har«h  rule*. 


1  Tliiiik. 

t  Endowments. 


»  Shut 
2  Consideration. 


It   2 


244 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Act  1. 


our  fair  mistress,  and  be  happy  rivals  in  Bianca's 
love,  —  to  labour  and  effect  one  thing  'specially. 
Gre.   What's  that,  I  pray  ? 

Hor.   Marry,  sir,  to  get  h  husband  for  her  sister. 
Gre.   A  husband  !  a  devil. 
Hor.   I  say,  a  husband. 

Gre.  I  say,  a  devil :  Think'st  thou,  Hortensio, 
though  her  father  be  very  rich,  any  man  is  so  very 
a  fool  to  be  married  to  her  ? 

Hor.  Tush,  Gremio,  though  it  pass  your  patience, 
and  mine,  to  endure  her  loud  alarums,  why,  man, 
there  be  good  fellows  in  the  world,  an  a  man  could 
light  on  them,  would  take  her  with  all  faults,  and 
money  enough. 

Gre.  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  had  as  lief  take  her 
dowry  with  this  condition,  —  to  be  whipped  at  the 
high-cross,  every  morning. 

Hor.  'Faith  as  you  say,  there's  small  choice  in 
rotten  apples.  But,  come ;  since  this  bar  in  law 
makes  us  friends,  it  shall  be  so  forth  friendly  main- 
tained, —  till  by  helping  Baptista's  eldest  daughter 
to  a  husband,  we  set  his  youngest  free  for  a  hus- 
band, and  then  have  to't  afresh.  —  Sweet  Bianca ! 
—  Happy  man  be  his  dole  !  3  How  say  you,  signior 
Gremio  ? 

Gre.  I  am  agreed ;  and  'would  I  had  given  him 
the  best  horse  in  Padua  to  begin  his  wooing,  that 
would  thoroughly  woo  her,  wed  her,  and  rid  the 
house  of  her.      Come  on. 

[Exeunt  Gremio  and  Hortensio. 
Tra.    [Advancing.]     I  pray,  sir,  tell  me,  —  Is  it 
possible 
That  love  should  of  a  sudden  take  such  hold  ? 

Luc.    O  Tranio,  till  I  found  it  to  be  true, 
I  never  thought  it  possible,  or  likely  ; 
But  see  !  while  idly  I  stood  looking  on, 
I  found  the  effect  of  love  in  idleness : 
And  now  in  plainness  do  confess  to  thee,  — 
That  art  to  me  as  secret,  and  as  dear, 
As  Anna  to  the  queen  of  Carthage  was,  — 
Tranio,  I  burn,  I  pine,  I  perish,  Tranio, 
If  I  achieve  not  this  young  modest  girl : 
Counsel  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  canst ; 
Assist  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Tra.    Master,  it  is  no  time  to  chide  you  now  ; 
Affection  is  not  rated  ^  from  the  heart : 
If  love  have  touch'd  you,  nought  remains  but  so, — 
Redvne  te  captum  quam  queas  minimo. 

Luc.  Gramercies,  lad;  go  forward:  this  contents; 
The  rest  will  comfort,  for  thy  counsel's  sound. 

Tra.    Master,  you  look'd  so  longly*  on  the  maid. 
Perhaps  you  mark'd  not  what's  the  pith  of  all. 
Luc.    O  yes,  I  saw  sweet  beauty  in  her  face, 
Such  as  the  daughter  ^  of  Agenor  had. 
That  made  great  Jove  to  humble  him  to  her  hand. 
When  with  his  knees  he  kiss'd  the  Cretan  strand. 
Tra.   Saw  you  no  more  ?  mark'd  you  not,  how  her 
sister 
Began  to  scold ;  and  raise  up  such  a  storm, 
That  mortal  ears  might  hardly  endure  the  din  ? 

Luc.  Tranio,  I  saw  her  coral  lips  to  move. 
And  with  her  breath  she  did  perfume  the  air ; 
Sacred,  and  sweet,  was  all  I  saw  in  her. 

Tra.   Nay,  then  'tis   time   to    stir  him  from  his 
trance. 
I  pray,  awake,  sir ;   If  you  love  the  maid. 
Bend  thoughts  and  wits  to  achieve  her.      Thus  it 
stands :  — 


Her  elder  sister  is  so  curst  and  shrewd, 
That,  till  tlie  father  rid  his  hands  of  her. 
Master,  your  love  must  live  a  maid  at  home ; 
And  therefore  has  he  closely  mew'd  her  up. 
Because  she  shall  not  be  annoy'd  with  suitors. 

Luc.   Ah,  Tranio,  wliat  a  cruel  father's  he  ! 
But  art  thou  not  advis'd,  he  took  some  care 
To  get  her  cunning  schoolmasters  to  instruct  her  ? 

Tra.    Ay,  marry,  am  I,  sir ;  and  now  'tis  plotted. 

Luc.   I  have  it,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Master,  for  my  hand, 

Both  our  inventions  meet  and  jump  in  one. 

Luc.    Tell  me  thine  first. 

Tra.  You  will  be  schoolmaster, 

And  undertake  the  teaching  of  the  maid : 
That's  your  device. 

Luc.  It  is  :   May  it  be  done  ? 

Tra.   Not  possible ;  For  who  shall  bear  your  part. 
And  be  in  Padua  here  Vincentio's  son  ? 
Keep  house,  and  ply  his  book  ;  welcome  his  friends  ; 
Visit  his  countrymen,  and  banquet  them  ? 

Luc.    Basta  ^ ;  content  thee  ;  for  I  have  it  full. 
We  have  not  yet  been  seen  in  any  house  ; 
Nor  can  we  be  distinguished  by  our  faces. 
For  man,  or  master  :  then  it  follows  thus  ;  — 
Thou  shalt  be  master,  Tranio,  in  my  stead. 
Keep  house,  and  port  ^,  and  servants,  as  I  should  •• 
I  will  some  other  be ;  some  Florentine, 
Some  Neapolitan,  or  mean  man  of  Pisa. 
'Tis  hatch'd,  and  shall  be  so  :  —  Tranio,  at  once 
Uncase  thee ;  take  my  colour'd  hat  and  cloak  : 
When  Biondello  comes,  he  waits  on  thee ; 
But  I  will  charm  him  first  to  keep  his  tongue. 

Tra.    So  had  you  need.        [  They  exchange  habits. 
In  brief  then,  sir,  sith  9  it  your  pleasure  is. 
And  I  am  tied  to  be  obedient ; 
(  For  so  your  father  charg'd  me  at  our  parting  ; 
Be  serviceable  to  my  son,  quoth  he. 
Although,  I  think,  'twas  in  another  sense,) 
I  am  content  to  be  Lucentio, 
Because  so  well  I  love  Lucentio. 

Luc   Tranio,  be  so,  because  Lucentio  loves  : 
And  let  me  be  a  slave,  to  achieve  that  maid 
Whose  sudden  sight  hath  thrall'd  my  wounded  eye. 

Enter  Biondello. 

Here  comes  the  rogue . —  Sirrah,  where  have  you 
been? 
Bion.   Where  have  I  been  ?    Nay,  how  now,  where 
are  you  ? 
Master,  has  my  fellow  Tranio  stol'n  your  clothes  ? 
Or  you  stol'n  his  ?  or  both  ?  pray,  what's  the  news  ? 

Luc.    Sirrah,  come  hither  ;  'tis  no  time  to  jest, 
And  therefore  frame  your  manners  to  the  time. 
Your  fellow  Tranio  here,  to  save  my  life. 
Puts  my  apparel  and  my  countenance  on, 
And  I  for  my  escape  have  put  on  his  ; 
For  in  a  quarrel,  since  I  came  ashore, 
I  kill'd  a  man,  and  fear  I  was  descried  : 
Wait  you  on  him,  I  charge  you,  as  becomes, 
While  I  make  way  from  hence  to  save  my  life  : 
You  understand  me  ? 

Bion.  I,  sir,  ne'er  a  whit. 

Luc.    And  not  a  jot  of  Tranio  in  your  mouth  : 
Tranio  is  chang'd  into  Lucentio. 

Bion.   The  better  for  him  ;  Would  I  were  so  too  ! 
Tra.    So  would  I,  boy,  to  have  the  next  wish 
after,  — 


'  Gain  or  lot 
*  Longingly. 


Driven  out  by  chiding. 
Europa. 


'Tis  enough. 


Show,  appearance. 


Scene  II. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW 


245 


That  Luccntio    indeed    had    Baptista's    youngest 
daughter. 

But,  sirrah,  —  not  for  my  sake,  but  your  master's, — 
I  advise 

You  use  your  manners  discreetly  in  all  kind  of  com- 
panies : 

When  I  am  alone,  why,  then  I  am  Tranio  ; 

But  in  all  places  else,  your  master  Lucentio. 
Luc.   Tranio,  let's  go  :  — 

One  thing  more  rests,  that  thyself  execute  ;  — 

To  make  one  among  these  wooers :    If  thou  ask  me 
wliy,  — 

Sufficcth,  my  reasons  are  both  good  and  weighty. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II Before  Hortensio's  House. 

Enter  Petruchio  and  Grumio. 

Pet.   Verona,  for  a  while  I  take  my  leave, 
To  see  my  friends  in  Padua  ;  but,  of  all, 
My  best  beloved  and  approved  friend, 
Hortensio  ;  and,  I  trow,  this  is  his  house  :  — 
Here,  sirrah  Grumio  :   knock,  I  say. 

Gru.  Knock,  sir !  whom  should  I  knock  ?  is  there 
any  man  has  rebused  your  worship  ? 

Pet.   Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  here  soundly. 

Gru.  Knock  you  here,  sir  ?  why,  sir,  what  am  I, 
sir,  tliat  I  should  knock  you  here,  sir  ? 

Pet.   Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  at  this  gate. 
And  rap  me  well,  or  I'll  knock  your  knave's  pate. 

Gru.   My  master  is  grown  quarrelsome :    I  should 
knock  you  first. 
And  then  I  know  after  who  comes  by  the  worst. 

Pet.   Will  it  not  be  ? 
'  Faith,  sirrah,  an  you'll  not  knock,  I'll  wring  it ; 
I'll  try  how  you  can  sol,  fa,  and  sing  it. 

{He  wrings  Grumio  6y  the  ears. 

Gru.    Help,  masters,  help  !  my  master  is  mad. 

Pei.  Now,  knock  when  I  bid  you  :  sirrah  !  villain ! 

Enter  Hortbnsio. 

Hot.  How  now  ?  what's  the  matter  ?  —  My  old 
friend  Grumio  ?  and  my  good  friend  Petruchio  !  — 
How  do  you  all  at  Verona  ? 

Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  come  you  to  part  the 
fray  ?   Co7i  tutto  il  core  bene  trovato,  may  I  say. 

Hor.    Alia  nostra  casa  bene  venuto, 
MoUo  honorato  dgnor  mio  Petruchio. 
Rise,  Grumio,  rise  ;  we  will  compound  this  quarrel. 

Gru.  Nay,  'tis  no  matter,  what  he  'leges  2  in  Latin. 
—  If  this  be  not  a  lawful  cause  for  me  to  leave  his 
service,  —  Look  you,  sir,  —  he  bid  me  knock  him, 
and  rap  him  soundly,  sir :  Well,  was  it  fit  for  a  ser- 
vant to  use  his  master  so ;  being,  perhaps,  (for  aught 
I  see,)  two-and-thirty, — a  pip  out? 
Whom,  'would  to  heaven  I  had  well  knock'd  at  first. 
Then  had  not  Grumio  come  by  the  worst. 

Pet.    A  senseless  villain  —  Good  Hortensio, 
I  bade  the  rascal  knock  upon  your  gate. 
And  could  not  get  him  for  my  heart  to  do  it. 

Grti.   Knock  at  the  gate  ?  —  O  heavens  ! 
Spake  you  not  these  words  plain  —  Sirrah^  knock 

me  here. 
Rap  me  here,  knock  me  u^U,  and  knock  me  soundly  9 
And  come  you  now  with  — knocking  at  the  gate  ? 

Pet.   Sirrah,  he  gone,  or  talk  not,  I  advise  you. 

Hrr.  Petruchio,  patience ;  I  am  Grumio's  pledge  : 
Why,  this  a  heavy  chance  'twixt  him  and  you  ; 
Your  ancient,  trusty,  pleasant  servant  Grumio. 

1  Alleges. 


And  tell  me  now,  sweet  friend,  —  what  liappy  gale 
Blows  you  to  Padua  here,  from  old  Verona  ? 

Pet.   Such  wind  as  scatters  young  men  through 
the  world, 
To  seek  their  fortunes  further  than  at  home. 
Where  small  experience  grows.      But,  in  a  few, 
Signior  Hortensio,  thus  it  stands  witli  me :  — 
Antonio,  my  father,  is  deceased  ; 
And  I  have  thrust  myself  into  this  maze, 
Haply  to  wive,  and  thrive,  as  best  I  may  : 
Crowns  in  my  purse  I  have,  and  goods  at  home, 
And  so  am  come  abroad  to  see  the  world. 

Hor.  Petruchio, shall  I  then  come  roundly  to  thee, 
And  wish  thee  to  a  shrewd  ill-favour'd  wife? 
Thou'dst  thank  me  but  a  little  for  my  counsel : 
And  yet  I'll  promise  thee  she  shall  be  rich. 
And  very  rich  :  —  but  thou'rt  too  much  my  friend, 
And  I'll  not  wish  thee  to  her. 

Pet.    Signior  Hortensio,  'twixt  such  friends  as  we, 
Few  words  suffice  :   and  therefore,  if  thou  know 
One  rich  enough  to  be  Petruchio's  wife,  * 

(As  wealth  is  burthen  of  my  wooing  dance,) 
Be  she  as  foul  as  was  Florentius'  love  \ 
As  old  as  Sybil,  and  as  curst  and  shrewd 
As  Socrates'  Xantippe,  or  a  worse. 
She  moves  me  not,  or  not  removes,  at  least, 
Affection's  edge  in  me  ;   were  she  as  rough 
As  are  the  swilling  Adriatick  seas: 
I  come  to  wive  it  wealthily  in  Padua ; 
If  wealthily,  then  happily  in  Padua. 

Gru.  Nay,  look  you,  sir,  he  tells  you  flatly  what 
his  mind  is  :  Why,  give  him  gold  enough  and  marry 
him  to  a  puppet,  or  an  aglet  baby  ■* ;  or  an  old  trot 
with  ne'er  a  tooth  in  her  head  :  why  nothing  comes 
axniss,  so  money  comes  withal. 

Hor.   Petruchio,  since  we  have  stepp'd  thus  far  in, 
I  will  continue  that  I  broach'd  in  jest. 
I  can,   Petruchio,  help  thee  to  a  wife 
With  wealth  enough,  and  young,  and  beauteous : 
Brought  up  as  best  becomes  a  gentlewoman  : 
Her  only  fault  (and  that  is  fault  enough,) 
Is,  —  that  she  is  intolerably  curst, 
And  shrewd,  and  froward  ;  so  beyond  all  measure, 
That,  were  my  state  far  worser  than  it  is, 
I  would  not  wed  her  for  a  mine  of  gold. 

Pet.   Hortensio,  peace ;  thou  know'st  not  gold's 
eflPect :  — 
Tell  me  her  father's  name,  and  'tis  enough  ; 
for  I  will  board  her,  though  she  chide  as  loud 
As  thunder,  when  the  clouds  in  autumn  crack. 

Hor.   Her  father  is  Bapista  Minola, 
An  affable  and  courteous  gentleman  : 
Her  name  is  Katharina  Minola, 
Renown'd  in  Padua  for  her  scolding  tongue. 

Pet.   I  know  her  father,  though  I  know  not  her ; 
And  he  knew  my  deceased  fatlier  well :  — 
I  will  not  sleep,  Hortensio,  till  I  see  her ; 
And  therefore  let  me  be  thus  bold  with  you, 
To  give  you  over  .it  this  first  encounter, 
Unless  you  will  accompany  me  thither. 

Gru.  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  him  go  while  the  humour 
lasts.  O'  my  word,  an  she  knew  him  as  well  as  I 
do,  she  would  think  scolding  would  do  little  good 
upon  him  .  She  may,  perhaps,  call  him  half  a  score 
knaves,  or  so:  why,  that's  nothing;  an  he  begin 
once,  he'll  rail  in  his  rope-tricks  ^  I'll  tell  you  what, 
sir,  —  an  she  stand  him  but  a  little,  he  will  throw  a 

3  See  the  itory,  Na  39.  of  "  ^  Thotaand  Sotake  Things. 
*  A  iinall  image  on  the  tag  ofa  lace. 
^  Abucive  language. 

R  3 


246 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Act  I.    Scene  II. 


figure  in  her  face,  and  so  disfigure  her  with  it,  that 
she  shall  have  no  more  eyes  to  see  withal  than  a  cat : 
You  know  him  not,  sir. 

Hor.   Tarry,  Petruchio,  I  must  go  with  thee  ; 
For  in  Baptista's  keep  my  treasure  is : 
He  hath  the  jewel  of  my  life  in  hold, 
His  youngest  daughter,  beautiful  Bianca  ; 
And  her  withholds  from  me,  and  other  more 
Suitors  to  her,  and  rivals  in  my  love  : 
Supposing  it  a  thing  impossible, 
(For  those  defects  I  have  before  rehears'd,) 
That  ever  Katharina  will  be  woo'd. 
Therefore  this  order  6  hath  Baptista  ta'en  ;  — 
That  none  shall  have  access  unto  Bianca, 
Till  Katharine  the  curst  have  got  a  husband. 

Gru.  Katharine  the  curst ! 
A  title  for  a  maid,  of  all  titles  the  worst. 

Hor.  Now  shall  my  friend  Petruchio  do  me  grace ; 
And  offer  me,  disguis'd  in  sober  robes. 
To  old  Baptista  as  a  schoolmaster 
'  Well  seen  7  in  musick,  to  instruct  Bianca  : 
That  so  I  may  by  this  device,  at  least. 
Have  leave  and  leisure  to  make  love  to  her, 
And,  unsuspected,  court  her  by  herself. 

Enter  Gremio;  with  hint  'Lvcy.^tio  disguised,  with 
books  under  his  arm. 

Gru.  Here's  no  knavery !  See  ;  to  beguile  the 
old  folks,  how  the  young  folks  lay  their  heads  to- 
gether !  Master,  master,  look  about  you :  Who  goes 
there  ?  ha ! 

Hor.  Peace,  Grumio  ;  'tis  the  rival  of  my  love  :  — 
Petruchio,  stand  by  a  while. 

Gru.    A  proper  stripling,  and  an  amorous  ! 

\_They  retire. 

Gre.    O,  very  well ;   I  have  perused  the  note. 
Hark  you,  sir ;   I'll  have  them  very  fairly  bound  : 
All  books  of  love,  see  that  at  any  hand  ; 
And  see  you  read  no  other  lectures  to  her ; 
You  understand  me  :  —  over  and  beside 
Signior  Bapista's  liberality, 

I'll  mend  it  with  a  largess :  —  Take  your  papers  too. 
And  let  me  have  them  very  well  perfum'd ; 
For  she  is  sweeter  than  perfume  itself. 
To  whom  they  go.      What  will  you  read  to  her  ? 

Luc.   Whate'er  I  read  to  her,  I'll  plead  for  you, 
As  for  my  patron,  (stand  you  so  assur'd,) 
As  firmly  as  yourself  were  still  in  place; 
Yea,  and  (perhaps)  with  more  sucessful  words 
Than  you,  unless  you  were  a  scholar,  sir. 

Gre.    O  this  learning  !   what  a  thing  it  is  ! 

Gru.   O  this  woodcock  !   what  an  ass  it  is  ! 

Pet.    Peace,  sirrah. 

Hor.    Grumio,  mum  !  —  Save  you,  signior  Gre- 
mio ! 

Gre.    And  you're  well  met,   signior  Hortensio. 
Trow  you, 
Whither  I  am  going  ?  —  To  Baptista  Minola. 
I  promis'd  to  enquire  carefully 
About  a  schoolmaster  for  fair  Bianca  : 
And,  by  good  fortune,  I  have  lighted  well 
On  this  young  man  :   for  learning,  and  behaviour. 
Fit  for  her  turn  ;  well  read  in  poetry, 
And  other  books,  —  good  ones,  I  warrant  you. 

Hor.   'Tis  well :   and  I  have  met  a  gentleman. 
Hath  promis'd  me  to  help  me  to  another, 
A  fine  musician,  to  instruct  our  mistress; 
So  shall  I  no  whit  be  behind  in  duty 
To  fair  Bianca,  so  belov'd  of  me. 


6  These  measures 


Versed. 


Gre.   Belov'd  of  me,  —  and  that  my  deeds  shall 
prove. 

Gru.   And  that  his  bags  shall  prove.  \ytsi<le. 

Hor.    Gremio,  'tis  now  no  time  to  vent  our  love  t 
Listen  to  me,  and  if  you  speak  me  fair, 
I'll  tell  you  news  indxATerent  good  for  either. 
Here  is  a  gentleman,  whom  by  chance  I  met. 
Upon  agreement  from  us  to  his  liking. 
Will  undertake  to  woo  curst  Katharine ; 
Yea,  and  to  marry  her,  if  her  dowry  please. 

Gre.   So  said,  so  done,  is  well :  — 
Hortensio,  have  you  told  him  all  her  faults  ? 

Pet.   I  know  ;  she  is  an  irksome  brawling  scold  ; 
If  that  be  all,  masters,  I  hear  no  harm. 

Gre.   No,  say'st  me  so,  friend  ?     What  country- 
man ? 

Pet.   Born  in  Verona,  old  Antonio's  son  : 
My  father  dead,  my  fortune  lives  for  me ; 
And  I  do  hope  good  days,  and  long,  to  see. 

Gre.   O,  sir,  such  a  life,  with  such  a  wife,  were 
strange : 
But,  if  you  have  a  stomach,  to't  I  pray  you  ; 
Yoo  shall  have  me  assisting  you  in  all. 
But  will  you  woo  this  wild-cat  ? 

Pet.  Will  I  live? 

Gru,   Will  he  woo  her?  ay,  or  I'll  hang  her. 

[^side. 

Pet.   Why  came  I  hither,  but  to  that  intent  ? 
Think  you,  a  little  din  can  daunt  mine  ears  ? 
Have  I  not  in  my  time  heard  lions  roar  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  the  sea,  puflP'd  up  with  winds. 
Rage  like  an  angry  boar,  chafed  with  sweat  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  great  ordnance  in  the  field, 
And  heaven's  artillery  thunder  in  the  skies? 
Have  I  not  in  a  pitched  battle  heard 
Loud  'larums,  neighing  steeds,  and  trumpets'  clang  ? 
And  do  you  tell  me  of  a  woman's  tongue ; 
That  gives  not  half  so  great  a  blow  to  the  ear. 
As  will  a  chesnut  in  a  farmer's  fire  ? 
Tush !  tush  !  fear  boys  with  bugs.  8 

Gru.  For  he  fears  none. 

[Aside. 

Gre.   Hortensio,  hark  ! 
This  gentleman  is  happily  arriv'd, 
My  mind  presumes,  for  his  own  good,  and  yours. 

Hor.   I  promis'd  we  would  be  contributors. 
And  bear  his  charge  of  wooing,  whatsoe'er. 

Gre.   And  so  we  will ;  provided,  that  he  win  her. 

Gru.   I  would,  I  were  as  sure  of  a  good  dinner. 

\^Aside. 
Enter  Tranio,  bravely  apparelVd  ;  and  Biondello. 

Tra.  Gentlemen,  save  you  !  If  I  may  be  bold. 
Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  which  is  the  readiest  way 
To  the  house  of  signior  Baptista  Minola  ? 

Gre.   He  that  has  the  two  fair  daughters  :  —  is't 
[Aside  to  Tranio.]  he  you  mean  ? 

Tra.   Even  he.      Biondello  ! 

Gre.   Hark  you,  sir ;   You  mean  not  her  to 

Tra.   Perhaps,  him  and  her,  sir ;    What  have  you 
to  do? 

Pet     Not  her  that  chides,  sir,  at  any  hand,  I  pray. 

Tra,   I  love   no  chiders,  sir :  —  Biondello,   let's 
away. 

Luc.  Well  begun,  Tranio.  [Aside. 

Hor.    Sir,  a  word  ere  you  go  ;  — 
Are  you  a  suitor  to  the  maid  you  talk  of,  yea,  or  no  ? 

Tra.    An  if  I  be,  sir,  is  it  any  ofl'ence  ? 

8  Fright  boys  with  bugbears. 


Act  II.    Scene  I. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


247 


Gre.   No ;  if,  without  more  words,  you  will  get 
you  hence. 

TVa.  Why,  sir,  I  pray,  are  not  the  streets  as  free 
For  me,  as  for  you  ? 

Gre.  But  so  is  not  she. 

7Va.   For  what  reason,  I  beseech  you  ? 

Crre.    For  this  reason,  if  you'll  know,  — — 
That  she's  tlie  choice  love  of  signior  Gremio. 

^or.    That  she's  the  chosen  of  signior  Hortensio. 

Tra.    Softly,  my  masters  !  if  you  be  gentlemen. 
Do  me  this  right,  —  hear  me  with  patience. 
Baptista  is  a  noble  gentleman. 
To  whom  my  father  is  not  all  unknown  ; 
And,  were  his  daughter  fairer  than  she  is. 
She  may  more  suitors  have,  and  me  for  one. 
Fair  Leda's  daughter  had  a  thousand  wooers  ; 
Then  well  one  more  may  fair  Bianca  have  : 
And  so  slie  shall ;  Lucentio  shall  make  one, 
ITiough  Paris  came,  in  hope  to  speed  alone. 

Gre.  What !  tliis  gentleman  wdll  out-talk  us  all. 

Luc.   Sir,  give  him  head ;   I  know  he'll  prove  a 
jade. 

Pet.    Hortensio,  to  what  end  are  all  these  words  ? 

Hor.   Sir,  let  me  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  you, 
Did  you  yet  ever  see  Baptista's  daughter  ? 

Tra.    No,  sir ;  but  hear  I  do,  that  he  hath  two ; 
Tl)e  one  as  famous  for  a  scolding  tongue, 
As  is  the  other  for  beauteous  modesty. 

Pei.   Sir,  sir,  the  first's  for  me ;  let  her  go  by. 


Gre.   Yea,  leave  that  labour  to  great  Hercules ; 
And  let  it  be  more  than  Alcides'  twelve. 

Pet.   Sir,  understand  you  this  of  me,  insooth  ;  — 
The  youngest  daughter,  whom  you  hearken  for, 
Her  father  keeps  from  all  access  of  suitors  ; 
And  will  not  promise  her  to  any  man, 
Until  the  elder  sister  first  be  wed : 
The  younger  then  is  free,  and  not  before. 

Tra.   If  it  be  so,  sir,  that  you  are  the  man 
Must  stead  us  all,  and  me  among  the  rest ; 
An  if  you  break  the  ice,  and  do  this  feat,  — 
Achieve  the  elder,  set  the  younger  free 
For  our  access,  —  whose  hap  shall  be  to  have  her. 
Will  not  so  graceless  be,  to  be  ingrate. 

Hor.   Sir,  you  say  well,  and  well  you  do  con- 
ceive ; 
And  since  you  do  profess  to  be  a  suitor, 
You  must,  as  we  do,  gratify  this  gentleman, 
To  whom  we  all  rest  generally  beholden. 

Tra.   Sir,  I  shall  not  be  slack  :   in  sign  whereof 
Please  ye  we  may  contrive  this  afternoon. 
And  quaff  carouses  to  our  mistress'  health  ; 
And  do  as  adversaries  do  in  law,  — 
Strive  mightily,  but  eat  and  drink  as  friends. 

Gru.  Pion.   O  excellent  motion  !   Fellows  3,  let's 
be  gone. 

Hor.   The  motion's  good  indeed,  and  be  it  so ;  — 
Fetrucbio,  I  shall  be  your  ben  venuto. 

\_Exeuiit. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  m  Baptista'5  House. 
Enter  Katharika  and  Bianca. 

Bian.   Good   sister,    wrong   me  not,   nor  wrong 
yourself. 
To  make  a  bondmaid  and  a  slave  of  me  : 
That  I  disdain  ;  but  for  these  other  gawds  *, 
Unbind  my  hands,  I'll  pull  them  off  myself, 
Or,  what  you  will  command  me,  will  I  do, 
So  well  I  know  my  duty  to  my  elders. 

Kath.    Of  all  tliy  suitors,  here  I  charge  thee,  tell 
Whom  thou  lov'st  best :   see  thou  dissemble  not. 

Bian.   Believe  me,  sister,  of  all  the  men  alive, 
I  never  yet  beheld  that  special  face 
Which  I  could  fancy  more  than  any  other. 

Kath.   Minion,  thou  liest ;   Is't  not  Hortensio  ? 

Bian.   If  you  affect '  him,  sister,  here  I  swear, 
I'll  plead  for  you  myself,  but  you  shall  have  him. 

Kath.   O  then,  belike,  you  fancy  riches  more  j 
You  will  have  Gremio  to  keep  you  fair. 

Bian.    Is  it  for  him  you  do  envy  me  so  ? 
Nay,  then  you  jest ;  and  now  I  well  perceive, 
You  have  but  jested  vnih  me  all  this  while  : 
I  pr*ythee,  sister  Kate,  untie  my  hands. 

KcUh.   If  that  be  jest,  then  all  the  rest  was  so. 

[Strikes  fier. 
Enter  Baftista. 

Bap.  Why,  how  now,  dame  !   whence  grows  this 

insolence  ? 

Btanca,  stand  aside  ;  —  poor  girl !  she  weeps :  — 
Go  ply  thy  needle  ;  meddle  not  with  her.  — 
For  shame,  tliou  hilding  'i  of  a  devilish  spirit, 
Why  dost  thou  wrong  her  that  did  ne'er  wrong  thee  ? 
When  did  she  cross  thee  with  a  bitter  word  ? 
'  Trifling  urnamcnU.        '  Love.        »  A  worthless  woman. 


Kath.   Her  silence  flouts  me,  and  I'll  be  reveng'd. 

[Flies  ajler  Bianca. 

Bap.  What,  in  my  sight  ?  —  Bianca,  get  thee  in. 

[Exit  Bianca. 
Kath.   Will  you  not  suffer  me  ?    Nay,  now  I  see. 
She  is  your  treasure,  she  must  have  a  husband ; 
I  must  dance  barefoot  on  her  wedding-day. 
And,  for  your  love  to  her,  lead  apes  in  hell. 
Talk  not  to  me ;  I  w  ill  go  sit  and  weep. 
Till  I  can  find  occasion  of  revenge. 

[Exit  Katiiarina. 
Bap.   Was  ever  gentleman  thus  griev'd  as  I  ? 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  G&kmio,   uith  Lucentio  in  the  habit  of  a 

mean  mans    Petruchio,  with  Hortensio  as  a 

miisician ;  and  Tranio,  tvith  Biondello  bearing 

a  lute  and  books. 

Gre.    Good-morrow,  neighbour  Baptista. 

Bap.    Good-morrow,    neighbour    Gremio :    save 
you,  gentlemen  ! 

Pet.   And  you,  good  sir !   Pray,  have  you  not  a 
daughter 
Call'd  Katharina,  fair,  and  virtuous  ? 

Bap.   I  have  a  daughter,  sir,  call'd  Katharina. 

Gre.    You  are  too  blunt,  go  to  it  orderly. 

Pet.   You  wrong  rae,  signior  Gremio ;  give  me 
leave.  — 
I  am  a  gentleman  of  Verona,  sir. 
That,  —  hearing  of  her  beauty,  and  her  wit. 
Her  affability,  and  bashful  modesty. 
Her  wondrous  qualities  and  mild  behaviour, — 
Am  bold  to  show  myself  a  forward  guest 

»  Companions. 
R  4 


248 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Act  II. 


Within  your  house,  to  make  mine  eye  the  witness 
Of  that  report  which  I  so  oft  have  Iieard. 
And,  for  an  entrance  to  my  entertainment, 
I  do  present  you  with  a  man  of  mine, 

[Presenting  Hortensio. 
Cunning  in  musick,  and  the  mathematicks, 
To  instruct  her  fully  in  those  sciences. 
Whereof,  I  know,  she  is  not  ignorant : 
Accept  of  him,  or  else  you  do  me  wrong  ; 
His  name  is  Licio,  born  in  Mantua. 

Bc^.   You're  welcome,  sir;    and   he,  for  your 
good  sake : 
But  for  my  daughter  Katharine,  —  this  I  know, 
She  is  not  for  your  turn,  the  more  my  grief. 

Pet.   I  see,  you  do  not  mean  to  part  with  her ; 
Or  else  you  like  not  of  my  company. 

JSap.   Mistake  me  not,  I  speak  but  as  I  find. 
Whence  are  you,  sir  ?  what  may  I  call  your  name  ? 

Pet.    Petruchio  is  my  name  ;   Antonio's  son, 
A  man  well  known  throughout  all  Italy. 

JBap.   I  know  him  well :   you  are  welcome  for 
his  sake. 

Gre.  Saving  your  tale,  Petruchio,  I  pray, 
Let  us,  that  are  poor  petitioners,  speak  too  : 
Baccare  !  *  you  are  marvellous  forward. 

Pet.    O,  pardon  me,  signior  Gremio;   I  would 
fain  be  doing. 

Gre.   I  doubt  it  not,  sir  ;  but  you  will  curse  your 

wooing. 

Neighbour,  this  is  a  gift  very  grateful,  I  am  sure  of 
it.  To  express  the  like  kindness  myself,  that  have 
been  more  kindly  beholden  to  you  than  any,  I  freely 
give  unto  you  this  young  scholar  [Presenting  Lu- 
CENTio.]  that  hath  been  long  studying  at  Rheims  : 
as  cunning  in  Greek,  Latin,  and  other  languages, 
as  the  other  in  musick  and  mathematicks  :  his  name 
is  Cambio  ;  pray,  accept  his  service. 

Bap.  A  thousand  thanks,  signior  Gremio  :  wel- 
come, good  Cambio.  —  But,  gentle  sir,  [To  Tra- 
>iio.]  methinks  you  walk  like  a  stranger;  May  I 
be  so  bold  to  know  the  cause  of  your  coming  ? 

Tra.   Pardon  me,  sir,  the  boldness  is  mine  own  ; 
That,  being  a  stranger  in  this  city  here. 
Do  make  myself  a  suitor  to  your  daughter. 
Unto  Bianca,  fair,  and  virtuous. 
Nor  is  your  firm  resolve  unknown  to  me, 
In  the  preferment  of  the  eldest  sister  : 
This  liberty  is  all  that  I  request,  — 
That,  upon  knowledge  of  my  parentage, 
I  may  have  welcome  'mongst  the  rest  that  woo. 
And  free  access  and  favour  as  the  rest. 
And,  toward  the  education  of  your  daughters, 
I  heiie  bestow  a  simple  instrument,  ' 
And  this  small  packet  of  Greek  and  Latin  books  : 
If  you  accept  them,  then  their  worth  is  great. 

Bap.   Lucentio  is  your  name?  of  whence,  I  pray? 

Tra.    Of  Pisa,  sir ;  son  to  Vincentio. 

Bap.    A  mighty  man  of  Pisa  ;  by  report 
I  know  him  well :   you  are  very  welcome,  sir.  — 
Take  you  [To  Hor.]  the  lute,  and  you  [To  Luc] 

the  set  of  books, 
You  shall  go  see  your  pupils  presently. 
Holla,  within  ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Sirrah,  lead 

These  gentlemen  to  my  daughters;  and  tell  them  both. 
These  are  their  turors ;  bid  them  use  them  well. 

[Exit  Servant,  with  Hortensio,  Lucentio, 

and  BioNDELLO. 
'^  A  proverbial  exclamation  then  in  use. 


We  will  go  walk  a  little  in  the  orchard, 

And  then  to  dinner :    You  are  passing  welcome. 

And  so  I  pray  you  all  to  think  yourselves. 

Pet.   Signior  Baptista,  my  business  asketh  haste, 
And  every  day  I  cannot  come  to  woo. 
You  knew  my  father  well  ;  and  in  him,  me. 
Left  solely  heir  to  all  his  lands  and  goods, 
Which  I  have  better'd  rather  than  decreas'd  : 
Then  tell  me,  —  if  I  get  your  daughter's  love, 
What  dowry  shall  I  have  with  her  to  wife? 

Bap.    After  my  death,  the  one  half  of  my  lands : 
And,  in  possession,  twenty  thousand  crowns. 

Pet.    And,  for  that  dowry,  I'll  assure  her  of 
Her  widowhood,  —  be  it  that  she  survive  me,  — 
In  all  my  lands  and  leases  whatsoever : 
Let  specialties  be  therefore  drawn  between  us, 
That  covenants  may  be  kept  on  either  hand. 

Bap.   Ay,  when  the  special  thing  is  well  obtain'd. 
This  is,  —  her  love  ;  for  that  is  all  in  all. 

Pet.   Why,  that  is  nothing ;  for  I  tell  you,  father, 
I  am  as  peremptory  as  she  proud-minded ; 
And  where  two  raging  fires  meet  together, 
They  do  consume  the  thing  that  feeds  their  fury : 
Though  little  fire  grows  great  with  little  wind, 
Yet  extreme  gusts  will  blow  out  fire  and  all : 
So  I  to  her,  and  so  she  yields  to  me ; 
For  I  am  rough,  and  woo  not  like  a  babe. 

Bap.   Well  may'st  thou  woo,  and  happy  be  thy 
speed ! 
But  be  thou  arm'd  for  some  unhappy  words. 

Pet.   Ay,   to  the  proof;    as  mountains  are  for 
winds. 
That  shake  not,  though  they  blow  perpetually. 

Re-enter  Hortensio,  with  his  head  broken. 
Bap.   How  now,  my  friend  ?  why  dost  thou  look 

so  pale  ? 
Hor.    For  fear,  I  promise  you,  if  I  look  pale. 
Bap.   What,  will  my  daughter  prove  a  good  mu- 
sician ? 
Hor.    I  think,  she*ll  sooner  prove  a  soldier ; 
Iron  may  hold  with  her,  but  never  lutes. 

Baj).   Why,  then  thou  canst  not  break  her  to  the 

lute? 
Hor.   Why,  no ;  for  she  hath  broke  the  lute  to  me. 
I  did  but  tell  her,  she  mistook  her  frets  5, 
And  bow'd  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering ; 
When,  with  a  most  impatient  devilish  spirit. 
Frets,  call  you  these?  quoth  she:  V II fume  with  them: 
And,  with  that  word,  she  struck  me  on  the  head, 
And  through  the  instrument  my  pate  made  way  ; 
And  there  I  stood  amazed  for  a  while. 
As  on  a  pillory,  looking  through  the  lute 
While  she  did  call  me,  —  rascal  fiddler. 
And — twangling  Jack ;  with  twenty  such  vile  terms. 
As  she  had  studied  to  misuse  me  so. 

Pet.   Now,  by  the  world,  it  is  a  lusty  wench  ; 
I  love  her  ten  times  more  than  e'er  I  did  : 
O,  how  I  long  to  have  some  chat  with  her  ! 

Bap.   Well,  go  with  me,  and  be  not  so  discom- 
fited: 
Proceed  in  practice  with  my  younger  daughter ; 
She's  apt  to  learn,  and  thankful  for  good  turns.  — 
Signior  Petruchio,  will  you  go  with  us  ; 
Or  shall  I  send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you  ? 

Pet.   I  pray  you  do  ;   I  will  attend  her  here,  — 
[Exeunt  Baptista,  Gremio,  Tranio, 
and  Hortensio. 

5  A  fret  in  music  is  the  stop  which  causes  or  regulates  the 
vibration  of  the  string. 


Jll 


Scene  I. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


249 


And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  when  she  comes. 

Say,  that  slie  rail :    Why,  then  I'll  tell  her  plain, 

She  sings  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale  : 

Say,  that  she  frown  :    I'll  say,  she  looks  as  clear 

As  morning  roses  newly  wash'd  with  dew  : 

Say,  she  be  mute,  and  will  not  speak  a  word ; 

Then  I'll  commend  her  volubility. 

And  say  —  she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence  : 

If  she  do  bid  me  pack,  I'll  give  her  thanks, 

As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week ; 

If  she  deny  to  wed,  I'll  crave  the  day 

When  I  shall  ask  the  banns,  and  when  be  married.  — 

But  here  she  comes  j  and  now,  Petruchio,  speak. 

Enter  Katharina. 

Good-morrow,  Kate  ;  for  that's  your  name,  I  hear. 

Kat/i.   Well  have  you  heard,  but  something  hard 
of  hearing ; 
They  call  me  —  Katharine,  that  do  talk  of  me. 

Put.   You  lie,  in  faith ;  for  you  are  call'd  plain 
Kate, 
And  bonny  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst ; 
But  Kate,  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom, 
Kate  of  Kate-Hall,  my  super-dainty  Kate, 
For  dainties  are  all  cates  ;  and  therefore,  Kate, 
Take  this  of  me,  Kate  of  my  consolation  ;  — 
Hearing  thy  mildness  prais'd  in  every  town, 
Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauty  sounded, 
(Yet  not  so  deeply  as  to  thee  belongs,) 
Myself  am  mov'd  to  woo  thee  for  my  wife. 

Jiath.   Mov'd  !  in  good  time  :   let  him  that  mov'd 
you  hither, 
Remove  you  hence  :   I  knew  you  at  the  first. 
You  were  a  moveable. 

Pet.  Why,  what's  a  moveable  ? 

ITath.    A  joint-stool. 

Pet.  Thou  hast  hit  it :   come,  sit  on  me. 

Kath*  Asses  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are  you. 

Pet.   Alas,  good  Kate  !   I  will  not  burden  thee  : 
For,  knowing  thee  to  be  but  young  and  light,  — 

A'iith.   Too  light  for  such  a  swain  as  you  to  catch ; 
And  yet  as  heavy  as  my  weight  should  be. 

Pet.   Should  be  ?  should  buz. 

JTath.  Well  ta'en,  and  like  a  buzzard. 

Pet.   O,  slow-winged  turtle  !  shall  a  buzzard  take 
thee? 

ITath.    Ay,  for  a  turtle  ;  as  he  takes  a  buzzard. 

Pet.   Come,  come,  you  wasp  ;  i 'faith,  you  are  too 
angry. 

X'ath.   If  I  be  waspish,  best  beware  ray  sting. 

Pet.   My  remedy  is  then  to  pluck  it  out. 

JCath.   Ay,  if  the  fool  could  find  it  where  it  lies. 

Pet.   Who  knows  not  where  a  wasp  doth  wear  his 
sting? 
In  his  tail. 

ITath.         In  his  tongue. 

Pet.  Nay,  come  again. 

Good  Kate  ;  I  am  a  gentleman. 

A^ath.  That  I'll  try. 

[Striking  him. 

Pet.   I  swear  I'll  cuff  you,  if  you  strike  again. 

ITath.   So  may  you  lose  your  anns  : 
If  you  strike  me,  you  are  no  gentleman ; 
And  if  no  gentleman,  why,  then  no  arms. 

Pet.    A  herald,  Kate  ?  O,  put  me  in  thy  books. 

ITath.   What  is  your  crest  ?  a  coxcomb  ? 

Pet.    A  combless  cock,  so  Kate  will  be  my  hen. 

A'ath.   No  cock  of  mine,  you  crow   too  like  a 
craven.  <> 

'  A  degenerate  cock. 


Pet.   Nay,  come,  Kate,  come  j  you  must  not  look 
so  sour. 

ITath.   It  is  ray  fashion,  when  I  see  a  crab. 

Pet.   Why  here's  no  crab :    and  therefore  look 
•    not  sour. 

ITath.   There  is,  there  is. 

Pet.   Then  show  it  me. 

ITath.  Had  I  a  glass,  I  would. 

Pet.   What,  you  mean  ray  face  ? 

A'ath.  Well  aim'd  of  such  a  young  one. 

Pet.   Now,  by  saint  George,  I  am  too  young  for 
you. 

ITath.   Yet  you  are  wither'd. 

Pet.  'Tis  with  cares. 

ITath.  I  care  not. 

Pet.   Nay,  hear  you,  Kate :  in  sooth,  you  'scape 
not  so. 

ITath.   I  chafe  you,  if  I  tarry ;  let  me  go. 

Pet,    No,  not  a  whit ;   I  find  you  passing  gentle. 
'Twas  told  me,  you  were  rough,  and  coy,  and  sullen, 
And  now  I  find  report  a  very  liar ; 
For  thou  art  pleasant,  gamesome,  passing  courteous ; 
But  slow  in  speech,  yet  sweet  as  spring-time  flowers: 
Thou  canst  not  frown,  thou  canst  not  look  askance. 
Nor  bite  the  lip,  as  angry  wenches  will ; 
Nor  hast  thou  pleasure  to  be  cross  in  talk  ; 
But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers. 
With  gentle  conference,  soft  and  affable. 
Why  does  the  world  report,  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 

0  slanderous  world  !   Kate,  like  the  hazle-twig. 
Is  straight  and  slender ;  and  as  brown  in  hue 
As  hazle-nuts,  and  sweeter  than  the  kernels. 

O,  let  me  see  thee  walk  :  thou  dost  not  halt. 

ITath.    Go,  fool,  and  whom  thou  keep'st  command. 

Pet.   Did  ever  Dian  so  become  a  grove, 
As  Kate  this  chamber  vdth  her  princely  gait? 
O,  be  thou  Dian,  and  let  her  be  Kate ; 
And  then  let  Kate  be  chaste,  and  Dian  «portful  ! 

A'^ath.  Where  did  you  study  all  this  goodly  speech? 

Pet.   It  is  extempore,  from  my  mother-wit. 

ITath.    A  witty  mother  !   witless  else  her  son. 

Pet.    Am  I  not  wise? 

A^ath.  Yes. 

Pet.   And  therefore,  setting  all  this  chat  aside. 
Thus  in  plain  terms :  —  Your  father  hath  consented 
That  you  shall  be  ray  wife  ;  your  dowry  'greed  on  ; 
And,  will  you,  nill  you,  I  will  marry  you. 
Now,  Kate,  I  am  a  husband  for  your  turn  ; 
For,  by  this  b'ght,  whereby  I  see  thy  beauty, 
(Thy  beauty,  that  doth  make  me  like  thee  well,) 
Thou  raust  be  raarried  to  no  raan  but  me : 
For  I  am  he,  am  born  to  tame  you,  Kate ; 
And  bring  you  from  a  wild-cat  to  a  Kate 
Conformable,  as  other  household  Kates. 
Here  comes  your  father  ;  never  make  denial ; 

1  must  and  will  have  Katharine  to  my  wife. 

Re-enter  Baptista,  Gremio,  and  Tranio. 

Bap.   Now, 
Signior  Petruchio  :    How  speed  you  with 
My  daughter  ? 

Pet.  How  but  well,  sir  ?  how  but  well? 

It  were  impossible  I  should  speed  amiss. 

Bap.   Why,  how  now,  daughter  Katharine?   in 
your  dumps  ? 

ITath.  Call  you  me,  daughter  ?  now  I  promise  you, 
You  have  show'd  a  tender  fatherly  regard. 
To  wish  me  wed  to  one  half  lunatick  ; 
A  mad-cap  ruffian,  and  a  swearing  Jack, 
That  thinks  with  oaths  to  face  the  matter  ouU 


250 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Act  n.    Scene  I. 


Pet.    Father,  'tis  thus,  —  yourself  and  all  the  world, 
Th.at  talk'd  of  her,  have  talk'd  amiss  of  her ; 
If  she  be  curst,  it  is  for  policy : 
For  she's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  dove  j 
She  is  not  hot,  but  temperate  as  the  morn ; 
For  patience  she  will  prove  a  second  Grissel ; 
And  Roman  Lucrece  for  her  chastity  : 
And  to  conclude,  —  we  have 'greed  so  well  together, 
That  upon  Sunday  is  the  wedding-day. 

Kath.   I'll  see  thee  hang'd  on  Sunday  first. 

Gre.   Hark,   Petruchio !    slie  says,  sbe'll  see  thee 
hang'd  first. 

Tra,    Is  this  your  speeding?    nay,   then,   good 
night  our  part ! 

Pet.   Be  patient,  gentlemen ;    I  choose  her  for 
myself ; 
If  she  and  I  be  pleas'd,  what's  that  to  you  ? 
Tis  bargain'd  'twixt  us  twain,  being  alone, 
That  she  shall  still  be  curst  in  company. 
I  tell  you  'tis  incredible  to  believe 
How  much  she  loves  me  :    O,  the  kindest  Kate  !  — 
She  hung  about  my  neck  ;  and  kiss  on  kiss 
She  vied  7  so  fast,  protesting  oath  on  oath, 
That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  her  love. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Kate  :    I  will  unto  Venice, 
To  buy  apparel  'gainst  the  wedding-day  :  — 
Provide  the  feast,  father,  and  bid  the  guests  ; 
I  will  be  sure,  my  Katharine  shall  be  fine. 

Bap.   I   know  not  what  to  say ;  give  me  your 
hands ; 
Heaven  send  you  joy,  Petruchio  !  'tis  a  match. 

Gre.  Tra.    Amen,  say  we  ;  we  will  be  witnesses. 

Pet.   Father,  and  wife,  and  gentlemen,  adieu  ; 

I  will  to  Venice,  Sunday  comes  apace : 

We  will  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array ; 
And  kiss  me,  Kate,  we  will  be  married  o' Sunday. 
\^Exeu7it  Petruchio  and  Katharina,  severally. 

Ore.   Was  ever  match  clapp'd  up  so  suddenly  ? 

Bap.    Gentlemen,  now  I  play  a  merchant's  part. 
And  venture  madly  on  a  desperate  mart. 

Tra.   'Twas  a  commodity  lay  fretting  by  you  : 
'Twill  bring  you  gain,  or  perish  on  the  seas. 

Bap.   The  gain  I  seek  is  —  quiet  in  the  match. 

Gre.    No  doubt  but  he  hath  got  a  quiet  catch. 
But  now,  Baptista,  to  your  younger  daughter ;  — 
Now  is  the  day  we  long  have  looked  for ; 
I  am  your  neighbour,  and  was  suitor  first, 

Tra.   And  I  am  one,  that  love  Bianca  more 
Than  words  can  witness,  or  your  thoughts  can  guess. 

Gre.   Youngling  !  thou  canst  not  love  so  dear  as  I. 

Tra.    Grey-beard  !  thy  love  doth  freeze. 

Gre.    Skipper,  stand  back  ;  'tis  age  that  nourisheth. 

Tra.    But  youth  in  ladies'  eyes  that  flourisheth. 

Bap.    Content  you,   gentlemen ;    I'll  compound 
this  strife  : 
'Tis  deeds  must  win  the  prize ;  and  he,  of  both. 
That  can  assure  my  daughter  greatest  dower 
Shall  have  Bianca's  love.  — 
Say,  signior  Gremio,  what  can  you  assure  her  ? 

Gre.   First,  as  you,  know  my  house  within  the  city 
Is  richly  furnished  with  plate  and  gold  ; 
Basons,  and  ewers,  to  lave  her  dainty  hands ; 
My  hangings  all  of  Tyrian  tapestry  : 
In  ivory  coffers  1  have  stufF'd  my  crowns ; 

7  To  vye  and  revye  were  terms  at  cards,  now  superseded  by 
the  word  brag. 


In  cypress  chests  my  arras,  counterpoints  8, 
Costly  apparel,  tents  and  canopies. 
Fine  linen,  Turkey  cushions,  boss'd  with  pearl. 
Valance  of  Venice  gold  in  needle-work, 
Pewter  and  brass,  and  all  things  that  belong 
To  house,  or  housekeeping  :   then,  at  my  farm, 
I  have  a  hundred  milch-kine  to  the  pail, 
Six  score  fat  oxen  standing  in  my  stalls. 
And  all  things  answerable  to  this  portion. 
Myself  am  struck  in  years,  I  must  confess ; 
And,  if  I  die  to-morrow,  this  is  hers. 
If  whilst  I  live,  she  will  be  only  mine, 

Tra.   That,  only,  came  well  in Sir,  list  to  me  ; 

I  am  my  father's  heir,  and  only  son  : 

If  I  may  have  your  daughter  to  my  wife, 

I'll  leave  her  houses  three  or  four  as  good, 

Within  rich  Pisa  walls,  as  any  one 

Old  signior  Gremio  has  in  Padua ; 

Besides  two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year, 

Of  fruitful  land,  all  which  shall  be  her  jointure. — 

What,  have  I  pinch'd  you,  signior  Gremio  ? 

Gre.   Two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year,  of  land ! 
My  land  amounts  not  to  so  much  in  all : 
That  she  shall  have  ;  besides  an  argosy  9, 
That  now  is  lying  in  Marseilles'  road :  ^^— 
What,  have  I  chok'd  you  with  an  argosy  ? 

Tra.    Gremio,  'tis  known,  my  father  hath  no  less 
Than  three  great  argosies  ;    besides  two  galliasses  ', 
And  twelve  tight  gallies  :   these  I  will  assure  her, 
And  twice  as  much,  whate'er  thou  offer'st  next. 

Gre.   Nay,  I  have  offer'd  all,  I  have  no  more ; 
And  she  can  have  no  more  than  all  I  have ; 
If  you  like  me,  she  shall  have  me  and  mine. 

Tra.   Why,  then  the  maid  is  mine  from  all  the 
world. 
By  your  firm  promise ;  Gremio  is  out-vied. 

Bap.   I  must  confess,  your  offer  is  the  best : 
And,  let  your  father  make  her  the  assurance, 
She  is  your  own  ;  else,  you  must  pardon  me  : 
If  you  should  die  before  him  where's  her  dower  ? 

Tra.   That's  but  a  cavil ;  he  is  old,  I  young. 

Gre.   And  may  not  young  men  die,  as  well  as  old  ? 

Bap.    Well,  gentlemen, 
I  am  thus  resolv'd :  —  On  Sunday  next  you  know, 
My  daughter  Katherine  is  to  be  married 
Now,  on  the  Sunday  following,  shall  Bianca 
Be  bride  to  you,  if  you  make  this  assurance  ; 
If  not,  to  signior  Gremio  : 
And  so  I  take  my  leave,  and  thank  you  both. 

\_Erit. 

Gre.   Adieu,  good  neighbour.  —  Now  I  fear  thee 
not ; 
Sirrah,  young  gamester,  your  father  were  a  fool 
To  give  thee  all,  and  in  his  waning  age. 
Set  foot  under  thy  table  :    Tut !  a  toy  ! 
An  old  Italian  fox  is  not  so  kind,  my  boy.      [^Exit. 

Tra.    A  vengeance  on  your  crafty  wither'd  liide  ! 
Yet  I  have  faced  it  with  a  card  of  ten.  2 
'Tis  in  my  head  to  do  my  master  good :  — 
I  see  no  reason,  but  suppos'd  Lucentio 
Must  get  a  father,  call'd  —  suppos'd  Vincentio. 

lExU. 

8  Coverings  for  beds  ;  now  called  counterpanes. 

9  A  large  merchant-ship. 

1  A  vessel  of  burthen  worked  both  with  sails  and  oars. 

2  The  highest  card. 


Act  III.    Scene  I. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHllEVV. 


251 


ACT   III. 


SCENE  I.  — A  Room  in  Baptista'5  House. 
Enter  Lucentio,  Hortknsio,  and  Bianca, 
Luc.  Fiddler,  forbear ;  you  grow  too  forward,  sir : 
Have  you  so  soon  forgot  the  entertainment 
Her  sister  Katharine  welcom'd  you  withal  ? 

Hor.    But,  wrangling  pedant,  this  is 
The  patroness  of  heavenly  harmony ; 
Then  give  me  leave  to  have  prerogative  ; 
And  when  in  musick  we  have  spent  an  hour, 
Your  lecture  shall  have  leisure  for  as  much. 

Luc.   Preposterous  ass  !  that  never  read  so  far 
To  know  the  cause  why  musick  was  ordain'd ! 
Was  it  not,  to  refresh  tlie  mind  of  man, 
After  his  studies,  or  his  usual  pain  ? 
Then  give  me  leave  to  read  philosophy. 
And  while  I  pause  serve  in  your  harmony. 

Hor.  Sirrah,  I  will  not  bear  these  braves  of  thine. 
Bian.   Why,  gentlemen,  you  do  me  double  wrong. 
To  strive  for  that  which  resteth  in  my  choice  : 
I'll  not  be  tied  to  hours,  nor  'pointed  times, 
But  learn  my  lessons  as  I  please  myself. 
And  to  cut  off  all  strife,  here  sit  we  down  :  -— 
Take  you  your  instrument,  play  you  the  whiles  ; 
His  lecture  will  be  done,  ere  you  have  tun'd. 
Hor.  You'll  leave  his  lecture  when  I  am  in  tune  ? 

[To  Bianca Hortensio  retires. 

Luc.   That  will  be  never ;  tune  your  instrument. 
Bian.  Where  left  we  last  ? 
Luc.   Here,  madam  : 

Hac  ibat  Simois ;  his  est  Sigeia  tellus  : 
Hie  steterat  Priami  regia  celsa  senis. 
Bian.   Construe  them. 

Luc.  Hac  ibat,  as  I  told  you  before,  -—  Simois,  I 
am  Lucentio,  —  hie  est,  son  unto  Vincentio  of 
Pisa,  —  Sigeia  tellus,  disguised  thus  to  get  your 
love;  —  Hie  steterat,  and  that  Lucentio  that  comes 
a  wooing,  —  Priami,  is  my  man  Tranio,  —  regia, 
bearing  my  port,  —  celsa  senis,  that  we  might  be- 
guile the  old  pantaloon.  3 

Hor.   Madam,  my  instrument's  in  tune. 

{Returning. 
Bian.   Let's  hear; —  [ Hortensio jp%s. 

O  fye !  the  treble  jars. 

Luc.  Spit  in  the  hole,  man,  and  tune  again. 
Bian.  Now  let  me  see  if  I  can  construe  it :  Hac 
ibat  Simois,  I  know  you  not;  hie  est  Sigeia  tellus,  I 
trust  you  not ;  — Hie  steterat  Priami,  take  heed  he 
hear  us  not ;  — regia,  presume  not ;  —  celsa  senis, 
despiur  not. 

Hor.   Madam,  'tis  now  in  tune. 
Luc.  All  but  the  base. 

Hor.   The  base  is  right ;    'tis  the  l>ase  knave  that 
jars. 
How  fiery  and  forward  our  pedant  is  ! 
Now,  for  my  life,  the  knave  doth  court  my  love  : 
Pediiscule*,  I'll  watch  you  better  yet. 

Bian.   In  time  I  may  believe,  yet  1  mistrust. 
Luc.   Mistrust  it  not ;  for  sure,  ^acides 
Was  Ajax,  —  call'd  so  from  his  grandfather. 

Bian.   I  must  believe  my  master  ;  else  I  promise 
you, 
I  sliould  be  arguing  still  upon  that  doubt : 
But  let  it  rest,  —  Now,  Licio,  to  you  :  — 

The  old  cully  in  Italian  farces.  *  Pedant. 


Good  masters,  take  it  not  unkindly,  pray, 
That  I  have  been  thus  pleasant  with  you  both. 
Hor.   You  may  go  walk,    [To  Lucentio.]   and 
give  me  leave  awhile  : 
My  lessons  make  no  music  in  three  parts. 

Luc.   Are  you  so  formal,  sir?  well,  I  must  wait, 
And  watch  withal ;  for,  but  I  be  deceiv'd. 
Our  fine  musician  groweth  amorous.  [Aside, 

Hor.   Madam,  before  you  touch  the  instrument. 
To  learn  the  order  of  my  fingering, 
I  must  begin  the  rudiments  of  art ; 
To  teach  you  gamut  in  a  briefer  sort, 
More  pleasant,  pithy,  and  effectual. 
Than  hath  been  taught  by  any  of  my  trade : 
And  there  it  is  in  writing,  fairly  drawn. 

Bian.   Why,  I  am  past  my  gamut  long  ago. 
Hor.   Yet  read  the  gamut  of  Hortensio. 
Bian.    [Reads.^    Gam  ut  I  am,  the  ground  of  all 
accord, 
A  re,  to  plead  Hortensio*  s  passion  ; 
B  mi,  Bianca,  take  him  for  thy  lord, 

C  faut,  that  loves  with  all  affectitm  ; 
D  sol  re,  one  cliff,  two  notes  have  I ; 
E  la  mi,  show  pity,  or  I  die. 
Call  you  this  —  gamut  ?  tut !   I  like  it  not : 
Old  fashions  please  me  best ;   I  am  not  so  nice. 
To  change  true  rules  for  odd  inventions. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Serv.   Mistress,  your  father  prays  you  leave  your 
books. 
And  help  to  dress  your  sister's  chamber  up  ; 
You  know,  to-morrow  is  the  wedding  day. 

Bian.    Farewell,  sweet  masters,  both  ;   I  must  be 
gone.  [Exeunt  Bianca  and  Servant. 

Luc   'Faith,  mistress,  then  I  have  no  cause  to 
stay.  ,         [Erii- 

Hor.   But  I  have  cause  to  pry  into  this  pedant ; 
Methinks,  he  looks  as  though  he  were  in  love :  — 
Yet  if  thy  thoughts,  Bianca,  be  so  humble. 
To  cast  tliy  wand'ring  eyes  on  every  stale  *, 
Seize  thee,  that  list :  If  once  I  find  thee  ranging, 
Hortensio  will  be  quit  with  thee  by  changing. 

[ExU. 
SCENE  II.  —  Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  Baptista,    Gremio,  Tranio,   Katharina, 
Bianca,  Lucentio,  and  Attendants. 
Bap.   Signior  Lucentio,   [To  Tranio.]   this  is 
the  'pointed  day 
That  Katharine  and  Petrucliio  should  be  married, 
And  yet  we  hear  not  of  our  son-in-law  : 
What  will  be  said  ?  what  mockery  will  it  be, 
To  want  the  bridegroom,  when  the  priest  attends 
To  speak  the  ceremonial  rites  of  marriage  ? 
What  says  Lucentio  to  this  shame  of  ours  ? 

Kath.   No  shame  but  mine  :    I  must,  forsooth,  be 
forced 
To  give  my  hand,  oppos'd  against  my  heart. 
Unto  a  mad-brain  rudesby,  full  of  spleen  « : 
Who  woo'd  in  haste,  and  m^s  to  wed  at  leisure. 
T  told  you,  I,  he  was  a  frantick  fool, 
Hiding  his  bitter  jests  in  blunt  behaviour  . 
i  Bait,  decoy.  *  Caprice,  inconstancy. 


252 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Act  hi. 


And,  to  be  noted  for  a  merry  man, 

He'll  woo  a  thousand,  'point  the  day  of  marriage, 

Make  friends,  invite,  yes,  and  proclaim  the  banns ; 

Yet  never  means  to  wed  where  he  hath  woo'd. 

Now  must  the  world  point  at  poor  Katharine, 

And  say,  —  /.o,  there  is  mad  Petruchio's  wife, 

If  it  would  please  him  come  and  marry  her. 

Tra.  Patience,  good  Katharine,  and  Baptista,  too ; 
Upon  my  life,  Petruchio  means  but  well, 
Whatever  fortune  stays  him  from  his  word  : 
Though  he  be  blunt,  I  know  him  passing  wise ; 
Though  he  be  merry,  yet  withal  he's  honest. 

^ath.    'Would   Katharine  had  never   seen   him 
though  ! 
[Exit,  weeping,  followed  by  Bianca  and  others. 

Bap.  Go,  girl ;  I  cannot  blame  thee  now  to  weep  ; 
For  such  an  injury  would  vex  a  saint, 
Much  more  a  shrew  of  thy  impatient  humour. 

Enter  Biondello. 

Bion.  Master,  master  !  news,  old  news,  and  such 
news  as  you  never  heard  of  ! 

Bap.  Is  it  new  and  old  too  ?  how  may  that  be  ? 

Bion.  Why,  is  it  not  news,  to  hear  of  Petruchio's 
coming  ? 

Bap.   Is  he  come  ? 

Bion.   Why,  no,  sir. 

Bap.   What  then  ? 

Bion.   He  is  coming. 

Bap.   When  will  he  be  here  ? 

Bion.  When  he  stands  where  I  am,  and  sees  you 
there. 

Tra.    But,  say,  what :  —  To  thine  old  news. 

Bion.  Why,  Petruchio  is  coming,  in  a  new  hat 
and  an  old  jerkin ;  a  pair  of  boots  that  have  been 
candle- cases,  one  buckled,  another  laced;  an  old 
rusty  sword  ta'en  out  of  the  town  armory,  with  a 
broken  hilt  and  chapeless ;  with  two  broken  points  : 
His  horse  hipped  with  an  old  mothy  saddle,  the 
stirrups  of  no  kindred  :  besides,  possessed  with  the 
glanders,  and  like  to  mose  in  the  chine ;  troubled 
with  the  lampass,  infected  with  the  fashions  ',  full 
of  wind-galls,  sped  with  spavins,  raied  with  the 
yellows,  past  cure  of  the  fives  8,  stark  spoiled  with 
the  staggers,  begnawn  with  the  bots ;  swayed  in  the 
back,  and  shoulder- shotten ;  ne'er  legg'd  before, 
and  with  a  half-check'd  bit,  and  a  head-stall  of 
sheep's  leather ;  which,  being  restrained  to  keep 
him  from  stumbling,  hath  been  often  burst,  and 
now  repaired  with  knots  :  one  girt  six  times  pieced, 
and  a  woman's  crupper  of  velure  9,  which  hath  two 
letters  for  her  name,  fairly  set  down  in  studs,  and 
here  and  there  pieced  with  packthread. 

Bap.   Who  comes  with  him  ? 

Bion.  O,  sir,  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world  capari- 
soned like  the  horse ;  with  a  linen  stock  '  on  one 
leg,  and  a  kersey  boot-hose  on  the  other,  gartered 
with  a  red  and  blue  list ;  an  old  hat,  and  The  humour 
of  forty  fancies  pricked  in't  for  a  feather :  a  monster, 
a  very  monster  in  apparel ;  and  not  like  a  Christian 
footboy,  or  a  gentleman's  lackey. 

Tra.   'Tis  some  odd  humour  pricks  him  to  this 
fashion  ; 
Yet  oftentimes  he  goes  but  mean  apparell'd. 

Bap.   I  am  glad  he  is  come,  howsoe'er  he  comes. 

Bion.   Why,  sir,  he  comes  not. 

Bap.    Didst  thou  not  say,  he  comes  ? 
7  Farcy. 
^  Vives;   a  distemper  in  horses,  little  difffering  from  the 


strangles. 
»  Velvet 


Stocking. 


Bion.   Who  ?  that  Petruchio  came  ? 

Bap.   Ay,  that  Petruchio  came. 

Bion.   No,  sir;   I  say,  his  horse  comes  with  him 
on  his  back. 

Bap.   Why,  that's  all  one. 

Bion.   Nay,  by  saint  Jamy,  I  hold  you  a  penny, 
A  horse  and  a  man  is  more  than  one,  and  yet  not 
many. 

Enter  Petruchio  and  G&umio. 

Pet.   Come,  where  be  these  gallants?  who  is  at 
home? 

Bap.    You  are  welcome,  sir. 

Pet.  And  yet  I  come  not  well. 

Bap,    And  yet  you  halt  not. 

Tra.  Not  so  well  apparell'd 

As  I  wish  you  were. 

Pet.   Were  it  better  I  should  rush  in  thus. 

But  where  is  Kate  ?  where  is  my  lovely  bride  ? 

How  does  my  father? — Gentles,methinks  you  frown; 
And  wherefore  gaze  this  goodly  company  ; 
As  if  they  saw  some  wondrous  monument, 
Some  comet,  or  unusual  prodigy  ? 

Bap.  Why,  sir,  you  know  this  is  your  wedding-day: 
First  were  we  sad,  fearing  you  would  not  come ; 
Now  sadder,  that  you  come  so  unprovided. 
Fye  !  doff  this  habit,  shame  to  your  estate, 
An  eye-sore  to  our  solemn  festival. 

Tra.  And  tell  us,  what  occasion  of  import 
Hath  all  so  long  detained  you  from  your  wife. 
And  sent  you  hither  so  unlike  yourself? 

Pet.   Tedious  it  were  to  tell,  and  harsh  to  hear ; 
Sufficeth,  I  am  come  to  keep  my  word. 
Though  in  some  part  enforced  to  digress  ; 
Which,  at  more  leisure,  I  will  so  excuse 
As  you  shall  well  be  satisfied  withal. 
But,  where  is  Kate  ?  I  stay  too  long  from  her  ; 
The  morning  wears,  'tis  time  we  were  at  church. 

Tra.  See  not  your  bride  in  these  unreverent  robes 
Go  to  my  chamber,  put  on  clothes  of  mine. 

Pet.   Not  I,  believe  me  ;  thus  I'll  visit  her. 

Bap.   But  thus,  I  trust,  you  will  not  marry  her. 

Pet.    Good  sooth,  even  thus  ;  therefore  have  done 
with  words; 
To  me  she's  married,  not  unto  my  clothes : 
Could  I  repair  what  she  will  wear  in  me, 
As  I  can  change  these  poor  accoutrements, 
'Twere  well  for  Kate,  and  better  for  myself. 
But  what  a  fool  am  I,  to  chat  with  you, 
When  I  should  bid  good-morrow  to  my  bride, 
And  seal  the  title  with  a  lovely  kiss  ? 

{^Exeunt  Petruchio,  Grumio,  and  Biondello. 

Tra.   He  hath  some  meaning  in  his  mad  attire  : 
We  will  persuade  him,  be  it  possible. 
To  put  on  better  ere  he  go  to  church. 

Bap.   I'll  after  him,  and  see  the  event  of  this. 

[ExU. 

Tra.   But,  sir,  to  her  love  concerneth  us  to  add 
Her  father's  liking  :   Which  to  bring  to  pass. 
As  I  before  imparted  to  your  worship, 
I  am  to  get  a  man,  —  whate'er  he  be, 
It  skills  2  not  much  ;  we'll  fit  him  to  our  turn,  — 
And  he  shall  be  Vincentio  of  Pisa  ; 
And  make  assurance,  here  in  Padua, 
Of  greater  sums  than  I  have  promised. 
So  shall  you  quietly  enjoy  your  hope, 
And  marry  sweet  Bianca  with  consent. 

Luc.   Were  it  not  that  my  fellow-schoolmaster 
Doth  watch  Bianca's  steps  so  narrowly, 

2  Matters. 


Scene  II. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


253 


'Twere  good,  methinks,  to  steal  our  marriage; 
Which  once  perform'd,  let  all  the  world  say, — no, 
1*11  keep  mine  own,  despite  of  all  the  world. 

Tra.   That  by  degrees  we  mean  to  look  into, 
And  watch  our  vantage  in  this  business  : 
We'll  over-reach  the  grey-beard,  Gremio ; 
The  narrow-prying  father,  Minola  ; 
The  quaint  3  musician,  amorous  Licio ; 
All  for  my  master's  sake,  Lucentio.  — 

Re-enter  Grrmio. 
Signior  Gremio,  came  you  from  the  church  ? 

Gre    As  willingly  as  e'er  I  came  from  school. 

Tra.   And  is  the  bride  and  bridegroom  coming 
home  ? 

Gre.  A  bridegroom,  say  you  ?  'tis  a  groom,  indeed, 
A  grumbling  groom,  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 

Tra.    Curster  than  she  ?  why,  'tis  impossible. 

Gre.   Why,  he's  a  devil,  a  devil,  a  very  fiend. 

Tra.   Why,  she's  a  devil,  a  devil,  the  devil's  dam. 

Gre.   Tut !  she's  a  lamb,  a  dove,  a  fool  to  him. 
I'll  tell  you,  sir  Lucentio :   When  the  priest 
Should  ask  —  if  Katharine  should  be  his  wife, 
Aif,  by  gogs-wouns,  quoth  he ;  and  swore  so  loud, 
That,  all  amazed,  the  priest  let  fall  the  book  : 
And,  as  he  stoop'd  again  to  take  it  up. 
The  mad-brain' d  bridegroom  took  him  such  a  cuff. 
That  down  fell  priest  and  book,  and  book  and  priest ; 
2^ow  take  them  up,  quoth  he,  if  ant/  list. 

Tra-  What  said  the  wench,  when  he  arose  again  ? 

Gre.  Trembled  and  shook ;  for  why,  he  stamp 'd, 
and  swore, 
As  if  the  vicar  meant  to  cozen  him. 
But  after  many  ceremonies  done, 
He  calls  for  wine  :  —  A  health,  quoth  he  ;  as  if 
He  had  been  aboard  carousing  to  his  mates 
After  a  stonn  :  —  QuafTd  off  the  muscadel  '♦, 
And  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face ; 
Having  no  other  reason,  — 
But  that  his  beard  grew  thin  and  hungerly. 
And  seem'd  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking. 
This  done,  he  took  the  bride  about  the  neck  ; 
And  kiss'd  her  lips  with  such  a  clamorous  smack, 
That,  at  the  parting,  all  the  church  did  echo. 
I,  seeing  this,  came  thence  for  very  shame  j 
And,  after  me,  I  know  the  rout  is  coming  ; 
Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before  : 
Hark,  hark  !   I  hear  the  minstrels  play.       {^Musick. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  Bianca,  Baptista, 
HoRTENsio,  Grumio,  and  Train. 

Pet.  Gentlemen  and  friends,  I  thank  you  for  your 
pains  : 
I  know,  you  think  to  dine  with  me  to-day, 
And  have  prepar'd  great  store  of  wedding  cheer  ; 
But  so  it  is,  my  haste  doth  call  me  hence. 
And  tlierefore  here  I  mean  to  take  my  leave. 
Bap.    Is't  posssible,  you  will  away  to-night  ? 
Pet.    I  must  away  to-day,  before  night  come :  — 
^lake  it  no  wonder;  if  you  knew  my  business, 
^  ou  would  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay, 
And,  honest  company,  1  thank  you  all. 
That  have  beheld  me  give  away  myself 
To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  virtuous  wife  : 

»  Strange. 

*  It  was  the  custom  for  the  company  present  to  drink  wine 
immediately  after  the  marriage  ceremony. 


Dine  with  my  father,  drink  a  health  to  me ; 
For  I  must  hence,  and  farewell  to  you  all. 

Tra.  Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 

Pet.   It  may  not  be. 

Gre.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.   It  cannot  be. 

^ath.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.   I  am  content. 

ITath.  Are  you  content  to  stay  ? 

Pet.  I  am  content  you  shall  entreat  me  stay? 
But  yet  not  stay,  entreat  me  how  you  can. 

ITath.   Now,  if  you  love  me,  stay. 

Pit.  Grumio,  my  horses. 

Gru.   Ay,  sir,  they  be  ready ;  the  oats  have  eaten 
the  horses. 

ITath.   Nay,  then. 
Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day ; 
No,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  till  I  please  myself. 
The  door  is  open,  sir,  there  lies  your  way. 
You  may  be  jogging,  whiles  your  boots  are  green  ; 
For  me,  I'll  not  be  gone,  till  I  please  myself ;  — 
'Tis  like,  you'll  prove  a  jolly  surly  groom, 
That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 

Pet.  O,  Kate,  content  thee ;  pr'ythee  be  not  angry, 

JCath  I  will  be  angry  :    What  hast  thou  to  do  ? 
Father  be  quiet :   he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 

Gre.    Ay,  marry,  sir  :   now  it  begins  to  work. 

ITath.  Gentlemen,  forward  to  the  bridal  dinner  .— 
I  see,  a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool. 
If  she  had  not  a  spirit  to  resist. 

Pet.   They  shall  go  forward,  Kate,  at  thy  com^ 
mand :  — 
Obey  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her : 
Go  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer. 
Be  mad  and  merry,  —  or  go  hang  yourselves  ; 
But  for  my  bonny  Kate,  she  must  with  me. 
Nay,  look  not  big,  nor  stamp ,  nor  stare,  nor  fret ; 
I  will  be  master  of  what  is  mine  own  : 
She  is  my  goods,  my  chattels ;  she  is  my  hou.se, 
My  household  stuff,  my  field,  my  barn. 
My  horse,  my  ox,  my  ass,  my  any  thing ; 
And  here  she  stands,  touch  her  whoever  dare  ; 
I'll  bring  my  action  on  the  proudest  he 

That  stops  my  way  in  Padua Grumio, 

Draw  forth  thy  weapon  ;  we're  beset  with  thieves ; 

Rescue  thy  mistress,  if  thou  be  a  man  :  -^ 

Fear  not,  sweet  wench,  they  shall  not  touch  thee, 

Kate: 
I'll  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

{^Exeunt  Petruchio,  KATHARiKA.anxf  Grumio. 

Bap.   Nay,  let  them  go,  a  couple  of  quiet  ones. 

Gre.   Went  they  not  quickly,  I  should  die  with 
laughing. 

Tra.   Of  all  mad  matches,  never  was  the  like  ! 

Luc.  Mistress,  what's  your  opinion  of  your  sister? 

Bian.  That  being  mad  herself,  she's  madly  mated. 

Gre.   I  warrant  him,  Petruchio  is  Kated. 

Bap.   Neighbours  and  friends,  though  bride  and 
bridegroom  wants 
For  to  supply  the  places  at  the  table, 
You  know,  tliere  wants  no  junkets  »  at  the  feast ; — 
Lucentio,  you  shall  supply  the  bridegroom's  place ; 
And  let  Bianca  take  her  sister's  room. 

Tra.  Shall  sweet  Bianca  practise  how  to  bride  itV 

Bap.   She  shall,  Lucentio.  —  Come,  gentlemen, 
let's  go.  {Exeunt. 

*  DclicaciciL 


254 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Act  IV. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— J  Hall  in  Petruchio's  Country  House. 
Enter  Grumio. 
Gru.  Fye,  fye,  on  all  tired  jades,  on  all  mad 
masters!  and  all  foul  ways!  Was  ever  man  so 
beaten  ?  was  ever  man  so  rayed  ?  ^  was  ever  man  so 
weary?  I  am  sent  before  to  make  a  fire,  and  they 
are  coming  after  to  warm  them.  Now,  were  I  not 
a  little  pot,  and  soon  hot,  my  very  lips  might  freeze 
to  my  teeth,  ere  1  should  come  by  a  fire  to  thaw 
me :  —  But,  I,  with  blowing  the  fire,  shall  warm 
myself:  for,  considering  the  weather,  a  taller  man 
than  I  will  take  cold.     Holla,  hoa  !  Curtis  ! 

Enter  Curtis. 

Curt-  Who  is  that,  calls  so  coldly? 

Gru.  A  piece  of  ice:  If  thou  doubt  it,  thou  mayst 
slide  from  my  shoulder  to  my  heel,  with  no  greater 
a  run  but  my  head  and  my  neck.  A  fire,  good 
Curtis. 

Curt.  Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming,  Grumio  ? 

Gru.  O,  ay,  Curtis,  ay :  and  therefore  fire,  fire  ; 
cast  on  no  water. 

Curt.   Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she's  reported  ? 

Gru.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost ; 
but,  thou  know'st,  winter  tames  man,  woman,  and 
beast ;  for  it  hath  tamed  my  old  master,  and  my 
new  mistress,  and  myself,  fellow  Curtis. 

Curt.   Away,  you  three-inch  fool  I   I  am  no  beast. 

Gru.  Am  I  but  three  inches  ?  why,  thy  horn  is  a 
foot ;  and  so  long  am  I,  at  the  least.  But  wilt  thou 
make  a  fire,  or  shall  I  complain  on  thee  to  our  mis- 
tress, whose  hand  (she  being  now  at  hand)  thou 
shalt  soon  feel,  to  thy  cold  comfort,  for  being  slow 
in  thy  hot  office  ? 

Curt.  I  pr'ythee,  good  Grumio,  tell  me,  How 
goes  the  world  ? 

Gru.  A  cold  world,  Curtis,  in  every  office  but 
thine  ;  and,  therefore,  fire  :  Do  thy  duty,  and  have 
thy  duty ;  for  my  master  and  mistress  are  almost 
frozen  to  death, 

Curt.  There's  fire  ready :  And  therefore,  good 
Grumio,  the  news  ? 

Gru  Why,  Jack  boy  !  ho  boy  !  and  fire  ;  for  I  have 
caught  extreme  cold.  Where's  the  cook  ?  is  supper 
ready,  the  house  trimmed,  rushes  strewed ;  cobwebs 
swept ;  the  serving-men  in  their  new  fustian ;  their 
white  stockings,  and  every  officer  his  wedding- 
garment  on  ?  Be  the  jacks  fair  within,  the  jills  fair 
M  itliout,  the  carpets  laid,  and  every  thing  in  order  ? 

Curt.  All  ready;  and  therefore,  I  pray  thee,  news? 

Gru.  First,  know,  my  horse  is  tired  ;  my  master 
and  mistress  fallen  out. 

Curt.   How? 

Gru.  Out  of  their  saddles  into  the  dirt  j  And 
thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Curt.   Let's  ha't,  good  Grumio. 

Gru.   Lend  thine  eai*. 

Curt.   Here. 

Gru.    There.  [Striking  him. 

Curt.    This  is  to  feel  a  tale,  not  to  hear  a  tale. 

Gru.  And  therefore  'tis  called  a  sensible  tale : 
and  tJiis  cuff  was  but  to  knock  at  your  ear,  and 
beseech  listening.      Now   I  begin :    Imprimis,  we 

6  Striped. 


came  down  a  foul  hill,  my  master  riding  behind  my 
mistress:  — 

Curt.   Both  on  one  horse  ? 

Gru.   What's  that  to  thee  ? 

Curt.  Why,  a  horse. 

Gru.   Tell  thou  the  tale  : But  hadst  thou  not 

crossed  me,  thou  shouldst  have  heard  how  her  horse 
fell,  and  she  under  her  horse ;  thou  shouldst  have 
heard  in  how  miry  a  place :  how  she  was  bemoiled'; 
how  he  left  her  with  the  horse  upon  her ;  how  he 
beat  me  because  her  horse  stumbled  ;  how  she  waded 
through  the  dirt  to  pluck  him  off  me  ;  how  he  swore ; 
how  she  prayed  —  that  never  prayed  before  ;  how 
I  cried ;  how  the  horses  ran  away ;  how  her  bridle 
was  burst ;  how  I  lost  my  crupper  ;  —  with  many 
things  of  worthy  memory  ;  which  now  shall  die  in 
oblivion,  and  thou  return  unexperienced  to  thy  grave. 

Curt.  By  this  reckoning,  he  is  more  shrew  than 
she. 

Gru.  Ay ;  and  that,  thou  and  the  proudest  of 
you  all  shall  find,  when  he  comes  home.  But  what 
talk  I  of  this  ?  —  call  forth  Nathaniel,  Joseph, 
Nicholas,  Philip,  Walter,  Sugarsop,  and  the  rest ; 
let  their  heads  be  sleekly  combed,  their  blue  coats 
brushed,  and  their  garters  of  an  indifferent  8  knit : 
let  them  curtsey  with  their  left  legs ;  and  not  pre- 
sume to  touch  a  hair  of  my  master's  horse-tail,  till 
they  kiss  their  hands.      Are  they  all  ready  ? 

Curt.   They  are. 

Gru.    Call  them  forth. 

Curt.  Do  you  hear,  ho !  you  must  meet  my 
master,  to  countenance  my  mistress. 

Gru.   Why,  she  hatli  a  face  of  her  own. 

Curt.   Who  knows  not  that  ? 

Gru.  Thou,  it  seems;  that  callest  for  "company 
to  countenance  her. 

Curt.   I  call  them  forth  to  credit  her. 

Gru.   Why,  she  comes  to  borrow  nothing  of  them. 

Enter  several  Servants. 

Nath.  Welcome  home,  Grumio. 

Fhil.   How  now,  Grumio? 

Jos.   What,  Grumio  ! 

Nich.   Fellow  Grumio  ! 

Nath.   How  now,  old  lad  ? 

Gru.  Welcome,  you ;  —  how  now,  you  ;  —  what, 
you  ;  —  fellow,  you  —  and  thus  much  for  greeting. 
Now,  my  spruce  companions,  is  all  ready  and  all 
things  neat  ? 

Nath.  All  things  are  ready :  How  near  is  our 
master? 

Gru.  E'en  at  hand,  alighted  by  this;  and  there- 
fore be  not, silence  ! I  hear  my  master. 

Enter  Petruchio  and  Katharina. 

Pet.   W^here  be  these  knaves  ?  What,  no  man  at 
door. 
To  hold  my  stirrup,  nor  to  take  my  horse  ! 
Where  is  Nathaniel,  Gregory,  Philip  ?  — - 

All  Serv.   Here,  here,  sir  ;  here,  sir. 

Pet.    Here,  sir  !  here,  sir  !   here,  sir,  here,  sir !  — 
You  logger-headed  and  unpolish'd  grooms  ! 
What,  no  attendance  ?  no  regard  ?  no  duty  ?  — 
Where  is  the  foolish  knave  I  sent  before  ? 

7  Bemired.  ^  Not  different  one  from  the  otlicr. 


Scene  I. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


255 


Gru.    Here,  sir ;  as  foolish  as  I  was  before. 

Pet.   You  peasant  swain  !  you  malt-horse  drudge  ! 
Did  I  not  bid  thee  meet  me  in  the  park, 
And  bring  along  these  rascal  knaves  with  thee  ? 

Gi-u.   Nathaniel's  coat,  sir,  was  not  fully  made. 
And  Gabriel's  jjumps  were  all  unpink'd  i'the  heel ; 
There  was  no  hnk  9  to  colour  Peter's  hat, 
A  nd  VValter's  dagger  was  not  come  from  sheathing  : 
There  were  none  fine,  but  Adam,  Ralph,  and  Gre- 
gory; 
The  rest  were  ragged,  old,  and  beggarly  ; 
Yet,  as  they  are,  here  are  they  come  to  meet  you. 

Pet.   Go,  rascals,  go,  and  fetch  my  supper  in.  — 

{Exeunt  sortie  of  tlie  St^rvants. 

Inhere  is  the  life  that  late  I  led  —  [Sings. 

Where  are  those Sit  down,  Kate,  and  welcome. 

Soud,  soud,  soud,  soud  !  i 

Re-enter  Servants  tuith  Supper. 

Why,  when,  I  say  ?  —  Nay,  good  sweet  Kate,  be 

merry. 
Off  with  my  boots,  you  rogues,  you  villains  j 
When  ? 

It  was  the  friar  of  orders  g>ai/,  [Sings. 

As  he  forth  walked  on  his  way :  — 

Out,  out,  you  rogue  !  you  pluck  my  foot  awry  : 
Take  that,  and  mend  the  plucking  off  the  other.  — 

[Strikes  him. 
Be  merry,  Kate  :  —  Some  water,  here ;  what,  ho  !  — 
Where's   my  spaniel   Troilus  ?  —  Sirrah,   get  you 

hence. 
And  bid  my  cousin  Ferdinand  come  hither :  — 

{^Exit  Servant 
One,  Kate,  that  you  must  kiss,  and  be  acquainted 

with 

W^here  are  my  slippers  ? —  Shall  I  have  some  water  ? 
\^A  bason  is  presented  to  him. 
Come,  Kate,  and  wash,  and  welcome  heartily :  — 
[Servant  lets  the  ewer  fall. 
You  villain  !  will  you  let  it  fall  ?  [Strikes  him 

KcUh.   Patience,  I  pray  you ;  'twas  a  fault  un- 
willing. 

Pet.   A  beetle-headed,  flap-ear'd  knave ! 
Come,  Kate,  sit  down  ;  I  know  you  have  a  stomach. 
Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate;  or  else  shall  I  ? — 
What  is  this  ?  mutton  ? 

1   Serv.  Ay. 

Pet.  Who  brought  it. 

1  Serv.  I. 

Pet.  'Tis  burnt ;  and  so  is  all  the  meat : 
What  dogs  are  these  ?  —  Where  is  the  rascal  cook  ? 
How  durst  you,  villains,  bring  it  from  the  dresser. 
And  serve  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not  ? 
There,  take  it  to  you,  trenchers,  cups,  and  all : 

[  Throws  the  meal,  ^c.  about  the  stage. 
You  heedless  jolthcads,  and  unmanner'd  slaves  ! 
What,  do  you  grumble  ?  I'll  be  with  you  straight. 

ITath.    I  pray  you,  husband,  be  not  so  disquiet ; 
Tlie  meat  was  well>  if  you  were  so  contented. 

Pet.   I  tell  thee,  Kate,  'twas  burnt  and  dried  away; 
And  I  expressly  am  forbid  to  touch  it. 
For  it  engenders  choler,  planteth  anger  ; 
And  Ixjlter  'twere,  that  both  of  us  did  fast,  — 
Since  of  ourselves,  ourselves  are  cholerick,  — 
Than  feed  it  with  such  over-roasted  flesh. 
Be  patient ;  to-morrow  it  shall  be  mended, 

•  A  torch  of  pitch. 

■  A  word  coined  by  Shakspcarc  to  express  the  noise  made 
by  a  person  heated  and  fatigtied. 


And,  for  this  night,  we'll  fast  for  company  : 
Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Petruchio,  Katharina,  arid 
Curtis. 
Nath.  [Advancing.]  Peter,  didst  ever  see  the  like? 
Peter.   He  kills  her  in  her  own  humour. 

Re-enter  Curtis. 

Gru.   Where  is  he  ? 

Curt.   In  her  chamber. 
Making  a  sermon  of  continency  to  her  : 
And  rails,  and  swears,  and  rates ;  that  she,  poor  soul 
Knows  not  which  way  to  stand,  to  look,  to  speak  ; 
And  sits  as  one  new-risen  from  a  dream. 
Away,  away  !  for  he  is  coming  hither.        [ExeuJit. 

Re-enter  Petruchio. 
Pet.   Thus  have  I  politickly  begun  my  reign, 
And  'tis  my  hope  to  end  successfully : 
My  falcon  now  is  sharp,  and  passing  empty ; 
And,  till  she  stoop,  she  must  not  be  full-gorg'd. 
For  then  she  never  looks  upon  her  lure.  -' 
Another  way  I  have  to  man  my  haggard  \ 
To  make  her  come,  and  know  her  keeper's  call, 
That  is,  —  to  watcli  her,  as  we  watch  these  kites, 
That  bate  *,  and  beat,  and  will  not  be  obedient. 
She  eat  no  meat  to-day,  nor  none  shall  eat ; 
Last  night  she  slept  not,  nor  to-night  she  shall  not: 
As  with  the  meat,  some  undeserved  fault 
I'll  find  about  the  making  of  the  bed  ; 
And  here  I'll  fling  the  pillow,  there  the  bolster, 
This  way  the  coverlet,  another  way  the  sheets :  — 
Ay,  and  amid  this  hurly,  I  intend  ^ 
That  all  is  done  in  reverend  care  of  her; 
And,  in  conclusion,  she  shall  watch  all  night: 
And,  if  she  chance  to  nod,  I'll  rail  and  brawl, 
And  with  the  clamour  keep  her  still  awake. 
This  is  the  way  to  kill  a  wife  with  kindness ; 
And  thus  I'll  curb  her  mad  and  headstrong  hu- 
mour :  — 
He  that  knows  better  how  to  tame  a  shrew, 
Now  let  him  speak  ;  'tis  charity  to  shew.         [EiU. 

SCENE  II.  —  Padua.     Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  Tranio  and  Hortensio. 
Tra.    Is't  possible,  friend  Licio,  that  Bianca 
Doth  fancy  any  other  but  Lucentio  ? 
I  tell  you,  sir,  she  bears  me  fair  in  hand. 

Hor.   Sir,  to  satisfy  you  in  what  I  have  said, 
Stand  by,  and  mark  tlie  manner  of  Iris  teaching. 

[  They  stand  aside. 

Enter  Bianca  and  Lucentio. 
Luc.   Now,  mistress,  profit  you  in  what  you  read? 
Bian.   What,  master,  read  you  ?  first  resolve  me 

that. 
Luc.   I  read  that  I  profess,  the  art  of  love. 
Bian.  And  may  you  prove,  sir,  masterof  your  art ! 
Luc.   While  you,  sweet  dear,  prove  mistress  of 
my  heart,  [  They  retire. 

Hor.   Quick  proceeders,  marry  !  Now,  tell  me,  I 
pray, 
You  that  durst  swear  that  your  mistress  Bianca 
Lov'd  none  in  the  world  so  well  as  Lucentio. 


'  A  thinR  stuffbd  to  look  like  the  game  which  the  hawk 
ra»  to  pursue. 
3  To  tame  my  wild  hawk. 
*  Flutter.  »  Pretend. 


266 

i     Tra. 


unconstant    woman- 


O   despiteful   love  ! 
kind ;  — 
I  tell  thee,  Licio,  this  is  wonderful. 

Hor.   Mistake  no  more :    I  am  not  Licio, 
Kor  a  musician  as  I  seem  to  be  ; 
But  one  that  scorn  to  live  in  this  disguise, 
For  such  a  one  as  leaves  a  gentleman, 
And  makes  a  god  of  such  a  cuUion  6  : 
Know,  sir,  that  I  am  call'd  —  Hortensio. 

Tra.   Signior  Hortensio,  I  have  often  heard 
Of  your  entire  affection  to  Bianca ; 
And  since  mine  eyes  are  witness  of  her  lightness, 
I  will  with  you,  —  if  you  be  so  contented,  — 
Forswear  Bianca  and  her  love  for  ever. 

Hor.   Signior  Lucentio, 
Here  is  my  hand,  and  here  I  firmly  vow  — 
Never  to  woo  her  more ;  but  to  forswear  her. 
As  one  unworthy  all  the  former  favours 
That  I  have  fondly  flatter'd  her  withal. 

Tra.   And  here  I  take  the  like  unfeigned  oath, — 
Ne'er  to  marry  with  her  though  she  would  entreat. 
Hor.  'Would,  all  the  world,  but  he,  had  quite 
forsworn  ! 
For  me,  that  I  may  surely  keep  mine  oath, 
I  will  be  married  to  a  wealthy  widow, 
Ere  three  days  pass  ;  which  hath  as  long  lov'd  me. 
As  I  have  lov'd  this  proud  disdainful  haggard  : 
And  so  farewell,  signior  Lucentio.  — 
Kindness  in  women,  not  their  beauteous  looks, 
Shall  win  my  love  :  —  and  so  I  take  my  leave, 
In  resolution  as  I  swore  before. 

lErit  Hortensio.  —  Lucentio  and  Bianca 
advance. 
Tra.   Mistress  Bianca,  bless  you  with  such  grace 
As  'longeth  to  a  lover's  blessed  case  ! 
Nay,  I  have  ta'en  you  napping,  gentle  love  ; 
And  have  forsworn  you,  with  Hortensio. 

Bian.   Tranio,  you  jest :   But  have  you  both  for- 
sworn me  ? 
Tra^   Mistress  we  have. 

Zuc.  Then  we  are  rid  of  Licio. 

Tra.   He'll  have  a  widow  now, 
That  shall  be  woo'd  and  wedded  in  a  day. 
Mian.   Heaven  give  him  joy  ! 
Tra.    Ay,  and  he'll  tame  her. 
Bian.  He  says  so,  Tranio. 

Tra.  'Faith,  he  is  gone  unto  the  taming-school. 
Bian.   The  taming-school !  what,  is  there  such  a 

place  ? 
Tra.   Ay,  mistress,  and  Petruchio  is  the  master  ; 
That  teacheth  tricks  eleven  and  twenty  long,  — 
To  tame  a  shrew,  and  charm  her  chattering  tongue. 
Enter  Biondello,  running. 
Bion.   O  master,  master,  I  have  watch'd  so  long 
That  I'm  dog-weary  ;  but  at  last  I  spied 
An  ancient  angel?  coming  down  the  hill. 
Will  serve  the  turn. 

Tra.  What  is  he,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.   Master,  a  mercatant^,  or  a  pedant  8, 
I  know  not  what ;  but  formal  in  apparel. 
In  gait  and  countenance  surely  like  a  father. 
Luc   And  what  of  him,  Tranio  ? 
Tra.   If  he  be  credulous,  and  trust  my  tale, 
I'll  make  him  glad  to  seem  Vincentio ; 
And  give  assurance  to  Baptista  Minola, 
As  if  he  were  the  right  Vincentio. 
Take  in  your  love,  and  then  let  me  alone. 

[Exeujit  Lucentio  and  Bianca. 
8  Despicable  fellow.  Messenger. 

8  A  merchant  or  a  schoolmaster. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Enter  a  Pedant. 


Act  IV. 


Fed.   God  save  you,  sir  ! 

fra.  And  you,  sir  !  you  are  welcome. 

Travel  you  far  on,  or  are  you  at  the  furthest  ? 
Fed.    Sir,  at  the  furthest  for  a  week  or  two  : 
But  then  up  further  ;  and  as  far  as  Rome ; 
And  so  to  Tripoly,  if  heaven  lend  me  life. 
Tra.   What  countryman,  I  pray  ? 
pg^^  Of  Mantua. 

Tra.   Of  Mantua,  sir  ?  —  marry,  heaven  forbid ! 
And  come  to  Padua,  careless  of  your  life? 

Fed.  My  life,  sir!  how,  I  pray?  for  that  goes  hard. 
Tra.   'Tis  death  for  any  one  in  Mantua 
To  come  to  Padua ;   Know  you  not  the  cause  ? 
Your  ships  are  staid  at  Venice  ;  and  the  duke 
(For  private  quarrel  'twixt  your  duke  and  him) 
Hath  publish'd  and  proclaim'd  it  openly  : 
'Tis  marvel ;  but  that  you're  but  newly  come, 
You  might  have  heard  it  else  proclaim'd  about. 

Fed.    Alas,  sir,  it  is  worse  for  me  than  so  ; 
For  I  have  bills  for  money  by  exchange 
From  Florence,  and  must  here  deliver  them. 

Tra.   Well,  sir,  to  do  you  courtesy, 
This  will  I  do,  and  this  will  I  advise  you  ;  — 
First,  tell  me,  have  you  ever  been  at  Pisa  ? 
Fed.   Ay,  sir,  in  Pisa  have  I  often  been ; 
Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens. 

Tra.   Among  them,  know  you  one  Vincentio  ? 
Fed.    I  know  him  not,  but  I  have  heard  of  him  ; 
A  merchant  of  incomparable  wealth. 

Tra.    He  is  my  father,  sir  ;  and,  sooth  to  say, 
In  countenance  somewhat  doth  resemble  you. 

Bian.    As  much  as  an  apple  doth  an  oyster,  and 
all  one.  [Aside. 

Tra.   To  save  your  life  in  this  extremity, 
This  favour  will  I  do  you  for  his  sake  ; 
And  think  it  not  the  worst  of  all  your  fortunes. 
That  you  are  like  to  sir  Vincentio. 
His  name  and  credit  shall  you  undertake. 
And  in  my  house  you  shall  be  friendly  lodg'd  ;  — 
Look,  that  you  take  upon  you  as  you  should ; 
You  understand  me,  sir  ;  —  so  shall  you  stay 
Till  you  have  done  your  business  in  the  city  : 
If  this  be  courtesy,  sir,  accept  of  it. 

Fed.    O,  sir,  I  do ;  and  will  repute  you  ever 
The  patron  of  my  life  and  liberty. 

2Va.  Then  go  with  me,  to  make  the  matter  good. 
This,  by  the  way,  I  let  you  understand ; 
My  father  is  here  look'd  for  every  day. 
To  pass  assurance  of  a  dower  in  marriage 
'Twixt  me  and  one  Baptista's  daughter  here  : 
In  all  these  circumstances  I'll  instruct  you : 
Go  with  me,  sir,  to  clothe  you  as  becomes  you. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.      A  Room  in  Petruchio's  House. 
Enter  Katharina  and  Grumio. 
Gru.   No,  no,  forsooth  :    I  dare  not  for  my  life. 
Kath.   The  more  my  wrong,  the  more  his  spite 
appears : 
What,  did  he  marry  me  to  famish  me  ? 
Beggars,  that  come  unto  my  father's  door, 
Upon  entreaty,  have  a  present  alms  ; 
If  not  elsewhere  they  meet  with  charity  : 
But  I,  — who  never  knew  how  to  entreat,  — 
Nor  never  needed  that  I  should  entreat. 
Am  starv'd  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep  ; 
With  oaths  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  fed  : 
And  that  which  spites  me  more  than  all  these  wants, 


Scene  III. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


257 


He  does  it  under  name  of  perfect  love ; 

As  who  should  say,  —  If  I  should  sleep,  or  cat, 

'TAvere  deadly  sickness,  or  else  present  death.  — 

I  pr'ytliee  go,  and  get  me  some  repast ; 

I  care  not  v,  hat,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 

Gru.   What  say  you  to  a  neat's  foot? 

ITath.  'Tis  passing  good ;  I  pr'ythee  let  me  have  it. 

Gru.   I  fear  it  is  too  cholerick  a  meat :  — 
How  say  you  to  a  fat  tripe,  finely  broil'd  ? 

A'ath.    I  like  it  well ;  good  Grumio,  fetch  it  me. 

Gru.    I  cannot  tell ;  I  fear  'tis  cholerick. 
What  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef,  and  mustard  ? 

£'ath.   A  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 

Gru.   Ay,  but  the  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

Kath.  Why,  then  the  beef,  and  let  the  mustard  rest. 

Gru.   Nay,  then  I  will  not;   you  shall  have  the 
mustard, 
Or  else  you  get  no  beef  of  Grumio. 

ITath.   Then  both,  or  one,  or  any  thing  thou  wilt. 

Gru.   Why  then  the  mustard  without  the  beef. 

Xath.    Go,  get  thee  gone,  thou  false  deluding 
slave,  [Beats  him. 

That  feed'st  me  with  the  very  name  of  meat : 
Sorrow  on  thee,  and  all  the  pack  of  you, 
That  triumph  thus  upon  my  misery  ! 
Go,  get  thee  gone,  I  say. 

Enter  Petruchio  with  a  dish  of  meat ;  and 

HOUTENSIO. 

Pet.   How  fares  my  Kate?  What,  sweeting,  all 
amort?  9 

Hor.  Mistress,  what  cheer  ? 

JTath.  'Faith,  as  cold  as  can  be. 

Pet.  Pluck  up  thy  spirits,  look  cheerfully  upon  me. 
Here,  love ;  thou  seest  how  diligent  I  am. 
To  dress  thy  meat  myself,  and  bring  it  thee ; 

[Sets  the  dish  on  a  table. 
I  am  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits  thanks. 
What,  not  a  word  ?  Nay  then,  thou  lov'st  it  not ; 
And  all  my  pains  is  sorted  to  no  proof-  — 
Here,  take  away  this  dish. 

JTath.  '  Pray  you,  let  it  stand. 

Pet.  The  poorest  service  is  repaid  with  tlianks  j 
And  so  shall  mine  before  you  touch  the  meat. 

ITath.   I  thank  you,  sir. 

Hor.   Signior  Petruchio,  fye  !  you  are  to  blame ! 
Come,  mistress  Kate,  I'll  bear  you  company. 

Pet.  Eat  it  up  all,  Hortensio,  if  thou  lov'st  me. — 

[^side. 
Much  good  do  it  unto  thy  gentle  heart ! 
Kate,  eat  apace  :  —  And  now,  my  honey  love, 
Will  we  return  unto  thy  father's  house  j 
And  revel  it  as  bravely  as  the  best, 
With  silken  coats,  and  caps,  and  golden  rings. 
With  ruffs,  and  cuffs,  and  farthingales,  and  things ; 
With  scarfs,  and  fans,  and  double  change  of  bravery  ', 
With  amber  bracelets,  beads,  and  all  this  knavery. 
What,  hast  thou  din'd  ?  The  tailor  stays  thy  leisure, 
To  deck  thy  body  with  his  ruffling  treasure. 

Enter  Tailor. 
Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments ; 

Enter  Haberdasher. 
Lay  forth  the  gown.— What  news  with  you,  sir  ? 
Hab.    Here  is  the  cap  your  worship  did  bespeak. 
Pet.   Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer? 
Why,  'tis  a  cockle,  or  a  walnutshell, 
A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap ; 
Away  with  it,  come,  let  me  have  a  bigger. 

9  Dispirited ;  a  Gallicism.  '  Finery. 


A'ath.  I'll  have  no  bigger ;  this  doth  fit  the  time. 
And  gentlewomen  wear  such  caps  as  these. 

Pet.  When  you  are  gentle,  you  shall  have  one  too. 
And  not  till  then. 

Hor.  That  will  not  be  in  haste.    [Aside. 

JCath.  Why,  sir,  I  trust,  I  may  have  leave  to  speak  j 
And  speak  I  will ;   I  am  no  child,  no  babe  ; 
Your  betters  have  endur'd  me  say  my  mind ; 
And,  if  you  cannot,  best  you  stop  your  ears. 
My  tongue  will  tell  the  anger  of  my  heart ; 
Or  else  my  heart,  concealing  it,  will  break  : 
And  rather  than  it  shall,  I  will  be  free 
Even  to  the  uttermost,  as  I  please,  in  words. 

Pet.    Why,  thou  say'st  true  ;  it  is  a  paltry  cap, 
A  custard-cofi[in  %  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie  : 
I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  lik'st  it  not. 

Kath.   Love  me,  or  love  me  not,  I  like  the  cap  ; 
And  it  I  will  have,  or  I  will  have  none. 

Pet.   Thy  gown  ?  why,  ay  :  —  Come,  tailor,  let  us 
see't. 

0  mercy,  see  what  masking  stuff  is  here? 
What's  this  ?  a  sleeve  ?  'tis  like  a  demi-cannon  : 
What !  up  and  down,  carv'd  like  an  apple-tart? 
Here's  snip,  and  nip,  and  cut,  and  slish,  and  slash, 
Like  to  a  censer  3  in  a  barber's  shop  :  — 

Why,  what,  o'devil's  name,  tailor,  call'st  thou  this? 

Hor.   I  see,  she's  like  to  have  neither  cap  nor 
gown.  [Aside. 

Tai.   You  bid  me  make  it  orderly  and  well, 
According  to  the  fashion,  and  the  time. 

Pet.  Marry,  and  did ;  but  if  you  be  remember'd, 

1  did  not  bid  you  mar  it  to  the  time. 
Go,  hop  me  over  every  kennel  home. 

For  you  shall  hop  without  my  custom,  sir  : 
I'll  none  of  it ;  hence,  make  your  best  of  it. 

Kath.   I  never  saw  a  better-fashion'd  gown, 
More  quaint"*,  more  pleasing,  nor  more  commendable; 
Belike,  you  mean  to  make  a  puppet  of  me. 

Pet.   Why,  true  ;  he  means  to  make  a  puppet  of 
thee. 

Tai.  She  says,  your  worship  means  to  make  a 
puppet  of  her. 

Pet.   O  monstrous  arrogance !   Thou  liest,  thou 
thread. 
Thou  thimble. 

Thou  yard,  three  quarters,  half-yard,  quarter,  nail. 
Thou  flea,  thou  nit,  thou  winter  cricket  thou  :  — 
Brav'd  in  mine  own  house  with  a  skein  of  thread ! 
Away  thou  rag,  thou  quantity,  thou  remnant : 
Or  I  shall  so  be-mete  ^  thee  with  thy  yard. 
As  thou  shalt  think  on  prating  wliilst  thou  liv'st ! 
I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  marr'd  her  gown. 

Tai.    Your  worship  is  deceiv'd  ;  the  gown  is  made 
Just  as  my  master  had  direction  : 
Grumio  gave  order  how  it  should  be  done. 

Gru.    I  gave  him  no  order,  I  gave  him  the  stuff. 

Tai.  But  how  did  you  desire  it  should  be  made  ? 

Gru.   Marry,  sir,  with  needle  and  thread. 

Tai.   But  did  you  not  request  to  have  it  cut  ? 

Gru.   Thou  hast  faced  many  things. 

Tai.   I  have. 

Gru.  Face  not  me :  thou  hast  braved  many  men ; 
brave  not  me  :  I  will  neither  be  faced  nor  braved. 
I  say  unto  thee,  —  I  bid  thy  master  cut  out  the 
gown  ;  but  I  did  not  bid  him  cut  it  to  pieces :  ergo^ 
thou  liest. 

Tai.  Why,  here  is  the  note  of  the  fashion  to  testify 

s  A  coffin  was  the  culinary  term  for  raised  crust 
»  These  censers  resembled  our  brasiers  in  shape. 
<  Curious.  *  Be-measur» 

S 


258 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW 


Act  IV. 


Pet.   Read  it. 

Gru.  The  note  lies  in  his  throat,  if  he  says  I  said  so. 

Tai.    Tmjmmis,  a  loose-bodied  gaum  : 

Gru.  Master,  if  ever  1  said  loose-bodied  gown, 
sew  me  in  the  skirts  of  it,  and  beat  me  to  death  with 
a  bottom  of  brown  thread  :   I  said,  a  gown. 

Pet.   Proceed. 

Tai.    With  a  small  compassed  cape,- 

Gru.   I  confess  the  cape. 

Tai.    With  a  trunk  sleeve  ; 

Gru.   I  confess  two  sleeves. 

Tai.    The  sleeves  curiouslt/  cut. 

Pet.   Ay,  there's  the  villainy. 

Gru.  Error  i'the  bill,  sir  ;  error  i'the  bill.  I  com- 
manded the  sleeves  should  be  cut  out,  and  sewed 
up  again ;  and  that  I'll  prove  upon  thee,  though  thy 
little  finger  be  armed  in  a  thimble. 

Tai.  This  is  true,  that  I  say ;  an  I  had  thee  in 
place  where,  thou  shouldst  know  it. 

Gru.  I  am  for  thee  straight :  take  thou  the  bill, 
give  me  thy  mete-yard  6,  and  spare  not  me. 

Hor.  Gramercy,  Grumio  !  then  he  shall  have  no 
odds. 

Pet.   Well,  sir,  in  brief,  the  gown  is  not  for  me. 

Gru.   You  are  i'the  right,  sir. 

Pet.    Hortensio,    say   thou   wilt    see   the    tailor 
paid :  —  [Jside. 

Go,  take  it  hence  ;  be  gone,  and  say  no  more. 

Hor.  Tailor,  I'll  pay  thee  for  thy  gown  to-morrow. 
Take  no  unkindness  of  his  hasty  words  : 
Away,  I  say  ;  commend  me  to  thy  master. 

[ExU  Tailor. 

Pet.   Well,  come,  my  Kate ;  we  will  unto  your 
father's, 
Even  in  these  honest  mean  habiliments  ; 
Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  our  garments  poor  : 
For  'tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich  ; 
And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds. 
So  honour  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 
What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark, 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 
Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel. 
Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 
O,  no,  good  Kate  ;  neither  art  thou  the  worse 
For  this  poor  furniture,  and  mean  array. 
If  thou  account'st  it  shame,  lay  it  on  me  : 
And  therefore  frolick  ;  we  will  hence  forthwith. 
To  feast  and  sport  us  at  thy  father's  house. 
Go,  call  my  men,  and  let  us  straight  to  him ; 
And  bring  our  horses  unto  Long-lane  end. 
There  will  we  mount,  and  thither  walk  on  foot.  — 
Let's  see  ;   I  think  'tis  now  some  seven  o'clock. 
And  well  we  may  come  there  by  dinner-time. 

Knth.  I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  'tis  almost  two ; 
And  'twill  be  supper  time,  ere  you  come  there. 

Pet.   It  shall  be  seven,  ere  I  go  to  horse  : 
Look,  what  I  speak,  or  do,  or  think  to  do. 
You  are  still  crossing  it.  —  Sirs,  let  't  alone  : 
I  will  not  go  to-day ;  and  ere  I  do. 
It  shall  be  what  o'clock  I  say  it  is. 

Hor.   Why,  so !  this  gallant  will  command  the 
sun.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Padua.    Before  Baptista'5  House. 
Enter  Tranio,  and  the  Pedant  dressed  like 

ViNCENTIO. 

Tra.   Sir,  this  is  the  house  :    Please  it  you,  that  I 
call? 

6  Measuring  yard. 


Ped.   Ay,  what  else  ?  and,  but  I  be  deceived, 
Signior  Baptista  may  remember  me, 
Near  twenty  years  ago,  in  Genoa,  where 
We  were  lodgers  at  the  Pegasus. 

Tra.  'Tis  well  j 

And  hold  your  own,  in  any  case,  with  such 
Austerity  as  'longeth  to  a  father. 

Enter  Biondello. 

Ped.  I  warrant  you :  But,  sir,  here  comes  your  boy  j 
'Twere  good,  he  were  school'd. 

Tra.   Fear  you  not  him.      Sirrah,  Biondello, 
Now  do  your  duty  throughly,  I  advise  you  ; 
Imagine  'twere  the  right  Vincentio. 

Bion,   Tut !  fear  not  me. 

Tra.  But  hast  thou  done  thy  errand  to  Baptista  ? 

Bion.  I  told  him,  that  your  father  was  at  Venice ; 
And  that  you  look'd  for  him  this  day  in  Padua. 

Tra.  Thou'rt  a  tall?  fellow;  hold  thee  that  to 
drink. 
Here  comes  Baptista: — set  your  countenance,  sir. — ■ 

Enter  Baptista  and  Lucentio. 
Signior  Baptista,  you  are  happily  met :  — 
Sir,  [To  the  Pedant.] 
This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  of ; 
I  pray  you,  stand  good  father  to  me  now, 
Give  me  Bianca  for  my  patrimony. 

Ped.    Soft,  son  !  — 
Sir,  l>y  your  leave ;  having  come  to  Padua 
To  gather  in  some  debts,  my  son  Lucentio 
Made  me  acquainted  with  a  weighty  cause 
Of  love  between  your  daughter  and  himself: 
And,  —  for  the  good  report  I  hear  of  you  ; 
And  for  the  love  he  beareth  to  your  daughter 
And  she  to  him,  —  to  stay  him  not  too  long, 
I  am  content,  in  a  good  father's  care. 
To  have  him  match'd ;  and,  —  if  you  please  to  like 
No  worse  than  I,  sir,  —  upon  some  agreement. 
Me  shall  you  find  most  ready  and  most  willing 
With  one  consent  to  have  her  so  bestowed  ; 
For  curious  ^  I  cannot  be  with  you, 
Signior  Baptista,  of  whom  I  hear  so  well. 

Bap.   Sir,  pardon  me  in  what  I  have  to  say  ;  — 
Your  plainness,  and  your  shortness,  please  me  well. 
Right  true  it  is,  your  son,  Lucentio  here. 
Doth  love  my  daughter,  and  she  loveth  him. 
Or  both  dissemble  deeply  their  affections  : 
And  therefore,  if  you  say  no  more  than  this, 
That  like  a  father  you  will  deal  with  him. 
And  pass  9  my  daughter  a  sufficient  dower. 
The  match  is  fully  made,  and  all  is  done  : 
Your  son  shall  have  my  daughter  with  consent. 

Tra.  I  thank  you,  sir.   Where  then  do  you  know 
best. 
We  be  affied  ' ;  and  such  assurance  ta'en, 
As  shall  with  either  part's  agreement  stand  ? 

Bap.  Not  in  my  house,  Lucentio;  for,  you  know, 
Pitchers  have  ears,  and  I  have  many  servants  : 
Besides,  old  Gremio  is  heark'ning  still ; 
And,  happily  2,  we  might  be  interrupted. 

Tra.   Then  at  my  lodging,  an  it  like  you,  sir : 
There  doth  my  father  lie ;  and  there,  this  night, 
We'll  pass  the  business  privately  and  well : 
Send  for  your  daughter  by  your  servant  here. 
My  boy  shall  fetch  the  scrivener  presently. 
The  worst  is  this,  —  that,  at  so  slender  warning. 
You're  like  to  have  a  thin  and  slender  pittance. 


7  Brave. 
1  Betrothed. 


Scrupulous. 


9  Assure  or  convey 
Haply,  perhaps, 


Scene  V. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


259 


Bap.  It  likes  mc  well ; — Cambio,  hie  you  home, 
And  bid  Bianca  make  her  ready  straight ; 
And,  if  you  will,  tell  what  hath  happened  :  — 
Lucentio's  father  is  arriv'd  in  Padua, 
And  how  she's  like  to  be  Lucentio's  wife. 

Luc.  I  pray  the  gods  she  may  with  all  my  heart ! 

Tra.  Dally  not  with  the  gods,  but  get  thee  gone. 
Signior  Baptista,  shall  I  lead  the  way  ? 
Welcome  !  one  mess  is  like  to  be  your  cheer  : 
Come,  sir ;   we'll  better  it  in  Pisa. 

Baju  I  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  Tranio,  Pedant,  and  Baptista. 

Bion»  Cambio.  — 

Luc.  What  say'st  thou,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  You  saw  my  master  wink  and  laugh  upon 
you? 

Luc.   Biondello,  what  of  that  ? 

Bian.  'Faith  notliing;  but  he  has  left  me  here 
behind,  to  expound  the  meaning  or  moral  of  his 
signs  and  tokens. 

IjUc.   I  pray  tliee  moralize  them. 

Bion.  Then  thus.  Baptista  is  safe,  talking  with 
the  deceiving  father  of  a  deceitful  son. 

Luc.   And  what  of  him  ? 

^1071.  His  daughter  is  to  be  brought  by  you  to 
tlie  supper. 

Luc.   And  tlien  ? 

Bion.  The  old  priest  at  Saint  Luke's  church  is 
at  your  command  at  all  hours. 

Luc.   And  what  of  all  this? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tell ;  except  they  are  busied  about 
a  counterfeit  assurance  :  Take  you  assurance  of  her, 
cu7n priiilegio  ad  imprimendum  solum :  to  the  church ; 
—  take  the  priest,  clerk,  and  some  sufficient  honest 
witnesses : 
If  tliis  be  not  what  you  look  for,  I  have  no  more  to 

say, 
But,  bid  Bianca  faiewell  for  ever  and  a  day. 

[  Going. 

Luc.   Hear'st  thou,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tarry :  I  knew  a  girl  married  in 
an  afternoon  as  she  went  to  the  garden  for  parsley 
to  stuif  a  rabbit;  and  so  may  you,  sir;  and  so  adieu, 
sir.  My  master  hath  appointed  me  to  go  to  Saint 
Luke's,  to  bid  the  priest  be  ready  to  come  against 
you  come  with  your  appendix.  [Exit. 

Luc.   I  may,  and  will,  if  she  be  so  contented: 
She  will  be  pleas'd,  then  wherefore  should  I  doubt  ? 
Hap  what  hap  may,  I'll  roundly  go  about  her. 
It  shall  go  liard,  if  Cambio  go  without  her.      [Exit. 

SCENE  V.  —A public  Road. 
Enter  Petkuchio,  Katharina,  and  Hortensio. 

Pet.    Come  on  ;  once  more  toward  our  father's 
house. 
Good  Lord,  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the  moon ! 

Kath.  The  moon  !  the  sun  ;  it  is  not  moonlight 
now. 

Pet.   I  say,  it  is  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright. 

Xath.   I  know,  it  is  the  sun  that  shines  so  bright. 

Pet.  Now,  by  my  mother's  son,  and  that's  my- 
self. 
It  shall  be  moon,  or  star,  or  what  I  list. 
Or  ere  I  journey  to  your  father's  house  : 
Go  on,  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again.  — 
Evermore  cross'd,  and  cross'd  ;  nothing  but  cross'd  ! 

Hor.   Say  as  he  says,  or  we  shall  never  go. 

Xoth.  Forward,  I  pray,  since  we  have  come  so  far, 
And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please : 


And  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush  candle. 
Henceforth  I  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 

Pet.   I  say,  it  is  the  moon. 

JCalh.  I  know  it  is. 

Pet.   Nay,  then  you  lie ;  it  is  the  blessed  sun. 

jffafA.Then,  God  be  blessed,  it  is  the  blessed  sun: — 
But  sun  it  is  not,  when  you  say  it  is  not ; 
And  the  moon  changes,  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  nam'd,  even  that  it  is ; 
And  so  it  shall  be  so,  for  Katharine. 

Hor.   Petruchio,  go  thy  ways  ;  the  field  is  won. 

Pet.   Well,   forwju-d,    forward :    thus   the   bowl 
should  run. 
And  not  unluckily  against  the  bias  — 
But  soft ;  what  company  is  coming  here  ? 

Enter  Vincentio,  in  a  travelling  dress. 
Good  morrow,  gentle  mistress  :   Where  away  ?  — 

[To  ViNCENTIO. 

Tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  and  tell  me  truly  too. 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman  ? 
Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks ! 
What  stars  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty, 
As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face  ?  — 
Fair  lovely  maid,  once  more  good  day  to  thee :  — 
Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake. 

Hor.   'A  will  make  the  man   mad,  to   make  a 
woman  of  him. 

JTath.   Young   budding   virgin,  fair,   and  fresh, 
and  sweet, 
Whitlier  away  ;  or  where  is  thy  abode  ? 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child ; 
Happier  the  man,  whom  favourable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bed-fellow  ! 

Pet.   Why,  how  now,  Kate  !  I  hope  thou  art  not 
mad: 
This  is  a  man,  old,  wrinkled,  faded,  wither'd ; 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou  say'st  he  is. 

A'ath.   Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes, 
That  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  tlie  sun, 
That  every  thing  I  look  on  seemeth  green : 
Now  I  perceive,  thou  art  a  reverend  father ; 
Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking. 

Pet.   Do,  good  old  grandsire  ;  and,  withal,  make 
known 
Which  way  thou  travellest :   if  along  with  us, 
We  shall  be  joyful  of  thy  company. 

Vin.    Fair  sir,  —  and  you  my  merry  mistress,  — 
That  with  your  strange  encounter  much  amaz'd  me ; 
My  name  iscall'd — Vincentio;  my  dwelling — Pisa; 
And  bound  I  am  to  Padua;  there  to  visit 
A  son  of  mine,  which  long  I  have  not  seen. 

Pet.   What  is  his  name  ? 

Vin.  Lucentio,  gentle  sir. 

Pet.   Happily  met ;  the  happier  for  thy  son. 
And  now  by  law,  as  well  as  reverend  age, 
I  may  entitle  thee  —  my  loving  father  ; 
The  sister  to  my  wife,  this  gentlewoman. 
Thy  son  by  this  hath  married  ,    Wonder  not. 
Nor  be  not  griev'd  ;  she  is  of  good  esteem, 
Her  dowry  wealthy,  and  of  worthy  birth  ; 
Beside,  so  qualified  as  may  beseem 
The  spouse  of  any  noble  gentleman. 
Let  me  embrace  with  old  Vincentio : 
And  wander  we  to  see  th>  honest  son. 
Who  will  of  thy  arrival  be  full  joyous. 

Vin.  But  is  this  true  ?  or  is  it  else  your  plea-^ure^ 
Like  pleasant  travellers,  to  break  a  jest 
Upon  the  comjiany  you  overtake  ? 

Hor.    I  do  assure  thee,  father,  so  it  is. 
S  2 


260 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Act  V. 


Pet.   Come,  go  along,  and  see  the  truth  liercof ; 
For  our  first  merriment  hath  made  thee  jealous. 

[Exeunt  Petruchio,  Katharina,  and 

ViNCENTIO. 


Hor.  Well,  Petruchio,  this  hath  put  me  in  heart. 
Have  to  my  widow  ;  and  if  she  be  froward. 
Then  hast  thou  taught  Hortensio  to  be  untoward. 

[ExU. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  Padua.     Before  Lucentio'5  House. 

Enter    on    one    side    Biondello,    Lucentio,   and 
BlANCA ;   Gremio  walking  on  the  other  side. 
Bion.  Softly  and  swiftly,  sir ;  for  the  priest  is  ready. 
Luc.   I  fly,  Biondello  :   but  they  may  chance  to 
need  thee  at  home,  therefore  leave  us. 

Bion.  Nay,  I'll  see  the  church  o'  your  back  ;  and 
then  come  back  to  my  master  as  soon  as  I  can. 

[Exeunt  Lucentio,  Bianca,  and  Biondello. 
Gre.   I  marvel  Cambio  comes  not  all  this  while. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  Vincentio,  and 
jittendants. 

Pet.  Sir,  here's  the  door,  this  is  Lucentio's  house, 
My  father's  bears  more  toward  the  market-place  ; 
Thither  must  I,  and  here  I  leave  you,  sir. 

Vin.  You  shall  not  choose  but  drink  before  you  go ; 
I  think,  I  shall  command  your  welcome  here, 
And  by  all  likelihood,  some  cheer  is  toward. 

[Knocks. 

Gre.  They're  busy  within,  you  were  best  knock 
louder. 

Enter  Pedant  above,  at  a  window. 

Ped.  What's  he,  that  knocks  as  he  would  beat 
down  the  gate  ? 

Vin.   Is  signior  Lucentio  witliin,  sir? 

Ped.  He's  within,  sir,  but  not  to  be  spoken  withal. 

Vin.  What  if  a  man  bring  him  a  hundred  pound 
or  two,  to  make  merry  withal  ? 

Ped.  Keep  your  hundred  pounds  to  yourself ;  he 
shall  need  none,  so  long  as  I  live. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  told  you,  your  son  was  beloved  in 
Padua.  —  Do  you  hear,  sir  ?  —  to  leave  frivolous 
circumstances,  —  I  pray  you,  tell  signior  Lucentio, 
that  his  father  is  come  from  Pisa,  and  is  here  at  the 
door  to  speak  with  him. 

Ped.  Thou  liest ;  his  father  is  come  from  Pisa, 
and  here  looking  out  at  the  window. 

Vin.   Art  thou  his  father  ? 

Ped.  Ay,  sir;  so  his  mother  says,  if  I  may  be- 
lieve her. 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  gentlemen  !  [To  Vincen.] 
why,  this  is  flat  knavery,  to  take  upon  you  another 
man's  name. 

Ped.  Lay  hands  on  the  villain  ;  I  believe  'a  means 
to  cozen  somebody  in  this  city  under  my  countenance. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 

Bion.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  church  together : 
But  who  is  here  ?  mine  old  master,  Vincentio  ?  now 
we  are  undone,  and  brought  to  nothing. 

Vin,    Come  hither,  crack-hemp. 

[Seeing  Biondello. 

Bion.   I  hope,  I  may  choose,  sir. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  you  rogue :  What,  have  you 
forgot  me  ? 

Bion.  Forgot  you  ?  no,  sir  :  I  could  not  forget 
you,  for  I  never  saw  you  before  in  all  my  life. 


Vin.  What,  you  notorious  villain,  didst  thou 
never  see  thy  master's  father,  Vincentio  ? 

Bion.  What,  my  old,  worshipful  old  master  ?  yes, 
marry,  sir  ;  see  where  he  looks  out  of  the  window. 

Vin.   Is't  so,  indeed  ?  [Beats  Biondello. 

Bion.  Help,  help,  help  !  here's  a  madman  will 
murder  me.  [Exit. 

Ped.   Help,  son  !  help,  signior  Baptista  ! 

[E^t,  from  the  window. 

Pet.  Pr'ythee,  Kate,  let's  stand  aside,  and  sec 
the  end  of  this  controversy.  [  Thei/  retire. 

Re-enter  Pedant  below ;   Baptista,  Tranio,  and 
Servants. 
Tra.   Sir,  what   are  you,  that  offer  to  beat  my 
servant  ? 

Vin.  What  am  I,  sir?  nay  what  are  you,  sir? — 
O  immortal  gods  !  O  fine  villain  !  A  silken  doublet ! 
a  velvet  hose  !  a  scarlet  cloak  !  and  a  copatain  hat !  3 

—  O,  I  am  undone  !  I  am  undone  !  while  I  play 
the  good  husband  at  home,  my  son  and  my  servant 
spend  all  at  the  university. 

Tra.   How  now  !  what's  the  matter  ? 

Bap.   What,  is  the  man  lunatick  ? 

Tra.  Sir,  you  seem  a  sober  ancient  gentleman 
by  your  habit,  but  your  words  show  you  a  madman  : 
Why,  sir,  what  concerns  it  you,  if  I  wear  pearl  and 
gold  ?  I  thank  my  good  father,  I  am  able  to  main- 
tain it. 

Vin.  Thy  father  ?  O,  villain  !  he  is  a  sail-maker 
in  Bergamo. 

Bap.  You  mistake,  sir ;  you  mistake,  sir  :  Pray, 
what  do  you  think  is  his  name  ? 

Vin.  His  name  ?  as  if  I  knew  not  his  name  :  I 
have  brought  him  up  ever  since  he  was  three  years 
old,  and  his  name  is  —  Tranio. 

Ped.  Away,  away,  mad  ass  !  his  name  is  Lucen- 
tio ?  and  he  is  mine  only  son,  and  heir  to  the  lands 
of  me,  signior  Vincentio. 

Vin.   Lucentio  !  O,  he  hath  murdered  his  master  ! 

—  Lay  hold  on  him,  I  charge  you,  in  the  duke's 
name :  —  O,  my  son,  my  son !  — tell  me,  thou  villain, 
where  is  my  son  Lucentio  ? 

Tra.  Call  forth  an  officer :  —  [Enter  one  with  an 
Officer.  ]  Carry  this  mad  knave  to  the  gaol :  —  Father 
Baptista,  I  charge  you  see,  that  he  be  forthcoming, 

Vin.    Carry  me  to  the  gaol ! 

Gre.   Stay,  oflScer  ;  he  shall  not  go  to  prison. 

Bap.   Talk  not,  signior  Gremio ;   I  say  he  shall] 
go  to  prison. 

Gre.   Take  heed,  signior  Baptista,  lest   you  bel 
cheated  in  this  busines ;   I  dare  swear,  this  is  th« 
right  Vincentio. 

Ped.   Swear,  if  thou  darest. 

Gre.   Nay,  I  dare  not  swear  it. 

Tra.  Then  thou  wert  best  say,  that  I  am  not 
Lucentio. 

Gre.   Yes,  I  know  thee  to  be  signior  Lucentio. 

Bap.  Away  with  the  dotard-;  to  the  gaol  with  him. 
3  A  hat  with  a  conical  crown. 


Scene  II. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


261 


Vin.  TIius  strangers  may  be  haled  and  abused  :  — 
O  monstrous  villain  ! 

Re-enter  Biondello,  with  Lucentio,  and  Bianca. 

Bio7i.   O,  we  are  spoiled,  and  —  Yonder  he  is ; 

deny  him,  forswear  him,  or  else  we  are  all  undone. 

Luc.    Pardon,  sweet  father.  {Kneeling. 

Vin.  Lives  my  sweetest  son  ? 

[BiONDELLO,  Tranio,  and  Pedant  run  out. 

Bian.   Pardon,  dear  father.  {Kneeling. 

Bap.  How  hast  tliou  offended  ?  — 

Where  is  Lucentio  ? 

Luc.  Here's  Lucentio, 

Right  son  unto  the  right  Vincentio ; 
That  have  by  marriage  made  thy  daughter  mine. 
While  counterfeit  supposes  blear'd  thine  eyne.* 

Ore.  Here's  packing  *,  with  a  witness,  to  deceive 
us  all  ! 

Vin,  Where  is  that  villain  Tranio, 
That  fac'd  and  brav'd  me  in  this  matter  so  ? 
Bap.   Why,  tell  me,  is  not  this  my  Cambio  ? 
Bian.    Cambio  is  chang'd  into  Lucentio. 
Luc.  Love  wrought  these  miracles.    Bianca's  love 
Made  me  exchange  my  state  with  Tranio, 
While  he  did  bear  my  countenance  in  the  town  ; 
And  happily  I  have  arriv'd  at  last 
Unto  the  wished  haven  of  my  bliss  :  — 
What  Tranio  did,  myself  enforc'd  him  to  ; 
Then  pardon  him,  sweet  father,  for  my  sake. 

Vin.  I'll  slit  the  villain's  nose,  that  would  have 
sent  me  to  the  gaol. 

Bap.  But  do  you  hear,  sir?  [To  Lucentio.] 
Have  you  married  my  daughter  vithout  asking  my 
good-will  ? 

Vin.  Fear  not,  Baptista ;  we  will  content  you,  go 
to :   But  I  will  in,  to  be  revenged  for  this  villainy. 

[ExU. 
Bap.  And  I,  to  sound  the  depth  of  this  knavery. 

[Exit. 

Luc   Look  not  pale,  Bianca ;  thy  father  will  not 

frown.  {Exeunt  Luc.  and  Bian. 

Gre.   My  cake  is  dough  6  -.  But  I'll  in  among  the 

rest: 

Out  of  hope  of  all,  —  but  my  share  of  the  feast. 

{Exit. 
Petruchio  and  Katharina  advance. 
Kath.  Husband,  let's  follow,  to  see  the  end  of 

this  ado. 
Pet.   First  kiss  me,  Kate,  and  we  will. 
Kath.   What,  in  the  midst  of  the  street  ? 
Pet.  What,  art  thou  ashamed  of  me  ? 
Kath.   No,  sir :    Heaven  forbid  :  —  but  ashamed 

to  kiss. 
Pet.  Why,  then  let's  home  again :  —  Come,  sirrah, 

let's  away. 
Kath.   Nay,  I  will  give  thee  a  kiss  :   now  pray 

thee,  love  stay. 
Pet.   Is  not  this  well?  —  Come,  my  sweet  Kate ; 
Better  once  than  never,  for  never  too  late. 

{Exeunt. 
SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  tn  Lucentio'a  House. 

A  Banquet  set  out.  Enter  Baptista,  Vincentio, 
Gremio,  the  Pedant,  Lucentio,  Bianca,  Pe- 
truchio, Katharina,  Hortensio,  and  Widow, 
Tranio,  Biondello,  Grumio,  and  others,  at- 
tending. 
Luc.  At  last,  though  long,  our  jarring  notes  agree ; 

*  Deceived  thine  eyci 

*  Tricking,  underhand  contrivances. 

'  A  proverbial  expression,  repeated  after  a  disappointment 


Arvd  time  it  is,  when  raging  war  is  done. 

To  smile  at  'scapes  and  perils  overblown. — 

My  fair  Bianca,  bid  my  father  welcome. 

While  I  with  self-same  kindness  welcome  thine :  — 

Brother  Petruchio,  —  sister  Katharina,  — 

And  thou,  Hortensio,  with  thy  loving  widow, 

Feast  with  the  best,  and  welcome  to  my  house; 

My  banquet  is  to  close  our  stomachs  up. 

After  our  great  good  cheer .    Pray  you,  sit  down 

For  now  we  sit  to  chat,  as  well  as  eat. 

{They  sit  at  table. 

Pet.   Nothing  but  sit  and  sit,  and  eat  and  eat ! 

Bap.  Padua  affords  this  kindness,  son  Petruchio. 

Pet.    Padua  affords  nothing  but  what  is  kind 

Hor.  For  both  our  sakes,  I  would  that  word  were 
true. 

Pet.  Now,  for  my  life,  Hortensio  fears  his  widow, 

Wid.   Then  never  trust  me  if  I  be  afeard. 

Pet.   You   are   sensible,  and  yet  you   miss  my 
sense  ;   I  mean,  Hortensio  is  afeard  of  you. 

Wid.   He  that  is  giddy,  thinks  the  world  turns 
round. 

Pet.    Roundly  replied. 

Kath.   He  that  is  giddy,  thinks  the  world  turns 

round : 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  what  you  meant  by  that. 

Wvl.  Your  husband,  being  troul)led  with  a  shrew, 
Measures  my  husband's  sorrow  by  his  woe : 
And  now  you  know  my  meaning. 

Kath.    A  very  mean  meaning. 

JVid.  Right,  I  mean  you. 

Kath.   And  I  am  mean,  indeed,  respecting  you. 

Pet.   To  her,  Kate  ! 

Hor.   To  her,  widow  ! 

Pet.   A  hundred  marks,  my  Kate  does  put  her 
down. 

Bap.  How  likes  Gremio  these  quick-witted  folks? 

Gre.    Believe  me,  sir,  they  butt  together  well. 

Bian.   Head,  and  butt  ?  an  hasty- witted  body 
Would  say,  your  head  and  butt  were  head  and  horn. 

Vin.  Ay,  mistress  bride,  hath  thatawaken'd  you? 

Bian.    Ay,  but  not  frighted  me;    therefore  I'll 
sleep  again. 

Pet.   Nay,  that  you  shall  not;    since  you  have 
begun. 
Have  at  you  for  a  bitter  jest  or  two. 

Bian.  Am  I  your  bird?  I  mean  to  shift  my  bush. 
And  then  pursue  me  as  you  draw  your  bow  :  — 
You  are  welcome  all. 

{Exeunt  Bianca,  Katharina,  and  Widow. 

Pet.   She  hath   prevented   me.  —  Here,  signior 
Tranio, 
This  bird  you  aim'd  at,  though  you  hit  her  not ; 
Therefore,  a  health  to  all  that  shot  and  miss'd. 

Tra.   O,  sir,  Lucentio  slipp'd  me  like  his  grey- 
hound. 
Which  runs  himself,  and  catches  for  his  master. 

Pet.  A  good  swift  simile,  but  something  currish. 

Tra.   'Tis  well  sir,  tliat  you  hunted  for  yourself; 
'Tis  thought,  your  deer  does  hold  you  at  a  bay. 

Bap.   O  ho,  Petruchio,  Tranio  hits  you  now. 

Luc.    I  thank  thee  for  that  gird?,  good  Tranio. 

Hor.   Confess,  confess,  hath  he  not  hit  you  here  ? 

Pet.   'A  has  a  little  gall'd  me,  I  confess; 
And  as  the  jest  did  glance  away  from  me, 
'Tis  ten  to  one  it  maim'd  you  two  outright. 

Bap.   Now,  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio, 
I  think  thou  hast  tlie  verriest  sluxiw  of  all. 


S  3 


26^2 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Act  V. 


Pet.   Well,  I  say  —  no  :  and  therefore,  for  as- 
surance, 
Let's  each  one  send  unto  his  wife  ; 
And  he,  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 
To  come  at  first  when  he  doth  send  for  her, 
Shall  win  the  wager  which  we  will  propose. 

Hor.   Content :  —  What  is  the  wager  ? 

Xmc.  Twenty  crowns. 

Pet.   Twenty  crowns ! 
I'll  venture  so  much  on  my  hawk,  or  hound, 
But  twenty  times  so  much  upon  my  wife. 

Luc.   A  hundred  then. 

Hor.  Content. 

Pet.  A  match  ;  'tis  done. 

Hor.   Who  shall  begin  ? 

Luc.  That  will  I.     Go, 

Biondello,  bid  your  mistress  come  to  me. 

Bion.   I  go.  [Exit. 

Bap.  Son,  I  will  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 

Luc.   I'll  have  no  halves  :   I'll  bear  it  all  myself. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 
How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Bian.  Sir,  my  mistress  sends  you  word 

That  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come. 

Pet.    How  !  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come  ! 
Is  that  an  answer  ? 

Gi'e.  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too  : 

Pray  heaven,  sir,  your  wife  send  you  not  a  worse. 

Pet.    I  hope,  better. 

Hor.  Sirrah,  Biondello,  go,  and  entreat  my  wife 
To  come  to  me  forthwith.  [Exit  Biondello. 

Pet.  O,  ho  !  entreat  her  ! 

Nay,  then  she  must  needs  come. 

Hor.  I  am  afraid,  sir. 

Do  what  you  can,  yours  will  not  be  entreated. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 
Now,  Where's  my  wife  ? 

Bion.    She  says,  you  have  some  goodly  jest  in 
hand ; 
She  will  not  come ;  she  bids  you  come  to  her. 

Pet.  Worse,  and  worse;  she  will  not  come  !  O  vile. 
Intolerable,  not  to  be  endur'd  ! 
Sirrah,  Grumio,  go  to  your  mistress ; 
Say,  I  command  her  come  to  me.       [Eadt  Grumio. 

Hor.   I  know  her  answer. 

Pet.  What? 

Hor.  She  will  not  come. 

Pet.   The  fouler  fortune  mine,  and  there  an  end. 

Enter  Katharina. 

Bap.   Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes   Ka- 
tharina ! 

A'ath.  What  is  your  will,  sir,  that  you  send  for  me  ? 

Pet.    Where  is  your  sister,  and  Hortensio's  wife  ? 

Ji'ath.    They  sit  conferring  by  the  parlour  fire. 

Pet.  Go  fetch  them  hither  ;  if  they  deny  to  come. 
Swinge  me  them  soundly  forth  unto  their  husbands  : 
Away,  I  say,  and  bring  them  hither  straight. 

[Exit  Katharina. 

Luc.   Here  is  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  a  wonder. 

Hor.   And  so  it  is  ;   I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 

Pet.  Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love  and  quiet  life. 
An  awful  rule,  and  right  supremacy ; 
And,  to  be  short,  what  not,  that's  sweet  and  happy. 

Bap.   Now  fair  befal  thee,  good  Petruchio  ! 
The  wager  thou  hast  won  ;  and  I  will  add 
Unto  their  losses  twenty  thousand  crowns ; 
Another  dowry  to  another  daughter, 
For  she  is  chang'd,  as  she  had  never  been. 


Pet.   Nay,  I  will  win  my  wager  better  yet ; 
And  show  more  sign  of  her  obedience, 
Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 

Re-enter  Katharina,  with  Bianca  and  Widow. 

See,  where  she  comes;   and  brings  your  froward 

wives 
As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion.  — 
Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not 
Off  with  that  bauble,  throw  it  under  foot. 

[Katharina  pulls  off  her  cap^  and  throws 
it  dovm. 

Wid.  Well !  let  me  never  have  a  cause  to  sigh. 
Till  I  be  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass ! 

Bian.   Fye  !   what  a  foolish  duty  call  you  this  ? 

Luc.   I  would,  your  duty  were  as  foolish  too  : 
The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca, 
Hath  cost  me  an  hundred  crowns  since  supper-time. 

Bian.  The  more  fool  you,  for  laying  on  my  duty. 

Pet.   Katharine,  I  charge  thee,  tell  these  head- 
strong women 
What  duty  they  do  owe  their  lords  and  husbands. 

Wid.  Come,  come,  you're  mocking  ;  we  will  have 
no  telling. 

Pet.   Come  on,  I  say  ;  and  first  begin  with  her, 

Wid.   She  shall  not. 

Pet.   I  say,  she  shall ; — and  first  begin  with  her. 

Kath.   Fye,  fye !  unknit  that  threat'ning  unkind 
brow; 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor  ; 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  bite  the  meads  ; 
Confounds  thy  faine,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair  buds, 
And  in  no  sense  is  meet,  or  amiable. 
A  woman  mov'd,  is  like  a  fountain  troubled. 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty  ; 
And,  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip,  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper, 
Thy  head,  thy  sovereign  ;  one  that  cares  for  thee, 
And  for  thy  maintenance  :   commits  his  body 
To  painful  labour,  both  by  sea  and  land ; 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold 
While  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe ; 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands. 
But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience  ;  — 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 
Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince. 
Even  such,  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband  : 
And  when  she's  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour, 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will. 
What  is  she,  but  a  foul  contending  rebel. 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord  ? 
I  am  asham'd,  that  women  are  so  simple 
To  offer  war,  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace  : 
Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy,  and  sway, 
When  tliey  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 
Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak,  and  smooth, 
Unapt  to  toil  and  trouble  in  the  world ; 
But  that  our  soft  conditions  8  and  our  hearts. 
Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts? 
Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms  ! 
My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours. 
My  heart  as  great ;  my  reason,  haply  more 
To  bandy  word  for  word,  and  frown  for  frown  : 
But  now,  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws ; 
Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  compare,— 
That  seeming  to  be  most,  which  we  least  are. 
Then  vail  your  stomachs  9,  for  it  is  no  boot ; 
8  Gentle  tempers.  »  Abate  your  spirits. 


Scene  II. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


263 


And  place  your  hands  below  your  husband's  foot : 
In  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  please, 
My  hand  is  ready,  may  it  do  him  ease. 

Pet.   Why,  there's  a  wench  !  —  Come  on,  and  kiss 

me,  Kate. 
Lmc.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  old  lad ;  for  thou  shalt 

ha't. 
Vin.   'Tis  a  good  hearing,  when  children  are  to- 
ward. 
Luc   But  a  harsh  hearing,  when  women  are  fro- 
ward. 


Pet.   Come,  Kate,  we'll  to  bed : 

We  three  are  married,  but  you  two  are  sped. 
'Twas  I  won  the  wager,  though  you  hit  the  white : 

\_To  LuCENTIO. 

And,  being  a  winner,  God  give  you  good  night ! 
[Exeunt  Petruchio  and  Kath. 
Hcfr.   Now  go  thy  ways,  thou  hast  tam'd  a  curst 

shrew. 
Luc.  'Tis  a  wonder,  by  your  leave,  she  will  be 
tam'd  so.  [ExeurU. 


S  4 


■} 


i 


'V 


WINTER'S   TALE, 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Leontes,  A'ing  o/"Sicilia. 
Mamillius,  his  Son. 
Camillo,     ^ 

-.  ^   '  '  >■  Sicilian  Lords. 

Cleomenes,  I 

Diov,  j 

Another  Sicilian  Lord. 

RoGERO,  a  Sicilian  Gentleman. 

An  Attendant  on  the  yoking  Prince  Maniilllus. 

Officers  of  a  Court  of  Judicature. 

PoLiXENES,  King  (f  Bohemia. 

Florizel,  his  Son. 

Archidamus,  a  Bohemian  Lord. 

A  Mariner. 

Gaoler. 

An  old  Shepherd,  reputed  Father  of  Perdita. 

SCENE,  sometimes  in 


Clotvn,  his  Son. 
Servant  to  the  old  Sliepherd. 
AuTOLYCUs,  a  Rogue. 
Time,  as  Chorus. 

Hermione,  Queen  to  Leontes. 

Perdita,  Daughter  to  Leontes  and  Hermione. 

Paulina,  IVife  to  Antigonus. 

DoRcts,}  Shepherdesses. 

Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants ;  Satyrs  for  a  Dance  t 
Shepherds,  Shepherdesses,  Guards,  ^c. 


Sicilia,  sometimes  in  Bohemia. 


i.IEKUV    ON  3.   A   BAKNK.      A    VERY    PHETTT    JJAKNE  ■ 


WINTER'S    TALE. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE 


[.  —  Sicilia.    An  Antichamber  in  Leontes' 
Palace. 


Enter  Camillo  and  Archidamus. 

Arch.  If  you  shall  chance,  Camillo,  to  visit  Bo- 
hemia, on  the  like  occasion  whereon  my  services 
are  now^  on  foot,  you  shall  see,  as  ]  have  said,  great 
difference  betwixt  our  Bohemia  and  your  Sicilia. 

Cam.  I  think,  this  coming  summer,  the  king  of 
Sicilia  means  to  pay  Bohemia  the  visitation  which 
he  justly  owes  him. 

Arch.  Wherein  our  entertainment  shall  shame  us, 
we  will  be  justified  in  our  loves  :  for,  indeed,  — 

Cam.   'Beseech  you, 

Arch.  Verily,  I  speak  it  in  tlie  fredom  of  my 
knowledge :   we  cannot  with  such  magnificence  — 

in  so  rare  —  I  know  not  wiiat  to  say. We  will 

give  you  sleepy  drinks :  that  your  senses,  unintel- 
ligent of  our  insufHcience,  may,  though  they  cannot 
praise  us,  as  little  accuse  us. 

Cam.  You  pay  a  great  deal  too  dear,  for  what's 
given  freely. 

Arch.  Believe  me,  I  speak  as  my  understanding 
instructs  me,  and  as  mine  honesty  puts  it  to  utterance. 

Cam,.  Sicilia  cannot  show  himself  over-kind  to 
Bohemia.  They  were  trained  together  in  their 
cliildhoods  :    and    tliere  rooted  betwixt  them  then 


such  an  affection,  which  cannot  choose  but  branch 
now.  Since  their  more  mature  dignities,  and  royal 
necessities,  made  separation  of  their  society,  their 
encounters,  though  not  personal,  have  been  royally 
attornied ',  with  interchange  of  gifts,  letters,  loving 
embassies;  that  they  have  seemed  to  be  together, 
though  absent;  shook  hands,  as  over  a  vast-;  and 
embraced,  as  it  were,  from  the  ends  of  opposed 
winds.      The  heavens  continue  their  loves  ! 

Arch.  1  think,  there  is  not  in  the  world  either 
malice,  or  matter,  to  alter  it.  You  have  an  un- 
speakable comfort  of  your  young  prince  Mamillius; 
it  is  a  gentleman  of  the  greatest  promise,  that  ever 
came  into  my  note. 

Cam,.  I  very  well  agree  with  you  in  the  hopes  of 
him  :  it  is  a  gallant  child  ;  one  that,  indeed,  phy- 
sicks  the  subject  ',  makes  old  hearts  fresh :  they, 
that  went  on  crutches  ere  he  was  born,  desire  yet 
their  life,  to  see  him  a  man. 

Arch.   Would  they  else  be  content  to  die  ? 

Cam.  Yes:  if  there  were  no  other  excuse  why 
they  should  desire  to  live. 

Arch.  If  the  king  had  no  son,  they  would  desire 
to  live  on  crutches  till  he  had  one.  YExeunl. 


Supplied  by  substitution  of  embassies. 
Wide  was*^e  of  country. 
Affords  a  cordial  to  the  state. 


Scene  II. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


265 


SCENE  II A  Room  oj State  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Lkontes,  Pouxekes,  Hermioke,   Mamil- 
Lius,  Camillo,  and  Attendants. 
Pol.   Nine  changes  of  the  wat'ry  star  have  been 
The  shepherd's  note,  since  we  have  left  our  throne 
Without  a  burden  :   time  as  long  again 
Would  be  fill'd  up,  my  brother,  with  our  thanks ; 
And  yet  we  should  for  perpetuity, 
Go  hence  in  debt :    And  therefore,  like  a  cipher, 
Yet  standing  in  rich  place,  I  multiply, 
With  one  we-thank-you,  many  thousands  more 
That  go  before  it. 

Leon.  Stay  your  thanks  awhile  ; 

And  pay  tliem  when  you  part. 

Pot.  Sir,  that's  to-morrow 

I  am  question'd  by  my  fears,  of  what  may  chance, 
Or  broed  upon  our  absence :    That  may  blow 
No  sneaping  ^  winds  at  home,  to  make  us  say. 
This  is  put  forth  too  truly  !   Besides,  I  have  stay'd 
To  tire  your  royalty. 

Leon.  We  are  tougher,  brother. 

Than  you  can  put  us  to't. 

Pul.  No  longer  stay. 

Leon.   One  seven-night  longer. 
Pol.  Very  sooth,  to-morrov«r. 

Leon.   We'll  part  the  time  between's  then  :  and 
in  that 
I'll  no  gain-saying. 

Pol.  Press  me  not,  'beseech  you  so : 

There  is  no  tongue  that  moves,  none,  none  i'  the 

world, 
So  soon  as  yours,  could  win  me :   so  it  should  now, 
Were  there  necessity  in  your  request,  although 
'Twere  needful  I  denied  it.      My  affairs 
Do  even  drag  me  homeward  :    which  to  hinder. 
Were,  in  your  love,  a  whip  to  me ;  my  stay. 
To  you  a  charge,  and  trouble  :   to  save  both. 
Farewell,  our  brother. 

Leon.  Tongue-tied,  our  queen  ?  speak  you. 

Her.   I  had  thought,  sir,  to  have  held  my  peace, 
until 
You  had  drawn  oaths  from  him,  not  to  stay.     You, 

sir. 
Charge  him  too  coldly :    Tell  him,  you  are  sure, 
All  in  Bohemia's  well :   this  satisfaction 
The  by-gone  day  proclaim'd  ;  say  this  to  him. 
He's  beat  from  his  best  ward. 

Leon.  Well  said,  Hermione. 

Her.  To  tell,  he  longs  to  see  liis  son,  were  strong  ; 
But  let  him  say  so  then,  and  let  him  go  ; 
But  let  him  say  so,  and  he  shall  not  stay. 
We'll  thwack  him  hence  with  distaffs.  — 
Yet  of  your  royal  presence   [To  Polixenes.]    I'll 

adventure 
The  borrow  of  a  week.     When  at  Bohemia 
You  take  my  lord,  I'll  give  him  my  commission. 
To  let  him  there  a  month,  behind  the  gest  * 
Prefix'd  for  his  parting  :  yet,  good  deed 6,  Leontes, 
I  love  thee  not  a  jar  o'the  clock  behind 

What  lady  she  her  lord You'll  stay  ? 

J^ol.  No,  madam. 

Her.   Nay,  but  you  will. 
Pol'  I  may  not,  verily. 

Her.   Verily! 
You  put  me  off"  witli  limber  vows  :    But  I, 

\  Nipping, 
•wx    .!^^  ^'"*  ^^^  names  of  tlic  stages  where  the  king  ap. 
•^  .    .*°  "e,  during  a  royal  progress. 

'  Indeed. 


Though  you  would  seek  to  unsphere  the  stars  with 

oaths, 
Shoidd  yet  say,  Sir^  no  going.     Verily, 
You  shall  not  go ;  a  lady's  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet  ? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner, 
Not  like  a  guest ;  so  you  shall  pay  your  fees. 
When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks.     How  say 

you? 
My  prisoner  ?  or  my  guest  ?  by  your  dread  verily, 
One  of  them  you  shall  be. 

Pol.  Your  guest  then,  madam  : 

To  be  your  prisoner,  should  import  offending ; 
Which  is  for  me  less  easy  to  commit. 
Than  you  to  punish. 

Her.  Not  your  gaoler  then. 

But  your  kind  hostess.      Come,  I'll  question  you 
Of  my  lord's  tricks,  and  yours,  when  you  were  boys  : 
You  were  pretty  lordlings?  then. 

Pol.  We  were,  fair  queen. 

Two  lads,  that  thought  there  was  no  more  behind. 
But  such  a  day  to-morrow  as  to-day, 
And  to  be  boy  eternal. 

Her.  Was  not  my  lord  the  verier  wag  o'the  two  ? 
Pol.   We  were  as  twinn'd  lambs,  that  did  frisk  i' 
the  sun. 
And  bleat  the  one  at  the  other :   what  we  chang'd, 
Was  innocence  for  innocence ;  we  knew  not 
The  doctrine  of  ill-doing,  no,  nor  dream'd 
That  any  did :   Had  we  pursued  that  life. 
And  our  weak  spirits  ne'er  been  higher  rear'd 
With    stronger  blood,  we  should   have   answer'd 

heaven 
Boldly,  Not  Guilty :  the  imposition  clear'd. 
Hereditary  ours. 

Her.  By  this  we  gather. 

You  have  tripp'd  since. 

Pol.  O  my  most  sacred  lady. 

Temptations  have  since  then  been  bom  to  us  :   for 
In  those  unfledg'd  days  was  my  wife  a  girl  ; 
Your  precious  self  had  then  not  cross'd  the  eyes 
Of  ray  young  play-fellow. 

Her.  Grace  to  boot ! 

Of  this  make  no  conclusion  ;  lest  you  say. 
Your  queen  and  I  are  devils :    Yet,  go  on  ; 
The  offences  we  have  made  you  do,  we'll  answer ; 
If  you  first  sinn'd  with  us,  and  that  with  us 
You  did  continue  fault,  and  that  you  slipp'd  not 
With  any  but  with  us. 

Leon.  Is  he  won  yet  ? 

Her.   He'll  stay,  my  lord. 

Leon.  At  my  request,  he  would  not. 

Hermione,  my  dearest,  thou  never  spok'st 
To  better  purpose. 

Her.  Never  ? 

Leon.  Never,  but  once. 

Her.   What  ?  have  I  twice  said  well  ?  when  was't 
before  ? 
I  pr'yt]iee,tell  me :  Cram  us  with  praise,  and  make  us 
As  fat   as   tame   things  :    One   good  deed,  dying 

tongueless. 
Slaughters  a  thousand,  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages  :    You  may  ride  us, 
With  one  soft  kiss,  a  thousand  furlongs,  ere 

With  spur  we  heat  an  acre.      But  to  the  goal ; 

My  last  good  deed  was,  to  entreat  his  stay  j 

What  was  my  first  ?  it  has  an  elder  sister. 

Or  I  mistake  you :  O,  would  her  name  were  Grace! 

7  A  diminutive  of  lords. 


266 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  I. 


But  once  before  I  spoke  to  the  purpose :   When  ? 
Nay,  let  me  have't,  I  long. 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had   sour'd  themselves  to 

death, 
Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hand. 
And  clap  thyself  my  love  ;  then  didst  thou  utter, 
/  am  yours  for  ever. 

Her.  It  is  Grace,  indeed.  — 

Why,  lo  you  now,  I  have  spoke  to  the  purpose  twice  : 
The  one  for  ever  eam'd  a  royal  husband  ; 
The  other,  for  some  while  a  friend. 

[Giving  her  hand  to  Polixknes. 

Leon.  Too  hot,  too  hot :    [Aside. 

To  mingle  friendship  far,  is  mingling  bloods. 
I  have  tremor  cordis  »  on  me :  —  my  heart  dances  ; 
But  not  for  joy,  —  not  joy.  — This  entertainment 
May  a  free  face  put  on :   derive  a  liberty 
From  heartiness,  from  bounty,  fertile  bosom, 
And  well  become  the  agent :  it  may,  I  grant : 
But,  as  now  they  are,  making  practis'd  smiles, 
As  in  a  looking-glass  ; — and  then  to  sigh,  as  'twere 
The  mort  o'  the  deer  9 ;   O,  that  is  entertainment 
My  bosom  likes  not,  nor  my  brows.  —  Mamillius, 
Art  thou  my  boy  ? 

Mam.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  I'fecks  ? 

Why  that's   my  bawcock. '     What,  hast  smutch'd 

thy  nose  ?  — 
They  say,  it's  a  copy  out  of  mine.     Come,  captain. 
We  must  be  neat ;  not  neat,  but  cleanly,  captain  : 
And  yet  the  steer,  the  heifer,  and  the  calf, 
Are  all  call'd,  neat,  —  Still  virginalling  2 

[Observing  Polixenes  and  Hermione. 
Upon  his  palm?  —  How  now,  you  wanton  calf? 
Art  thou  my  calf? 

Mam.  Yes,  if  you  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Thou  want'st  a  rough  pash,  and  the  shoots 
that  I  have  3, 
To  be  full  like  me  :  —  yet,  they  say  we  are 
Almost  as  like  as  eggs ;  women  say  so, 
That  will  say  any  thing  :   but  were  they  false 
As  o'er-died  blacks,  as  wind,  as  waters  ;  false 
As  dice  are  to  be  wish'd,  by  one  that  fixes 
No  bourn  'twixt  his  and  mine ;  yet  were  it  true 
To  say  this  boy  were  like  me.  —  Come,  sir  page. 
Look  on  me  with  your  welkin  4  eye :  Sweet  villain  ! 
Most  dear'st!  my  collop  !  —  Can  thy  dam? — may't 

be? 
Affection  !  thy  intention  stabs  the  center : 
Thou  dost  make  possible,  things  not  so  held, 
Communicat'st    with    dreams  ;  —  (How  can    this 

be?j  — 
With  what's  unreal  thou  co-active  art. 
And  fellow'st  nothing  :   Then,  'tis  very  credent  5, 
Thou  may'st  co-join  with  something ;  and  thou  dost : 
(And  that  beyond  commission ;  and  I  find  it,) 
And  that  to  the  infection  of  my  brains, 
And  hardening  of  my  brows. 

Pol.  What  means  Sicilia  ? 

Her.   He  something  seems  unsettled. 

Pol.  How,  my  lord  ? 

What  cheer  ?  how  is't  with  you,  best  brother  ? 
Her.  You  look, 

s  Trembling  of  the  heart. 

8  The  tune  played  at  the  death  of  the  deer. 

1  Hearty  fellow. 

2  i.  e.  Playing  witli  her  fingers,  as  if  on  a  spinet. 

3  Thou  wantest  a  rough  head,  and  the  budding  horns  that 
I  have. 

"  Blue,  like  the  sky.  »  Credible. 


As  if  you  held  a  brow  of  much  distraction  : 
Are  you  mov'd,  my  lord  ? 

Leon.  No,  in  good  earnest.  — 

How  sometimes  nature  will  betray  its  folly, 
Its  tenderness,  and  make  itself  a  pastime 
To  harder  bosoms !  Looking  on  the  lines 
Of  my  boy's  face,,  methoughts,  I  did  recoil 
Twenty-three  years  :  and  saw  myself  unbreech'd, 
In  my  green  velvet  coat ;  my  dagger  muzzled. 
Lest  it  should  bite  its  master,  and  so  prove. 
As  ornaments  oft  do,  too  dangerous. 
How  like,  methought,  I  then  was  to  this  kernel, 
This  squash  6,  this  gentleman :  —  Mine  honest  friend, 
Will  you  take  eggs  for  money  ?  7 
Mam.  No,  my  lord,  I'll  fight. 
Leon.   You  will  ?  why,  happy  man  be  his  dole !  " 
—  My  brother, 
Are  you  so  fond  of  your  young  prince,  as  we 
Do  seem  to  be  of  ours  ? 

Pol.  If  at  home,  sir, 

He's  all  my  exercise,  my  mirth,  my  matter  : 
Now  my  sworn  friend,  and  then  mine  enemy ; 
My  parasite,  my  soldier^  statesman,  all : 
He  makes  a  July's  day  short  as  December ; 
And,  with  his  varying  childness,  cures  in  me 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  my  blood. 

Leon.  So  stands  this  squire 

Offic'd  with  me  :    We  two  will  walk,  my  lord. 
And  leave  you  to  your  graver  steps.  —  Hermione, 
How  thou  lov'st  us,  show  in  our  brother's  welcome ; 
Let  what  is  dear  in  Sicily  be  cheap  : 
Next  to  thyself,  and  my  young  rover,  he's 
Apparent  9  to  my  heart. 

Her.  If  you  would  seek  us. 

We  are  your's  i'  the  garden :     Shall's  attend  you 
there  ? 
Leon.   To  your  own  bents  dispose  you  :  you'll 
be  found. 
Be  you  beneath  the  sky :  —  I  am  angling  now. 
Though  you  perceive  me  not  how  I  give  line. 
Go  to,  go  to  ! 

[Aside.     Observing  Polixenes  and  Hermione. 
She  arms  her  with  the  boldness  of  a  wife 
To  her  allowing  '  husband  !   Gone  already. 

[Exeunt  Polixenes,  Hermione,  and 
Attendants. 
Go,  play,  boy,  play  ;  —  thy  mother  plays,  and  I 
Play  too ;  but  so  disgrac'd  a  part,  whose  issue 
Will  hiss  me  to  my  grave  ;  contempt  and  clamour 
Will  be  my  knell.  —  Go,  play,  boy,  play  ;  —  There 

have  been. 
Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  cuckolds  ere  now  ; 
And  many  a  man  there  is,  even  at  this  present. 
Now,  while  I  speak  this,  holds  his  wife  by  the  arm. 
That  little  thinks  she's  false :    Should  all  despair. 
That  have  revolted  wives,  the  tenth  of  mankind 
Would  hang  themselves ;  but  many  a  thousand  of  us 
Have  the  disease,  and  feel'tnot. —  How  now,  boy? 
Mam.   I  am  like  you,  they  say. 
Leon.  Why,  that's  some  comfort.  — 

What !   Camillo  there  ? 
Cam.   Ay,  my  good  lord, 

Leon.   Go  play,   Mamillius ;    thou'rt  an  honest 
man.  —  [Exit  Mamillius. 

Camillo,  this  great  sir  will  yet  stay  longer. 

Cam.  You  had  much  ado  to  make  his  anchor  hold  ; 
When  you  cast  out,  it  still  came  home. 

6  Pea-cod.  7  will  you  be  cajoled  ? 

8  May  his  lot  in  life  be  a  happy  one ! 

9  Heir  apparent,  next  claimant.  '  Approving. 


Scene  II. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


267 


Leon.  "  Didst  note  it  ? 

Cam.  He  would  not  stay  at  your  petitions  j  made 
His  business  more  material. 

Leon.  Didst  perceive  it  ?  — 

They're  liere  with  me  already ;  whispering,  round- 

SicUia  is  a  so-forth  :  'Tis  far  gone, 

When  I  shall  gust  3  it  last.  —  How  came't,  Camillo, 

That  he  did  stay  ? 

Cam.  At  the  good  queen's  entreaty. 

Leon.   At  the  queen's  be't :  good  should  be  per- 
tinent ; 
But  so  it  is,  it  is  not.     Was  this  taken 
By  any  understanding  pate  but  thine  ? 
For  thy  conceit  is  soaking,  will  draw  in 
More  tlian  the  common  blocks :  —  Not  noted,  is't, 
But  of  the  finer  natures  ?  by  some  severals, 
Of  head-piece  extraordinary  ?  lower  messes  ^, 
Perchance,  are  to  this  business  purblind  :   say. 
Cam.   Business,  my  lord  ?  I  think,  most  under- 
stand 
Bohemia  stays  here  longer. 

Leon.  Ha? 

Cam.  Stays  here  longer. 

Leon.   Ay,  but  why  ? 

Cam.  To  satisfy  your  highness,  and  the  entreaties 
Of  our  most  gracious  mistress. 

Leon.  Satisfy 

The  entreaties  of  your  mistress  ? satisfy  ? 

Let  that  suffice.     I  have  trusted  thee,  Camillo, 
With  all  the  nearest  things  to  my  heart,  as  well 
My  chamber-councils  :   wherein,  priest-like,  tliou 
Hast  cleans'd  my  bosom ;  I  from  thee  departed 
Thy  penitent  reform'd  :  but  we  have  been 
Deceiv'd  in  thy  integrity,  deceiv'd 
In  that  which  seems  so. 

Cam.  Be  it  forbid,  my  lord ! 

Leon.  To  bide  upon't ;  — Thou  art  not  honest :  or, 
If  thou  inclin'st  that  way,  thou  art  a  coward ; 
Which  boxes  ^  honesty  behind,  restraining 
From  course  requir'd  :  Or  else  thou  must  be  counted 
A  servant,  grafted  in  my  serious  trust. 
And  therein  negligent ;  or  else  a  fool. 
That   seest  a  game  play'd   home,    the   rich   stake 

drawn, 
And  tak'st  it  all  for  jest. 

Cam.  My  gracious  lord, 

I  may  be  negligent,  foolish,  and  fearful ; 
In  every  one  of  these  no  man  is  free, 
But  that  his  negligence,  his  folly,  fear, 
Amongst  the  infinite  doings  of  the  world. 
Sometime  puts  forth  :    In  your  affairs,  my  lord. 
If  ever  I  were  wilful-negligent, 
It  was  my  folly  ;  if  industriously 
I  play'd  the  fool,  it  was  my  negligence. 
Not  weighing  well  the  end  ;  if  ever  fearful 
To  do  a  thing,  where  I  the  issue  doubted. 
Whereof  the  execution  did  cry  out 
Against  the  non-performance,  'twas  a  fear 
Which  oft  affects  the  wisest :  these,  my  lord, 
Are  such  allow'd  infirmities,  that  honesty 
Is  never  free  of.      But,  'beseech  your  grace, 
Be  plainer  with  me  ;  let  me  know  my  trespass 
By  its  own  visage  :  if  I  then  deny  it, 
'Tis  none  of  mine. 

Leon.  Have  not  you  seen,  Camillo, 

(  But  that's  past  doubt :  you  have  ;  or  your  eye-glass 
Is  tliickcr  than  a  cuckold's  horn ;)  or  heard, 

*  To  round  in  tlic  car  was  to  ♦cU  secretly  »  Taste. 

4  inPorinr<  in  r-.,,\r  »  fj,  )\ox  U  to  bamstruig. 


(For,  to  a  vision  so  apparent,  rumour 

Cannot  be  mute,)  or  thought,  (for  cogitation 

Resides  not  in  that  man,  that  does  not  think  it,) 

My  wife  is  slippery  ?    If  thou  wilt  confess, 

(Or  else  be  impudently  negative. 

To  have  nor  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  thought,)  then  say. 

My  wife's  a  woman  that  deserves  a  name 

Too  rank  to  mention :   say  it,  and  justify  it 

Cam.   I  would  not  be  a  stander-by,  to  hear 
My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 
My  present  vengeance  taken  :  'Shrew  my  heart. 
You  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 
Than  this  :  which  to  reiterate,  were  sin 
As  deep  as  that,  though  true. 

Leon.  Is  whispering  nothing  ? 

Is  leaning  cheek  to  cheek  ?  stopping  the  career 
Of  laughter  with  a  sigh  ?  (a  note  infallible 
Of  breaking  honesty  : )  wishing  clocks  more  swift  ? 
Hours,  minutes  ?  noon,  midnight  ?  and  all  eyes  bUnd 
With  the  pin  and  web  ^,  but  theirs,  theirs  only. 
That  would  unseen  be  wicked  ?  is  this  nothing  ? 
Why,  then  the  world,  and  all  that's  in't,  is  nothing ; 
The  covering  sky  is  nothing  ;  Bohemia  nothing  ; 
My  wife  is  nothing;  nor  nothing  have  these  nothings. 
If  this  be  nothing. 

Cam.  Good  my  lord,  be  cured 

Of  this  diseas'd  opinion,  and  betimes  ; 
For  'tis  most  dangerous. 

Leon.  Say,  it  be  ;  'tis  true. 

Cam.   No,  no,  my  lord. 

Leon.  It  is ;  you  lie,  you  lie  : 

I  say,  thou  liest,  Camillo,  and  I  hate  thee ; 
Pronounce  thee  a  gross  lout,  a  mindless  slave  : 
Or  else  a  hovering  temporizer,  that 
Canst  with  thine  eyes  at  once  see  good  and  evil. 
Inclining  to  them  both  ;   Were  my  wife's  liver 
Infected  as  her  life,  she  would  not  live 
The  running  of  one  glass. 

Cam.  Who  does  infect  her  ? 

Leon.  Why  he,  that  wears  her  like  her  medal, 
hanging 
About  his  neck,   Bohemia  :   Who  —  if  I 
Had  servants  true  about  me,  that  bare  eyes 
To  see  alike  mine  honour  as  their  profits. 
Their  own  particular  thrifts,  —  they  would  do  tliat 
Which  should  undo  more  doing  :   Ay,  and  thou. 
His  cupbearer,  —  whom  I  from  meaner  form 
Have  bench'd,  and  rear'd  to  worship ;  who  may'st 

see 
Plainly,  as  heaven  sees  earth,  and  earth  sees  heaven. 
How  I  am  galled,  —  thou  might'st  bespice  a  cup. 
To  give  mine  enemy  a  lasting  wink  ; 
Which  draught  to  me  were  cordial. 

Cam.  Sir,  my  lord, 

I  could  do  this  :  and  that  with  no  rash  7  potion. 
But  with  a  ling'ring  dram,  that  should  not  work 
Maliciously  like  poison  :    But  I  cannot 
Believe  tliis  crack  to  be  in  my  dread  mistress, 
So  sovereignly  being  honourable. 

I  have  lov'd  tliee, 

Leon.  Make't  thy  question,  and  go  rot ! 

Dost  think,  I  am  so  muddy,  so  unsettled. 
To  appoint  myself  in  this  vexation  ?  sully 
'Ilie  purity  and  whiteness  of  my  sheets. 
Which  to  preserve,  is  sleep  ;  which  being  spotted, 
Is  goads,  thorns,  nettles,  tails  of  wasps  ? 
Give  scandal  to  the  blood  o'  the  prince  my  son, 
Who,  I  do  tliink  is  mine,  and  love  as  mine  ; 


Inferiors  in  rank. 


6  Disorders  of  the  eye 


HMty. 


268 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  I.  Scene  II. 


Without  ripe  moving  to't  ?     Would  I  do  this  ? 
Could  man  so  blench  ?  8 

Cam.  I  must  believe  you,  sir ; 

I  do :   and  will  fetch  off  Bohemia  for't : 
Provided,  that  when  he's  remov'd,  your  highness 
Will  take  again  your  queen,  as  yours  at  first ; 
Even  for  your  son's  sake  :   and,  thereby,  for  sealing 
The  injury  of  tongues,  in  courts  and  kingdoms 
Known  and  allied  to  yours. 

Leon.  Thou  dost  advise  me. 

Even  so  as  I  mine  own  course  have  set  down  : 
I'll  give  no  blemish  to  her  honour,  none. 

Cam.   My  lord, 
Go  then  ;  and  with  a  countenance  as  clear 
As  friendship  wears  at  feasts,  keep  with  Bohemia, 
And  with  your  queen :    I  am  his  cupbearer; 
If  from  me  he  have  wholesome  beverage, 
Account  me  not  your  servant. 

Leon.  This  is  all ; 

Do't,  and  thou  hast  the  one  half  of  my  heart ; 
Do't  not,  thou  split'st  thine  own. 

Cam.  I'll  do't,  my  lord. 

Leon.   I  will  seem  friendly,  as  thou  hast  advis'd 
me.  [^Exil. 

Cam.   O  miserable  lady  !  —  But,  for  me. 
What  case  stand  I  in?   I  must  be  the  poisoner 
Of  good  Polixenes  :   and  my  ground  to  do't 
Is  the  obedience  to  a  master ;  one, 
Who,  in  rebellion  with  himself,  will  have 
All  that  are  his,  so  too.  —  To  do  this  deed, 
Promotion  follows  :    If  I  could  find  example 
Of  thousands,  that  had  struck  anointed  kings. 
And  flourish'd  after,  I'd  not  do't :   but  since 
Nor  brass  nor  stone,  nor  parchment,  bears  not  one, 
Let  villainy  itself  forswear't.      I  must 
Forsake  the  court :  to  do't,  or  no,  is  certain 
To  me  a  break-neck.     Happy  star,  reign  now  ! 
Here  comes  Bohemia. 

Enter  Polixenes. 

Pol.  This  is  strange,  methinks, 

My  favour  here  begins  to  warp.      Not  speak  ?  — — 
Good-day,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Hail,  most  royal  sir  ! 

Pol.   What  is  the  news  i'  the  court  ? 

Cam.  None  rare,  my  lord. 

Pol.   The  king  hath  on  him  such  a  countenance. 
As  he  had  lost  some  province,  and  a  region, 
Lov'd  as  he  loves  himself:   even  now  I  met  him 
With  customary  compliment ;  when  he, 
Wafting  his  eyes  to  the  contrary,  and  falling 
A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me  :   and 
So  leaves  me,  to  consider  what  is  breeding. 
That  changes  thus  his  manners. 

Cam.   I  dare  not  know,  my  lord. 

Pol.   How  !  dare  not  ?  do  not.   Do  you  know,  and 
dare  not 
Be  intelligent  to  me?  'Tis  thereabouts  j 
For,  to  yourself,  what  you  do  know,  you  must ; 
And  cannot  say,  you  dare  not.      Good  Camillo, 
Your  chang'd  complexions  are  to  me  a  mirror. 
Which  shows  me  mine  chang'd  to  :   for  I  must  be 
A  party  in  this  alteration,  finding 
Myself  thus  alter'd  with  it. 

Cam.  There  is  a  sickness 

Which  puts  some  of  us  in  distemper  ;  but 
I  cannot  name  the  disease ;  and  it  is  caught 
Of  you  that  yet  are  well. 

»  i.e.  Could  any  man  so  start  off  from  propriety. 


Pol.  How  ?  caught  of  me  ? 

Make  me  not  sighted  like  the  basilisk : 
I  have  look'd  on   thousands,  who  have   sped   the 

better 
By  my  regard,  but  kill'd  none  so.     Camillo,         . 
As  you  are  certainly  a  gentleman  ;  thereto 
Clerk-like,  experienc'd,  which  no  less  adorns 
Our  gentry,  than  our  parents'  noble  names. 
In  whose  success  9  we  are  gentle  ',  —  I  beseech  you, 
If  you  know  aught  which  does  behove  my  know- 
ledge 
Thereof  to  be  inform'd,  imprison  it  not 
In  ignorant  concealment. 

Cam.  I  may  not  answer. 

Pol.   A  sickness  caught  of  me,  and  yet  I  well ! 
I  must  be  answered.  —  Dost  thou  hear,  Camillo, 
I  conjure  thee,  by  all  the  parts  of  man. 
Which   honour   does  acknowledge,  —  whereof  the 

least 
Is  not  this  suit  of  mine,  —  that  thou  declare 
What  incidency  thou  dost  guess  of  harm 
Is  creeping  toward  me  ;  how  far  off,  how  near ; 
Which  way  to  be  prevented,  if  to  be  ; 
If  not,  how  best  to  bear  it. 

Cam.  Sir,  I'll  tell  you  j 

Since  I  am  charg'd  in  honour,  and  by  him 
That  I  think    honourable :    Therefore,   mark   my 

counsel ; 
Which  must  be  even  as  swiftly  follow'd,"as 
I  mean  to  utter  it ;  or  both  yourself  and  me 
Cry,  lost,  and  so  good  night. 

Pol.  On,  good  Camillo. 

Cam.   I  am  appointed  him  ^  to  murder  you. 

Pol.   By  whom,  Camillo  ? 

Cam.  By  the  king. 

Pol.  For  what  ? 

Cam.   He  thinks,    nay,    with  all  confidence  he 
swears. 
As  he  had  seen't,  or  been  an  instrument 
To  vice  3  you  to't,  —  that  you  have  touch'd  his  queen 
Forbiddenly. 

Pol.  O,  then  my  best  blood  turn 

To  an  infected  jelly  ;  and  my  name 
Be  yok'd  with  his,  that  did  betray  the  best ! 
Turn  then  my  freshest  reputation  to 
A  savour,  that  may  strike  the  dullest  nostril 
Where  I  arrive  ;  and  my  approach  be  shunn'd. 
Nay,  hated  too,  worse  than  the  great'st  infection 
That  e'er  was  heard,  or  read ! 

Cam.  Swear  his  thought  over 

By  each  particular  star  in  heaven,  and 
By  all  their  influences,  you  may  as  well 
Forbid  the  sea  for  to  obey  the  moon. 
As  or,  by  oath,  remove,  or  counsel,  shake 
The  fabrick  of  his  folly  ;  whose  foundation 
Is  pil'd  upon  his  faith,  and  will  continue 
The  standing  of  his  body. 

Pol.  How  should  this  grow  ? 

Cam.    I  know  not :   but,  I  am  sure,  'tis  safer  to 
Avoid  what's  grown,  than  question  how  'tis  born. 
If  therefore  you  dare  trust  my  honesty,  — 
That  lies  enclosed  in  this  trunk,  which  you 
Shall  bear  along  impawn'd,  —  away  to-night. 
Your  followers  I  will  whisper  to  the  business  ; 
And  will,  by  twos,  and  threes,  at  several  posterns, 
Clear  them  o'  the  city  :    For  myself,  I'll  put 
My  fortunes  to  your  service,  which  are  here 


5  For  succession. 

'  Gentle  was  opposed  to  simple  ; 

2  i.  e.  The  person. 


well  bom. 
3  Draw. 


Act  II.    Scene  I. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


269 


By  this  discovery  lost.     Be  not  uncertain ; 

For,  by  the  honour  of  my  parents,  I 

Have  utter'd  truth  :   which  if  you  seek  to  prove, 

I  dare  not  stand  by  ;  nor  shall  you  be  safer 

Than  one  conderan'd  j    by  the  king's  own  mouth, 

thereon 
Is  execution  sworn. 

Pol.  I  do  believe  thee : 

I  saw  his  heart  in  his  face.      Give  me  thy  hand  ; 
Be  pilot  to  me,  and  thy  places  shall 
Still  neighbour  mine ;  My  ships  are  ready,  and 
My  people  did  expect  my  hence  departure 
Two  days  ago.  — —  This  jealousy 
Is  for  a  precious  creature  :  as  she's  rare, 


Must  it  be  great ;  and,  as  his  person's  mighty, 

Must  it  be  violent ;  and  as  he  does  conceive 

He  is  dishonour'd  by  a  man  which  ever 

Profess'd  to  him,  why,  his  revenges  must 

In  that  be  made  more  bitter.      Fear  o'ershadcs  me. 

Good  expedition  be  my  friend,  and  comfort 

Tlie  gracious  queen,  part  of  his  theme,  but  nothing 

Of  his  ill-ta'en  suspicion  !   Come,  Camillo  ; 

I  will  respect  thee  as  a  father,  if 

Thou  bear'st  my  life  off  hence  :    Let  us  avoid. 

Cam.   It  is  in  mine  authority  to  command 
The  keys  of  all  the  posterns  :   Please  your  highness 
To  take  the  urgent  hour :  come,  sir,  away. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  same. 
Enter  Hermionk,  Mamiluus,  and  Ladies. 

Her.   Take  the  boy  to  you  :  he  so  troubles  me, 
'Tis  past  enduring. 

1  Lady,  Come,  my  gracious  lord, 

Sliall  I  be  your  play-fellow? 

Mam.  No,  I'll  none  of  you. 

1  Lady.   Why,  my  sweet  lord  ? 

Mam.   You'U  kiss  me  hard ;  and  speak  to  me  as  if 
I  were  a  baby  still.  —  I  love  you  better. 

2  Lady.    And  why  so,  my  good  lord  ? 

Mam.  Not  for  because 

Your  brows  are  blacker ;  yet  black  brows,  they  say. 
Become  some  women  best ;  so  that  there  be  not 
Too  much  hair  there,  but  in  a  semi-circle, 
Or  half-moon  made  with  a  pen. 

2  Lady.  Who  taught  you  this  ? 

Mam.   I  learn'd  it  out  of  women's  faces.  —  Pray 
now 
What  colour  are  your  eye-brows  ? 

1  Lady.  Blue,  my  lord. 
Mam.  Nay,  that's  a  mock  ;   1  have  seen  a  lady's 

nose 
That  has  been  blue,  but  not  her  eye-brows. 

2  Lady.  Hark  ye  ; 
The  queen,  your  mother,  rounds  apace :  we  shall 
Present  our  services  to  a  fine  new  prince. 

One  of  these  days  ;  and  then  you'd  wanton  with  us 
If  we  would  have  you. 

1  Lady.  She  is  spread  of  late 

Into  a  goodly  bulk :    Good  time  encounter  her  ! 
Her.   What  wisdom  stirs  amongst  you  ?     Come, 
sir,  now 
I  am  for  you  again  :    Pray  you  sit  by  us, 
And  tell's  a  tale. 

Mtim.   Merry,  or  sad,  shall't  be  ? 
Her.    As  merry  as  you  will. 
Mam.  A  sad  tale's  best  for  winter : 

I  have  one  of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Her.  Let's  have  that,  sir. 

Come  on,    sit  down  :  —  Come  on,    and  do  your 

best 
To  fright  me  with   your  sprites :    you're  powerful 
at  it. 

Mam.   There  was  a  man, 

Her.  Nay,  come,  sit  down  ;  tlien  on. 

Mavu    Dwelt  by  a  church-yard ;  —  I  will  tell  it 
softly; 
Yon  crickeU  shall  not  hear  it. 


Her.  Come  on  then, 

And  give't  me  in  mine  ear. 

Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords,  and  others. 

Leon.   Was  he  met  there  ?  his  train  ?     Camillo 
with  him  ? 

1  Lord.   Behind  the  tuft  of  pines  I  met  them ; 
never 
Saw  I  men  scour  so  on  their  way  :    I  ey'd  them 
Even  to  their  ships. 

Leon.  How  bless'd  am  I, 

In  my  just  censure  ?  *  in  my  true  opinion  ?  — 
Alack,  for  lesser  knowledge  !   How  accurs'd. 
In  being  so  blest !  —  There  may  be  in  the  cup 
A  spider  steep'd,  and  one  may  drink,  depart, 
And  yet  partake  no  venom ;  for  his  knowledge 
Is  not  infected  :  hut  if  one  present 
The  abhorr'd  ingredient  to  his  eye,  make  known 
How  he  hath  drank,  he  cracks  his  gorge,  his  sides, 
Witli  violent  hefts  * :  —  I  have  drank,  and  seen  tlie 

spider. 
Camillo  was  his  help  in  this,  his  pander :  — 
There  is  a  plot  against  my  life,  my  crown  ; 
All's  true  that  is  mistrusted  :  —  that  false  villain, 
Whom  I  employed,  was  pre-employ'd  by  him  : 
He  has  discover'd  my  design,  and  I 
Remain  a  pinch'd  tiling  ^  ;  yea,  a  very  trick 
For  them  to  play  at  will :  —  How  came  the  posterns 
So  easily  open? 

1  Lord.  By  his  great  authority  ; 

Which  often  hath  no  less  prevail'd  than  so, 
On  your  command. 

Leo7i.  I  know't  too  well. 

Give  me  the  boy  ;  I  am  glad,  you  did  not  nurse  liim  : 
Though  he  does  bear  some  signs  of  me,  yet  \  ou 
Have  too  much  blood  in  him. 

Her.  What  is  this  ?  sport  ? 

Leon-   Bear  the  boy  hence,    he  shall    not  come 
alx)Ut  her ; 
Away  with  him  :  —  and  let  her  sport  herself 
With  that  she's  big  with  ;  for  'tis  Polixenes 
Has  made  thee  swell  thus. 

Her.  But  I'd  say,  he  had  not. 

And,  I'll  be  sworn,  you  would  believe  my  saying, 
Howe'er  you  lean  to  tlie  nayward. 

Leon.  You,  my  lords. 

Look  on  her,  mark  her  well ;  be  but  about 
To  say,  she  is  a  goodly  ladyy  and 

*  Judgment.  *  Heavings. 

<  A  thing  pinch'd  out  of  clouts,  a  puppet 


270 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  II. 


The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add, 
Tis  pity  she's  not  honest,  honourable : 
Praise  her  but  for  this  her  without-door  form, 
(Which,  on  my  faith,  deserves   high  speech,)  and 

straight 
The  shrug,  the  hum,  or  ha ;  these  petty  brands. 
That  calumy  doth  use  :  —  O,   I  am  out. 
That  mercy  does ;  for  calumny  will  sear  7 
Virtue  itself :  —  These  shrugs,  these  hums,  and  ha's. 
When  you  have  said,  she's  goodly,  come  between, 
Ere  you  can  say  she's  honest :    But  be  it  known. 
From  him  that  has  most  cause  to  grieve  it  should  be, 
She's  an  adultress. 

Her.  Should  a  villain  say  so, 

The  most  replenish'd  villain  in  the  world, 
He  were  as  much  more  villain  :   you,  my  lord. 
Do  but  mistake. 

Leon.  You  have  mistook,  my  lady, 

Polixenes  for  Leontes :    O  thou  thing. 
Which  I'll  not  call  a  creature  of  thy  place, 
Lest  barbarism,  making  me  the  precedent. 
Should  a  like  language  use  to  all  degrees. 
And  mannerly  distinguishment  leave  out 
Betwixt  the  prince  and  beggar  !  —  1  have  said. 
She's  an  adultress ;   I  have  said  with  whom  : 
More,  she's  a  traitor  ;  and  Camillo  is 
A  federary  8  with  her  ;  and  one  that  knows 
What  she  should  shame  to  know  herself: 
She's  privy 
To  this  their  late  escape. 

Her.  No,  by  my  life. 

Privy  to  none  of  this  :   How  will  this  grieve  you, 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  thus  have  publish'd  me  ?    Gentle,  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  throughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

Leon.  No,  no ;  if  I  mistake 

In  those  foundations  which  I  build  upon. 
The  center  is  not  big  enough  to  bear 
A  school-boy's  top.  —  Away  with  her  to  prison  : 
He,  who  shall  speak  for  her,  is  afar  off  guilty  9, 
But  that  he  speaks,  i 

Her.  There's  some  ill  planet  reigns  : 

I  must  be  patient,  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favourable.      Good  my  lords, 
I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are  ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew. 
Perchance,  shall  dry  your  pities  :   but  I  have 
That  honourable  grief  lodg'd  here,  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown :    'Beseech  you  all,   my 

lords. 
With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me  ;  —  and  so 
The  king's  will  be  perform'd  ! 

Leon.  Shall  I  be  heard  ? 

[  To  the  Guards. 

Her.   Who  is't  that  goes  with  me  ?  —  'Beseech 
your  highness. 
My  women  may  be  with  me ;  for,  you  see, 
My  plight  requires  it.      Do  not  weep,  good  fools ; 
There  is  no  cause  :    when    you  shall  know  your 

mistress 
Has  deserv'd  prison,  then  abound  in  tears. 
As  I  come  out :   this  action,  I  now  go  on. 
Is  for  my  better  grace.  —  Adieu,  my  lord : 
I  never  wish'd  to  see  you  sorry ;  now, 

I  trust,  I  shall. My  women,  come ;  you  have 

leave. 


7  Brand  as  infamous. 
9  Remotely  guilty. 


"  Confederate. 

»  In  merely  .si>eaking. 


Leon.   Go  do  our  bidding ;  hence. 

[Exeunt  Queen  and  Ladies. 

1  Lord.  'Beseech  your  highness,   call  the  queen 
again. 

^nt.  Be  certain  what  you  do,  sir ;  lest  your  justice 
Prove  violence;  in  the  wliich  three  great  ones  suffer, 
Yourself,  your  queen,  your  son. 

1  Lord.  For  her,  my  lord,  — 

I  dare  my  life  lay  down,  and  will  do't,  sir. 
Please  you  to  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is  spotless 
I'the  eyes  of  heaven,  and  to  you  ;  I  mean. 
In  this  which  you  accuse  her. 

jint.  If  it  prove 

She's  otherwise,  I'll  keep  my  stables  where 
I  lodge  my  wife  ;   I'll  go  in  couples  with  her  ; 
Than  when  I  feel,  and  see  her,  no  further  trust  her ; 
For  every  woman  in  the  world  is  false. 
If  she  be. 

Leon.       Hold  your  peaces. 

1  Lord.  Good  my  lord,  — 

Ant.   It  is  for  you  we  speak,  not  for  ourselves  : 
You  are  abus'd,  and  by  some  putter  on. 
That  will  be  damn'd  for't ;  'would  I  knew  the  villain. 

Leon.  Cease ;  no  more. 

You  smell  this  business  with  a  sense  as  cold 
As  is  a  dead  man's  nose  :    I  see't  and  feel't, 
As  you  feel  doing  thus ;  and  see  withal 
The  instruments  that  feel. 

Ant.  If  it  be  so. 

We  need  no  grave  to  bury  honesty  ; 
There's  not  a  grain  of  it,  the  face  to  sweeten 
Of  the  whole  dungy  earth. 

Leon.  What !  lack  I  credit  ? 

1  Lord.  I  had  rather  you  did  lack,  than  I,  my  lord, 
Upon  this  ground :   and  more  it  would  content  me 
To  have  her  honour  true,  than  your  suspicion  ; 
Be  blam'd  for't  how  you  might. 

Leon.  Why,  what  need  we 

Commune  with  you  of  this  ?  but  rather  follow 
Our  forceful  instigation  ?   Our  prerogative 
Call  not  your  counsels  ;  but  our  natural  goodness 
Imparts  this :   which,  —  if  you  (or  stupified. 
Or  seeming  so  in  skill,)  cannot,  or  will  not. 
Relish  as  truth,  like  us;  inform  yourselves. 
We  need  no  more  of  your  advice  :  the  matter, 
The  loss,  the  gain,  the  ordering  on't,  is  all 
Properly  ours. 

Ant.  And  I  wish,  my  liege. 

You  had  only  in  your  silent  judgment  tried  it, 
Without  more  overture. 

Leon.  How  could  that  be  ? 

Either  thou  art  most  ignorant  by  age, 
Or  thou  wert  born  a  fool.      Camillo's  flight. 
Added  to  their  familiarity, 
(Which  was  as  gross  as  ever  touch'd  conjecture. 
That  lack'd  sight  only,  nought  for  approbation 
But  only  seeing,  all  other  circumstances 
Made  up  to  the  deed,)  doth  push  on  this  proceedi 
Yet,  for  a  greater  confirmation, 
(  For,  in  an  act  of  this  importance,  'twere 
Most  piteous  to  be  wild,)  I  have  despatch'd  in  post, 
To  sacred  Delphos,  to  Apollo's  temple, 
Cleomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 
Of  stuff'd  sufficiency  3 ;   Now,  from  the  oracle 
They  will  bring  all ;  whose  spiritual  counsel  had, 
Shall  stop  or  spur  me.      Have  I  done  well  ? 

1  Lord.   Well  done,  my  lord. 

Leon.   Though  I  am  satisfied,  and  need  no  more 


I 


2  Proof. 


Of  abilities  more  than  sufficient 


Scene  II. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


'271 


Than  what  I  know,  yet  shall  the  oracle 
Give  rest  to  the  minds  of  others  ;  such  as  he, 
Whose  ignorant  credulity  will  not 
Come  up  to  the  truth  :    So  have  we  thought  it  good. 
From  our  free  person  she  should  be  confin'd  ; 
Lest  that  the  treadiery  of  tlie  two,  fled  hence, 
Be  left  her  to  perform.      Come,  follow  us ; 
We  are  to  speak  in  publick ;  for  this  business 
Will  raise  us  all. 

Ant.   [Aside.]  To  laughter,  as  I  take  it, 
If  the  good  truth  were  known.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II The  outer  Room  of  a  Prison. 

Enter  Paulina  and  Attendants. 
Paul.  The  keeper  of  the  prison,  — call  to  him ;  — 
[Eril  an  Attendant. 
Let  him  have  knowledge  who  I  am.  —  Good  lady ! 
No  court  in  Europe  is  too  good  for  thee, 
Wliat  dost  thou  then  in  prison  ?  —  Now,  good  sir. 

Re-enter  Attendant,  tvith  the  Keeper. 

You  know  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Xeep.  For  a  worthy  lady. 

And  one  whom  much  I  honour. 

Paul.  Pray  you,  then. 

Conduct  me  to  the  queen. 

JCeep.    I  may  not,  madam  ;  to  the  contrary 
I  have  express  commandment. 

Paul.  Here's  ado. 

To  lock  up  honesty  and  honour  from 

The  access  of  gentle  visitors  ! Is  it  lawful, 

Pray  you,  to  see  her  women  ?  any  of  them  ? 
Emilia  ? 

Aleep.   So  please  you,  madam,  to  put 
Apart  these  your  attendants,  I  shall  bring 
Emilia  forth. 

Paul.  I  pray  now,  call  her. 

Withdraw  yourselves.  [Exeunt  Attend. 

Keep.  And,  madam, 

I  must  be  present  at  your  conference. 

Paul.   Well,  be  it  so,  pr'ythee.  [Exit  Keeper. 

Here's  such  ado  to  make  no  stain  a  stain. 
As  passes  colouring. 

Re-enter  Keeper,  with  Emilia. 
Dear  gentlewoman,  how  fares  our  gracious  lady  ? 

EniU.   As  well  as  one  so  great,  and  so  forlorn. 
May  hold  together  :    On  her  frights  and  griefs, 
(Wliich  never  tender  lady  hath  borne  greater,) 
She  is,  something  before  her  time,  deliver'd. 

Paul.   A  boy  ? 

Emil.  A  daughter,  and  a  goodly  babe. 

Lusty,  and  like  to  live :  tlie  queen  receives 
Much  comfort  in't :  says,  My  poor  jnisoner, 
I  am  inyiocent  as  you. 

Paid.  I  dare  be  sworn  :  — 

These  dangerous  unsafe  lunes^  o'the  king!  beshrew 

them  ! 
He  must  be  told  on't,  and  he  shall :  the  office 
Becomes  a  woman  best ;   I'll  take't  upon  me  : 
If  I  prove  honey-mouth'd  let  my  tongue  blister ; 
And  never  to  my  red-look'd  anger  be 
The  trumpet  any  more  :    Pray  you,  Emilia, 
Commend  my  best  obedience  to  tlie  queen  ; 
If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe, 
I'll  show't  the  king,  and  undertake  to  be 
Her  advocate  to  th'  loudest :   We  do  not  know 

*  Lunacies,  fits  of  madness. 


How  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  o'  the  child ; 
The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 
Persuades,  when  speaking  fails. 

Emil.  Most  worthy  madam, 

Your  honour,  and  your  goodness,  is  so  evident, 
That  your  free  undertaking  cannot  miss 
A  thriving  issue ;  there  is  no  lady  living. 
So  meet  for  this  great  errand:  Please  your  ladyship 
To  visit  the  next  room,  I'll  presently 
Acquaint  the  queen  of  your  most  noble  offer  ; 
Who,  but  to-day,  hammer'd  of  this  design  ; 
But  durst  not  tempt  a  minister  of  honour. 
Lest  she  should  be  denied. 

Paul.  Tell  her,  Emilia, 

I'll  use  that  tongue  I  have  :  if  wit  flow  from  it. 
As  boldness  from  my  bosom,  let  it  not  be  doubted 
I  shall  do  good. 

Emil.  Now  be  you  blest  for  it ! 

I'll  to    the   queen :    Please  you,  come    something 
nearer. 

JTeej).   Madam,  if  t  please  the  queen  to  send  tlie 
babe, 
I  know  not  what  I  shall  incur,  to  pass  it, 
Having  no  warrant. 

Paul.  You  need  not  fear  it,  sir  : 

The  child  was  prisoner  to  the  womb  ;  and  is,   • 
By  law  and  process  of  great  nature,  thence 
Freed  and  enfranchis'd  :  not  a  party  to 
The  anger  of  the  king  ;  nor  guilty  of. 
If  any  be,  the  trespass  of  the  queen. 

ITeep.   I  do  believe  it. 

Paul.  Do  not  you  fear :  upon 

Mine  honour,  I  will  stand  'twixt  you  and  danger. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IIL  —  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords,  and  other 
Attendants. 

Leon.   Nor  night,  nor  day,  no  rest :  It  is  but  weak- 
ness 
To  bear  the  matter  thus  ;  mere  weakness,  if 
The  cause  were  not  in  being ;  —  part  o'the  cause. 
She,  the  adultress ;  -^  for  the  harlot  king 
Is  quite  beyond  mine  arm,  out  of  the  blank 
And  level  of  my  brain,  plot-proof:  but  she 
I  can  hook  to  me  :   Say,  that  she  were  gone. 
Given  to  the  fire,  a  moiety  of  my  rest 
Might  come  to  me  again. Who's  there  ? 

1  Atten.  My  lord  ? 

[Advancing. 

Leon.  How  does  the  boy  ? 

I  Atten.  He  took  good  rest  to  night : 

'Tis  hop'd,  his  sickness  is  discharged. 

Leon.  To  see. 

His  nobleness ! 

Conceiving  the  dishonour  of  his  mother. 
He  straight  decHn'd,  droop'd,  took  it  deeply ; 
Fasten'd  and  fix'd  the  shame  on't  in  himself; 
Threw  off  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep. 
And  downright  languish'd.  —  Leave  me  solely  ' — go 
See  how  he  fares.   [Exit  Attend.] — Fye,  fye !  no 

thought  of  him ; 
The  very  tliought  of  my  revenges  that  way 
Recoil  upon  me ;  in  himself  too  mighty  ; 
And  in  his  parties,  his  alliance,  —  Let  him  be. 
Until  a  time  may  serve  :  for  present  vengeance, 
Take  it  on  her.      Camillo  and  Polixenes 
Laugh  at  me ;  make  their  pastime  at  my  sorrow  : 

»  Alone. 


272 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  II.    Scene  III. 


They  should  not  laugh  if  I  could  reach  them ;  nor 
Shall  she,  within  my  power. 

Enter  Paulina,  rdth  a  Child. 

1  Lord.  You  must  not  enter. 

Paul.   Nay,  rather,  good  my  lords,  be  second  to 
me: 
Fear  you  his  tyrannous  passion  more,  alas, 
Than  the  queen's  life  ?  a  gracious  innocent  soul ; 
More  free,  than  he  is  jealous. 

Ant.   That's  enough. 

I  AUen.  Madam,  he  hath  not  slept  to  night ;  com- 
manded 
None  should  come  at  him. 

Paul.  Not  so  hot,  good  sir  ; 

I  come  to  bring  him  sleep.     'Tis  such  as  you,  — 
That  creep  like  shadows  by  him,  and  do  sigh 
At  each  his  needless  heaving,  —  such  as  you 
Nourish  the  cause  of  his  awaking  :   I 
Do  come  with  words  as  med'cinal  as  true ; 
Honest,  as  either ;  to  purge  him  of  that  humour. 
That  presses  him  from  sleep. 

Leon.  What  noise  there,  ho  ? 

Paul.  No  noise,  my  lord;  but  needful  conference. 
About  some  gossips  for  your  highness. 

Leon.  How  ? 

Away  with  that  audacious  lady  :    Antigonus, 

I  charg'd  thee,  that  she  should  not  come  about  me; 

I  knew,  she  would. 

Ant.  I  told  her  so,  my  lord. 

On  your  displeasure's  peril,  and  on  mine. 
She  should  not  visit  you. 

Leon.  What,  canst  not  rule  her  ? 

Paul.  From  all  dishonesty,  he  can  ;  in  this, 
(Unless  he  take  the  course  that  you  have  done. 
Commit  me,  for  committing  honour,)  trust  it. 
He  shall  not  rule  me. 

Ant.  Lo  you  now ;  you  hear  ! 

When  she  will  take  the  rein,  I  let  her  run  ; 
But  she'll  not  stumble. 

Paul.  Good  my  liege,  I  come,  — 

And,  I  beseech  you,  hear  me,  who  profess 
Myself  your  loyal  servant,  your  physician, 
Your  most  obedient  counsellor ;  yet  that  dare 
Less  appear  so,  in  comforting  your  evils^. 
Than  such  as  most  seem  yours :  —  I  say,  I  come 
From  your  good  queen. 

Leon.  Good  queen ! 

Paul.    Good  queen,  my  lord,  good  queen  :   I  say 
good  queen  ; 
And  would  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A  man,  the  worst  7  about  you. 

Leon.  Force  her  hence. 

Paul.   Let  him,  that  makes  but  trifles  of  his  eyes. 
First  hand  me  :   on  mine  own  accord,  I'll  off; 
But  first,  I'll  do  my  errand.  —  The  good  queen. 
For  she  is  good,  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter  ; 
Here  'tis  ;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

[^Laying  down  the  Child. 

Leon.  Out ! 

A  very  witch  !   Hence  with  her,  out  o'  door : 
A  most  intelligencing  bawd ! 

Paul.  Not  so : 

I  am  as  ignorant  in  that,  as  you 
In  so  entitling  me  :   and  no  less  honest 
Than  you  are  mad ;  which  is  enough,  I'll  warrant. 
As  this  world  goes,  to  pass  for  honest. 

Leon.  Traitors ! 

Will  you  not  push  her  out?  Give  her  the  bastard :  — 


^  Abetting  your  ill  courses. 


7  Lowest. 


Thou,  dotard,   [To  Antigonus.]  thou  art  woman- 

tir'd  ^,  unroosted 
By  thy  dame  Partlet  here,  —  take  up  the  bastard  ; 
Take't  up,  I  say ;  give't  to  thy  crone.  9 

Paul.  For  ever 

Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak'st  up  the  princess,  by  that  forced  i  baseness 
Which  he  has  put  upon't ! 

Leon.  He  dreads  his  wife. 

Paul.   So,  I  would,  you  did  :  then,  'twere  past  all 
doubt. 
You'd  call  your  children  yours. 

Leon.  A  nest  of  traitors ! 

Ant.   I  am  none,  by  this  good  light. 

Paul.  Nor  I ;  nor  any, 

But  one,  that's  here  ;  and  that's  himself :   for  he 
The  sacred  honour  of  himself,  his  queen's. 
His  hopeful  son's,  his  babe's,  betrays  to  slander. 
Whose  sting  is  sharper  than  the  sword's ;  and  will 

not 
( For  as  the  case  now  stands,  it  is  a  curse 
He  cannot  be  compell'd  to't, )  once  remove 
The  root  of  his  opinion,  which  is  rotten. 
As  ever  oak,  or  stone,  was  sound. 

Leon.  A  callaf^^ 

Of   boundless   tongue ;    who    late   hath    beat   her 

•husband. 
And  now  baits  me  !  —  This  brat  is  none  of  mine ; 
It  is  the  issue  of  Polixenes  : 
Hence  with  it ;  and,  together  with  the  dam. 
Commit  them  to  the  fire. 

Paul.  It  is  yours  ; 

And,  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your  charge. 
So  like  you,  'tis  the  worse.  —  Behold,  my  lords. 
Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole  matter 
And  copy  of  the  father :   eye,  nose,  lip. 
The  trick  of  his  frown,  his  foreliead  ;  nay,  the  valley. 
The  pretty  dimples    of  his  chin,  and   cheek ;  lus 

smiles ; 
The  very  mould  and  frame  of  hand,  nail,  finger :  — 
And  thou,  good  goddess  nature,  which  hast  made  it 
So  like  to  him  that  got  it,  if  thou  hast 
The  ordering  of  the  mind  too,  'mongst  all  colours 
No  yellow  3  in't ;  lest  she  suspect  as  he  does. 
Her  children  not  her  husband's! 

Leon.  A  gross  hag  !  — 

And  lozel  *,  thou  art  worthy  to  be  hang'd. 
That  wilt  not  stay  her  tongue. 

Ant.  Hang  all  the  husbands 

That  cannot  do  that  feat,  you'll  leave  yourself 
Hardly  one  subject. 

Leon.  Once  more,  take  her  hence. 

Paul.    A  most  unworthy  and  unnatural  lord 
Can  do  no  more. 

Leon.  I'll  have  thee  bum'd. 

Patd.  I  care  not : 

It  is  an  heretick,  that  makes  the  fire. 
Not  she,  which  burns  in't.      I'll  not  call  you  tyrant ; 
But  this  most  cruel  usage  of  your  queen 
(Not  able  to  produce  more  accusation 
Than    your   own    weak-hing'd  fancy,)  something 

savours 
Of  tyranny,  and  will  ignoble  make  you, 
Yea,  scandalous  to  the  world. 

Leon.  On  your  allegiance. 

Out  of  the  chamber  with  her.      Were  I  a  tyrant. 


fi  Pecked  by  a  woman  ;  hen-pecked. 

9  Worn  out  old  woman. 

1  Forced  is  false  ;  uttered  with  violence  to  truth.      ■^  TruU. 

3  The  colour  of  jealousy.  •*  Worthless  fellow. 


Act  III.    Scene  I. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


273 


Where  were  her  life  ?  she  durst  not  call  me  so, 
If  she  did  know  me  one.      Away  with  her. 

Patd.    I  pray  you,  do  not  push  me  ;   I'll  be  gone. 
Look  to  your  babe,  my  lord ;  'tis  yours :  Jove  send 

her 
A  better  guiding  spirit ! — What  need  these  hands?  — 
You,  that  are  thus  so  tender  o'er  his  follies. 
Will  never  do  him  good,  not  one  of  you. 
So,  so  :  —  Farewell ;  we  are  gone.  \^Eiit. 

Leon.  Thou,  traitor,  hast  set  on  thy  wife  to  this.— 
My  child  ?  away  with't !  even  thou,  that  hast 
A  heart  so  tender  o'er  it,  take  it  hence. 
And  see  it  instantly  consum'd  with  fire ; 
Even  thou,  and  none  but  thou.   Take  it  up  straight: 
Within  this  hour  bring  me  word  'tis  done, 
(And  by  good  testimony,)  or  I'll  seize  thy  life, 
With  what  thou  else  call'st  thine  :    If  thou  refuse, 
And  wilt  encounter  with  my  wrath,  say  so; 
The  bastard  brains  with  these  my  proper  hands 
Shall  I  dash  out.      Go,  take  it  to  the  fire  ; 
For  thou  sett'st  on  thy  wife. 

Ant.  I  did  not,  sir: 

These  lords,  my  noble  fellows,  if  they  please. 
Can  clear  me  in't. 

1  Lord.  We  can  ;  my  royal  liege. 

He  is  not  guilty  of  her  coming  hither. 

Leon.   You  are  liars  all. 

1  Lord.  'Beseech  your  highness,  give  us  better 
credit : 
We  have  always  truly  serv'd  you ;  and  beseech 
So  to  esteem  of  us :    And  on  our  knees  we  beg, 
( As  recompense  of  our  dear  services. 
Past,  and  to  come,)  that  you  do  change  this  purpose ; 
Which  being  so  horrible,  so  bloody,  must 
Lead  on  to  some  foul  issue :    We  all  kneel. 

Leon,  I  am  a  feather  for  each  wind  that  blows  :  •: — 
Shall  I  live  on,  to  see  this  bastard  kneel 
And  call  me  father  ?   Better  burn  it  now. 
Than  curse  it  then.      But,  be  it ;  let  it  live  : 
It  shall  not  neither.  —  You,  sir,  come  you  hither  ; 

[To  AUTIGONUS. 

You,  that  have  been  so  tenderly  officious 
With  lady  Margery,  your  midwife,  there, 
To  save  this  bastard's  life :  —  for  'tis  a  bastard. 
So  sure  as  this  beard's  grey,  —  what  will  you  ad- 
venture 
To  save  this  brat's  life  ? 

Ant.  Any  thing,  my  lord. 

That  my  ability  may  undergo, 


And  nobleness  impose :  at  least  thus  much  ; 
I'll  pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left. 
To  save  the  innocent :  any  thing  possible. 

Leon.  It  shall  be  possible  :  Swear  by  this  sword  *, 
Thou  wilt  perform  my  bidding. 

Ant.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.   Mark,  and  perform  it ;  (seest  thou  ? )  for 
the  fail 
Of  any  point  in't  shall  not  only  be 
Death  to  thyself,  but  to  thy  lew'd-tongu'd  wife ; 
Whom,  for  this  time,  we  pardon.      We  enjoin  thee. 
As  thou  art  liegeman  to  us,  that  thou  carry 
This  female  bastard  hence ;  and  that  thou  bear  it 
To  some  remote  and  desert  place,  quite  out 
Of  our  dominions ;  and  that  there  thou  leave  it. 
Without  more  mercy,  to  its  own  protection. 
And  favour  of  the  climate.      As  by  strange  fortune 
It  came  to  us,  I  do  in  justice  charge  thee,  — 
On  thy  soul's  peril,  and  thy  body's  torture,  — 
That  thou  commend  it  strangely  to  some  place  ®, 
Where  chance  may  nurse,  or  end  it :    Take  it  up. 

Ant.   I  swear  to  do  this,  though  a  present  death 
Had  been  more  merciful.  —  Come  on,  poor  babe : 
Some  powerful  spirit  instruct  the  kites  and  ravens. 
To  be  thy  nurses  !   Wolves,  and  bears,  they  say. 
Casting  their  savageness  aside,  have  done 
Like  offices  of  pity.  —  Sir,  be  prosperous 
In  more  than  this  deed  doth  require  !  and  blessing. 
Against  this  cruelty,  fight  on  thy  side. 
Poor  thing,  condemn'd  to  loss !     [Exit  unth  the  child, 

Leon.  No,  I'll  not  rear 

Another's  issue. 

1  Atten.  Please  your  highness,  posts. 

From  those  you  sent  to  the  oracle,  are  come 
An  hour  since  :    Cleomenes  and  Dion, 
Being  well  arriv'd  from  Delphos,  are  both  landed. 
Hasting  to  the  court. 

1  Lord.  So  please  you,  sir,  their  speed 

Hath  been  beyond  account. 

Leon.  Twenty-three  days 

They  have  been  absent :   'Tis  good  speed  ;  foretells, 
The  great  Apollo  suddenly  will  have 
The  truth  of  this  appear.      Prepare  you,  lords  ; 
Summon  a  session,  that  we  may  arraign 
Our  most  disloyal  lady  :   for  as  she  hath 
Been  publickly  accus'd,  so  shall  she  have 
A  just  and  open  trial.      While  she  lives. 
My  heart  will  be  a  burden  to  me.      Leave  me ; 
And  think  upon  my  bidding.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. —  A  Street  in  some  Town. 

Enter  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

Cleo.  The  climate's  delicate  ;  the  air  most  sweet ; 
Fertile  the  isle ;  the  temple  much  surpassing 
Tlie  common  praise  it  bears. 

Dion.  I  shall  report. 

For  most  it  caught  me,  the  celestial  habits, 
(Methinks,   I  so  should  term  them,)  and  the  re- 
verence 
Of  the  grave  wearers.      O,  the  sacrifice  ! 
How  ceremonious,  solemn,  and  unearthly 
It  was  i'the  offering ! 

Cleo.  But,  of  all,  the  burst 


And  the  ear-deafening  voice  o'the  oracle. 
Kin  to  Jove's  thunder,  so  surpriz'd  my  sense, 
Tliat  I  was  nothing. 

Dion.  If  the  event  o'the  journey 

Prove  as  successful  to  the  queen,  —  O,  be't  so  !  — 
As  it  hath  been  to  us,  rare,  pleasant,  speedy. 
The  time  is  worth  the  use  on't. 

Cleo.  Great  Apollo 

Turn  all  to  the  best !  These  proclamations, 
So  forcing  faults  upon  Hermione, 
I  little  like. 

»  It  was  anciently  a  practice  to  swear  by  the  cron  at  the  hiH 
of  a  iword. 
s  f.  e.  Conunit  it  to  some  place  as  «  stranger. 

T 


274. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  III. 


Dion.  The  violent  carriage  of  it 

Will  clear,  or  end,  the  business  :   When  the  oracle. 
Thus  (by  Apollo's  great  divine  seal'd  up,) 
Shall  the  contents  discover,  something  rare. 
Even  then,  will  rush  to  knowledge.  —  Go,  —  fresh 

horses ;  — 
And  gracious  be  the  issue !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Court  of  Justice. 

Leontes,  Lords,  and  Officers,  appear  properly 
seated. 
Leon.   The  sessions  (to  our  great  grief,  we  pro- 
nounce,) 
Even  pushes  'gainst  our  heart :    The  party  tried. 
The  daughter  of  a  king  ;  our  wife  j  and  one 
Of  us  too  much  belov'd.  —  Let  us  be  clear'd 
Of  being  tyrannous,  since  we  so  openly 
Proceed  in  justice ;  which  shall  have  due  course, 

Even  7  to  the  guilt,  or  the  purgation. 

Produce  the  prisoner. 

Oji.   It  is  his  highness'  pleasure,  that  the  queen 
Appear  in  person  here  in  court.        "^  '  ' 


Silence  I 


Heemione  is  brought  in,  guarded ;    Paulina  and 
Ladies  attending. 

Leon.  Read  the  indictment. 
OJi.  Hermione,  queen  to  the  worthy  Leontes, 
king  of  Sicilia,  thou  art  here  accused  and  arraigned 
of  high  treason,  in  committing  adultery  with  Polixenes, 
icing  of  Bohemia;  and  conspiring  with  Camillo  to 
to  take  away  the  life  of  our  sovereign  lord  the  Icing, 
thy  royal  husband;  the  pretence^  whereof  being  by 
circumstances  partly  laid  open,  thou,  Hermione,  con- 
trary to  the  faith  and  allegiance  of  a  true  subject,  didst 
counsel  and  aid  them,  for  their  better  safety  to  fly 
away  by  night. 

Her.   Since  what  I  am  to  say,  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation  j  and 
The  testimony  on  my  part,  no  other 
But  what  comes  from  myself ;  it  shall  scarce  boot  me 
To  say.  Not  guilty  :  mine  integrity, 
Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it. 
Be  so  receiv'd.      But  thus,  —  If  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  (as  they  do,) 
I  doubt  not  then,  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience.  —  You,  my  lord,  best  know, 
(Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so,)  my  past  life 
Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true, 
As  I  am  now  unhappy  ;  which  is  more 
Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devis'd. 
And  play'd  to  take  spectators  :    For  behold  me,  — 
A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe  & 
A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter. 
The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince,  —here  standing 
To  prate  and  talk  for  life,  and  honour,  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  and  hear.      For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare  :  for  honour, 
'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine. 
And  only  that  I  stand  for.      I  appeal 
To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 
Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace. 
How  merited  to  be  so;  since  he  came. 
With  what  encounter  so  uncurrent  I 
Have  strain'd  to  appear  thus  :   if  one  jot  beyond 
The  bound  of  honour ;  or,  in  act,  or  will, 


7  Equal 

«  Own,  possess. 


8  Scheme  laid. 


That  way  inclining  ;  harden'd  be  the  hearts 
Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 
Cry,  Fye  upon  my  grave  ! 

Leon.  I  ne'er  heard  yet. 

That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 
Less  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did, 
Than  to  perform  it  first. 

j£er.  That's  true  enough ; 

Though  'tis  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 
Leon.   You  will  not  own  it. 
jlgr.  More  than  mistress  of^ 

Which  comes  to  me  in  name  of  fault,  I  must  not 
At  all  acknowledge.      For  Polixenes, 
(With  whom  I  am  accus'd)  I  do  confess, 
I  lov'd  him,  as  in  honour  he  requir'd ; 
With  such  a  kind  of  love,  as  might  become 
A  lady  like  me ;  with  a  love,  even  such, 
So,  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded  : 
Which  not  to  have  done,  I  think,  had  been  in  me 
Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude, 
To  you,  and  toward  your  friend ;  whose  love  had 

spoke. 
Even  since  it  could  speak,  from  an  infant,  freely, 
That  it  was  yours.      Now,  for  conspiracy, 
I  know  not  how  it  tastes ;  though  it  be  dish'd 
For  me  to  try  how :   all  I  know  of  it 
Is,  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man  ; 
And,  why  he  left  your  court,  the  gods  themselves. 
Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

Leon.   You  knew  of  his  departure,  as  you  know 
What  you  have  underta'en  to  do  in  his  absence. 

Her.   Sir, 
You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not : 
My  life  stands  in  the  level  •  of  your  dreams, 
Which  I'll  lay  down. 

Leon.  Your  actions  are  my  dreams; 

You  had  a  bastard  by  Polixenes, 
And  I  but  dream'd  it :  —  As  you  were  past  all  shame, 
(Those  of  your  fact  2  are  so,)  so  past  all  truth : 
Which  to  deny,  concerns  more  than  avails  : 
For  as 

Thy  brat  hath  been  cast  out,  like  to  itself. 
No  father  owning  it,  (which  is,  indeed. 
More  criminal  in  thee,  than  it,)  so  thou 
Shalt  feel  our  justice ;  in  whose  easiest  passage. 
Look  for  no  less  than  death. 

ffpf,^  Sir,  spare  your  threats  ; 

The  bug,  which  you  would  fright  me  with,  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity  : 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour 
I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone. 
But  know  not  how  it  went :   My  second  joy, 
And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence, 
I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious  :  My  third  comfort, 
Starr'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast. 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth. 
Haled  out  to  murder :  Myself  on  every  post 
Proclaim'd  a  strumpet ;  With  immodest  hatred, 
The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion  :  —  Lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.  3     Now,  my  liege. 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive. 
That  I  should  fear  to  die?  Therefore,  proceed. 

But  yet,  hear  this  ;  mistake  me  not ; No  !  life, 

I  prize  it  not  a  straw :  — but  for  mine  honour, 

1  Is  within  the  reach.        «  They  who  have  done  l«ke  yp"- 
3  i  e   The  degree  of  strength  which  it  is  customary  to 
acquire  before  women  are  suffered  to  go  abroad  after  child- 
bearing. 


Scene  II. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


275 


(Which  I  would  free,)  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises ;  all  proofs  sleeping  else, 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake ;   I  tell  you, 
'Tis  rigour,  and«not  law.  —  Your  honours  all, 
I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle  ; 
Apollo  be  my  judge. 

1  Lord.  This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just :  therefore,  bring  forth, 
And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle, 

[Exeunt  certain  Officers. 

Her.   The  emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father : 
O,  that  he  were  alive,  and  here  beholding 
His  daughter's  trial !  that  he  did  but  see 
The  flatness  of  my  misery ;  yet  with  eyes 
Of  pity,  not  revenge  ! 

Re-erUer  Officers  with  Clkomenes  and  Diok. 

OJJi.   You  here  shall  swear  upon  this  sword  of 
justice, 
That  you,  Cleomenes  and  Dion,  have 
Been  both  at  Delphos;  and  from  thence  have  brought 
This  seal'd  up  oracle,  by  the  hand  deliver'd 
Of  great  Apollo's  priest :  and  that,  since  then, 
You  have  not  dar'd  to  break  the  holy  seal, 
Nor  read  the  secrets  in't. 

Cleo.  Dion.  All  this  we  swear. 

Leon.   Break  up  the  seals  and  read. 

OJJi.  {Reads.'\  Hermione  is  chaste,  Polixenes 
blameless,  Camillo  o  true  subject,  Leontes  a  jealous 
tyrant,  his  intiocent  babe  truly  begotten  ;  and  the  king 
shall  live  without  an  heir,  if  that,  which  is  lost,  be  not 
found. 

Lords.  'Now  blessed  be  the  great  Apollo  ! 

Her.  Praised. 

Leon.   Hast  thou  read  truth  ? 

Offi.  Ay,  my  lord ;  even  so 

As  it  is  here  set  down. 

Leon.   There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle  : 
The  sessions  shall  proceed ;  this  is  mere  falsehood. 

Enter  a  Servant,  hastily. 

Serv.   My  lord  the  king,  the  king ! 

Leon.  What  is  the  business  ? 

Serv.   O  sir,  I  shall  be  hated  to  report  it : 
The  prince  your  son,  with  mere  conceit  and  fear 
Of  the  queen's  speed-*,  is  gone. 

Leon.  How !  gone  ? 

Serv.  Is  dead. 

Leon.  Apollo's  angry :  and  the  heavens  themselves 
Do  strike  at  my  injustice.  [Herhiiovk  faints.]  How 
now  there  ? 

Paul.  This  news  is  mortal  to  the  queen :  —  Look 
down. 
And  see  what  death  is  doing. 

Leon.  Take  her  hence : 

Her  heart  is  but  o'ercharg'd  ;  she  will  recover.  — 
I  have  too  much  believ'd  mine  own  suspicion  :  — 
'Beseech  you,  tenderly  apply  to  her 
Some  remedies  for  life.  —  Apollo,  pardon 

[Exeunt  Paulina  and  Ladies,  with  Herm. 
My  great  profaneness  'gainst  thine  oracle  !  — 
I'll  reconcile  me  to  Polixenes  ; 
New  woo  my  queen  ;  recall  the  good  Camillo  j 
Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth,  of  mercy  : 
For,  being  transported  by  my  jealousies 
To  bloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge,  I  chose 
Camillo  for  the  minister,  to  poison 
My  friend  Polixenes :  which  had  been  done, 

♦  Of  the  event  of  the  queen's  trial 


But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardied 

My  swift  command,  though  I  with  death,  and  with 

Reward,  did  threaten  and  encourage  Iiim, 

Not  doing  it,  and  being  done :  he,  most  humane. 

And  fiU'd  with  honour,  to  my  kingly  guest 

Unclasp'd  my  practice  ;  quit  his  fortunes  here, 

Which  you  knew  great ;  and  to  the  certain  hazard 

Of  all  incertaintics  himself  commended, 

No  richer  than  his  honour  :  — How  he  glisters 

Thorough  my  rust !  and  how  his  piety 

Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker ! 

Re-enter  Paulika. 

Paul.  Woe  the  while  ! 

O,  cut  my  lace  ;  lest  my  heart,  cracking  it, 
Break  too  ! 

1  Lord.   What  fit  is  this,  good  lady  ? 

Paul.  What  studied  torments,  tyrant,  hast  for  me  ? 
What  wheels  ?  racks  ?  fires  ?  What  flaying  ?  boiling, 
In  leads,  or  oils  ?  what  old,  or  newer  torture 
Must  I  receive  ;  whose  every  word  deserves 
To  taste  of  thy  most  worst  ?  Thy  tyranny 
Together  working  with  thy  jealousies,  — 
Fancies  too  weak  for  boys,  too  green  and  idle 
For  girls  of  nine  !  —  O,  think,  what  they  liave  done, 
And  then  run  mad,  indeed  ;  stark  mad !  for  all 
Thy  by-gone  fooleries  were  but  spices  of  it. 
That  thou  betray'dst  Polixenes,  'twas  nothing ; 
That  did  but  show  thee,  of  a  fool,  inconstant. 
And  horribly  ungrateful :   nor  was't  much. 
Thou  wouldst  have  poison'd  good  Camillo's  honour. 
To  have  him  kill  a  king  ;  poor  trespasses. 
More  monstrous  standing  by :   whereof  I  reckon 
The  casting  forth  to  crows  thy  baby  daughter. 
Nor  is't  directly  laid  to  thee,  the  death 
Of  the  young  prince,  whose  honourable  thoughts 
(Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender,)  cleft  the  heart 
That  could  conceive,  a  gross  and  foolish  sire 
Blemish 'd  his  gracious  dam :   this  is  not,  no, 
Laid  to  thy  answer  :   But  the  last, —  O,  lords. 
When  I  have  said,  cry,  woe  !  — the  queen,  the  queen, 
The  sweetest,  dearest,  creature's  dead;    and  ven- 
geance for't 
Not  dropp'd  down  yet. 

1  Lord.  The  tiigher  powers  forbid ! 

Paul.  I  say,  she's  dead ;    I'll  swear't :   if  word, 
nor  oath, 
Prevail  not,  go  and  see :  if  you  can  bring 
Tincture,  or  lustre,  in  her  lip,  her  eye. 
Heat  outwardly,  or  breath  witliin,  I'll  serve  you 
As  I  would  do  the  gods.  — But,  O,  thou  tyrant ! 
Do  not  repent  these  things ;   for  they  are  heavier 
Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir  :  therefore  betake  thee 
To  nothing  but  despair.      A  thousand  knees 
Ten  thousand  years  togetlier,  naked,  fasting, 
Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter 
In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 
To  look  that  way  thou  wert. 

Leon.  Go  on,  go  on : 

Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much :   I  have  deserv'd 
All  tongues  to  taUc  their  bitterest. 

1  Lord.  Say  no  more  ; 

Howe'er  the  business  goes,  you  have  made  fault 
I'the  boldness  of  your  speech. 

Paul.  I  am  sorry  for't ; 

All  faults  I  make,  when  I  shall  come  to  know  them, 
I  do  repent :   Alas,  I  have  show'd  too  much 
The  rashness  of  a  woman  :   he  is  touch 'd 
To  the  noble  heart.  — What's  gone,  and  what's  past 
help, 

T  2 


276 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  III.  Scene  III. 


Should  be  past  grief :    Do  not  receive  affliction 

At  my  petition,  I  beseech  you  ;  rather 

Let  me  be  punish'd,  that  have  minded  you 

Of  what  you  should  forget.      Now,  good  my  liege, 

Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman  : 

The  love  I  bore  your  queen,  —  lo,  fool  again  !  — 

I'll  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children  ; 

I'll  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 

Who  is  lost  too :   Take  your  patience  to  you, 

And  I'll  say  nothing. 

Leon.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well, 

Wfien  most  the  truth  ;  which  I  receive  much  better 
Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee.      Pr'ythee,  bring  me 
To  the  dead  bodies  of  my  queen  and  son  : 
One  grave  shall  be  for  both  ;  upon  them  shall 
The  causes  of  their  death  appear,  unto 
Our  shame  perpetual :    Once  a  day  1*11  visit 
The  chapel  where  they  lie ;  and  tears  shed  there, 
Shall  be  my  recreation :    So  long  as 
Nature  will  bear  up  with  this  exercise. 
So  long  I  daily  vow  to  use  it.      Come, 
And  lead  me  to  these  sorrows.  {^Exeunt, 

SCENE   III.      Bohemia.      A  desert  Country  near 
the  Sea. 

Enter  Antigonus,  uit/i  the  Child;  and  a  Mariner. 

^nt.    Thou    art   perfect  ^   then,    our    ship   hath 
touch 'd  upon 
The  deserts  of  Bohemia  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  my  lord,  and  fear 

We  have  landed  in  ill  time  :   the  skies  look  grimly. 
And  threaten  present  blusters.      In  my  conscience, 
I'he  heavens  with  that  we  have  in  hand  are  angry, 
And  frown  upon  us. 

Ant.  Their  sacred  wills  be  done ! — Go,  get  aboard; 
l^ook  to  thy  bark  ;   I'll  not  be  long,  before 
I  call  upon  thee. 

Mar.   Make  your  best  haste  ;  and  go  not 
Too  far  i'the  land  :   'tis  like  to  be  loud  weather ; 
Besides,  this  place  is  famous  for  the  creatures 
Of  prey,  that  keep  upon't. 

Ant.  Go  thou  away  : 

I'll  follow  instantly. 

Mar.  1  am  glad  at  heart 

To  be  so  rid  o'the  business.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Come,  poor  babe  : 

I  have  heard,  (but  not  believ'd,)  the  spirits  of  the 

dead 
May  walk  again  :  if  such  thing  be,  thy  mother 
Appear 'd  to  me  last  night ;  for  ne'er  was  dream 
So  like  a  waking.      To  me  comes  a  creature, 
Sometimes  her  head  on  one  side,  some  another ; 
I  never  saw  a  vessel  of  like  sorrow. 
So  fill'd,  and  so  becoming  :   in  pure  white  robes, 
Like  very  sanctity,  she  did  approach 
My  cabin  where  I  lay  :   thrice  bow'd  before  me  ; 
And  gasping  to  begin  some  speech,  her  eyes 
Became  two  spouts :  the  fury  spent,  anon 
Did  this  break  from  her  ;    Good  Antigonus, 
Since  fate,  against  thy  better  disposition, 
Hatli  made  thy  person  for  the  thrower-out 
Of  my  poor  babe,  according  to  thine  oath,  — 
Places  remote  enough  are  in  Bohemia, 
IViere  weep,  and  leave  it  crying ;  and,  for  the  babe 
Is  counted  lost  for  ever,  Perdita, 
/  prythee,  calCt ;  for  this  ungentle  business. 
Put  on  thee  by  my  lord,  thou  ne'er  shalt  see 

*  Well-assured. 


Thy  wife  Paulina  more  :  —  and  sO,  with  shrieks. 

She  melted  into  air.      Affrighted  much, 

I  did  in  time  collect  myself;  and  thought 

This  was  so,  and  no  slumber.      Dreams  are  toys : 

Yet,  for  this  once,  yea,  superstitiously, 

I  will  be  squared  by  this.      I  do  believe, 

Hermione  hath  suffer'd  death  ;  and  that 

Apollo  would,  this  being  indeed  the  issue 

Of  king  Polixenes,  it  should  here  be  laid. 

Either  for  life,  or  death,  upon  the  earth 

Of  its  right  father.  —  Blossom,  speed  thee  well ! 

{^Laying  down  the  Child. 

There  lie;  and  there  thy  character ^  :   there  these  ; 

{^Laying  down  a  bundle. 

Which  may,  if  fortune  please,  both  breed  thee,  pretty. 

And  still  rest  thine.— i The  storm  begins :  — Poor 

wretch. 
That,  for  thy  mother's  fault,  art  thus  expos'd 
To  loss,  and  what  may  follow  !  — Weep  I  cannot, 
But  my  heart  bleeds :   and  most  accurs'd  am  I, 
To  be  by  oath  enjoin'd  to  this. — Farewell ! 
The  day  frowns  more  and  more ;  thou  art  like  to  have 
A  lullaby  too  rough  :    I  never  saw 
The  heavens  so  dim  by  day.      A  savage  clamour?  — 
Well  may  I  get  aboard  !  —  This  is  the  chase  ; 
I  am  gone  for  ever.  [^Exit,  pursued  by  a  Bear. 

Enter  an  old  Shepherd. 

Shep.  I  would  there  viere  no  age  between  ten 
and  three  and  twenty  ;  or  that  youth  would  sleep 
out  the  rest :  for  there  is  nothing  in  the  between 
but  wronging  the  ancientry,  stealing,  fighting.  — 

Hark  you  now  ! Would  any  but  these  boiled 

brains  of  nineteen,  and  two  and  twenty,  hunt  this 
weather  ?  They  have  scared  away  two  of  my  best 
sheep ;  which,  I  fear,  the  wolf  will  sooner  find, 
than  the  master  :  if  any  where  I  have  them,  'tis  by 
the  sea-side,  browzing  on  ivy.  Good  luck,  an't  be 
thy  will !  what  have  we  here  ?  [  Taking  up  the 
Child.  ]  Mercy  on's,  a  barne  7  ;  a  very  pretty  barne  ! 
A  pretty  one ;  a  very  pretty  one  :  I'll  take  it  up  for 
pity  :  Yet  I'll  tarry  till  my  son  come  ;  he  hollaed 
but  even  now.     Whoa,  ho  hoa  ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.   Hilloa,  loa  ! 

Shep.  What,  art  so  near  ?  if  thou'lt  see  a  thing 
to  talk  on  when  thou  art  dead  and  rotten,  come 
hither.      What  ailest  thou,  man  ? 

Clo.  I  have  seen  two  such  sights,  by  sea  and  by 
land ;  —  but  I  am  not  to  say,  it  is  a  sea,  for  it  is 
now  the  sky ;  betwixt  the  firaiament  and  it,  you 
cannot  thrust  a  bodkin's  point. 

Shep.   Why,  boy,  how  is  it  ? 

Clo.  I  would  you  did  but  see  how  it  chafes,  how 
it  rages,  how  it  takes  up  the  shore !  but  that's  not 
to  the  point :  O,  the  most  piteous  cry  of  the  poor 
souls !  sometimes  to  see  'em,  and  not  to  see  'em  : 
now  the  ship  boring  the  moon  with  her  main-mast ; 
and  anon  swallowed  with  yest  and  froth,  as  you'd 
thrust  a  cork  into  a  hogshead.  And  then  for  the 
land  service.  —  To  see  how  the  bear  tore  out  his 
shoulder-bone ;  how  he  cried  to  me  for  help,  and 
said  his  name  was  Antigonus,  a  nobleman  :  —  But 
to  make  an  end  of  the  ship :  —  to  see  how  the  sea 
flap-dragoned  3  it :  —  but,  first,  how  the  poor  souls 
roared,  and  the  sea  mocked  them  ;  —  and  how  the 

The  writing  afterward  discovered  with  Perdita. 


7  Child 


8  Swallowed. 


Act  IV.  Scene  I, 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


277 


poor  gentleman  roared,  and  the  bear  mocked  him, 
both  roaring  louder  than  the  sea  or  weather. 

Sliep.   'Name  of  mercy,  when  was  this,  boy  ? 

Clo.  Now,  now  J  I  have  not  winked  since  I  saw 
these  sights  :  the  men  are  not  yet  cold  under  water, 
nor  tlie  bear  half  dined  on  the  gentleman  :  he's  at 
it  now, 

Shep.  Would  I  had  been  by,  to  have  helped  the 
old  man  ! 

Clo.  I  would  you  had  been  by  the  ship  side,  to 
have  helped  her ;  there  your  charity  would  have 
lacked  footing.  [Aside. 

Shep.  Heavy  matters  !  heavy  matters  !  but  look 
thee  here,  boy.  Now  bless  thyself;  thou  met'st 
with  things  dying,  I  with  things  newborn.  Here's 
a  sight  for  thee  ;  look  thee,  a  bearing-cloth  '  for  a 
squire's  child  !  Look  thee  here  :  take  up,  take  up, 
boy  ;  o^jen't.  So,  let's  see  :  It  was  told  me,  I  should 
be  rich  by  the  fairies :  this  is  some  changeling  :  — 
open't :    What's  within,  boy  ? 


Clo.  You're  a  made  old  man  ;  if  the  sins  of  your 
youth  are  forgiven  you,  you're  well  to  live.  Gold  ! 
all  gold ! 

Shep.  This  is  fairy  gold,  boy,  and  'twill  prove  so : 
up  with  it,  keep  it  close ;  home,  home,  the  next 
way.  We  are  lucky,  boy;  and  to  be  so  still,  re- 
quires nothing  but  secrecy.  —  Let  my  sheep  go  :  — 
Come,  good  boy,  the  next  way  home. 

Clo.  Go  you  the  next  way  with  your  findings ; 
I'll  go  see  if  the  bear  be  gone  from  tlie  gentleman, 
and  how  much  he  hath  eaten  :  they  are  never  curst, 
but  when  they  are  hungry  :  if  there  be  any  of  him 
left,  I'll  bury  it. 

Shep.  That's  a  good  deed :  If  thou  mayst  dis- 
cern by  that  which  is  left  of  him,  what  he  is,  fetch 
me  to  the  sight  of  him. 

Clo.  Marry,  will  I ;  and  you  shall  help  to  put  him 
i'the  ground. 

Shep.  'Tis  a  lucky  day,  boy;  and  we'll  do  good 
deeds  on't.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


Enter  Time,  as  Chorus. 
Time.   I,  —  that  please  some,  try  all ;  both  joy 
and  terror. 
Of  good  and  bad  ;  that  make,  and  unfold  error, — 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time, 
To  use  my  wings.      Impute  it  not  a  crime, 
To  me,  or  my  swift  passage,  that  I  slide 
O'er  sixteen  years,  and  leave  the  growth  untried 
Of  that  wide  gap  :   since  it  is  in  my  power 
To  o'erthrow  law,  and  in  one  self-born  hour 
To  plant  and  o'erwhelin  custom :  Let  me  pass 
The  same  I  am,  ere  ancient'st  order  was, 
Or  what  is  now  received  :    I  witness  to 
The  times  that  brought  them  in  ;  so  shall  I  do 
To  the  freshest  things  now  reigning;  and  make  stale 
The  glistering  of  this  present,  as  my  tale 
Now  seems  to  it.      Your  patience  this  allowing, 
I  turn  my  glass  ;  and  give  my  scene  such  growing. 
As  you  had  slept  between.      Leontes  leaving 
The  effects  of  his  fond  jealousies  ;  so  grieving. 
That  he  shuts  up  himself;  imagine  me. 
Gentle  spectators,  that  I  now  may  be 
In  fair  Bohemia ;  and  remember  well, 
I  mentioned  a  son  o'  the  king's,  which  Florizel 
I  now  name  to  you  ;  and  %ith  speed  so  pace 
To  speak  of  Perdita,  now  grown  in  grace 
Equal  with  wond'ring  :    What  of  her  ensues, 
I  list  not  prophecy  ;  but  let  Time's  news 
Be  known,  when  'tis  brought  forth ; — a  shepherd's 

daughter, 
And  what  to  her  adheres  which  follows  after. 
Is  the  argument «  of  time  :   Of  this  allow. 
If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now ; 
If  never  yet,  that  Time  himself  doth  say, 
He  wishes  earnestly,  you  never  may,  [Exit. 

SCENE  I Bohemia.     A  Room  in  the  Palace 

of  Polixenes. 

Enter  Polixenks  and  Camillo. 
Pol.   I  pray  thee,  good  Camillo,  be  no  more  im- 

•  The  mantle  in  which  a  child  wai  carried  to  be  t)ai>ti«xl. 

•  Subject 


portunate :  'tis  a  sickness,  denying  thee  any  tiling  ; 
a  death,  to  grant  this. 

Cam.  It  is  fifteen  years,  since  I  saw  my  country ; 
though  I  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  aired  abroad, 
I  desire  to  lay  my  bones  there.  Besides,  the  peni- 
tent king,  my  master,  hath  sent  for  me  :  to  whose 
feeling  sorrows  I  might  be  some  allay,  or  I  o'er- 
ween  ^  to  think  so ;  which  is  another  spur  to  my 
departure. 

Pol.  As  thou  lovest  me,  Camillo,  wipe  not  out 
the  rest  of  thy  services,  by  leaving  me  now :  the 
need  I  have  of  thee,  thine  own  goodness  hath  made  ; 
better  not  to  have  had  thee,  than  thus  to  want  thee  : 
thou,  having  made  the  businesses,  which  none,  with- 
out thee,  can  sufficiently  manage,  must  either  stay  to 
execute  them  thyself,  or  take  away  with  thee  the 
very  services  thou  hast  done :  which  if  I  have  not 
enough  considered,  as  too  much  I  cannot,)  to  be 
more  thankful  to  thee,  shall  be  my  study ;  and  my 
profit  tlierein,  the  heaping  friendships.  Of  tliat 
fatal  country,  Sicilia,  pr'ythee  speak  no  more : 
whose  very  naming  punishes  me  with  tlie  remem- 
brance of  that  penitent,  as  thou  call'st  him,  and 
reconciled  king,  my  brother ;  wliose  loss  of  his  most 
precious  queen,  and  children,  are  even  now  to  be 
afresh  lamented.  Say  to  me,  when  saw'st  thou  tlie 
prince  Florizel,  my  son  ?  Kings  are  no  less  unhappy, 
their  issue  not  being  gracious,  than  they  are  in  losing 
them,  when  they  have  approved  their  virtues. 

Cam.  Sir,  it  is  three  days,  since  I  saw  the  prince: 
What  his  happier  affairs  may  be,  are  to  me  un- 
known :  but  I  have,  missingly,  noted  ^  he  is  of  late 
much  retired  from  court ;  and  is  less  frequent  to  his 
princely  exercises,  than  formerly  he  hath  appeared. 

Pol.  I  have  considered  so  much,  Camillo;  and 
with  some  care ;  so  far,  that  I  have  eyes  under  my 
service,  which  look  upon  his  removedness :  from 
whom  1  have  this  intelligence ;  That  he  is  seldom 
from  the  house  of  a  most  homely  shepherd  ;  a  man, 
they  say,  that  from  very  nothing,  and  beyond  the 
imagination  of  his  neighlwurs,  is  grown  into  an  un- 
speakable estate. 

^  Think  too  highly  of  myselt  *  Observed  at  intcrvaU. 

T  3 


278 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  IV. 


Cam,  I  have  heard,  sir,  of  such  a  man,  who  hath 
a  daughter  of  most  rare  note  :  the  report  of  her  is 
extended  more,  than  can  be  thought  to  begin  from 
such  a  cottage. 

Pol.  That's  likewise  part  of  my  intelligence.  But, 
I  fear  the  angle  that  plucks  our  son  thither.  Thou 
shalt  accompany  us  to  the  place:  where  we  will, 
not  appearing  what  we  are,  have  some  question 
with  the  shepherd  ;  from  whose  simplicity,  I  think 
it  not  uneasy  to  get  the  cause  of  my  son's  resort 
thither.  Pr'ythee,  be  my  present  partner  in  this 
business,  and  lay  aside  the  thoughts  of  Sicilia. 

Cam.   I  willingly  obey  your  command. 

Pol.  My  best  Camillo !  —  We  must  disguise  our- 
selves. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — A  Road  7iear  the  Shepherd's  Cottage. 
Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 

When  daffodils  begin  to  peer,  — 

With  heigh  !  the  doxy  over  the  dale,  — 

Why  then  comes  in  the  sweet  6" the  year  ; 
For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale. 

The  white  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge,  — 
With,  hey  !  the  sweet  birds,  0  how  they  sing  ! 

Doth  set  my  pugging  tooth  on  edge ; 
For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 

The  lark,  that  tirra,  lira  chants,  — 

With,  hey  !  with  hey  I  the  thrush  and  the  jay  : 

Are  summers'  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts. 
While  we  lie  tiunbling  in  the  hay. 

I  have  served  prince  Florizel,  and,  in  my  time, 
wore  three-pile  ^  ;  but  now  I  am  out  of  service  : 

But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that,  my  dear  ?    [Sings. 

The  pale  moon  shines  by  night  : 
And  when  I  wander  here  and  there, 

I  then  do  most  go  right. 

If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live, 

And  bear  the  sow-skin  budget  ; 
Then  my  account  I  well  may  give, 

And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 

My  father  named  me,  Autolycus;  who,  being,  as 
I  am,  littered  under  Mercury,  was  likewise  a  snap- 
per-up  of  unconsidered  trifles  :  With  die,  and  drab, 
I  purchased  this  caparison  ;  and  my  revenue  is  the 
silly  cheat  6 ;  Gallows,  and  knock,  are  too  powerful 
on  the  highway  :  beating,  and  hanging,  are  terrors 
to  me ;  for  the  life  to  come,  I  sleep  out  the  thought 
of  it.  —  A  prize  !  a  prize ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Let  me  see  :  —  Every  'leven  wether — tods ; 
every  tod  yields  —  pound  and  odd  shilling  :  fifteen 
hundred  shorn,  —  What  comes  the  wool  to  ? 

Aut.   If  the  springe  hold,  the  cock's  mine. 

[Aside. 

Clo.  I  cannot  do't  without  counters.  —  Let  me 
see;  what  am  I  to  buy  for  our  sheep-shearing  feast? 
Three  pound  of  sugar;  five  pound  of  currants ;  rice 

What  will  this  sister  of  mine  do  with  rice  ?  But 

my  father  hath  made  her  mistress  of  the  feast,  and 
she  lays  it  on.  She  hath  made  me  four-and-twenty 
nosegays  for  the  shearers :  three-man  song-men  7 
all,  and  very  good   ones ;    but   they  are   most   of 


*  Rich  velvet.  ' 

7  Singers  of  catches  in  three  parts 


Picking  pockets. 


them  means  8  and  bases,  I  must  have  saffron,  to 
colour  the  warden  pies  9  ;  mace,  —  dates,  —  none  ; 
tliat's  out  of  my  note :  nutmegs,  seven  ;  a  race,  or 
two,  of  ginger ;  but  that  I  may  beg  ;  — four  j^ound 
of  prunes,  and  as  many  of  raisins  o'the  sun. 

Aut.    O,  that  ever  I  was  born  ! 

[Grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Clo.  I'the  name  of  me, 

Aut.  O  help  me,  help  me  !  pluck  but  oflP  these 
rags ;  and  then,  death,  death  ! 

Clo.  Alack,  poor  soul !  thou  hast  need  of  more 
rags  to  lay  on  thee,  rather  than  have  these  off. 

Aut.  O,  sir,  the  loathsomeness  of  them  offends 
me  more  than  the  stripes  I  have  received;  which 
are  mighty  ones  and  millions. 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  man  !  a  million  of  beating  may 
come  to  a  great  matter. 

Aut.  I  am  robbed,  sir,  and  beaten ;  my  money 
and  apparel  ta'en  from  me,  and  these  detestable 
things  put  upon  me. 

Clo.   What,  by  a  horse-man,  or  a  foot-man  ? 

Aut.   A  foot-man,  sweet  sir,  a  foot-man. 

Clo.  Indeed,  he  should  be  a  foot-man,  by  the 
garments  he  hath  left  with  thee  ;  if  this  be  a  horse- 
man's coat,  it  hath  seen  very  hot  service.  Lend 
me  thy  hand,  I'll  help  thee:  come,  lend  me  thy 
hand.  [Helping  him  up. 

Aut.   O  !  good  sir,  tenderly,  oh ! 

Clo.   Alas,  poor  soul. 

Aut.  O,  good  sir,  softly,  good  sir  :  I  fear,  sir,  my 
shoulder-blade  is  out. 

Clo.   How  now  ?  canst  stand  ? 

Aut.  Softly,  dear  sir;  [Picks  his  pocket.']  good 
sir,  softly  :   you  ha'  done  me  a  charitable  office. 

Clo.  Dost  lack  any  money  ?  I  have  a  little  money 
for  thee. 

Aut.  No,  good  sweet  sir;  no,  I  beseech  you,  sir: 
I  have  a  kinsman  not  past  three  quarters  of  a  mile 
hence,  unto  whom  I  was  going  ;  I  shall  there  have 
money,  or  any  thing  I  want ;  Offer  me  no  money, 
I  pray  you  ;  that  kills  my  heart. 

Clo.  What  manner  of  fellow  was  he  that  robbed 
you  ? 

Aut.  A  fellow,  sir,  that  I  have  known  to  go 
about  with  trol-my-dames  '  :  I  knew  him  once  a 
servant  of  the  prince ;  I  cannot  tell,  good  sir,  for 
which  of  his  virtues  it  was,  but  he  was  certainly 
whipped  out  of  the  court. 

Clo.  His  vices,  you  would  say ;  there's  no  virtue 
whipped  out  of  the  court :  they  cherish  it,  to  make 
it  stay  there ;  and  yet  it  will  no  more  but  abide. 

Aut.  Vices  I  would  say,  sir.  I  know  this  man 
well :  he  hath  been  since  an  ape-bearer  ;  then  a 
process-server,  a  bailiff;  then  he  married  a  tinker's 
wife  within  a  mile  where  my  land  and  living  lies ; 
and,  having  flown  over  many  knavish  professions, 
he  settled  only  in  rogue  :  some  call  him  Autolycus. 

Clo.  Out  upon  him  !  Prig,  for  my  life,  prig  :  he 
haunts  wakes,  fairs,  and  bear-baitings. 

Aut.  Very  true,  sir  ;  he,  sir,  he ;  that's  the  rogue, 
that  put  me  into  this  apparel. 

Clo.  Not  a  more  cowardly  rogue  in  all  Bohemia  ; 
if  you  had  but  looked  big,  and  spit  at  him,  he'd 
have  run. 

Aut.  I  must  confess  to  you,  sir,  I  am  no  fighter : 
I  am  false  of  heart  that  way ;  and  that  he  knew,  I 
warrant  him. 

Clo.   How  do  you  now  ? 

8  Tenors.  '    ^  Pies  made  of  a  species  of  pears 

1  The  machine  used  in  the  game  of  pigeon-holes. 


Scene  III. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


279 


ji%U.  Sweet  sir,  much  better  than  I  was ;  I  can 
stand,  and  walk  :  I  will  even  take  my  leave  of  you, 
and  pace  softly  towards  my  kinsman's. 

Clo.    Shall  I  bring  thee  on  the  way  ? 

Aut.    No,  good-faced  sir  ;  no,  sweet  sir. 

Clo.  Then  fare  thee  well ;  I  must  go  buy  spices 
for  our  sheep-shearing. 

Aut.  Prosper  you,  sweet  sir  !  —  \^Exit  Clown.] 
Your  purse  is  not  hot  enough  to  purchase  your  spice. 
I'll  be  with  you  at  your  sheep-shearing  too  :  If  I 
make  not  this  cheat  bring  out  another,  and  the 
shearers  prove  sheep,  let  me  be  unrolled,  and  my 
name  put  in  the  book  of  virtue  ! 


Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way. 
And  merrily  henV^  the  stile-a  : 

A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 
Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a. 


[Exit. 


SCENE  III.  —  ^  Shepherd'5  Cottage. 

Enter  Florizel  and  Perdita. 

Flo.  These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a  life  :   no  shepherdess ;  but  Flora, 
Peering  in  April's  front.    This  your  sheep-shearing 
Is  as  a  meeting  of  the  petty  gods, 
And  you  the  queen  on't. 

Per.  Sir,  my  gracious  lord. 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  \  it  not  becomes  me ; 
O,  pardon,  that  I  name  them :  your  high  self. 
The  gracious  mark*  o'the  land,  you  have  obscur'd 
With  a  swain's  wearing ;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid. 
Most  goddess-like  prank'd  *  up :  But  that  our  feasts 
In  every  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attir'd ;  sworn,  I  think. 
To  show  myself  a  glass. 

Flo.  I  bless  the  time, 

When  my  good  falcon  made  her  flight  across 
Thy  father's  ground. 

Per.  Now  Jove  afford  you  cause ! 

To  me,  the  difference  "^  forges  dread ;  your  greatness 
Hath  not  been  us'd  to  fear.     Even  now  I  tremble 
To  think,  your  father,  by  some  accident. 
Should  pass  this  way,  as  you  did :    O,  the  fates  ! 
How  would  he  look,  to  see  his  work,  so  noble. 
Vilely  bound  up  ?  What  would  he  say  ?  Or  how 
Should  I,  in  these  my  borrow'd  flaunts,  behold 
The  sternness  of  his  presence  ? 

Flo.  Apprehend 

Nothing  but  jollity.     The  gods  themselves, 
Humbling  their  deities  to  love,  have  taken 
The  shapes  of  beasts  upon  them :  Jupiter 
Became  a  bull,  and  bellow'd ;  the  green  Neptune 
A  ram,  and  bleated ;  and  the  fire-rob'd  god. 
Golden  Apollo,  a  poor  humble  swain. 
As  I  seem  now  :   Their  transformations 
Were  never  for  a  piece  of  beauty  rarer  ; 
Nor  in  a  way  so  chaste  :  since  my  desires 
Run  not  before  mine  honour. 

Per.  O  but,  dear  sir. 

Your  resolution  cannot  hold,  when  'tis 
Oppos'd,  as  it  must  be,  by  the  power  o'the  king  : 
One  of  these  two  must  be  necessities. 
Which  then  will  speak  ;  that  you  must  change  this 

purpose, 
Or  I  my  life. 

Flo.  Thou  dearest  Perdita, 

!  S!^®  '"''**  **'"•  '    EXCCSSM. 

'  Object  of  all  men's  noUcs.       *  Dres»cd  with  ostentation. 
•  I.e.  Of  station. 


Witli  these  forc'd  thoughts,  I  pr'ythee,  darken  not 
The  mirth  o'the  feast :    Or  I'll  be  thine,  ray  fair. 
Or  not  my  father's  :   for  I  cannot  be 
Mine  own,  nor  any  thing  to  any,  if 
I  be  not  thine :   to  this  1  am  most  constant. 
Though  destiny  say,  no.      Be  merry,  gentle  ; 
Strangle  such  thoughts  as  these,  with  any  thing 
That  you  behold  tlie  while.  Your  guests  are  coming : 
Lift  up  your  countenance  :   as  it  were  the  day 
Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial,  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Per.  O  lady  fortune. 

Stand  you  auspicious  ! 

Enter   Shepherd,  with   Polixenes  and    Camillo, 
disguised:  Clown,  Mofsa,  Dorcas,  and  otfiers. 

Flo  See,  your  guests  approach  : 

Address  yourself  to  entertain  them  sprightly. 
And  let's  be  red  with  mirth. 

Shep,   Fye,  daughter !    when  my  old  wife  liv'd, 
upon 
This  day,  she  was  both  pantler,  butler,  cook ; 
Both  dame  and  servant :   welcom'd  all ;  serv'd  all : 
Would  sing  her  song,  and  dance  her  turn  :  now  here. 
At  upper  end  o'the  table,  now,  i'the  middle ; 
On  his  shoulder,  and  his :   her  face  o'fire 
With  labour ;  and  the  thing,  she  took  to  quench  it, 
She  would  to  each  one  sip :   You  are  retir'd. 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one,  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting :   Pray  you,  bid 
These  unknown  friends  to  us  welcome  :   for  it  is 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends,  more  known. 
Come,  quench  your  blushes;  and  present  yourself 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  o'the  feast :    Come  on. 
And  bid  us  welcome  to  your  sheep-shearing. 
As  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

Per.  Welcome,  sir  I   [  To  Pol. 

It  is  my  father's  will,  I  should  take  on  .me 
The  hostess-ship  o'the  day  :  —  You're  welcome,  sir! 

[To  Camillo. 

Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas. Reverend 

sirs. 
For  you  there's  rosemary,  and  rue  ;  these  keep 
Seeming,  and  savour?,  all  the  winter  long : 
Grace,  and  remembrance,  be  to  you  both. 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing  ! 

Pol.  Shepherdess, 

(A  fair  one  are  you,)  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

Per.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient.  — 

Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter,  —  the    fairest   flowers   o'the 

season 
Are  our  carnations,  and  streak'd  gillyflowers, 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards :   of  that  kind 
Our  rustick  garden's  barren ;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

Pol.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden. 

Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Per.  For  8  I  have  heard  it  said, 

There  is  an  art,  wliich,  in  their  piedness,  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

Pol.  Say,  there  be ; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean. 
But  nature  makes  that  mean  :   so,  o'er  tliat  art. 
Which,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.    You  sec,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentle  scion  to  the  wildest  stock ; 


7  Likeneu  and  smelL 


T  4 


■  Because  that. 


280 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  IV. 


And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 

By  bud  of  nobler  race ;   This  is  an  art 

Which  does  mend  nature,  —  change  it  ratlier :  but 

The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Per.  So  it  is. 

Pol.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyflowers, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Per.  I'll  not  put 

The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them : 
No  more  than,  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 

This  youth  should  say,  'twere  well Here's  flowers 

for  you ; 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram ; 
The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  with  the  sun, 
And  with  him  rises  weeping ;  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and,  I  think,  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age  :   You  are  very  welcome. 

Cam.  I  should  leave  grazing,  were  I  of  your  flock, 
And  only  live  by  gazing. 

Per.  Out,  alas  ! 

You'd  be  so  lean,  that  blasts  of  January 

Would  blow  you  through  and  through Now,  my 

fairest  friend, 
I  would,  I  had  some  flowers  o'the  spring,  that  might 
Become  your  time  of  day,  —  O  Proserpine, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  9  waggon  !  daffodils. 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  ;  violets  dim 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes. 
Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength  ;   bold  oxlips  and 
The  crown  imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one  !    O,  these,  I  lack, 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er.  —  Come,  take  your 

flowers : 
Methinks,  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do 
In  Whitsun'  pastorals  :   sure,  this  robe  of  mine 
Does  change  my  disposition. 

Flo.  What  you  do. 

Still  betters  what  is  done.    When  you  speak,  sweet, 
I'd  have  you  do  it  ever  :   when  you  sing, 
I'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so ;  so  give  alms ; 
Pray  so ;  and,  for  the  ordering  your  affairs, 
To  sing  them  too  :  When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function  :   Each  your  doing, 
So  singular  in  each  particular. 
Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds. 
That  all  your  acts  are  queens. 

Per.  O  Doricles, 

Your  praises  are  too  large  :  but  that  your  youth, 
And  the  true  blood,  which  fairly  peeps  through  it. 
Do  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstain'd  shepherd  ; 
With  wisdom  I  might  fear,  my  Doricles, 
You  woo'd  me  the  false  way. 

Flo.  I  think,  you  have 

As  little  skill  to  fear,  as  I  have  purpose 
To  put  you  to't.  —  But,  come ;  our  dance,  I  pray : 
Your  hand,  my  Perdita :  so  turtles  pair. 
That  never  mean  to  part. 

Per.  I'll  swear  for  'em. 

Pol.   This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green-sward :  nothing  she  does,  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

9  Pluto. 


Cam.   He  tells  her  something, 
That  makes  her  blood  look  out :  Good  sooth,  she  is 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

Clo.  Come  on,  strike  up. 

Dor.   Mopsa  must  be  your  mistress. 

Mop.  In  good  time  ! 

Clo.  Not  a  word,  a  word ;  we  stand  upon  our 
manners.  — 
Come,  strike  up.  [_Musick. 

Here  a  dance  of  Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses. 

Pol.    Pray,  good  shepherd,  what 
Fair  swain  is  this,  which  dances  with  your  daughter  ? 

Shep.   They  call   him  Doricles ;    and  he  boasts 
himself 
To  have  a  worthy  feeding  ' :  but  I  have  it 
Upon  his  own  report,  and  I  believe  it ; 
He  looks   like    sooth  ^ :     He   says,    he   loves   my 

daughter ; 
1  think  so  too ;  for  never  gaz'd  the  moon 
Upon  the  water,  as  he'll  stand,  and  read. 
As  'twere,  my  daughter's  eyes  :   and,  to  be  plain, 
I  think,  there  is  not  half  a  kiss  to  choose. 
Who  loves  another  best. 

Pol.  Slie  dances  featly.3 

Shep.   So  she  does  any  thing ;  though  I  report  it. 
That  should  be  silent :  if  young  Doricles 
Do  light  upon  her,  she  shall  bring  him  that 
Which  he  not  dreams  of. 

Filter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  O  master,  if  you  did  but  hear  the  pedler  at 
the  door,  you  would  never  dance  again  after  a  tabor 
and  pipe ;  no,  the  bagpipe  could  not  move  you :  he 
sings  several  tunes,  faster  than  you'll  tell  money ; 
he  utters  them  as  he  had  eaten  ballads,  and  all 
men's  ears  grew  to  his  tunes. 

Clo.  He  could  never  come  better :  he  shall  come 
in :  I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well :  if  it  be 
doleful  matter,  merrily  set  down  ;  or  a  very  pleasant 
thing  indeed,  and  sung  lamentably. 

Serv.  He  hath  songs,  for  man,  or  woman,  of  all 
sizes ;  no  milliner  can  so  fit  his  customers  with 
gloves. 

Pol.   This  is  a  brave  fellow. 

Clo.  Believe  me,  thou  talkest  of  an  admirable 
conceited  fellow.      Has  he  any  unbraided  wares  ?  * 

Serv.  He  hath  ribands  of  all  the  colours  i'the 
rainbow  ;  points  more  than  all  the  lavryers  in  Bo- 
hemia can  learnedly  handle,  though  they  come  to 
him  by  the  gross ;  inkles,  caddisses  ^,  cambricks, 
lawns :  why,  he  sings  them  over,  as  they  were  gods 
or  goddesses. 

Clo.  Pr'ythee,  bring  him  in;  and  let  him  ap- 
proach singing. 

Per.  Forewarn  him,  that  he  use  no  scurrilous 
words  in  his  tunes. 

Clo.  You  have  of  these  pedlers,  that  have  more 
in  'em  than  you'd  think,  sister. 

Per.   Ay,  good  brother,  or  go  about  to  think. 

Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 
Lawn,  as  white  as  driven  snow ; 
Cyprus,  black  as  e'er  was  crow  ; 
Gloves,  as  sweet  as  damask  roses  ; 
Masks  for  faces,  and  for  noses  ; 
Bugle  bracelet,  necklace  amber, 
Perfume  for  a  ladys  chamber  : 


>  A  valuable  tract  of  pasturage. 

3  Neatly. 

s  A  kind  of  tape. 


2  Truth. 

■i  Plain  goods. 


Scene  III. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


281 


Golden  quoifs,  and  stomachers, 

For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears  ; 

Come,  buy  of  me,  com£  ;  come  buy,  come  bvy  ; 

Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry  ; 

Come,  buy,  <^c. 

Clo.  If  I  were  not  in  love  with  Mopsa,  thou 
shouldst  take  no  money  of  me  ;  but  being  enthrall'd 
as  I  am,  it  will  also  be  the  bondage  of  certain  ribands 
and  gloves. 

Mop.  I  was  promis'd  them  against  the  feast ;  but 
they  come  not  too  late  now. 

Clo.  Have  I  not  told  thee,  how  I  was  cozened  by 
the  way,  and  lost  all  my  money  ? 

Aut.  And,  indeed,  sir,  there  are  cozeners  abroad  j 
therefore  it  behoves  men  to  be  wary. 

Clo.  Fear  not  thou,  man,  thou  shalt  lose  nothing 
here. 

Aut.  I  hope  so,  sir :  for  T  have  about  me  many 
parcels  of  charge. 

Clo.   What  hast  here?  ballads? 
Mop.   Pray  now,   buy  some :   I  love  a  ballad  in 
print,  a'-life  ;  for  then  we  are  sure  they  are  true. 

Aut.   Here's  a  ballad,  of  a  fish,  that  appeared  upon 
the  coast,  on  Wednesday  the  fourscore  of  April,  forty 
tliousand  fathom  above  water,  and  sung  this  ballad 
against  the  hard  hearts  of  maids  :  it  was  thought,  she 
was  a  woman,  and  was  turned  into  a  cold  fish.    The 
ballad  is  very  pitiful,  and  true. 
Dor.   Is  it  true,  think  you  ? 
Aut.   Five  justices'  hands  at  it ;  and  witnesses, 
more  than  my  pack  will  hold. 
Clo.   Lay  it  by :    Another. 

Aut.  This  is  a  merry  ballad  ;  but  a  very  pretty  one. 
Mop.   Let's  have  some  merry  one. 
Aut.  Why  this  ig  a  passing  merry  one ;  and  goes 
to  the  tune  of.  Two  maids  wooing  a  man  :  there's 
scarce  a  maid  westward,  but  she  sings  it ;  'tis  in  re- 
quest, I  can  tell  you. 

Mop.  We  can  both  sing  it ;  if  thou'lt  bear  a  part 
thou  shalt  hear ;  'tis  in  three  parts. 

Dor.   We  had  the  tune  on't  a  month  ago. 
Aut.   I  can  bear  my  part ;  you  must  know,  'tis 
my  occupation  :  have  at  it  with  you. 

SONG. 
A.    Get  you  hence,  for  I  must  go  ; 
Where,  itfts  not  you  to  know. 

D.  WhUhei'?  M.  0,  whUher?  D.  WliUher? 
M.  It  becomes  thy  oath  full  well. 
Thou  to  me  thy  secrets  tell  : 
D.  Me  too,  let  me  go  thither. 

M.   Or  thou  go'st  to  the  grange,  or  will  : 
D.   If  to  either,  thou  dost  ill. 

A.   Neither.   D.  fVhot,  neither?   A.  Neither. 
D.    Thou  hast  sivom  my  love  to  be  ; 
M.    Thou  hast  sworn  it  more  to  me  : 

Then,  whither  go'st  9  say,  whither  9 

Clo.   We'll  have  tliis  song  out  anon  by  ourselves  ; 
My  father  and  the  gentleman  are  in  sad  6  talk,  and 
we'll  not  trouble  tliem  :    Come,  bring  away  thy  pack 
after  me.      Girls,  I'll  buy  for  you  boUi :  — -  Pedler, 
let's  have  the  first  choice.  —  Follow  me,  girls. 
Aut.   And  you  shall  pay  well  for  "em.       [Aside. 
Will  you  buy  any  tape. 
Or  lace  for  your  cape. 
My  dainty  duck,  my  dear-a  9 
6  Serioui 


Any  silk,  any  thread, 
Any  toys  for  your  head. 
Of  t lie  new'st,  andfin'st,Jin'st  wear-a 
Come  to  the  pedler  ; 
Money^s  a  medler. 
That  doth  utter  7  all  mens  wear-a. 

[Exeunt  Clown,  Autolvcus,  Dorcas, 
and  Mopsa. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Master,  there  is  three  carters,  three  shep- 
herds,  three  neat-herds,  three  swine-herds  that  have 
made  themselves  all  men  of  hair  8  ;  they  call  them- 
selves saltiers  9 :  and  they  have  a  dance  which  the 
wenches  say  is  a  gallimaufry  <  of  gambols,  because 
they  are  not  in't ;  but  they  themselves  are  o'the  niiud, 
it  will  please  plentifully. 

Shep.  Away  !  we'll  none  on't;  here  has  been  too 
much  humble  foolery  already :  —  I  know,  sir,  we 
weary  you. 

Pol.  You  weary  those  that  refresh  us :  Pray,  let's 
see  these  four  threes  of  herdsmen. 

Serv.  One  three  of  them,  by  their  own  report, 
sir,  hath  danced  before  the  kmg  ;  and  not  the  worst 
of  the  three,  but  jumps  twelve  foot  and  a  half  by  the 
squire.  * 

Shep.  Leave  your  prating  ;  since  these  good  men 
are  pleased,  let  them  come  in ;  but  quickly  now. 

Serv.    Why,  they  stay  at  door,  sir.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Servant,  with  twelve  Rusticks  habited  like 
Satyrs.      They  dance,  and  then  exeunt. 
Pol.    O,  father,  you'll  know  more  of  that  here- 
after. — 

Is  it  not  too  far  gone?  —  'Tis  time  to  part  them. 

He's  simple,  and  tells  much.  [Aside.]  —  How  now, 

fair  shepherd  ? 
Your  heart  is  full  of  something,  that  does  take 
Your  mind  from  feasting.   Sooth,  when  I  was  young, 
And  handed  love,  as  you  do,  I  was  wont 
To  load  my  she  with  knacks :   I  would  have  ran- 
sack'd 
The  pedler's  silken  treasury,  and  have  pour'd  it 
To  her  acceptance  ;  you  have  let  him  go. 
And  nothing  marted  3  with  him  :   if  your  lass 
Interpretation  should  abuse ;  and  call  this 
Your  lack  of  love,  or  bounty  :  you  were  straited 
For  a  reply,  at  least,  if  you  make  a  care 
Of  happy  holding  her. 

Flo.  Old  sir,  I  know 

She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are : 
The  gifts,  she  looks  from  me,  are  pack'd  and  lock'd 
Up  in  my  heart ;  which  I  have  given  already. 

But  not  delivered O,  hear  me  breatlie  my  life 

Before  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  should  seem. 
Hath  sometime  lov'd :    I  take  thy  hand,  this  hand, 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it ; 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow, 
Tliat's  bolted  *  by  tlie  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 

Pol.   What  follows  this?— 
How  prettily  the  young  swain  seems  to  wash 

The  hand,  was  fair  before  !  —  I  have  put  you  out ; 

But  to  your  protestation  ;  let  me  hear 
What  you  profess. 
Eh'  Do,  and  be  witness  to't. 

I  Sell.  8  Dressed  themselves  in  habiU  ImitaUne  hair. 

•SatyriL  i  Medley.  ^ 

!  Square,  foot-rule.  s  Bought,  trafficked. 

<  The  sieve  used  to  separate  flour  (torn  bran  is  called  a  oolt- 
ing-cloth. 


282 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  IV. 


Pol,   And  this  my  neighbour  too  ? 

Flo,  And  he,  and  more 

Than  he,  and  men  ;  the  earth,  the  heavens,  and  all : 
That,  —  were  I  crown'd  the  most  imperial  monarch, 
Thereof  most  worthy ;  were  I  the  fairest  youth 
That  ever  made  eye  swerve ;  had  force,  and  know- 
ledge. 
More  than  was  ever  man's, — I  would  not  prize  them, 
Without  her  love ;  for  her,  employ  them  all  j 
Commend  them,  and  condemn  them,  to  her  service. 
Or  to  their  own  perdition. 

Pol.  Fairly  offer'd. 

Cam.  This  shows  a  sound  affection. 

Shep.  But,  my  daughter. 

Say  you  the  like  to  him  ? 

Per.  I  cannot  speak 

So  well,  nothing  so  well ;  no,  nor  mean  better : 
By  the  pattern  of  mine  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
The  purity  of  his. 

Shep.  Take  hands,  a  bargain  : 

And,  friends  unknown,  you  shall  bear  witness  to't : 
I  give  my  daughter  to  him,  and  will  make 
Her  portion  equal  his. 

Flo.  O,  that  must  be 

I'the  virtue  of  your  daughter :  one  being  dead, 
I  shall  have  more  than  you  can  dream  of  yet ; 
Enough  then  for  your  wonder :    But,  come  on, 
Contract  us  'fore  these  witnesses. 

Shep.  Come,  your  hand ;       — 

And,  daughter,  yours. 

Pol.  Soft,  swain,  awhile,  'beseech  you ; 

Have  you  a  father  ? 

Flo.  I  have :   But  what  of  him  ? 

Pol.  Knows  he  of  this  ? 

Flo.  He  neither  does,  nor  shall. 

Pol.   Methinks,  a  father 
Is,  at  the  nuptial  of  his  son,  a  guest 
That  best  becomes  the  table.    Pray  you,  once  more  ; 
Is  not  your  father  grown  incapable 
Of  reasonable  affairs  ?  is  he  not  stupid 
With  age  and  altering  rheums  ?  Can  he  speak  ?  hear  ? 
Know  man  from  man  ?  dispute  his  own  estate  ?  ^ 
Lies  he  not  bed-rid  ?  and  again  does  nothing. 
But  what  he  did  being  childish  ? 

Flo.  No,  good  sir  ; 

He  has  his  health,  and  ampler  strength,  indeed. 
Than  most  have  of  his  age. 

Pol.  By  my  white  beard, 

You  offer  him,  if  this  be  so,  a  wrong 
Something  unfilial :    Reason,  my  son 
Should  choose  himself  a  wife ;  but  as  good  reason, 
The  father,  (all  whose  joy  is  nothing  else 
But  fair  posterity,)  should  hold  some  counsel 
In  such  a  business. 

Flo.  I  yield  all  this  ; 

But,  for  some  other  reasons,  my  grave  sir. 
Which  'tis  not  fit  you  know,  I  not  acquaint 
My  father  of  this  business. 

Pol.  Let  him  know't. 

Flo.   He  shall  not. 

Pol,  Pr'ythee,  let  him. 

Flo.  -  No,  he  must  not. 

Shep.  Let  him,  my  son  ;  he  shall  not  need  to  grieve 
At  knowing  of  thy  choice. 

Flo.  Come,  come,  he  must  not :  — 

Mark  our  contract. 

Pol.  Mark  your  divorce,  young  sir, 

{^Discovering  himself. 
Whom  son  I  dare  not  call ;  thou  art  too  base 
5  Talk  over  his  afifairs. 


To  be  acknowledg'd  :   Thou  a  scei)ter's  heir. 
That  thus  affect'st  a  sheep-hook  !  —  Thou  old  traitor, 
I  am  sorry,  that,  by  hanging  thee,  I  can  but 
Shorten  thy  life  one  week.  —  And  thou,  fresh  piece 
Of  excellent  witchcraft ;  who,  of  force  must  know 
The  royal  fool  thou  cop'st  with ; 

Shep.  O,  my  heart ! 

Pol.  I'll  have  thy  beauty  scratch'd  with  briars,  and 


More  homely  than  thy  state.  — For  thee,  fond  boy, — 
If  I  may  ever  know,  thou  dost  but  sigh. 
That  thou  no  more  shalt  see  this  knack,  (as  never 
I  mean  thou  shalt,)  we'll  bar  thee  from  succession  ; 
Not  hold  thee  of  our  blood,  no  not  our  kin. 
Far  6  than  Deucalion  off:  —  Mark  thou  my  words; 
Follow  us  to  the  court.  —  Thou  churl,  for  ^is  time. 
Though  full  of  our  displeasure,  yet  we  free  thee 
From  the  dead  blow  of  it.  —  And  you,  enchant- 
ment, — 
Worthy  enough  a  herdsman ;  yea,  him  too. 
That  makes  himself,  but  for  our  honour  therein, 
Unworthy  thee,  —  if  ever,  henceforth,  thou 
These  rural  latches  to  his  entrance  open, 
I  will  devise  a  death  as  cruel  for  thee, 
As  thou  art  tender  to't,  \^Exvt» 

Per.  Even  here  undone ! 

I  was  not  much  afeard  ;  for  once  or  twice, 
I  was  about  to  speak  ;  and  tell  him  plainly. 
The  self-same  sun,  that  shines  upon  his  court. 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 

Looks  on  alike Wilt  please  you,  sir,  begone? 

{To  Florizel. 
I  told  you,  what  would  come  of  this  :  'Beseech  you. 
Of  your  own  state  take  care  :   this  dream  of  mine, — 
Being  now  awake,  I'll  queen  it  no  inch  further, 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 

Cam.  Why,  how  now,  father  ? 

Speak  ere  thou  diest. 

Shep.  I  cannot  speak,  nor  think. 

Nor  dare  to  know  that  which  I  know.  —  O,  sir, 

\_To  Florizel. 
You  have  undone  a  man  of  fourscore  three, 
That  thought  to  fill  his  grave  in  quiet ;  yea. 
To  die  upon  the  bed  my  father  died, 
To  lie  close  by  his  honest  bones  :  but  now 
Some  hangman  must  put  on  my  shroud,  and  lay  me 
Where  no  priest  shovels-in  dust.  —  O  wretched  girl ! 

[To  Pereita. 
That  knew'st  this  was  the  prince,  and  wouldst  ad- 
venture 
To  mingle  faith  with  him.  —  Undone !  undone  ! 
If  I  might  die  within  this  hour,  I  have  liv'd 
To  die  when  I  desire.  {Exit. 

Flo.  Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

I  am  but  sorry,  not  afear'd ;  delay'd. 
But  nothing  alter'd :   What  I  was,  I  am  ; 
More  straining  on,  for  plucking  back  ;  not  following 
My  leash  7  unwillingly. 

Cam.  Gracious  my  lord. 

You  know  your  father's  temper :   at  this  time 
He  will  allow  no  speech,  —  which,  I  do  guess. 
You  do  not  purpose  to  him  ; —  and  as  hardly 
Will  he  endure  your  sight  as  yet,  I  fear  : 
Then,  till  the  fury  of  his  highness  settle, 
Come  not  before  him. 

Flo.  I  not  purpose  it. 

I  think,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Even  he,  my  lord. 

Per.  How  often  have  I  told  you,  'twould  be  thus  I 
6  Further  ?  a  leading-string. 


Scene  III, 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


How  often  said,  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till  'twere  known  ? 

Flo.  It  cannot  fail,  but  by 

The  violation  of  my  faith ;  And  then 
Let  nature  crush  tlie  sides  o'the  earth  together, 
And  mar  the  seeds  within  !  —  Lift  up  thy  looks  :  — 
From  my  succession  wipe  me,  father  !   I 
Am  heir  to  my  affection. 

Cam.  Be  advis'd. 

Flo.   I  am ;  and  by  my  fancy  8  :  if  my  reason 
Will  thereto  be  obedient,  I  have  reason ; 
If  not,  my  senses,  better  pleas'd  with  madness, 
Do  bid  it  welcome. 

Cam.  This  is  desperate,  sir. 

Flo.    So  call  it :   but  it  does  fulfil  my  vow  ; 
I  needs  must  tliink  it  honesty.      Camillo, 
Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean'd ;  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 
In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oath 
To  this  my  fair  belov'd  :   Therefore,  I  pray  you. 
As  you  have  ever  been  my  father's  friend. 
When  he  shall  miss  me,  (as,  in  faith,  I  mean  not 
To  see  him  any  more,)  cast  your  good  counsels 
Upon  his  passion  ;   Let  myself  and  fortune, 
fug  for  the  time  to  come.      This  you  may  know. 
And  so  deliver,  —  I  am  put  to  sea 
Willi  her,  whom  here  I  cannot  hold  on  shore  ; 
And,  most  opportune  to  our  need,  I  have 
A  vessel  rides  fast  by,  but  not  prepar'd 
For  this  design.      What  course  I  mean  to  hold. 
Shall  nothing  benefit  your  knowledge,  nor 
Concern  me  the  reporting. 

Cam.  O,  my  lord, 

I  would  your  spirit  were  easier  for  advice. 
Or  stronger  for  your  need. 

Flo.  Hark,  Perdita. [Takes  her  aside. 

I'll  hear  you  by  and  by.  \^To  Camillo. 

Cam.  He's  irremovable, 

Rcsolv'd  for  flight :   Now  were  I  happy,  if 
His  going  I  could  frame  to  serve  my  turn  ; 
Save  him  from  danger,  do  him  love  and  honour ; 
Purchase  the  sight  again  of  dear  Sicilia, 
And  that  unhappy  king,  my  master,  whom 
I  so  much  thirst  to  see. 

Flo.  Now,  good  Camillo, 

I  am  so  fraught  with  curious  business,  that 
I  leave  out  ceremony.  [^Going. 

Cam.  Sir,  I  think, 

You  have  heard  of  my  poor  services,  i'the  love 
That  I  have  borne  your  father  ? 

Flo.  Very  nobly 

Have  you  deserv'd :  it  is  my  father's  musick. 
To  speak  your  deeds ;  not  little  of  his  care 
To  have  them  recompens'd  as  thought  on. 

Cam,  Well,  my  lord. 

If  you  may  please  to  think  I  love  the  king ; 
And,  through  him,  what  is  nearest  to  him,  which  is 
Your  gracious  self;  embrace  but  my  direction, 
(If  your  more  ponderous  and  settled  project 
IVIay  suffer  alteration,)  on  mine  honour 
I'll  point  you  where  you  shall  have  such  receiving 
As  shall  become  your  highness  ;  where  you  may 
Enjoy  your  mistress ;  (from  the  whom,  I  see, 
There's  no  disjunction  to  be  made,  but  by. 
As  heavens  forefend  !  your  ruin  :)  marry  her; 
And  (with  my  best  endeavours,  in  your  absence,) 
Your  discontenting  9  father  strive  to  qualify. 
And  bring  him  up  to  liking. 

*  Love.  »  For  discontented. 


Flo.  How,  Camillo, 

May  this,  almost  a  miracle,  be  done  ? 
That  I  may  call  thee  something  more  than  man. 
And,  after  that,  trust  to  thee. 

Cam.  Have  you  thought  on 

A  place,  whereto  you'll  go  ? 

Flo.  Not  any  yet : 

But  as  the  unthought-on  accident '  is  guilty 
To  what  we  wildly  do  ;  so  we  profess 
Ourselves  to  be  the  slaves  of  chance,  and  flies 
Of  every  wind  that  blows. 

Cam.  Then  list  to  me  : 

This  follows, — if  you  will  not  change  your  purpose, 
But  undergo  this  flight :  —  Make  for  Sicilia ; 
And  there  present  yourself,  and  your  fair  princess, 
(For  so,  I  see,  she  must  be,)  'fore  Leontes; 
She  shall  be  habited,  as  it  becomes 
The  partner  of  your  bed.     Methinks,  I  see 
Leontes,  opening  his  free  arms,  and  weeping 
His  welcomes  forth  :  asks  thee,  the  son,  forgiveness, 
As  'twere  i'the  father's  person  :  kisses  the  hands 
Of  your  fresh  princess  :   o'er  and  o'er  divides  him 
'Twixt  his  unkindness  and  his  kindness ;  the  one 
He  chides  to  hell,  and  bids  the  other  grow. 
Faster  than  thought,  or  time. 

Flo.  Worthy  Camillo, 

What  colour  for  my  visitation  shall  I 
Hold  up  before  him  ? 

Cam,.  Sent  by  the  king  your  father 

To  greet  him,  and  to  give  him  comforts.      Sir, 
The  manner  of  your  bearing  towards  him,  with 
What  you,  as  from  your  father,  shall  deliver. 
Things  known  betwixt  us  three,  I'll  write  you  down : 
The  which  shall  point  you  forth  at  every  sitting. 
What  you  must  say  ;  that  he  shall  not  perceive, 
But  that  you  have  your  father's  bosom  there. 
And  speaik  his  very  heart. 

Flo,  I  am  bound  to  you : 

There  is  some  sap  in  this. 

Cam.  A  course  more  promising 

Than  a  wild  dedication  of  yourselves 
To  unpath'd  waters,  undream'd  shores ;  most  certain. 
To  miseries  enough  :  no  hope  to  help  you ; 
But,  as  you  shake  off  one,  to  take  anoUier  : 
Nothing  so  certain  as  your  anchors :  who 
Do  their  best  oflSce,  if  they  can  but  stay  you 
Where  you'll  be  loath  to  be :   Besides,  you  know. 
Prosperity's  the  very  bond  of  love  ; 
Whose  fresh  complexion  and  whose  heart  together 
Affliction  alters. 

Per.  One  of  these  is  true : 

I  think,  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek. 
But  not  take  in  «  the  mind. 

Cam.  Yea,  say  you  so  ? 

There  shall  not,  at  your  father's  house,  these  seven 

years. 
Be  bom  another  such. 

Flo.  My  good  Camillo, 

She  is  as  forward  of  her  breeding,  as 
I'the  rear  of  birth. 

Cam.  I  cannot  say,  'tis  pity 

Siie  lacks  instructions ;  for  she  seems  a  mistress 
To  most  that  teach. 

Per.  Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this ; 

I'll  blush  you  thanks. 

Flo.   My  prettiest  Perdita 

But,  O,  the  thorns  we  stand  upon  !  —  Camillo,  — 
Preserver  of  my  father,  now  of  me  : 

>  The  unexpected  discovery  made  by  Polixenes. 
i  Conquer. 


284* 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  IV. 


Tlie  medicin  3  of  our  house  !  — how  shall  we  do  ? 
We  are  not  furnish'd  like  Bohemia's  son ; 

Nor  shall  appear  in  Sicily 

Cam.  My  lord, 

Fear  none  of  this  :    I  tliink,  you  know,  my  fortunes 
Do  all  lie  there :   it  shall  be  so  my  care 
To  have  you  royally  appointed,  as  if 
The  scene  you  play,  were  mine.      For  instance,  sir, 
That  you  may  know  you  shall  not  want, — one  word. 

[  They  talk  aside. 
Enter  Autolycus. 

Aut.  Ha,  ha !  what  a  fool  honesty  is  !  and  trust, 
his  sworn  brother,  a  very  simple  gentleman  !  I  have 
sold  all  my  trumpery ;  not  a  counterfeit  stone,  not 
a  riband,  glass,  pomander  *,  brooch,  table-book, 
ballad,  knife,  tape,  glove,  shoe-tye,  bracelet,  horn- 
ring,  to  keep  my  pack  from  fasting :  they  throng 
who  should  buy  first ;  as  if  my  trinkets  had  been 
hallowed,  and  brought  a  benediction  to  the  buyer : 
by  wliich  means  I  saw  whose  purse  was  best  in 
picture  ;  and,  what  I  saw,  to  my  good  use,  I  remem- 
bered. My  clown  (who  wants  but  something  to  be 
a  reasonable  man,)  grew  so  in  love  with  the  song, 
that  he  would  not  stir  his  pettitoes,  till  he  had  both 
tune  and  words ;  wliich  so  drew  the  rest  of  the  herd 
to  me,  that  all  their  other  senses  stuck  in  ears.  I 
would  have  filed  keys  off,  that  hung  in  chains  :  no 
hearing,  no  feeling,  but  my  sir's  song,  and  admiring 
the  nothing  of  it.  So  that,  in  this  time  of  lethargy, 
I  picked  and  cut  most  of  their  festival  purses  :  and 
had  not  the  old  man  come  in  with  a  whoobub 
against  his  daughter  and  the  king's  son,  and  scared 
my  choughs  &  from  the  chaff,  I  had  not  left  a  purse 
alive  in,  the  whole  army. 

[Camillo,  Florizel,  and  Perdita,  come 
forward- 
Cam.  Nay,  but  my  letters  by  this  means  being  there 
So  soon  as  you  arrive,  shall  clear  that  doubt. 

Flo.   And  those  that  you'll  procure  from  king 
Leontes, 

Cam.   Shall  satisfy  your  father. 

■P^^'  Happy  be  you  ! 

All,  that  you  speak,  shows  fair. 

Cam.  Who  have  we  here  ? 

\^Seeing  Autolycus. 
We'll  make  an  instrument  of  this ;  omit 
Nothing,  may  give  us  aid. 

Avt.    If  they  have  overheard  me  now, why 

hanging.  [Aside. 

Cam.  How  now,  good  fellow  ?  Why  shakest  thou 
so?  Fear  not,  man;  here's  no  harm  intended  to 
thee. 

Aut.   I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir. 

Cam.  Why,  be  so  still ;  here's  nobody  will  steal 
that  from  thee  :  Yet,  for  the  outside  of  thy  poverty, 
we  must  make  an  exchange  :  therefore,  disease  thee 
instantly,  (thou  must  think,  there's  necessity  in't,) 
and  change  garments  with  this  gentleman  :  Though 
the  pennyworth,  on  his  side,  be  the  worst,  yet  hold 
thee,  there's  some  boot.^ 

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir  :  —  I  know  ye  well 
enough.  [AsUle. 

Cam.  Nay,  pr'ythee,  despatch  :  the  gentleman  is 
half  flayed  already. 

Aut.  Are  you  in  earnest,  sir  ?  —  I  smell  the  trick 
of  it—  [Aside. 

3  Physician. 

*  A  little  ball  made  of  perfumes,  and  worn  to  prevent 
mfection  in  times  of  plague. 
^  A  bird  resembling  a  jackdaw, 
o  Something  over  and  above. 


Flo.    Despatch,  I  pr'ythee. 

Aut.   Indeed  I  have  had  earnest ;  but  I  cannot 
with  conscience  take  it. 

Cam.    Unbuckle,  unbuckle.  — 

[Flo.  and  Autol.  exchange  garments* 
Fortunate  mistress,  —  let  my  prophecy 
Come  home  to  you  —  you  must  retire  yourself 
Into  some  covert :   take  your  sweetheart's  hat, 
And  pluck  it  o'er  your  brows  ;  muflfle  your  face ; 
Dismantle  you  :   and  as  you  can,  disliken 
The  truth  of  your  own  seeming  ;  that  you  may, 
(  For  I  do  fear  eyes  over  you,)  to  shipboard 
Get  undescried. 

Per.  I  see,  the  play  so  lies, 

That  I  must  bear  a  part. 

Cam.  No  remedy.  — 

Have  you  done  there  ? 

Flo.  Should  I  now  meet  my  father, 

He  would  not  call  me  son. 

Cam.  Nay,  you  shall  have 

No  hat: — Come,  lady,  come. — Farewell,  my  friend. 

Aut.   Adieu,  sir. 

Flo.    O  Perdita,  what  have  we  twain  forgot  ? 
Pray  you,  a  word.  [  They  converse  apart. 

Cam.   What  I  do  next,  shall  be,  to  tell  the  king. 

[Aside, 
Of  this  escape,  and  whither  they  are  bound  j 
Wherein,  my  hope  is,  I  shall  so  prevail, 
To  force  him  after  :  in  whose  company 
I  shall  review  Sicilia ;  for  whose  siglit 
I  have  a  woman's  longing. 

Flo,  Fortune  speed  us  !  — 

Thus  we  set  on,  Camillo,  to  the  sea-side. 

Cam.   The  swifter  speed,  the  better. 

[Exeunt  Florizel,  Perdita,  and  Camillo. 

Aut.  I  understand  the  business,  I  hear  it :  To 
have  an  open  ear,  a  quick  eye,  and  a  nimble  hand,  is 
necessary  for  a  cut-purse  :  a  good  nose  is  requisite 
also,  to  smell  out  work  for  the  other  senses.  I  see, 
this  is  the  time  that  the  unjust  man  doth  thrive. 
What  an  exchange  had  this  been,  without  boot? 
what  a  boot  is  here,  with  this  exchange  ?  Sure,  the 
gods  do  this  year  connive  at  us,  and  we  may  do  any 
thing  extempore.  The  prince  himself  is  about  a  piece 
of  iniquity  ;  stealing  away  from  his  father,  with  his 
clog  at  his  heels  :  If  I  thought  it  were  not  a  piece 
of  honesty  to  acquaint  the  king  withal,  I  would  do't : 
I  hold  it  the  more  knavery  to  conceal  it :  and  therein 
am  I  constant  to  my  profession. 

Enter  Clown  and  Shepherd. 
Aside,  aside ; — here  is  more  matter  for  a  hot  brain  : 
Every  lane's  end,  every  shop,  church,  session,  hang- 
ing, yields  a  careful  man  work. 

Clo.  See,  see ;  what  a  man  you  are  now !  there 
is  no  other  way,  but  to  tell  the  king  she's  a  change- 
ling, and  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood. 

Shep.   Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Clo.   Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Shep.    Go  to  then. 

Clo.  She  being  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood, 
your  flesh  and  blood  has  not  offended  the  king; 
and,  so,  your  flesh  and  blood  is  not  to  be  punished 
by  him.  Show  those  things  you  found  about  her. 
This  being  done,  let  the  law  go  whistle ;  I  warrant 
you. 

Shep.  I  will  tell  the  king  all,  every  word,  yea, 
and  his  son's  pranks  too ;  who,  I  may  say,  is  no 
honest  man  neither  to  his  father,  nor  to  me,  to  go 
about  to  make  me  the  king's  brother-in-law. 


Scene  III. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


'285 


Clo.   Indeed,  brother-in-law  was  the  furthest  off 

you  could  have  been  to  him ;  and  then  your  blood 

had  been  the  dearer,  by  I  know  how  much  an  ounce. 

Aut.   Very  wisely  ;  puppies  !  [Aside. 

Shep.    Well ;  let  us  to  the  king :   there  is  that  in 

this  fardel  7,  will  make  him  scratch  his  beard. 

Aut.  I  know  not  what  impediment  tliis  complaint 
may  be  to  the  flight  of  my  master. 
Clo.   'Pray  heartily  he  be  at  palace. 
Aut.  Though  I  am  not  naturally  honest,  I  am  so 
sometimes   by  chance :  —  Let  me  pocket   up    my 

pedler's  beard [Takes  off  his  false  beard.']    How 

now,  rusticks  ?  whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Shcp.   To  the  palace,  an  it  like  your  worship. 

Aut.  Your  affairs  there?  what?  with  whom?  the 
condition  of  that  fardel,  the  place  of  your  dwelling, 
your  names,  your  ages,  of  what  having  8,  breeding, 
and  any  tiling  that  is  fitting  to  be  known,  discover. 

Clo.    We  are  but  plain  fellows,  sir. 

Aut.  A  lie ;  you  are  rough  :  Let  me  have  no 
lying;  it  becomes  none  but  tradesmen,  and  they 
often  give  us  soldiers  the  lie :  but  we  pay  them  for 
it  with  stamped  coin,  not  stabbing  steel ;  therefore 
they  do  not  give  us  the  lie. 

Clo.  Your  worship  had  like  to  have  given  us  one, 
if  you  had  not  taken  yourself  with  the  manner.  9 

Shep.   Are  you  a  courtier,  an't  like  you,  sir? 

Aut.  Whether  it  like  me,  or  no,  I  am  a  courtier. 
Seest  thou  not  the  air  of  the  court,  in  these  enfold- 
ings?  hath  not  my  gait  in  it,  the  measure  of  the 
court  ?  receives  not  thy  nose  court-odour  from  me  ? 
reflect  I  not  on  thy  baseness,  court-contempt? 
Think'st  thou,  for  tliat  I  insinuate,  or  toze  '  from 
thee  thy  business,  I  am  therefore  no  courtier  ?  I  am 
courtier  cap-a-pe ;  and  one  that  will  either  push 
on,  or  pluck  back  thy  business  there :  whereupon  I 
command  thee  to  open  thy  affair. 

Shep.   My  business,  sir,  is  to  the  king. 

Avt.   What  advocate  hast  thou  to  him? 

Shep.   I  know  not,  an't  like  you. 

Cb.  Advocate's  tlie  court-word  for  a  pheasant  j 
say,  you  have  none. 

Shep.  None,  sir;  I  have  no  pheasant,  cock  nor  hen. 

Aut.  How  bless'd  are  we,  that  are  not  simple  men ! 
Yet  nature  might  have  made  me  as  these  are, 
Therefore  I'll  not  disdain. 

Clo.   Tliis  cannot  be  but  a  great  courtier. 

Shep.  His  garments  are  rich,  but  he  wears  them 
not  handsomely. 

Clo.  He  seerns  to  be  the  more  noble  in  being 
fantastical ;  a  great  man,  I'll  warrant ;  I  know,  by 
the  picking  on's  teeth. 

Atit.   The  fardel  there  ?  what's  i'  the  fardel  ? 
Wherefore  tliat  box  ? 

Shep.  Sir,  there  lies  such  secrets  in  this  fardel, 
and  box,  which  none  must  know  but  the  king ; 
and  wliich  he  shall  know  within  this  hour,  if  I  may 
come  to  the  speech  of  him. 

Aut.    Age,  thou  hast  lost  thy  labour. 

Shep.   Why,  sir? 

Aut.  The  king  is  not  at  the  palace ;  he  is  gone 
aboard  a  new  ship  to  purge  melancholy,  and  air 
himself:  For  if  thou  be'st  capable  of  things  serious, 
tliou  must  know,  the  king  is  full  of  grief. 

Shep.  So  'tis  said,  sir ;  about  his  son,  that  should 
have  married  a  shepherd's  daughter. 

Aut.  If  that  shepherd  be  not  in  hand-fast,  let 
him  fly  ;  the  curses  he  shall  have,  the  tortures  he 


"  Bundle,  parcel 
•  In  the  fact. 


"  Estate,  property. 
1  I  cajole  or  force. 


shall  feel,  will  break  the  back  of  man,  tlie  heart  of 
monster. 

Clo.   Tliink  you  so,  sir  ? 

Aut.  Not  he  alone  shall  suffer  what  wit  can  make 
heavy,  and  vengeance  bitter;  but  those  that  are 
germane  *  to  him  though  removed  fifty  times,  shall 
all  come  under  the  hangman  :  which  though  it  be 
great  pity,  yet  it  is  necessary.  An  old  sheep- 
whistling  rogue,  a  ram-tender,  to  offer  to  have  his 
daughter  come  into  grace !  Some  say,  he  shall  be 
stoned  ;  but  that  death  is  too  soft  for  him,  say  I  : 
Draw  our  throne  into  a  sheep-cote  !  all  deaths  are 
too  few,  the  sharpest  too  easy. 

Clo.  Has  the  old  man  e'er  a  son,  sir,  do  you  hear, 
an't  like  you,  sir  ? 

Aut.  He  has  a  son,  who  shall  be  flayed  alive ; 
then,  'nointed  over  with  honey,  set  on  the  head  of  a 
wasp's  nest ;  then  stand,  till  he  be  three  quarters 
and  a  dram  dead  :  then  recovered  again  with  aqua- 
vitae,  or  some  other  hot  infusion  :  then,  raw  as  he  is, 
and  in  the  hottest  day  prognostication  proclaims', 
shall  he  be  set  against  a  brick-wall,  the  sun  looking 
with  a  southward  eye  upon  him  ;  where  he  is  to  be- 
hold him,  with  flies  blown  to  death.  But  what  talk 
we  of  these  traitorly  rascals,  whose  miseries  are  to 
be  smiled  at,  their  offences  being  so  capital  ?  Tell 
me,  (for  you  seem  to  be  honest  plain  men,)  what 
you  have  to  the  king :  being  something  gently  con- 
sidered*, I'll  bring  you  whare  he  is  aboard,  tender 
your  persons  to  his  presence,  whisper  him  in  your 
behalfs ;  and,  if  it  be  in  man,  besides  the  king,  to 
effect  your  suits,  here  is  the  man  shall  do  it. 

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  of  great  authority :  close 
with  him,  give  him  gold ;  and  though  authority  be 
a  stubborn  bear,  yet  he  is  oft  led  by  the  nose  with 
gold  :  show  the  inside  of  your  purse  to  the  outside 
of  his  hand,  and  no  more  ado :  Remember  stoned, 
and  flayed  alive. 

Sheju  An't  please  you,  sir,  to  undertake  the  bu- 
siness for  us,  here  is  that  gold  I  have  :  I'll  make  it 
as  much  more  ;  and  leave  this  young  man  in  pawn, 
till  I  bring  it  you. 

Aut.  After  I  have  done  what  I  promised  ? 

Shep.   Ay,  sir. 

Aut.  Well,  give  me  the  moiety ;  —  Are  you  a 
party  in  this  business  ? 

Clo.  In  some  sort,  sir ;  but  though  my  case  be  a 
pitiful  one,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  flayed  out  of  it. 

Avi.  O,  that's  the  case  of  the  shepherd's  son :  — 
Hang  him,  he'll  be  made  an  example. 

Clo.  Comfort,  good  comfort :  we  must  to  the 
king,  and  show  our  strange  sights  ;  he  must  know, 
'tis  none  of  your  daughter  nor  my  sister ;  we  are 
gone  else.  Sir,  I  will  give  you  as  much  as  this  old 
man  does,  when  the  business  is  performed  ;  and  re- 
main, as  he  says,  your  pawn,  till  it  be  brought  you. 

Aut.  I  will  trust  you.  Walk  before  toward  the 
sea  side;  go  on  the  right  hand;  I  will  but  look 
upon  the  hedge,  and  follow  you. 

Clo.  We  are  blessed  in  this  man,  as  1  may  say ; 
even  blessed. 

Shep.  Let's  before,  as  he  bids  us :  he  was  pro- 
vided to  do  us  good.  [Exeunt  Shepherd  and  Clown. 

Aut.  If  I  had  a  mind  to  be  honest,  I  see,  fortune 
would  not  suffer  me;  she  drops  booties  in  my  mouth. 
I  am  courted  now  with  a  double  occasion ;  gold, 
and  a  means  to  do  the  prince  my  master  good ; 
which,  who  knows  how  tliat  may  turn  back  to  my 

s  Related.       *  The  hottest  day  foretold  in  the  almanack. 
*  Being  handsomely  bribed. 


286 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  V. 


advancement  ?  I  will  bring  these  two  moles,  these 
blind  ones,  aboard  him :  if  he  think  it  fit  to  shore 
them  again,  and  that  the  complaint  they  have  to  the 
king  concerns  him  nothing,  let  him  call  me,  rogue. 


for  being  so  far  officious ;  for  I  am  proof  against 
that  title,  and  wliat  shame  else  belongs  to't:  To 
him  will  I  present  them,  there  may  be  matter  in  it. 

[ExU. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  ~  Sicilia.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  of 
Leontes. 

Enter  Leontes,  Cleomenes,  Dion,  Paulina,  and 
others. 

Cleo.   Sir,  you  have  done  enough,  and  have  per- 
form'd 
A  saint-like  sorrow  :   no  fault  could  you  make, 
"Which  you  have  not  redeem'd ;  indeed  paid  down 
More  penitence  than  done  trespass :    At  the  last. 
Do,  as  the  heavens  have  done ;  forget  your  evil ; 
With  them,  forgive  yourself. 

Leon.  Whilst  I  remember 

Her,  and  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them ;  and  so  still  think  of 
The  wrong  I  did  myself:   which  was  so  much, 
*l'hat  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom ;  and 
Destroy' d  the  sweet'st  companion,  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of. 

Paul.  True,  too  true,  my  lord  : 

If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world. 
Or,  from  the  all  that  are,  took  something  good. 
To  make  a  perfect  woman  ;  she  you  kill'd. 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  I  think  so.     Kill'd  ! 

She  I  kill'd?  I  did  so  :  but  thou  strik'st  me 
Sorely,  to  say  I  did  ;  it  is  as  bitter 
Upon  thy  tongue,  as  in  my  thought :    Now,  good 

now, 
Say  so  but  seldom. 

C2eo.  Not,  at  all,  good  lady : 

You  might  have   spoken  a  thousand  things   that 

would 
Have  done  the  time  more  benefit,  and  grac'd 
Your  kindness  better. 

Paul.  You  are  one  of  those. 

Would  have  him  wed  again. 

Dion.  If  you  would  not  so. 

You  pity  not  the  state,  nor  the  remembrance 
Of  his  most  sovereign  dame  ;  consider  little. 
What  dangers,  by  his  highness'  fail  of  issue. 
May  drop  upon  his  kingdom,  and  devour 
Incertain  lookers-on.     What  were  more  holy. 
Than  to  rejoice,  the  former  queen  is  well  ? 
What  holier,  than,  —  for  royalty's  repair. 
For  present  comfort  and  for  future  good, — 
To  bless  the  bed  of  majesty  again 
With  a  sweet  fellow  to't  ? 

Paid.  There  is  none  worthy. 

Respecting  her  that's  gone.      Besides,  the  gods 
Will  have  fulfill'd  their  secret  purposes  : 
For  has  not  the  divine  Apollo  said, 
Is't  not  the  tenour  of  his  oracle. 
That  king  Leontes  shall  not  have  an  heir. 
Till  his  lost  child  be  found  ?  which,  that  it  shall, 
Is  all  as  monstrous  to  our  human  reason. 
As  my  Antigonus  to  break  his  grave. 
And  come  again  to  me  ;  who,  on  my  life. 
Did  perish  with  the  infant.     'Tis  your  counsel, 
My  lord  should  to  the  heavens  be  contrary. 


Oppose  against  their  wills.  —  Care  not  for  issue ; 

[^To  Leontes. 
The  crown  will  find  an  heir  :   Great  Alexander 
Left  his  to  the  worthiest ;  so  his  successor 
Was  like  to  be  the  best. 

Leon.                                Good  Paulina,  — 
Who  hast  the  memory  of  Hermione, 
I  know  in  honour.  —  O,  that  ever  I 
Had  squar'd  me  to  thy  counsel !  —  then,  even  now, 
I  might  have  look'd  upon  my  queen's  full  eyes  ; 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips, 

Paul.  And  left  them 

More  rich,  for  what  they  yielded. 

Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth. 

No  more  such  wives;  therefore,  no  wife:  one  worse, 
And  better  us'd,  would  make  her  sainted  spirit 
Again  possess  her  corpse  ;  and,  on  this  stage, 
(Where  we  offenders  now  appear,)  soul-vex'd 
Begin,  And  why  to  me  ? 

Paul.  Had  she  such  power. 

She  had  just  cause. 

Leon.  She  had :  and  would  incense  me 

To  murder  her  I  married. 

Paul  I  should  so  : 

Were  I  the  ghost  that  walk'd,  I'd  bid  you  mark 
Her  eye ;  and  tell  me,  for  what  dull  part  in't 
You  chose  her  :  then  I'd  shriek,  that  even  your  ears 
Should  rift^  to  hear  me;  and  the  words  that  follow'd 
Should  be,  Remember  mine. 

L.eon.  Stars,  very  stars. 

And  all  eyes  else  dead  coals  !  —  fear  thou  no  wife, 
I'll  have  no  wife,  Paulina. 

Paul.  Will  you  swear 

Never  to  marry,  but  by  my  free  leave  ? 

Leon.   Never,  Paulina  ;  so  be  bless'd  my  spirit ! 

Paul.   Then,  good  my  lords,  bear  witness  to  his 
oath. 

Cleo.   You  tempt  him  over-much. 

Paul.  Unless  another. 

As  like  Hermione  as  is  her  picture. 
Affront 8  his  eye. 

Cleo.  Good  madam,  — — 

Paul.  I  have  done. 

Yet,  if  my  lord  will  marry,  —  if  you  will,  sir. 
No  remedy,  but  you  will ;  give  me  the  office 
To  choose  you  a  queen  :   she  shall  not  be  so  young 
As  was  your  former ;  but  she  shall  be  such. 
As,  walk'd  your  first  queen's  ghost,  it  should  take  joy 
To  see  her  in  your  arms. 

Leon.  My  true  Paulina, 

We  shall  not  marry,  till  thou  bidd'st  us. 

Paid.  That 

Shall  be,  when  your  first  queen's  again  in  breath  ; 
Never  till  then. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Gent.  One  that  gives  out  himself  prince  Florizel, 
Son  of  Polixenes,  with  his  princess,  (she 
The  fairest  I  have  yet  beheld,)  desires  access 
To  your  high  presence. 

5  Split.  6  Meet, 


Scene  I. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


287 


Leon.  ■  What  with  him  ?  he  comes  not 

Like  to  his  father's  greatness :   his  approach, 
So  out  of  circumstance,  and  sudden,  tells  us, 
'Tis  not  a  visitation  fram'd,  but  forc'd 
By  need,  and  accident.     What  train  ? 

Gent.  But  few, 

And  those  but  mean. 

Leon.  His  princess,  say  you,  with  him? 

Gent.   Ay;  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth,  I 
think. 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 

Paul.  O  Hermione, 

As  every  present  time  doth  boast  itself 
Above  a  better,  gone ;  so  must  thy  grave 
Give  way  to  what's  seen  now.      Sir,  you  yourself 
Have  said,  and  writ  so,  (but  your  writing  now 
Is  colder  than  that  theme,)   She  had  not  been 
Nor  ivas  not  to  be  equalCd ;  —  thus  your  verse 
Flow'd  with  her  beauty  once  ;  'tis  shrewdly  ebb'd, 
To  say,  you  have  seen  a  better. 

Gent.  Pardon,  madam  : 

The  one  I  have  almost  forgot;   (your  pardon,) 
The  other,  when  she  has  obtain'd  your  eye. 
Will  have  your  tongue  too.      This  is  such  a  creature. 
Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else ;  make  proselytes 
Of  who  she  but  bid  follow. 

Paul.  How  ?  not  women  ? 

Gent.  Women  will  love  her,  that  she  is  a  woman 
More  worth  than  any  man ;  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women. 

Leon.  Go,  Cleomenes: 

Yourself,  assisted  with  your  honour'd  friends. 
Bring  them  to  our  embracement.  —  Still  'tis  strange, 
[^Exetint  Cleomenes,  Lords,  and  Gentleman. 
He  thus  should  steal  upon  us. 

Paul.  Had  our  prince, 

(Jewel  of  children,)  seen  this  hour,  he  had  pair'd 
W^ell  with  this  lord ;  tliere  was  not  full  a  month 
Between  their  births. 

Leon.  Pr'ythee,  no  more  ;  thou  know'st, 

He  dies  to  me  again,  when  talk'd  of:   sure. 
When  I  shall  see  this  gentleman,  thy  speeches 
Will  bring  me  to  consider  that,  which  may 
Unfurnish  me  of  reason.  —  They  are  come.  — — 

lie  enter  Cleomenes,  with  Florizel,  Perdita, 
and  Attendants. 

Your  mother  was  most  true  to  wedlock,  prince ; 
For  she  did  print  your  royal  father  off. 
Conceiving  you :   Were  I  but  twenty-one, 
Your  father's  image  is  so  hit  in  you. 
His  very  air,  that  I  should  call  you  brother. 
As  I  did  him  ;  and  speak  of  something,  wildly 
By  us  perform'd  before.      Most  dearly  welcome  ! 
And  your  fair  princess,  goddess  !  —  O,  alas  ! 
I  lost  a  couple,  that  'twixt  heaven  and  earth 
Might  thus  have  stood,  begetting  wonder,  as 
You,  gracious  couple,  do !  and  then  I  lost 
(All  mine  own  folly,)  the  society, 
Amity  too,  of  your  brave  father  ;  whom, 
Tliough  bearing  misery,  I  desire  my  life 
Once  more  to  look  upon. 

Flo.  By  his  command 

Have  I  here  touch 'd  Sicilia  :   and  from  him 
Give  you  all  greetings,  that  a  king,  at  friend. 
Can  send  his  brother  :  and,  but  infirmity 
(Which  waits  upon  worn  times,)    hath  something 

seiz'd 
His  Dvish'd  ability,  he  had  himself 


The  lands  and  waters  'twixt  your  throne  and  his 
Measur'd,  to  look  upon  you  ;  whom  he  loves 
(He  bade  me  say  so,)  more  than  all  the  scepters. 
And  those  tliat  bear  them,  living. 

Leon.  O,  my  brother, 

(  Good  gentleman)  the  wrongs  I  have  done  tliee,  stir 
Afresh  within  me  ;  and  these  thy  offices, 
So  rarely  kind,  are  as  interpreters 
Of  my  behind-hand  slackness  !  —  Welcome  hither, 
As  is  the  spring  to  the  earth.      And  hath  he  too 
Expos'd  this  paragon  to  the  fearful  usage 
(  At  least,  ungentle,)  of  tlie  dreadful  Neptune, 
To  greet  a  man,  not  worth  her  pains ;  much  less 
The  adventure  of  her  person? 

Flo.  Good  my  lord, 

She  came  from  Libya. 

Leon.  Where  the  warlike  Smalus, 

That  noble  honour'd  lord,  is  fear'd,  and  lov'd  ? 

JFYo.  Most  royal  sir,  from  thence :  from  him,  whose 
daughter 
His  tears  proclaim'd  his,  parting  with  her  :   thence 
(A  prosperous  south-wind  friendly,)  we  have  cross'd. 
To  execute  the  charge  my  father  gave  me. 
For  visiting  your  highness  :   My  best  train 
I  have  from  your  Sicilian  shores  dismiss'd ; 
Who  for  Bohemia  bend,  to  signify 
Not  only  my  success  in  Libya,  sir. 
But  my  arrival,  and  my  wife's  in  safety 
Here,  where  we  are. 

Leon.  The  blessed  gods 

Purge  all  infection  from  our  air,  whilst  you 
Do  climate  here  !   You  have  a  holy  father, 
A  graceful  gentleman  ;  against  whose  person, 
So  sacred  as  it  is,  I  have  done  sin  : 
For  which  the  heavens,  taking  angry  note. 
Have  left  me  issueless ;  and  your  fatlier's  bless'd, 
(As  he  from  heaven  merits  it,)  with  you. 
Worthy  his  goodness.      What  might  I  have  been. 
Might  I  a  son  and  daughter  now  have  look'd  on. 
Such  goodly  things  as  you  ? 

Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  Most  noble  sir. 

That  which  I  shall  report,  will  bear  no  credit, 
Were  not  the  proof  so  nigh.      Please  you,  great  sir, 
Bohemia  greets  you  from  himself,  by  me  : 
Desires  you  to  attach  '  his  son  ;  who  has 
(His  dignity  and  duty  both  cast  off,) 
Fled  from  his  father,  from  his  hopes,  and  with 
A  shepherd's  daughter. 

Leon.  Where's  Bohemia  ?  speak. 

Lord.   Here  in  the  city  ;   I  now  came  from  him : 
I  speak  amazedly ;  and  it  becomes 
My  marvel,  and  my  message.      To  your  court 
Whiles  he  was  hast'ning,  (in  the  cliase,  it  seems. 
Of  this  fair  couple,)  meets  he  on  the  way 
The  father  of  this  seeming  lady,  and 
Her  brother,  having  both  their  country  quitted 
With  this  young  prince. 

Fh.  Camillo  has  betray'd  me ; 

Whose  honour,  and  whose  honesty,  till  now, 
Endur'd  all  weathers. 

Lord.  Lay't  so,  to  his  charge  ; 

He's  with  the  king  your  father. 

Leon.  Who?  Camillo? 

Lord.    Camillo,  sir  ;   I  spake  with  him  ;  who  now 
Has  these  poor  men  in  question.  8     Never  saw  I 
Wretches  so  quake :  they  kneel,  they  kiss  the  earth  ; 
Forswear  tliemselves  as  often  as  they  siieak  : 


Seize,  arrest 


«  Coaversation. 


288 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  V. 


Bohemia  stops  his  ears,  and  threatens  them 
With  divers  deatlis  in  death. 

Per.  O,  my  poor  father !  — 

The  heaven  set  spies  upon  us,  will  not  have 
Our  contract  celebrated. 

Leon.  You  are  married? 

Flo.  We  are  not,  sir,  nor  are  we  like  to  be  ; 
The  stars,  I  see,  will  kiss  the  valleys  first :  — 
The  odds  for  high  and  low's  alike.9 

Leon.  My  lord, 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  king  ? 

Flo.  She  is, 

When  once  she  is  my  wife. 

Leon.   That  once,  I  see,  by  your  good  father's 
speed, 
Will  come  on  very  slowly.      1  am  sorry. 
Most  sorry,  you  have  broken  from  his  liking. 
Where  you  were  tied  in  duty  :   and  as  sorry. 
Your  choice  is  not  so  rich  in  worth  as  beauty. 
That  you  might  well  enjoy  her. 

Flo.  Dear,  look  up  : 

Though  fortune,  visible  an  enemy. 
Should  chase  us,  with  my  father  i  power  no  jot 
Hath  she,  to  change  our  loves.  —  'Beseech  you,  sir. 
Remember  since  you  ow'd  no  more  to  time 
Than  I  do  now  :   with  thought  of  such  affections. 
Step  forth  mine  advocate  ;  at  your  request, 
My  father  will  grant  precious  things,  as  trifles. 
Leon.   Would  he  do  so,   I'd  beg  your  precious 
mistress. 
Which  he  counts  but  a  trifle. 

Paul.  Sir,  my  liege. 

Your  eye  hath  too  much  youth  in't :   not  a  month 
'Fore  your  queen  died,  she  was  more  worth  such 

gazes, 
Than  what  you  look  on  now. 

Leon.  I  thought  of  her. 

Even  in  these  looks  I  made.  —  But  your  petition 

{^To  Florizel. 
Is  yet  vmanswer'd :    I  will  to  your  father  ; 
Your  honour  not  o'erthrown  by  your  desires, 
I  am  a  friend  to  them,  and  you  :   upon  which  errand 
I  now  go  toward  him  ;  therefore,  follow  me. 
And  mark  what  way  I  make  :    Come,  good  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  II.  —  Before  the  Palace. 

Enter  Autolycus  and  a  Gentleman. 

Aut.  'Beseech  you,  sir,  were  you  present  at  this 
relation  ? 

1  Gent.  I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  fardel, 
heard  the  old  shepherd  deliver  the  manner  how  he 
found  it :  whereupon,  after  a  little  amazedness,  we 
were  all  commanded  out  of  the  chamber  ;  only  this 
methought  I  heard  the  shepherd  say,  he  found  the 
child. 

Aut.   I  would  most  gladly  know  the  issue  of  it. 

1  Gent.  I  make  a  broken  delivery  of  the  business; 
—  But  the  changes  I  perceived  in  the  king,  and 
Camillo,  were  very  notes  of  admiration :  they  seemed 
almost,  with  staring  on  one  another,  to  tear  the 
cases  of  their  eyes  ;  there  was  speech  in  their  dumb- 
ness, language  in  their  very  gesture ;  they  looked, 
as  they  had  heard  of  a  world  ransomed,  or  one  de- 
stroyed :  A  notable  passion  of  wonder  appeared  in 
them  :  but  the  wisest  beholder,  that  knew  no  more 
but  seeing,  could  not  say,  if  the  importance  '  were 
joy,  or  sorrow :  but  in  the  extremity  of  the  one,  it 
must  need  J,  be. 

9  A  quibble  on  the  false  dice  so  called. 
'  The  thing  imported. 


Enter  another  Gentleman. 


Here  comes  a  gentleman,  that,  happily,  knows  more : 
The  news,  llogero? 

2  Gent.  Nothing  but  bonfires  :  The  oracle  is  ful- 
filled ;  the  king's  daughter  is  found  :  such  a  deal 
of  wonder  is  broken  out  within  this  hour,  that  bal- 
lad-makers cannot  be  able  to  express  it. 

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 
Here  comes  the  lady  Paulina's  steward  ;  he  can  de- 
liver you  more.  —  How  goes  it  now,  sir  ?  this  news, 
which  is  called  true,  is  so  like  an  old  tale,  that  the 
verity  of  it  is  in  strong  suspicion :  Has  the  king  found 
his  heir? 

3  Gent.  Most  true ;  if  ever  truth  were  pregnant 
by  circumstance ;  that  which  you  hear,  you'll 
swear  you  see,  there  is  such  unity  in  the  proofs. 
The  mantle  of  queen  Hermione  :  —  her  jewel  about 
the  neck  of  it :  —  tlie  letters  of  Antigonus,  found 

with  it,  which  they  know  to  be  his  character : 

the  majesty  of  the  creature,  in  resemblance  of  the 
mother  ;  —  the  affection  ^  of  nobleness,  which  nature 
shows  above  her  breeding,  —  and  many  other  evi- 
dences, proclaim  her,  with  all  certainty,  to  be  the 
king's  daughter.  Did  you  see  the  meeting  of  the 
two  kings  ? 

2  Gent.   No. 

3  Gent.  Then  have  you  lost  a  sight,  which  was 
to  be  seen,  cannot  be  spoken  of.  There  might  you 
have  beheld  one  joy  crown  another  ;  so,  and  in  such 
manner,  that  it  seemed,  sorrow  wept  to  take  leave 
of  them  ;  for  their  joy  waded  in  tears.  There  was 
casting  up  of  eyes,  holding  up  of  hands;  with 
countenance  of  such  distraction,  that  they  were  to 
be  known  by  garment,  not  by  favour.  3  Our  king, 
being  ready  to  leap  out  of  himself  for  joy  of  his 
found  daughter  ;  as  if  that  joy  were  now  become  a 
loss,  cries,  0,  thy  mother,  thy  mother !  then  asks 
Bohemia  forgiveness ;  then  embraces  his  son-in-law; 
then  again  worries  he  his  daughter,  with  clipping  •* 
her  ;  now  he  thanks  the  old  shepherd,  which  stands 
by,  like  a  weather-beaten  conduit  of  many  kings' 
reigns.  I  never  heard  of  such  another  encounter, 
which  lames  report  to  follow  it,  and  undoes  de- 
scription to  do  it. 

2  Gent.  What,  pray  you,  became  of  Antigonus, 
that  carried  hence  the  child  ? 

3  Gent.  Like  an  old  tale  still ;  which  will  have 
matter  to  rehearse,  though  credit  be  asleep,  and  not 
an  ear  open :  He  was  torn  to  pieces  with  a  bear : 
this  avouches  the  shepherd's  son  ;  who  has  not  only 
his  innocence  (which  seems  much)  to  justify  him, 
but  a  handkerchief,  and  rings,  of  his,  that  Paulina 
knows. 

1  Gent.  What  became  of  his  bark,  and  his  fol- 
lowers ? 

3  Gent.  Wreck'd,  the  same  instant  of  their  mas- 
ter's death  ;  and  in  the  view  of  the  shepherd  :  so  that 
all  the  instruments,  which  aided  to  expose  the  child, 
were  even  then  lost,  when  it  was  found.  But,  O, 
the  noble  combat,  that,  'twixt  joy  and  sorrow,  was 
fought  in  Paulina  !  She  had  one  eye  declined  for 
the  loss  of  her  husband ;  another  elevated  that  the 
oracle  was  fulfilled :  She  lifted  the  Princess  from 
the  earth  ;  and  so  locks  her  in  embracing,  as  if  she 
would  pin  her  to  her  heart,  that  she  might  no  more 
be  in  danger  of  losing. 


2  Disposition  or  quality. 
4  Embracing. 


3  Countenance,  features. 


-II 


Scene  II. 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


1  Gent.  The  dignity  of  this  act  was  worth  the 
audience  of  kings  and  princes ;  for  by  such  was  it 
acted. 

3  Gent.  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all,  and 
that  which  angled  for  mine  eyes  (caught  the  water, 
though  not  the  fish,)  was,  when  at  the  relation  of 
the  queen's  death,  with  the  manner  how  she  came 
to  it,  (bravely  confessed,  and  lamented  by  tlie  king,) 
how  attentiveness  wounded  his  daughter  :  till,  from 
one  sign  of  dolour  to  another,  she  did,  with  an  alas  ! 
I  would  fain  say,  bleed  tears ;  for,  I  am  sure,  my 
heart  wept  blood.  Who  was  most  marble  there, 
changed  colour ;  some  swooned,  all  sorrowed :  if 
all  the  world  could  have  seen  it,  the  woe  had  been 
universal. 

1  Gent.   Are  they  returned  to  the  court  ? 

8  Gent.  No  :  the  princess  hearing  of  her  mother's 
statue,  which  is  in  the  keeping  of  Paulina, — a  piece 
many  years  in  doing,  and  now  newly  performed  by 
that  rare  Italian  master,  Julio  Romano ;  who,  had 
he  himself  eternity,  and  could  put  breath  into  his 
work,  would  beguile  nature  of  her  custom,  so  per- 
fectly he  is  her  ape  :  he  so  near  to  Hermione  hath 
done  Hermione,  that,  they  say,  one  would  speak  to 
her,  and  stand  in  hope  of  answer :  thither  with  all 
greediness  of  affection,  are  they  gone;  and  there 
they  intend  to  sup. 

2  Geni.  I  thought,  she  had  some  great  matter 
tliere  in  hand ;  for  she  hath  privately,  twice  or 
thrice  a  day,  ever  since  the  deatli  of  Hermione, 
visited  that  removed  house.  Shall  we  thither,  and 
with  our  company  piece  the  rejoicing  ? 

1  Gent.  Who  would  be  thence,  that  has  the  be- 
nefit of  access  ?  every  wink  of  an  eye,  some  new 
grace  will  be  born  ;  our  absence  makes  us  unthrifty 
to  our  knowledge.     Let's  along. 

[Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

^ut.  Now,  had  I  not  the  dash  of  my  former  life 
in  me,  would  preferment  drop  on  my  head.  I 
brought  the  old  man  and  his  son  aboard  the  prince  ; 
told  him,  I  heard  liim  talk  of  a  fardel,  and  I  know 
not  what :  but  he  at  tliat  time,  over-fond  of  the 
shepherd's  daughter,  (so  he  then  took  her  to  be,) 
who  began  to  be  much  sea-sick,  and  himself  little 
better,  extremity  of  weather  continuing,  this  mys- 
tery remained  undiscovered.  But  'tis  all  one  to  me : 
for  had  I  been  the  finder-out  of  this  secret,  it  would 
not  have  relished  among  my  other  discredits. 

Enter  Shepherd  and  Clown. 
Here  come    those  I  have   done   good   to   against 
my  will,  and  already  appearing  in  the  blossoms  of 
their  fortune. 

Shep.  Come,  boy  ;  I  am  past  more  children ;  but 
thy  sons  and  daughters  will  be  all  gentlemen  born. 

Clo.  You  are  well  met,  sir :  You  denied  to  fight 
with  me  this  other  day,  because  I  was  no  gentleman 
bom :  See  you  these  clothes  ?  say,  you  see  them 
not,  and  think  me  still  no  gentleman  born :  you 
were  best  say,  these  robes  are  not  gentlemen  born. 
Give  me  the  lie ;  do ;  and  try  whetlier  I  am  not 
now  a  gentleman  born. 

^tit.    I  know,  you  are  now,  sir,  a  gentleman  born. 

Clo.  Ay,  and  have  been  so  any  time  these  four 
hours. 

Shep.    And  so  have  I,  boy. 

Clo.  So  you  have  :  —  but  I  was  a  gentleman  bom 
before  my  father  :  for  tlie  king's  son  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  called  me,  brotlier:  and  tlien  the  two 
kings  called   my   father,   brother;    and    then    the 


prince,  my  brother,  and  the  princess,  my  sister, 
called  my  father,  father;  and  so  we  wept:  and 
there  was  the  first  gentleman-like  tears  that  ever 
we  shed. 

Shep.   We  may  live,  son,  to  shed  many  more. 

Clo.  Ay ;  or  else  'twere  hard  luck,  being  in  so 
preposterous  estate  as  we  are. 

Aut.  I  humbly  beseech  you,  sir,  to  pardon  me  all 
tlie  faults  I  have  committed  to  your  worship,  and 
to  give  me  your  good  report  to  the  prince  my 
master. 

Shep.  Pr'ythee,  son,  do ;  for  we  must  be  gentle, 
now  we  are  gentlemen. 

Clo.   Thou  wilt  amend  thy  life  ? 

Aut.   Ay,  an  it  like  your  good  worship. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand:  I  will  swear  to  the 
prince,  thou  art  as  honest  a  true  fellow  as  any  is  in 
Bohemia.  —  Hark  !  the  kings  and  the  princes,  our 
kindred,  are  going  to  see  the  queen's  picture.  Come, 
follow  us  :  we'll  be  thy  good  masters.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  ^  Room  in  Paulina'*  House. 

Enter  Leontes,  Polixenes,  Florizel,  Perdita, 
Camillo,  Paulina,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Leon.  O  grave  and  good  Paulina,  the  great  comfort 
That  I  have  had  of  thee  ! 

Paul.  What,  sovereign  sir, 

I  did  not  well,  I  meant  well :   All  my  services. 
You  have  paid  home :  but  that  you  have  vouchsaf 'd 
With  your  crown'd  brother,  and  these  your  con- 
tracted 
Heirs  of  your  kingdoms,  my  poor  house  to  visit. 
It  is  a  surplus  of  your  grace,  which  never 
My  life  may  last  to  answer. 

Leon.  O  Pauli/ia, 

We  honour  you  with  trouble  :    But  we  came 
To  see  the  statue  of  our  queen  :   your  gallery 
Have  we  pass'd  through,  not  without  much  content 
In  many  singularities  ;  but  we  saw  not 
That  which  my  daughter  came  to  look  upon, 
The  statue  of  her  mother. 

Paul.  As  she  liv'd  peerless. 

So  her  dead  likeness,  I  do  well  believe, 
Excels  whatever  yet  you  look'd  upon. 
Or  hand  of  man  hath  done  ;  therefore  I  keep  it 
Lonely,  apart :    But  here  it  is  :   prepare 
To  see  the  life  as  lively  mock'd,  as  ever 
Still  sleep  mock'd  death:  behold;  and  say,  'tis  well. 
[Paulina  undraws  a  Curtain,  and  discovers 
a  Statue. 
I  like  your  silence,  it  the  more  shows  off 
Your  wonder  :    But    yet   speak  ;  —  first,  you,  my 

liege, 
Comes  it  not  something  near  ? 

Leon.  Her  natural  posture  !  — 

Chide  me,  dear  stone ;  that  I  may  say,  indeed. 
Thou  art  Hermione :  or,  rather,  thou  art  she. 
In  thy  not  chiding  ;  for  she  was  as  tender, 

As  infancy,  and  grace But  yet,  Paulina, 

Hermione  was  not  so  much  wrinkled  ;  nothing 
So  aged,  as  this  seems. 

Pot.  O,  not  by  much. 

Paul'    So  mudi   the  more  our  carver's  excel- 
lence ; 
Wliich  lets  go  by  some  sixteen  years,  and  makes  her 
As  she  liv'd  now. 

Leon.  As  now  she  might  have  done, 

So  much  to  my  good  comfort,  as  it  is 
Now  piercing  to  my  soul.     O,  thus  she  stood, 
U 


290 


WINTER'S  TALE. 


Act  V. 


Even  with  such  life  of  majesty,  (warm  life, 
As  LOW  it  coldly  stands,)  when  first  I  woo'd  her ! 
1  am  asham'd :    Does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me, 
For  being  more  stone  than  it  ?  —  O,  royal  piece. 
There's  magick  in  thy  majesty  ;  which  has 
My  evils  conjur'd  to  remembrance  ;  and 
From  thy  admiring  daughter  took  the  spirits, 
Standing  like  stone  with  thee  ! 

Per,  And  give  me  leave  ; 

And  do  not  say,  'tis  superstition,  that 
I  kneel,  and  then  implore  her  blessing.  —  Lady, 
Dear  queen,  that  ended  when  I  but  began, 
Give  me  that  hand  of  yours,  to  kiss. 

Paid'  O,  patience  ; 

The  statue  is  but  newly  fix'd,  the  colour's 
Not  dry. 

Cam.   My  lord,  your  sorrow  was  too  sore  laid  on 
Wliich  sixteen  winters  cannot  blow  away. 
So  many  summers,  dry  :   scarce  any  joy 
Did  ever  so  long  live  ;  no  sorrow. 
But  kill'd  itself  much  sooner. 

Pol.  Dear  my  brother. 

Let  him,  that  was  the  cause  of  this,  have  power 
To  take  off*  so  much  grief  from  you,  as  he 
Will  piece  up  in  himself. 

Paul'  Indeed,  my  lord. 

If  I  had  thought  the  sight  of  my  poor  image 
Would  thus  have  wrought  you,   (for  the  stone  is 

mine,) 
I'd  not  have  show'd  it. 

Leon.  Do  not  draw  the  curtain. 

Paul.   No  longer  shall  you  gaze  on*t ;  lest  your 
fancy 
May  think  anon,  it  moves. 

Leon.  Let  be,  let  be. 

Would  I  were  dead,  but  that,  methinks  already  — 
What  was  he,  that  did  make  it  ?  —  See,  my  lord, 
Would  you  not  deem,  it  breath'd?  and  that  those 

veins 
Did  verily  bear  blood  ? 

Pol.  Masterly  done : 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 

Leon.   The  fixure  of  her  eye  has  motion  in't 
As^  we  are  mock'd  with  art. 

Paul.  I'll  draw  the  curtain  ; 

My  lord's  almost  so  far  transported,  that 
He'll  think  anon,  it  lives. 

Leon.  O  sweet  Paulina, 

Make  me  to  think  so  twenty  years  together  ; 
No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  pleasure  of  that  madness.      Left  alone. 

Paul.   I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  have  thus  far  stirr'd  you : 
but 
I  could  afflict  you  further. 

Leon.  Do,  Paulina; 

For  this  affliction  has  a  taste  as  sweet 
As  any  cordial  comfort.  —  Still,  methinks. 
There  is  an  air  comes  from  her  :   What  fine  chizzel 
Could  ever  yet  cut  breath?    Let  no   man   mock 

me. 
For  I  will  kiss  her. 

Paul.  Good  my  lord,  forbear : 

The  ruddiness  upon  her  lip  is  wet ; 
You'll  mar  it,  if  you  kiss  it ;  stain  your  own 
With  oily  painting :    Shall  I  draw  the  curtain  ? 

Leon.   No,  not  these  twenty  years. 

Per.  So  long  could  I 

Stand  by,  a  looker  on. 

Paul.  Either  forbear, 

5  A8i£ 


Quit  presently  the  chapel ;  or  resolve  you 

For  more  amazement :   If  you  can  behold  it, 

I'll  make  the  statue  move  indeed ;  descend. 

And  take  you  by  the  hand  :   but  then  you'll  think, 

(Which  I  protest  against,)  I  am  assisted 

By  wicked  powers. 

Leon.  What  you  can  make  her  do, 

I  am  content  to  look  on  :  what  to  speak 
I  am  content  lo  hear  :   for  'tis  as  easy 
To  make  her  speak,  as  move. 

Paul.  It  is  required 

You  do  awake  your  faith  :    Then,  all  stand  still ; 
Or  those,  that  think  it  is  unlawful  business 
I  am  about,  let  them  depart. 

Leon.  Proceed ; 

No  foot  shall  stir. 

Paul.  Musick  ;  awake  her  :  strike.— 

[Musick. 
'Tis  time  ;   descend  ;  be  stone  no  more  :  approach : 
Strike  all  that  look  upon  with  marvel.      Come  : 
I'll  fill  your  grave  up  :   stir  ;  nay,  come  away  ; 
Bequeath  to  death  your  numbness,  for  from  him 
Dear  life  redeems  you.  —  You  perceive  she  stirs : 

[Hermione  comes  down  from  the  Pedestal. 
Start  not :   her  actions  shall  be  holy,  as. 
You  hear,  my  spell  is  lawful :   do  not  shun  her. 
Until  you  see  her  die  again ;  for  then 
You  kill  her  double  :   Nay,  present  your  hand  : 
When   she  was   young,   you  woo'd   her;    now,  in 

age, 
Is  she  become  the  suitor. 

Leon.  O,  she's  warm  !   {^Embracing  her. 

If  this  be  magick,  let  it  be  an  art 
Lawful  as  eating. 

Pol.  She  embraces  him. 

Cam.   She  hangs  about  his  neck  ; 
If  she  pertain  to  life,  let  her  speak  too. 

Pol.    Ay,   and   make't   manifest  where    she  has 
liv'd. 
Or,  how  stolen  from  the  dead  ? 

Paul.  That  she  is  living. 

Were  it  but  told  you,  should  be  hooted  at 
Like  an  old  tale  ;  but  it  appears,  she  lives 
Though  yet  she  speak  not.     Mark  a  little  while.  — 
Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam  ;  kneel. 
And  pray  your  mother's  blessing.  —  Turn,  good 

lady  ; 
Our  Perdita  is  found. 

{^Presenting  Perdita,  who  kneels  to 
Hermione. 

Her.  You  gods,  look  down. 

And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 
Upon  my  daughter's  head  !  —  Tell  me,  mine  own. 
Where  hast  thou  been  preserv'd  ?  where  liv'd  ?  how 

found 
Thy  father's  court  ?  for  thou  shalt  hear,  that  I,  — 
Knowing  by  Paulina,  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being,  —  have  preserv'd 
Myself,  to  see  the  issue. 

Paul.  There's  time  enough  for  that ; 

Lest  they  desire,  upon  this  push,  to  trouble 
Your  joys  with  like  relation.  —  Go  together. 
You  precious  winners  all ;  your  exultation 
Partake  to  every  one.      I,  an  old  turtle. 
Will  wing  me  to  some  wither'd  bough ;  and  there 
My  mate,  that's  never  to  be  found  again. 
Lament  till  I  am  lost. 

Leon.  O  peace,  Paulina  ; 

Thou  shouldst  a  husband  take  by  my  consent. 
As  I  by  thine,  a  wife  :  this  is  a  match, 


Scene  III. 


WINTERS  TALE. 


292 


And  made  between's  by  vows.     Thou  hast  found 

mine; 
But  how,  is  to  be  question'd  :   for  I  saw  her, 
As  I  thought,  dead  ;  and  have,  in  vain,  said  many 
A  prayer  upon  her  grave  :    I'll  not  seek  far 
(For  him,  I  partly  know  his  mind,)  to  find  thee 
An  honourable  husband :  —  Come,  Camillo, 
And  take  her  by  the  hand ;    whose    wortli,    and 

honesty, 
Is  richly  noted  ;  and  here  justified 
By  us  a  pair  of  kings.  —  Let's  from  this  place.  — 


What  ?  —  Look   upon   my   brother  :  —  both   your 

pardons. 
That  e'er  I  put  between  your  holy  looks 
My  ill  suspicion.  —  This  your  son-in-law, 
And  son  unto  the  king,  (whom  heavens  directing,) 
Is  troth-plight  to  your  daughter,  —  Good  Paulina, 
Lead  us  from  hence ;  where  we  may  leisurely 
Each  one  demand,  and  answer  to  his  part 
Perform'd  in  this  wide  gap  of  time,  since  first 
We  were  dissevered  :   Hastily  lead  away. 

[Exeunt. 


V  2 


o/ 


x< 


^ 


COMEDY    OF    EllRORS- 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


SoLiNus,  Buhe  o^Ephesus. 

.•Eg EON,  a  Merchant  ©^Syracuse. 

A  ^  f  u  r  Twin  Brothers,  and  Sons 

Antjpholus  of  Syracuse,  I  ,   ,      ,  .        ,    ., 

•^     "^  [^  but  unknown  to  each  other. 

Dromio  of  Ephesus,  1  r«ri/i  Brothers  and  Attend- 

Dromio  of  Syracuse,  J  ants  on  the  two  Antipholus's. 

Balthazar,  a  Merchant. 

Angelo,  o  Goldsmith. 


A  Merchant,  Friend  to  Antipholus  of  Syracuse. 
Pinch,  a  Schoolmaster,  and  a  Conjurer. 

Emilia,  Wife  to  ^geon,  an  Abbess  at  Ephesus. 
Adriana«  JVife  to  Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 
LuciANA,  her  Sister. 
Luce,  her  Servant. 
A  Courtezan. 


Gaoler,  Officers,  and  otfier  Attendants, 


SCENE,  Ephesus. 


PLKAU    YOG    TO    UE,    FAIH    IJiME  t    I    KNOW    VOD    NOT. 


COMEDY   OF   ERRORS 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  \.  —  A  Hall  in  the  Duke'5  Palace. 

Enter  Duke,  JEgeoh,  Gaoler,  Officers,  and  other 
Attendants. 

uEge-    Proceed,  Solinus,  to  procure  my  fail, 
And,  by  the  doom  of  death,  end  woes  and  all. 

Duke.   Merchant  of  Syracusa,  plead  no  more  ; 
I  am  not  partial  to  infringe  our  laws  : 
The  enmity  and  discord,  which  of  late 
Sprung  from  the  rancorous  outrage  of  your  duke 
To  merchants,  our  well  dealing  countrymen,  — 
Who,  wanting  gilders  1  to  redeem  their  lives. 
Have  seal'd  his  rig'rous  statutes  with  their  bloods,  — 
Excludes  all  pity  from  our  threat'ning  looks, 
For,  since  the  mortal  and  intestine  jars 
'Twixt  thy  seditious  countrymen  and  us. 
It  hath  in  solemn  synods  been  decreed. 
Both  by  the  Syracusans  and  ourselves, 
To  admit  no  traffick  to  our  adverse  towns  : 
Nay,  more. 

If  any  born  at  Ephesus,  be  seen 
At  any  Syracusan  marts  and  fairs  ; 
Again,  If  any  Syracusan  born. 
Come  to  the  bay  of  Ephesus,  he  dies. 
His  goods  confiscate  to  the  duke's  dispose  ; 
Unless  a  thousand  marks  be  levied, 
To  quit  the  penalty,  and  to  ransome  him. 
Thy  substance  valued  at  the  highest  rate, 
Cannot  amount  unto  a  hundred  marks ; 
Therefore,  by  law  thou  art  condemn'd  to  die. 
JEge.   Yet  this  my  comfort ;  when  your  word-s 
are  done, 
My  woes  end  likewise  with  the  evening  sun. 

'  Name  of  a  coin. 


Duke.   Well,  Syracusan,  say,  in  brief,  the  cause 
Why  thou  departedst  from  thy  native  home  ; 
And  for  what  cause  thou  cam'st  to  Ephesus. 

jEge.  A  heavier  task  could  not  have  been  impos'd 
Than  I  to  speak  my  griefs  unspeakable  : 
Yet,  that  the  world  may  witness,  that  my  end 
Was  wrought  by  nature,  not  by  vile  offence, 
I'll  utter  what  my  sorrow  gives  me  leave. 
In  Syracusa  was  I  born  ;  and  wed 
Unto  a  woman,  happy  but  for  me. 
And  by  me  too,  had  not  our  hap  been  bad. 
With  her  I  Jiv'd  in  joy  ;  our  wealth  increas'd, 
By  prosperous  voyages  I  often  made 
To  Epidamnum,  till  ray  factor's  death ; 
And  he  (great  care  of  goods  at  random  left) 
Drew  me  from  kind  embracements  of  my  spouse 
From  whom  my  absence  was  not  six  months  old. 
Before  herself  (almost  at  fainting  under 
The  pleasing  punishment  that  women  bear,) 
Had  made  provision  for  her  following  me, 
And  soon,  and  safe,  arrived  where  I  was. 
There  she  had  not  been  long,  but  she  became 
A  joyful  mother  of  two  goodly  sons  ; 
And  which  was  strange,  the  one  so  like  the  other, 
As  could  not  be  distinguished  but  by  names. 
That  very  hour,  and  in  the  self-same  inn, 
A  poor  mean  woman  was  delivered 
Of  such  a  burden,  male  twins,  both  alike  : 
Those,  for  their  parents  were  exceeding  poor, " 
I  bought,  and  brought  up  to  attend  my  sons. 
My  wife,  not  meanly  proud  of  two  such  boys. 
Made  daily  motions  for  our  home  return  : 
Unwilling  I  agreed  ;  alas,  too  soon. 
We  came  aboard : 


II 


Act  I.    Scene  I. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


293 


A  league  from  Epidamnum  had  we  sail'd, 

Before  the  always-wind-obeying  deep 

Gave  any  tragic  instance  of  our  harm : 

But  longer  did  we  not  retain  much  hope  ; 

For  what  obscured  light  the  heavens  did  grant 

Did  but  convey  unto  our  fearful  minds 

A  doubtful  warrant  of  immediate  death  ; 

Which,  though  myself  would  gladly  have  embrac'd, 

Yet  the  incessant  weepings  of  my  wife, 

Weeping  before  for  what  she  saw  must  come, 

And  piteous  plainings  of  the  pretty  babes, 

That  mourn'd  for  fasluon,  ignorant  what  to  fear, 

Forc'd  me  to  seek  delays  for  them  and  me. 

And  this  it  was,  —  for  other  means  was  none.  — 

The  sailors  sought  for  safety  by  our  boat. 

And  left  the  ship,  then  sinking-ripe,  to  us  : 

My  wife,  more  careful  for  the  elder  born, 

Had  fasten 'd  him  unto  a  small  spare  mast. 

Such  as  sea-faring  men  provide  for  storms ; 

To  him  one  of  the  other  twins  was  bound, 

Whilst  I  had  been  like  heedful  of  the  other. 

The  children  thus  dispos'd,  my  wife  and  I, 

Fixing  our  eyes  on  whom  our  care  was  fix'd, 

Fasten'd  ourselves  at  either  end  the  mast ; 

And  floating  straight,  obedient  to  the  stream. 

Were  carried  towards  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 

At  length  the  sun,  gazing  upon  the  earth, 

Dispers'd  those  vapours  that  offended  us ; 

And,  by  the  benefit  of  his  wish'd  light, 

The  seas  wax'd  calm,  and  we  discover'd 

Two  ships  from  far  making  amain  to  us. 

Of  Corinth  that,  of  Epidaurus  this  : 

But  ere  they  came,  —  O,  let  me  say  no  more  ! 

Gather  the  sequel  by  that  went  before. 

Duke.  Nay,  forward,  old  man,  do  not  break  oflTso ; 
For  we  may  pity,  though  not  pardon  thee. 

JEge.   O,  had  the  gods  done  so,  I  had  not  now 
Worthily  term'd  them  merciless  to  us  ! 
For,  ere  the  ships  could  meet  by  twice  five  leagues. 
We  were  encounter'd  by  a  mighty  rock  ; 
Which  being  violently  borne  upon. 
Our  helpful  ship  was  splitted  in  the  midstt 
So  that,  in  this  unjust  divorce  of  us. 
Fortune  had  left  to  both  of  us  alike 
What  to  delight  in,  what  to  sorrow  for. 
Her  part,  poor  soul !  seeming  as  burdened 
With  lesser  weight,  but  not  with  lesser  woe. 
Was  carried  with  more  speed  before  the  wind ; 
And  in  our  sight  they  three  were  taken  up 
By  fishermen  of  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
At  length,  another  ship  had  seiz'd  on  us ; 
And,  knowing  whom  it  was  their  hap  to  save, 
Gave  helpful  welcome  to  their  shipwreck'd  guests ; 
And  would  have  reft  '•  the  fishers  of  their  prey. 
Had  not  their  bark  been  very  slow  of  sail, 
And    therefore    homeward    did   they   bend    their 

course.  — 
Thus  have  you  heard  me  sever'd  from  my  bliss  ; 
TTiat  by  misfortunes  was  my  life  prolong'd. 
To  tell  sad  stories  of  my  own  mishaps. 

Duke.  And,  for  the  sake  of  them  thou  sorrowest 
for, 
Do  me  the  favour  to  dilate  at  full 
What  hath  befallen  of  them,  and  thee,  till  now. 

^ge.   My  youngest  boy,  and  yet  my  eldest  care, 
At  eighteen  years  became  inquisitive 
After  his  brother  ;  and  importun'd  me. 
That  his  attendant,  (for  his  case  was  like. 
Red  of  his  brother,  but  retain'd  his  name,) 
«  Bereft,  deprived. 


Might  bear  him  company  in  the  quest  of  him : 
Whom  whilst  I  labour'd  of  a  love  to  see 
I  hazarded  the  loss  of  whom  I  lov'd. 
Five  summers  have  I  spent  in  furthest  Greece, 
Roaming  clean  3  through  the  bounds  of  Asia, 
And,  coasting  homeward,  came  to  Ephesus ; 
Hopeless  to  find,  yet  loth  to  leave  unsought. 
Or  that,  or  any  place  that  harbours  men. 
But  here  must  end  the  story  of  my  life ; 
And  happy  were  I  in  my  timely  death. 
Could  all  my  travels  warrant  me  they  live. 

Duke.   Hapless  iEgeon,  whom   the   fates  have 
mark'd 
To  bear  the  extremity  of  dire  mishap  ! 
Now,  trust  me,  were  it  not  against  our  laws. 
Against  my  crown,  my  oath,  my  dignity, 
Wliich  princes,  would  they,  may  not  disannul. 
My  soul  should  sue  as  advocate  for  thee 
But,  though  thou  art  adjudged  to  the  death, 
And  passed  sentence  may  not  be  recall'd. 
But,  to  our  honour's  great  disparagement. 
Yet  will  I  favour  thee  in  what  I  can  : 
Therefore,  merchant,  I'll  limit  thee  this  day 
To  seek  thy  help  by  beneficial  help : 
Try  all  the  friends  thou  hast  in  Ephesus ; 
Beg  thou,  or  borrow,  to  make  up  the  sum,     * 
And  live ;  if  not,  then  thou  art  doom'd  to  die :  — 
Gaoler,  take  him  to  thy  custody. 

Gaol.   I  will,  my  lord. 

jEge.  Hopeless,  and  helpless,  doth  JEgeon  wendS 
But  to  procrastinate  liis  lifeless  end.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  puhlick  Place. 

Enter  Antipholus  and  Dromio  of  Syracuse,  and  « 
Merchant. 

Mer.  Therefore,  give  out,  you  are  of  Epidamnum 
Lest  that  your  goods  too  soon  be  confiscate. 
This  very  day,  a  Syracusan  merchant 
Is  apprehended  for  arrival  here  ; 
And,  not  being  able  to  buy  out  his  life, 
According  to  the  statute  of  the  town, 
Dies  ere  the  weary  sun  set  in  the  west. 
There  is  your  money  tliat  I  had  to  keep. 

Ant.  S.  Go  bear  it  to  the  Centaur,  where  w«  host. 
And  stay  there,  Dromio,  till  I  come  to  thee. 
Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time  : 
Till  that  I'll  view  the  manners  of  the  town. 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings. 
And  then  return,  and  sleep  within  mine  inn  ; 
For  with  long  travel  I  am  stiff  and  weary. 
Get  thee  away. 

Dro.  S.  Many  a  man  would  take  you  at  your  word. 
And  go  indeed,  having  so  good  a  mean. 

[Edt  Dro.  S. 

Ant.  S.    A  trusty  villain*,  sir  ;  that  very  oft. 
When  I  am  dull  with  care  and  melancholy. 
Lightens  my  humour  with  his  merry  jests. 
What,  will  you  walk  with  me  about  the  town, 
And  then  go  to  my  inn,  and  dine  with  me? 

Mer.    I  am  invited,   sir,  to   certain   merchants. 
Of  whom  I  hope  to  make  much  benefit ; 
I  crave  your  pardon.      Soon,  at  five  o'clock, 
Please  you,  I'll  meet  with  you  upon  the  mart. 
And  afterwards  consort  you  till  bed-time; 
My  present  business  calls  me  from  you  now. 

Ant.  S. '  Farewell  till  then  :   I  will  go  lose  myself, 
And  wander  up  and  down,  to  view  the  city. 

*  Ga 


3  Clear,  completely. 
»  i  e.  Servant 


U  3 


294 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Act  11. 


Mer.  Sir,  I  commend  you  to  your  own  content. 
[Exit  Merchant. 

Ant.  S.   He  that  commends  me  to  mine  own  con- 
tent, 
Commends  me  to  the  thing  I  cannot  get, 
I  to  the  world  am  like  a  drop  of  water. 
That  in  the  ocean  seeks  another  drop  ; 
Who,  falling  there  to  find  his  fellow  forth, 
Unseen,  inquisitive,  confounds  himself: 
So  I,  to  find  a  mother,  and  a  brother. 
In  quest  of  them,  unhappy,  lose  myself. 

E7iter  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 
Here  comes  the  almanack  of  my  true  date,  — 
What  now  ?  How  chance,  thou  art  retum'd  so  soon  ? 

Dro.  JE.  Return'd  so  soon  !  rather  approach'd  too 
late: 
The  capon  burns,  the  pig  falls  from  the  spit ; 
The  clock  has  strucken  twelve  upon  the  bell. 
My  mistress  made  it  one  upon  my  cheek : 
She  is  so  hot,  because  the  meat  is  cold ; 
The  meat  is  cold,  because  you  come  not  home ; 
You  come  not  home,  because  you  have  no  stomach ; 
You  have  no  stomach,  having  broke  your  fast ; 
But  we,  that  know  what  'tis  to  fast  and  pray. 
Are  penitent  for  your  default  to-day. 

Ant.  S.   Stop  in  your  wind,  sir ;  tell  me  this,   I 
pray  ; 
Where  have  you  left  the  money  that  1  gave  you  ? 

Dro.  E.   O,  —  sixpence,  that  I  had  o' Wednesday 
last, 
To  pay  the  saddler  for  my  mistress'  crupper ;  — 
The  saddler  had  it,  sir,  I  kept  it  not. 

Ant.  S.   I  am  not  in  a  sportive  humour  now  : 
Tell  me,  and  dally  not,  where  is  the  money  ? 
We  being  strangers  here,  how  dar'st  thou  trust 
So  great  a  charge  from  thine  own  custody? 

Dro.  E.   I  pray  you,  jest,  sir,  as  you  sit  at  dinner  : 
I  from  my  mistress  come  to  you  in  post ; 
If  I  return,  I  shall  be  post  indeed  ; 
For  she  will  score  your  fault  upon  my  pate. 
Methinks,  your  maw,  like  mine,   should  be  your 

clock. 
And  strike  you  home  without  a  messenger. 


Ant.  S.   Come,  Dromio,  come,  these  jests  are  out 
of  season ; 
Reserve  them  till  a  merrier  hour  than  this  : 
Where  is  the  gold  I  gave  in  charge  to  thee  ? 

Dro.  E.   To  me,  sir  ?  why  you  gave  no  gold  to  me. 

Ant.  S.   Come  on,  sir  knave,  have  done  your  fool- 
ishness. 
And  tell  me,  how  thou  hast  dispos'd  thy  charge. 

Dro.  E.   My  charge  was  but  to  fetch  you  from  the 
mart 
Home  to  your  house,  the  Phoenix,  sir,  to  dinner  ; 
My  mistress,  and  her  sister,  stay  for  you. 

Ant.  S.   Now,  as  I  am  a  christian,  answer  me, 
In  what  safe  place  you  have  bestow'd  my  money ; 
Or  I  shall  break  that  merry  sconce  ^  of  yours. 
That  stands  on  tricks  when  I  am  undispos'd : 
Where  is  the  thousand  marks  thou  hadst  of  me  ? 

Dro.  E.  I  have  some  marks  of  yours  upon  my  pate, 
Some  of  my  mistress'  marks  upon  my  shoulders. 
But  not  a  thousand  marks  between  you  both.  — 
If  I  should  pay  your  worship  those  again. 
Perchance,  you  will  not  bear  them  patiently. 

Ant.  S.  Thy  mistress'  marks  !  what  mistress,  slave, 
hast  thou  ? 

Dro.  E.   Your  worship's  wife,  my  mistress  at  the 
Phoenix  : 
She  that  doth  fast,  till  you  come  home  to  dinner. 
And  prays,  that  you  will  hie  you  home  to  dinner. 

Ant.  S.   What,  wilt  thou  flout  me  thus  unto  my 
face. 
Being  forbid  ?  There,  take  you  that,  sir  knave. 

Dro.  E.    What  mean  you,  sir  ?  for  heaven's  sake, 
hold  your  hands  ; 
Nay,  an  you  will  not,  sir,  I'll  take  my  heels. 

[Exit  Dromio,  E. 

A)it.  S.   Upon  my  life,  by  some  device  or  other, 
The  villain  is  o'er-raught  7  of  all  my  money. 
They  say,  this  town  is  full  of  cozenage  ; 
As,  nimble  jugglers,  that  deceive  the  eye, 
Disguised  cheaters,  prating  mountebanks. 
And  many  such  like  liberties  of  sin ; 
If  it  prove  so,  I  will  be  gone  the  sooner. 
I'll  to  the  Centaur,  to  go  seek  this  slave ; 
1  greatly  fear  my  money  is  not  safe.  [Exit* 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  l.  —  Apuhlick  Place. 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 

Adr.  Neither  my  husband,  nor  the  slave  return'd. 
That  in  such  haste  I  sent  to  seek  his  master  ! 
Sure,  Luciana,  it  is  two  o'clock. 

Luc.   Perhaps,  some  merchant  hath  invited  him. 
And  from  the  mart  he's  somewhere  gone  to  dinner. 
Good  sister,  let  us  dine,  and  never  fret : 
A  man  is  master  of  his  liberty  : 
Time  is  their  master ;  and,  when  they  see  time. 
They'll  go,  or  come  :  if  so,  be  patient,  sister. 

Adr.  Why  should  their  liberty  than  ours  be  more  ? 

Luc.   Because  their  business  still  lies  out  o'door. 

Adr.   Look,  when  I  serve  him  so,  he  takes  it  ill. 

Luc.   O,  know,  he  is  the  bridle  of  your  will. 

Adr.   There's  none  but  asses  will  be  bridled  so. 

Luc.   Why  headstrong  liberty  is  lash'd  with  woe. 
There's  nothing  situate  under  heaven's  eye. 
But  hath  his  bound,  in  earth,  in  sea,  in  sky : 


The  beasts,  the  fishes,  and  the  winged  fowls. 
Are  their  males'  subject,  and  at  their  controls  : 
Men,  more  divine,  the  masters  of  all  these. 
Lords  of  the  wide  world,  and  wild  wat'ry  seas, 
Indued  with  intellectual  sense  and  souls. 
Of  more  pre-eminence  than  fish  and  fowls. 
Are  masters  to  their  females,  and  their  lords  : 
Then  let  your  will  attend  on  their  accords. 

Adr.   This  servitude  makes  you  to  keep  unwed. 

Luc.   Not  this,  but  troubles  of  the  marriage  bed. 

Adr.   But  were  you  wedded,  you  would  bear  some 
sway. 

Luc.   Ere  I  learn  love,  I'll  practise  to  obey. 

Adr.   How  if  your  husband  start   some    other 
where  ? 

Luc.   Till  he  come  home  again,  I  would  forbear. 

Adr.   Patience,  unmov'd,  no  marvel  though  she 
pause ; 
They  can  be  meek,  that  have  no  other  cause. 
6  Head.  7  Over-reached. 


Scene  I. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


295 


A  wretched  soul,  bruis'd  with  adversity, 
We  bid  be  quiet,  when  we  hear  it  cry ; 
But  were  we  burden'd  with  like  weight  of  pain, 
As  much,  or  more,  we  should  ourselves  complain  : 
So  thou,  that  hast  no  unkind  mate  to  grieve  thee. 
With  urging  helpless  patience  wouldst  relieve  me  : 
But  if  thou  live  to  see  like  right  bereft. 
This  fool-begg'd  patience  in  tliee  will  be  left. 

Luc.  Well,  I  will  marry  one  day,  but  to  try  ;  — 
Here  comes  your  man,  now  is  your  husband  nigh. 

Enter  Dkomxo  of  Ephesus. 

Adr.   Say,  is  your  tardy  master  now  at  hand  ? 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  he  is  at  two  hands  with  me,  and 
that  my  two  ears  can  witness. 

Adr.   Say,  didst  thou  speak  with  him  ?  know'st 
thou  his  mind  ? 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  ay,  he  told  his  mind  upon  mine  ear : 
Beshrew  his  hand,  I  scarce  could  understand  it. 

Luc.  Spake  he  so  doubtfully,  thou  couldst  not  feel 
his  meaning? 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  he  struck  so  plainly,  I  could  too 
well  feel  his  blows ;  and  withal  so  doubtfully,  that 
I  could  scarce  understand  them. 8 

Adr.   But  say,  I  pr'ythee,  is  he  coming  home  ? 
It  seems,  he  hath  great  care  to  please  his  wife. 

Dro.  E.  Why,  mistress,  sure  my  master  is  stark 
mad : 
When  I  desir'd  him  to  come  home  to  dinner. 
He  ask'd  me  for  a  thousand  marks  in  gold : 
^Tis  dinner-time,  quoth  I ;  My  gold,  quoth  he  : 
Your  meat  doth  bum,  quoth  I ;  Mt/  gold,  quoth  he  : 
WiU  you  conie  home  9  quoth  I ;  My  gold,  quoth  he  : 
Where  is  the  thousand  marks  I  gave  thee,  vUlain  9 
The  pig,  quoth  I,  is  burnd;  My  gold,  quoth  he  : 
My  mistress,  sir,  quoth  I ;  Hang  up  thy  mistress ; 
I  know  not  thy  mistress  j  out  on  thy  mistress! 

Luc.    Quoth  who? 

Dro.  E.   Quoth  my  master  : 
/  know,  quoth  he,  no  house,  no  wife,  no  mistress  ;  — 
So  that  my  errand,  due  unto  my  tongue, 
I  thank  him,  I  bear  home  upon  my  shoulders ; 
For,  in  conclusion,  he  did  beat  me  there. 

Adr.   Go  back  again,  thou  slave,  and  fetch  him 
home. 

Dro.  E.  Go  back  again,  and  be  new  beaten  home? 
For  heaven's  sake,  send  some  other  messenger. 

Adr.    Back,  slave,  or  I  will  break  thy  pate  across. 

Dro.  E.    And  he  will  bless  that  cross  with  other 
beating : 
Between  you  I  shall  have  a  holy  head. 

Adr.   Hence,  prating  peasant ;  fetch  thy  master 
home. 

Dro.  E.  Am  I  so  round  with  you,  as  you  with  me. 
That  like  a  football  you  do  spurn  me  thus  ? 
You  spurn  me  hence,  and  he  will  spurn  me  hither : 
If  I  last  in  this  service,  you  must  case  me  in  leather. 

lExU. 

Luc.   Fye,  how  impatience  lowreth  in  your  face. 

Adr.   His  company  must  do  his  minions  grace. 
Whilst  I  at  home  starve  for  a  merry  look. 
Hath  homely  age  the  alluring  beauty  took 
From  my  poor  cheek?  then  he  hath  wasted  it: 
Are  my  discourses  dull  ?  barren  my  wit  ? 
If  voluble  and  sharp  discourse  be  marr'd, 
Unkindness  blunts  it,  more  than  marble  hard. 
Do  their  gay  vestments  his  affections  bait  ? 
That's  not  my  fault,  he's  master  of  my  state  : 

*  i.e.  Scarce  stand  under  them. 


What  ruins  are  in  me,  that  can  be  found 

By  him  not  ruin'd?  then  is  he  the  ground 

Of  my  defeatures  9 :    My  decayed  fair  ' 

A  sunny  look  of  his  would  soon  repair  ; 

But,  too  unruly  deer,  he  breaks  the  pale, 

And  feeds  from  home  ;  poor  I  am  but  his  stale. '^ 

Luc.   Self-arming  jealousy  !  —  fye,  beat  it  hence. 

Adr.   Unfeeling  fools  can  with  such  wrongs  dis- 
pense, 
I  know  his  eye  doth  homage  otherwhere ; 
Or  else,  what  lets  3  it  but  he  would  be  here  ? 
Sister,  you  know,  he  promis'd  me  a  chain  ;  — 
Would  that  alone  alone  he  would  detain, 
So  he  would  keep  fair  quarter  with  his  bed  ! 
I  see,  the  jewel,  best  enamelled. 
Will  lose  his  beauty  ;  and  though  gold  'bides  still. 
That  others  touch,  yet  often  touching  will 
Wear  gold  :  and  so  no  man,  that  hath  a  name, 
But  falsehood  and  corruption  doth  it  shame. 
Since  that  my  beauty  cannot  please  his  eye, 
I'll  weep  what's  left  away,  and  weeping  die. 

Luc.  How  many  fond  fools  serve  mad  jealousy  ! 

lExcunt. 
SCENE  U.  —  Tliesame. 

Enter  Antipholus  ©^Syracuse. 
Ant.  S.   The  gold,  I  gave  to  Dromio,  is  laid  up 
Safe  at  the  Centaur ;  and  the  heedful  slave 
Is  wander'd  forth,  in  caro  to  seek  me  out. 
By  computation,  and  mine  host's  report, 
I  could  not  speak  with  Dromio,  since  at  first 
I  sent  him  from  the  mart :   See,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 
How  now,  sir?  is  your  merry  humour  alter'd  ? 
As  you  love  strokes,  so  jest  with  me  again. 
You  know  no  Centaur,  you  receiv'd  no  gold? 
Your  mistress  sent  to  have  me  home  to  dinner? 
My  house  was  at  the  Plioenix  ?   Wast  tliou  mad. 
That  thus  so  madly  thou  didst  answer  me  ? 

Dro.  S.   What  answer,  sir  ?  when  spake  I  such  a 
word  ? 

Ant.  S.   Even  now,  even  here,  not  half  an  hour 
since. 

Dro.  S.  I  did  not  see  you  since  you  sent  me  hence. 
Home  to  the  Centaur,  with  the  gohl  you  gave  me. 

Ant.  S.  Villain,  thou  didst  deny  the  gold's  receipt; 
And  told'st  me  of  a  mistress,  and  a  dinner; 
For  which,  I  hope,  thou  felt'st  I  was  displeas'd. 

Dro.  S.    1  am  glad  to  see  you  in  this  merry  vein  : 
What  means  this  jest?  I  pray  you,  master,  tell  me. 

Ant.  S.   Yea,  dost  thou  jeer,  and  flout  me  in  the 
teeth  ? 
Think'st  thou,  I  jest?   Hold,  take  thou  that,  and 
that.  [Beating  him. 

Dro.  S    Hold,  sir,  for  heaven's  sake :   now  your 
jest  is  earnest : 
Upon  what  bargain  do  you  give  it  me? 

Ant.  S.    Because  that  I  familiarly  sometimes 
Do  use  you  for  my  fool,  and  chat  with  you. 
Your  sauciness  will  jest  upon  my  love, 
And  make  a  common  of  my  serious  hours. 
When  the  sun  shines,  let  foolish  gnats  make  sport. 
But  creep  m  crannies,  when  he  hides  his  beams. 
If  you  will  jest  with  me,  know  my  aspect  *, 
And  fashion  your  demeanour  to  my  looks. 
Or  I  will  beat  this  method  in  your  sconce. 


•  Alteration  of  featurw. 
«  SfalkinR-horsc. 

*  Study  my  countenance. 

U  4 


Fair,  for  fairnesa. 
Hinder*. 


296 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Act  II.  Scene  II. 


Dro.  S.  Sconce,  call  you  it  ?  ho  you  would  leave 
battering,  I  had  rather  have  it  a  head :  an  you  use 
these  blows  long,  I  must  get  a  sconce  for  my  head, 
and  insconce  ^  it  too ;  or  else  I  shall  seek  my  wit  in 
my  shoulders.      But,  I  pray,  sir,  why  am  I  beaten  ? 

Ant.  S.   Dost  thou  not  know  ? 

Dro.  S.   Nothing,  sir  ;  but  that  I  am  beaten. 

Ant.  S.    Shall  I  tell  you  why  ? 

Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir,  and  wherefore ;  for,  they  say, 
every  why  hath  a  wherefore. 

Ant.  S.   Why,  first,  —for  flouting  me ;  and  then, 
wherefore,  — 
For  urging  it  the  second  time  to  me. 

Dro.  S.    Was  there  ever  any  man  thus  beaten  out 
of  season  ? 
When,  in  the  why,  and  the  wherefore,  is  neither 

rhyme  nor  reason  ?  — 
Well,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Ant.  S.    Thank  me,  sir  ?  for  what. 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  for  this  something  that  you 
gave  me  for  nothing. 

Aiit.  S.  I'll  make  you  amends  next,  to  give  you 
nothing  for  something.  But  say,  sir,  is  it  dinner- 
time ? 

Dro.  S.   No,  sir ;  I  think,  the  meat  wants  that  I 
have. 

Ant.  S.   In  good  time,  sir,  what's  that  ? 

Dro.  S.   Basting. 

Ant.  S.   Well,  sir,  then  'twill  be  dry. 

Dro.  S.   If  it  be,  sir,  I  pray  you  eat  none  of  it. 

Ant.  S.   Your  reason  ? 

Dro.  S.  Lest  it  make  you  cholerick,  and  purchase 
me  another  dry  basting. 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  learn  to  jest  in  good  time ; 
There's  a  time  for  all  things. 

Dro.  S.  I  durst  have  denied  that,  before  you  were 
so  cholerick. 

Ant.  S.   By  what  rule,  sir  ? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  by  a  rule  as  plain  as  the  plain 
bald  pate  of  father  Time  himself. 

Ant.  S.   Let's  hear  it. 

Dro.  S.  There's  no  time  for  a  man  to  recover  his 
hair,  that  grows  bald  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.   May  he  not  do  it  by  fine  and  recovery  ? 

Dro.  S.  Yes,  to  pay  a  fine  for  a  peruke,  and^ 
recover  the  lost  hair  of  another  man. 

Ant.  S.  Why  is  time  such  a  niggard  of  hair, 
being,  as  it  is,  so  plentiful  ? 

Di'o.  S.  Because  it  is  a  blessing  that  he  bestows 
on  beasts  :  and  what  he  hath  scanted  men  in  ha'r . 
he  hath  given  them  in  wit. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  but  there's  many  a  man  hath  more 
hair  than  wit. 

Dro.  S.  Not  a  man  of  those,  but  he  hath  the  wit 
to  lose  his  hair. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  thou  didst  conclude  hairy  men 
plain  dealers  without  wit. 

Dro.  S.  The  plainer  dealer,  the  sooner  lost :  Yet 
he  loseth  it  in  a  kind  of  jollity. 

Ant.  S.   For  what  reason  ? 

Dro.  S.    For  two  ;  and  sound  ones  too. 

Ant.  S.   Nay,  not  sound,  I  pray  you. 

Dro.  S.    Sure  ones  then. 

Ant.  S.   Nay,  not  sure,  in  a  thing  falsing. 

Dro.  S.    Certain  ones  then. 

Ant.  S.   Name  them. 

Dro.  S.  The  one,  to  save  the  money  that  he 
spends  in  tiring  ;  the  other,  that  at  dinner  they 
should  not  drop  in  his  porridge. 

*  A  sconce  was  a  fortification. 


Ant.  S.  You  would  all  this  time  have  proved, 
there  is  no  time  for  all  things. 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  and  did,  sir ;  namely,  no  time  to 
recover  hair  lost  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.  But  your  reason  was  not  substantial, 
why  there  is  no  time  to  recover. 

Dro.  S.  Thus  I  mend  it :  Time  himself  is  bald, 
and  therefore,  to  the  world's  end,  will  have  bald 
followers. 

A7it.  S.   I  knew  it  would  be  a  bald  conclusion  : 
But  soft !  who  wafts  ^  us  yonder  ? 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 
Adr.  Ay,  ay,  Antipholus,  look  strange  and  frown : 
Some  other  mistress  hath  thy  sweet  aspects, 
I  am  not  Adriana,  nor  thy  wife. 
The  time  was  once,  when  thou  unurg'd  wouldst  vow 
That  never  words  were  music  to  thine  ear. 
That  never  object  pleasing  in  thine  eye. 
That  never  touch  well- welcome  to  thy  hand, 
That  never  meat  sweet-savour'd  in  thy  taste. 
Unless  I  spake,  look'd,  touch'd,  or  carv'd  to  thee. 
How  comes  it  now,  my  husband,  oh,  how  comes  it 
That  thou  art  then  estranged  from  thyself  ? 
Thyself  I  call  it,  being  strange  to  me. 
That,  undividable,  incorporate. 
Am  better  than  thy  dear  self's  better  part. 
Ah,  do  not  tear  away  thyself  from  me  ; 
For  know,  my  love,  as  easy  mayst  thou  fall 
A  drop  of  water  in  the  breaking  gulph, 
And  take  unmingled  thence  that  drop  again, 
Without  addition,  or  diminishing, 
As  take  from  me  thyself,  and  not  me  too. 
How  dearly  would  it  touch  thee  to  the  quick, 
Shouldst  thou  but  hear  I  were  licentious  ? 
And  that  this  body,  consecrate  to  thee. 
By  ruflSan  lust  should  be  contaminate  ? 
Wouldst  thou  not  spit  at  me,  and  spurn  at  me, 
And  hurl  the  name  of  husband  in  my  face. 
And  tear  the  stain'd  skin  off  my  harlot  brow. 
And  from  my  false  hand  cut  the  wedding  ring, 
And  break  it  with  a  deep-divorcing  vow  ? 
Keep  then  fair  league  and  truce  with  thy  true  bed  ; 
I  live  dis-stain'd,  thou  undishonoured. 

Ant.  S.   Plead  you  to  me,  fair  dame  ?    I  know 
you  not : 
In  Ephesus  I  am  but  two  hours  old. 
As  strange  unto  your  town,  as  to  your  talk  ; 
Who,  every  word  by  all  my  wit  being  scann'd. 
Want  wit  in  all  one  word  to  understand. 

Luc.    Fye,  brother  !  how  the  world  is  chang'd 
with  you  : 
When  were  you  wont  to  use  my  sister  thus  ? 
She  sent  for  you  by  Dromio  home  to  dinner 

Ant.  S.   By  Dromio  ? 

Dro.  S.   By  me  ? 

Adr.   By  thee :   and  this  thou  didst  return  from 
him,  — 
That  he  did  buffet  thee,  and  in  his  blows 
Denied  my  house  for  his,  me  for  his  wife. 

Ant.  S.    Did  you  converse,  sir,  with  this  gentle- 
woman ? 
What  is  the  force  and  drift  of  your  compact  ? 

Dro.  S.   1,  sir  ?   I  never  saw  her  till  this  time. 

Ant.  S.   Villain,   thou  liest;    for  even  her  very 
words 
Didst  thou  deliver  to  me  on  the  mart. 

Dro.  S.   I  never  spake  with  her  in  all  my  life. 

«  Beckons. 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


297 


j4nt.  S.   How  can  she  thus  then  call  us  by  our 
names, 
Unless  it  be  by  inspiration  ? 

Adr.    How  ill  agrees  it  with  your  gravity, 
To  counterfeit  thus  grossly  with  your  slave  ? 
Abetting  Iiim  to  thwart  me  in  my  mood  ? 
Be  it  my  wrong,  you  are  from  me  exempt, 
But  wrong  not  that  wrong  with  a  more  contempt. 
Come,  I  will  fasten  on  this  sleeve  of  thine  : 
Thou  art  an  elm,  my  husband,  I  a  vine ; 
Whose  weakness,  married  to  thy  stronger  state. 
Makes  me  with  thy  strength  to  communicate  : 
If  aught  possess  thee  from  me,  it  is  dross, 
Usurping  ivy,  briar,  or  idle  7  moss ; 
Who,  all  for  want  of  pruning,  with  intrusion 
Infect  thy  sap,  and  live  on  thy  confusion. 

Jnt.  S.   To  me  she  speaks  ;  she  moves  me  for  her 
theme : 
What,  was  I  married  to  her  in  my  dream  ? 
Or  sleep  I  now,  and  think  I  hear  all  this  ? 
What  error  drives  our  eyes  and  ears  amiss  ? 
Until  I  know  this  sure  uncertainty, 
I'll  entertain  the  offer'd  fallacy. 

Luc.  Dromio,  go  bid  the  servants  spread  for  dinner. 

JDro.  S.    O,  for  my  beads !   I  cross  me  for  a  sinner. 
This  is  the  fairy  land  ;  —  O,  spite  of  spites  !  — 
We  talk  with  goblins,  owls,  and  elvish  sprites ; 
If  we  obey  them  not,  this  will  ensue, 
They'll  suck  our  breath,  or  pinch  us  black  and  blue. 

Luc.   Why  prat'st  tliou  to  thyself,  and  answer'st 
not? 
Dromio,  thou  drone,  thou  snail,  thou  slug,  thou  sot ! 


Dro.  S.   I  am  transfonn'd,  master,  am  not  I  ? 
Ant.  S.    I  think,  thou  art,  in  mind,  and  so  am  I. 
Dro.  S.    Nay,  master,  both  in  mind,  and  in  my 

shape. 
Ant.  S.   Thou  hast  thine  own  form. 
Dro.  S.  No,  I  am  an  ape. 

Luc.   If  thou  art  chang'd  to  aught,  'tis  to  an  ass. 
Dro,  S.   'Tis  true  ;  she  rides  me,  and  I  long  for 


'  Tis  so,  I  am  an  ass  ;  else  it  could  never  be, 
But  I  should  know  her  as  well  as  she  knows  me. 

Adr.    Come,  come,  no  longer  will  I  be  a  fool. 
To  put  the  finger  in  the  eye  and  weep, 
Whilst    man,    and    master,    laugh    my    woes    to 

scorn.  — 
Come  sir,  to  dinner ;   Dromio,  keep  the  gate  :  — 
Husband,  I'll  dine  above  with  you  to-day. 
And  shrive  9  you  of  a  thousand  idle  pranks : 
Sirrah,  if  any  ask  you  for  your  master. 
Say,  he  dines  forth,  and  let  no  creature  enter.  — 
Come,  sister :  —  Dromio,  play  the  porter  well. 

Ant.  S.   Am  I  in  earth,  in  heaven,  or  in  hell  ? 
Sleeping  or  waking  ?  mad,  or  well-advis'd  ? 
Known  unto  these,  and  to  myself  disguis'd 
I'll  say  as  they  say,  and  pers^ver  so. 
And  in  this  mist  at  all  adventures  go. 

Dro.  S.   Master,  shall  I  be  porter  at  the  gate  ? 

Adr.   Ay ;  and  let  none  enter,  lest  I  break  your 
pate. 

Luc.   Come,  come,  Antipholus,  we  dine  too  late. 

[Exeunt, 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Antipholus  ©/"Ephesus,  Dromio  of  Ephesus, 
Angelo,  atid  Balthazar. 

Ant.  E.    Good  signior  Angelo,  you  must  excuse 
us  all ; 
My  wife  is  shrewish,  when  I  keep  not  hours : 
Say,  that  I  linger'd  with  you  at  your  shop,  , 

To  see  the  making  of  her  carkanet  8, 
And  that  to-morrow  you  will  bring  it  home. 
But  here's  a  villain,  that  would  face  me  down 
He  met  me  on  the  mart ;  and  that  I  beat  him. 
And  cliarg'd  him  with  a  thousand  marks  in  gold. 
And  that  I  did  deny  my  wife  and  house  :  — 
Tliou  drunkard,  thou,  what  didst  thou  mean  by  this? 
Dro-  E.   Say  what  you  will,  sir,  but  I  know  what 
I  know  : 
That  you  beat  me  at  the  mart,  I  have  your  hand  to 

show : 
If  the  skin  were  parchment,  and  the  blows  you  gave 

were  ink. 
Your  own  handwriting  would  tell  you  what  I  think. 
Ant.  E.   I  think,  thou  art  an  ass. 
Dro.  E.  Marry,  so  it  doth  appear 

By  the  wrongs  I  suffer,  and  the  blows  I  bear. 
I  should  kick,  l)eing   kick'd  ;    and,  being  at  that 

pass. 
You  would  keep  from  my  heels,  and  beware  of  an 


7  Unfruitful,  barren. 

•  A  necklace  strung  with  pcarU. 


Ant.  E.   You  are  sad,  signior  Balthazar :  'Pray 
heaven,  our  cheer 
May  answer  my  good  will,  and  your  good  welcome 
here. 
Bal.   I  hold  your  dainties  cheap,  sir,  and  your 

welcome  dear. 
Ant.  E.  O,  signior  Balthazar,  either  at  flesh  or  fish, 
A  table  full  of  welcome  makes  scarce  one  dainty 
dish. 
Bal.  Good  meat,  sir,  is  common ;  that  every  churl 

affords. 
Ant.  E.   And  welcome  more  common  ;  for  that's 

nothing  but  words. 
Bal.    Small  cheer  and  great  welcome,  makes  a 

merry  feast. 
Ant.  E.   Ay,  to  a  niggardly  host,  and  more  spar- 
ing guest ; 
But  though  my  cates  '  be  mean,  take  them  in  good 

part; 
Better  cheer  may  you  have,  but  not  with  better 

heart. 
But,  soft ;   my  door  is  lock'd :    Go  bid  them  let 
us  in. 
Dro.  E.  Maud,  Bridget,  Marian,  Cicely,  Gillian, 

Jen' ! 
Dro.  S.    [iruhin.]     Mome«,   malt-horse,    capon, 
coxcomb,  idiot,  patch  !  3 
Either  get  thee  from  the  door,  or  sit  down  at  the 
hatch. 


9  Hear  your  confession. 
>  Blockhead 


>  Dishes  of  meat. 
»  Fool 


298 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Act  III. 


Dro.  E.  What  patch  is  made  our  porter  ?     My 

master  stays  in  the  street. 
Dro.  S.   Let  him  walk  from  whence  he  came,  lest 

he  catch  cold  on's  feet. 
Ant.  E.   Who  talks  within  there?  ho,  open  the 

door. 
Dro.  S.    Right,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  when,  an  you'll 

tell  me  wherefore  ? 
Ant.  E.   Wherefore,  for  my  dinner  j  I  have  not 

din'd  to-day. 
Dro,  S.   Nor  to-day  here  you  must  not ;   come 

again  when  you  may. 
Ant.  E.  What  art  thou,  that  keep'st  me  out  from 

the  house  I  owe  ?  4 
Dro.  S.    The  porter  for  this  time,  sir,  and  my 

name  is  Dromio. 
Dro.  E.  O  villain,  thou  hast  stolen  both  mine 

office  and  my  name ; 
The  one  ne'er  got  me  credit,  the  other  mickle  blame. 
If  thou  hadst  been  Dromio  to-day  in  my  place, 
Thou  wouldst  have  chang'd  thy  face  for  a  name,  or 

thy  name  for  an  ass. 
Luce.   [^lYAm.]  What  a  coils  is  there?  Dromio, 

who  are  those  at  the  gate  ? 
Dro.  E.  Let  thy  master  in,  Luce. 
Luce.  Faith,  no  ;  he  comes  too  late  ; 

And  so  tell  your  master. 

Dro.  E.  O  Lord,  I  must  laugh  :  — 

Have  at  you  with  a  proverb.  —  Shall  I  set  in  my 

staff? 
Luce.  Have  at  you  with  another :  that's,  —  When? 

can  you  tell  ? 
Dro.  S.   If  thy  name  be  call'd  Luce,  Luce,  thou 

hast  answer'd  him  well. 
Ant.  E.   Do  you  hear,  you  minion  ?  you'll  let  us 

in,  I  hope  ? 
Luce.   I  thought  to  have  ask'd  you. 
Dro.  S.  And  you  said,  no. 

Dro.  E.   So,  come,  help  ;  well  struck ;  there  was 

blow  for  blow. 
Ant.  E.   Thou  baggage,  let  me  in. 
Luce.  Can  you  tell  for  whose  sake  ? 

Dro.  E.   Master,  knock  the  door  hard. 
Luce.  Let  him  knock  till  it  ake. 

Ant.  E.   You'll  cry  for  this,  minion,  if  I  beat  the 

door  down. 
Luce.  What  needs  all  that,  and  a  pair  of  stocks 

in  the  town  ? 
Adr.  \_WUhin.'\   Who   is  that    at   the  door,  that 

keeps  all  this  noise? 
Dro.  S.   By  my  troth,  your  town  is  troubled  with 

unruly  boys. 
Ant.  E.   Are  you  there,  wife?  you  might  have 

come  before. 
Adr.   Your  wife,  sir  knave  !  go,  get  you  from  the 

door. 
Dro.  E.   If  you  went  in  pain,  master,  this  knave 

would  go  sore. 
Ang.   Here  is  neither  cheer,  sir,  nor  welcome;  we 

would  fain  have  either. 
Bed.   In  debating  which  was  best,  we  shall  part  6 

with  neither. 
Dro.  E»   They  stand  at  the  door,  master ;    bid 

them  welcome  hither. 
Ant.  E.   There  is  something  in  the  wind  that  we 

cannot  get  in. 
Dro.  E.   You  would  say  so,  master,  if  your  gar- 
ments were  thin. 


*  I  own,  am  owner  of. 
«  Take  part. 


» Bustle,  tumult. 


Your  cake  here  is  warm  within ;  you  stand  here  in 

the  cold : 
It  would  make  a  man  mad  as  a  buck,  to  be  so  bought 
and  sold. 

Ant.  E.   Go,  fetch  me  something,  I'll  break  ope 
the  gate. 

Dro.  S.  Break  any  breaking  here,  and  I'll  break 
your  knave's  pate. 

Dro.  E.   Here's  too  much,  out  upon  thee !  I  pray 
thee,  let  me  in. 

Dro.  S.   Ay,  when  fowls  have  no  feathers,  and 
fish  have  no  fin. 

Ant.  E.  Well,  I'll  break  in ;  Go,  borrow  me  a  crow. 

Dro.  E.   A  crow  without  a  feather;  master,  mean 
you  so? 
For  a  fish  without  a  fin,  there's  a  fowl  without  a 

feather : 
If  a  crow  help  us  in,  sirrah,  we'll  pluck  a  crow 
together. 

Ant.  E.  Go,  get  thee  gone,  fetch  me  au  iron  crow. 

Bed.   Have  patience,  sir ;   O,  let  it  not  be  so ; 
Herein  you  war  against  your  reputation. 
And  draw  within  the  compass  of  suspect 
The  unviolated  honour  of  your  wife. 
Once  this,  —  Your  long  experience  of  her  wisdom. 
Her  sober  virtue,  years,  and  modesty. 
Plead  on  her  part  some  cause  to  you  unknown ; 
And  doubt  not,  sir,  but  she  will  well  excuse 
Why  at  this  time  the  doors  are  made?  against  you. 
Be  rul'd  by  me ;  depart  in  patience. 
And  let  us  to  the  Tiger  all  to  dinner  : 
And,  about  evening,  come  yourself  alone, 
To  know  the  reason  of  this  strange  restraint. 
If  by  strong  hand  you  offer  to  break  in. 
Now  in  the  stirring  passage  of  the  day, 
A  vulgar  comment  will  be  made  on  it ; 
And  that  supposed  by  the  common  rout 
Against  your  yet  ungalled  estimation. 
That  may  with  foul  intrusion  enter  in. 
And  dwell  upon  your  grave  when  you  are  dead : 
For  slander  lives  upon  succession ; 
For  ever  hous'd,  where  it  once  gets  possession. 

Ant.  E.  You  have  prevail'd;  I  will  depart  in  quiet, 
And,  in  despight  of  mirth,  mean  to  be  merry. 
I  know  a  wench  of  excellent  discourse,  — 
Pretty  and  witty  ;  wild,  and,  yet  too,  gentle  ;  — 
There  will  we  dine  :   this  woman  that  I  mean. 
My  wife  (but,  I  protest,  without  desert,) 
Hath  oftentimes  upbraided  me  withal  ; 
To  her  will  we  to  dinner.  —  Get  you  home, 
And  fetch  the  chain  ;  by  this  8,  I  know,  'tis  made  : 
Bring  it,  I  pray  you,  to  the  Porcupine ; 
For  there's  the  house :   that  chain  will  I  bestow 
( Be  it  for  nothing  but  to  spite  my  wife,) 
Upon  mine  hostess  there  :   good  sir,  make  haste  : 
Since  mine  own  doors  refuse  to  entertain  me, 
I'll  knock  elsewhere,  to  see  if  they'll  disdain  me. 

Ang.  I'll  meet  you  at  that  place,  some  hour  hencej 

Ant.  E.  Do  so  ;   This  jest  shall  cost  me  some  eX- 
pence.  [Exeur 

SCENE  II.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Luciana,  and  Antipholus  of  Syracuse.. 
Luc.   If  you  did  wed  my  sister  for  her  wealth. 
Then,  for  her  wealth's  sake,  use  her  with  moi 
kindness : 
Or  if  you  like  elsewhere,  do  it  by  stealth  ; 

Muffle  your  false  love  with  some  show  of  blindness: 


Made  fast 


By  this  time. 


^ 


Scene  II. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Let  not  my  sister  read  it  in  your  eye ; 

Be  not  thy  tongue  thy  own  shame's  orator  ; 
Look  sweet,  speak  fair,  become  disloyalty ; 

Apparel  vice  like  virtue's  harbinger  : 
Bear  a  fair  presence,  though  your  heart  be  tainted  ; 

Teach  sin  the  carriage  of  a  holy  saint ; 
Be  secret- false  :   What  need  she  be  acquainted? 

What  simple  thief  brags  of  his  own  attaint  ? 
'Tis  double  wrong,  to  truant  with  your  bed, 
And  let  her  re^  it  in  thy  looks  at  board  : 
Shame  hath  a  bastard  fame,  well  managed ; 
111  deeds  are  doubled  with  an  evil  word. 
Alas,  poor  women  !  make  us  but  believe, 

Being  compact  of  credit,  that  you  love  us ; 
Though  others  have  the  arm,  show  us  the  sleeve ; 

We  in  your  motion  turn,  and  you  may  move  us, 
Then,  gentle  brother,  get  you  in  again ; 

Comfort  my  sister,  cheer  her,  call  her  wife  : 
'Tis  holy  sport,  to  be  a  little  vain  9, 

When  the  sweet  breath  of  flattery  conquers  strife. 
Ant.  S.   Sweet  mistress,  (what  your  name  is  else, 

I  know  not, 
Nor  by  what  wonder  you  do  hit  on  mine,) 
Less,  in  your  knowledge,  and  your  grace,  you  show 
not, 
Than  our  earth's  wonder;  more  than  earth  di- 
vine. 
Teach  me,  dear  croature,  how  to  think  and  speak  ; 

Lay  open  to  my  earthly  gross  conceit, 
Smother'd  in  errors,  feeble,-  shallow,  weak, 

The  folded  meaning  of  your  words'  deceit. 
Against  my  soul's  pure  truth  why  labour  you, 

To  make  it  wander  in  an  unknown  field  ? 
Are  you  a  goddess  ?  would  you  make  me  new  ? 

Transform  me  then,  and  to  your  power  I'll  yield. 
But  if  that  I  am  I,  then  well  I  know. 

Your  weeping  sister  is  no  wife  of  mine. 
Nor  to  her  bed  no  homage  do  I  owe  ; 

Far  more,  far  more,  to  you  do  I  decline. 
O,  train  me  not,  sweet  mermaid,  with  thy  note,    ] 

To  drown  me  in  thy  sister's  flood  of  tears  j 
Sing,  siren,  for  thyself,  and  I  will  dote : 

Spread  o'er  the  silver  waves  thy  golden  hairs. 
Luc.  What,  are  you  mad,  that  you  do  reason  so  ? 
Ant.  S.  Not  mad,  but  mated ' ;  how,  I  do  not  know. 
Luc  It  is  a  fault  that  springeth  from  your  eye. 
Ant.  S.   For  gazing  on  your  beams,   fair   sun, 

being  by. 
Luc.   Gaze  where  you  should,  and  that  will  clear 

your  sight. 
Ant.  S.  As  good  to  wink,  sweet  love,  as  look  on 

night. 
Luc.   Why  call  you  me  love  ?  call  my  sister  so. 
Ant.  S.   Thy  sister's  sister. 
Luc.  That's  my  sister. 

Ant   S.  No; 

It  is  thyself,  mine  own  selfs  better  part ; 
Mine  eye's  clear  eye,  my  dear  heart's  dearer  heart. 
Luc.   All  this  my  sister  is,  or  else  should  be. 
Ant.  S.    Call  thyself  sister,  sweet,  for  I  aim  thee  : 
Thee  will  I  love,  and  with  thee  lead  my  life ; 
Thou  hast  no  husband  yet,  nor  I  no  wife ; 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Luc.  O,  soft,  sir,  hold  you  still : 

I'll  fetch  my  sister,  to  get  her  goodwill.  [Exit  Luc. 


s  Vain,  is  light  of  tongue. 


1 1,  e.  Confounded. 


Enter,  from  the  House  of  Antipholus  of  Ephesus, 
Dromio  of  Syracuse. 
Ant.  S.   Why,  how  now,  Dromio?  where  run'st 
thou  so  fast. 

Dro.  S.   Do  you  know  me,  sir  ?  am  I  Dromio  ? 
am  I  your  man?  am  I  myself? 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  Dromio,  thou  art  my  man,  thou 
art  thyself. 

Zfro.  S.   I  am  an  ass,  I  am  a  woman's  man,  and 
besides  myself. 

Ant.  S.  What  woman's  man?  and  how  besides 

thyself? 
Bro.  S.   Marry,  sir,  besides  myself,  I  am  due  to 
a  woman  ;  one  that  claims  me,  one  that  haunts  me, 
one  that  will  have  me. 

Ant.  S.   What  claim  lays  she  to  thee  ? 
Dro.  S.   Marry,  sir,  such  claim  as  you  would  lay 
to  your  horse. 

Ant.  S.   Go,  hie  thee  presently,  post  to  tlie  road ; 
And  if  the  wind  blow  any  way  from  shore, 
I  will  not  harbour  in  this  town  to-night. 
If  any  bark  put  forth,  come  to  the  mart. 
Where  I  will  walk,  till  thou  return  to  me. 
If  every  one  know  us,  and  we  know  none, 
'Tis  time,  I  think,  to  trudge,  pack,  and  be  gone. 
Dro.  S.   As  from  a  bear  a  man  would  run  for 
Hfe, 
So  fly  I  from  her  that  would  be  my  wife.        [ErU. 
Ant.  S.  There's  none  but  witches  do  inhabit  here; 
And  therefore  'tis  high  time  that  I  were  hence. 
She,  that  doth  call  me  husband,  even  my  soul 
Doth  for  a  wife  abhor  :  but  her  fair  sister. 
Possess' d  with  such  a  gentle  sovereign  grace. 
Of  such  enchanting  presence  and  discflursCj . 
Hath  almost  made  me  traitor  to  myself: 
But,  lest  myself  be  guilty  to  self-wrong, 
I'll  stop  mine  ears  against  the  mermaid's  song 

Enter  Angelo. 
Ang.   Master  Antipholus. 
Ant.  S.   Ay,  that's  my  name. 
Ang.   I  know  it  well,  sir  :   Lo,  here  is  the  chain  j 
I  thought  to  have  ta'en  you  at  the  Porcupine  : 
The  chain  unfiuish'd  made  me  stay  thus  long. 
Ant.  S.   What  is  your  will,  that  I  shall  do  with 

this? 
Ang.  What  please  yoiu^lf,  sir ;  I  have  made  it 

for  you. 
Ant.  S.  Made  it  for  me,  sir  !  I  bespoke  it  not. 
Ang.   Not  once,  nor  twice,  but  twenty  times  you 
have : 
Go  home  with  it,  and  please  your  wife  withal ; 
And  soon  at  supper-time,  I'll  visit  you. 
And  then  receive  my  money  for  the  chain. 

Atit.  S.   I  pray  you,  sir,  receive  the  money  now. 
For  fear  you  ne'er  see  chjun,  nor  money,  more. 
Ang.   You  are  a  merry  man,  sir ;  fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 
Ant   S.   What  I  should  think  of  this,  I  cannot 

tell ; 
But  this  I  think,  there's  no  man  is  so  vain, 
That  would  refuse  so  fair  an  offer'd  chain. 
I  see,  a  man  here  needs  not  live  by  shifts. 
When  in  the  streets  he  meets  such  golden  gifts. 
I'll  to  the  mart,  and  there  for  Dromio  stay  j 
If  any  ship  put  out,  then  straight  away.  [Exit. 


300 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Act  IV. 


ACT   IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  same. 
Enter  a  Merchant,  Angelo,  and  an  Officer. 

Mer.   You  know,  since  pentecost  the  sum  is  due. 
And  since  I  have  not  much  importuned  you  ; 
Nor  now  I  had  not,  but  that  I  am  bound 
To  Persia,  and  want  gilders  for  my  voyage : 
Therefore  make  present  satisfaction, 
Or  I'll  attach  you  by  this  officer. 

^ng.   Even  just  the  sum,  that  I  do  owe  to  you, 
Is  growing  2  to  me  by  Antipholus  : 
And,  in  the  instant  that  I  met  with  you, 
He  had  of  me  a  chain  ;  at  five  o'clock, 
I  shall  receive  the  money  for  the  same : 
Pleaseth  you  walk  with  me  down  to  his  house, 
I  will  discharge  my  bond,  and  thank  you  too. 

Etiter  Antiphoi-us  of  Ephesus,  and  Dkomio  of 
Ephesus. 

0^.   That  labour  may  you  save ;  see  where  he 

comes. 
^nt.  E'  While  I  go  to  the  goldsmith's  house,  go 
thou 
And  buy  a  rope's  end  ;  that  will  I  bestow 
Among  my  wife  and  her  confederates, 
For  locking  me  out  of  my  doors  by  day.  — 
But  soft,  I  see  the  goldsmith  :  —  get  thee  gone ; 
Buy  thou  a  rope,  and  bring  it  home  to  me. 

Dro.  E.    I  buy  a  thousand  pound  a  year  !   I  buy 
a  rope  !  \^Exit  Dro.  E. 

Ant.  E.  A  man  is  well  holp  up,  that  trusts  to  you  : 
I  promised  your  presence,  and  the  chain  ; 
But  neither  chain,  nor  goldsmith,  came  to  me  : 
Belike,  you  thought  our  love  would  last  too  long. 
If  it  were  chain'd  together  ;  and  therefore  came  not. 

Ang.    Saving  your  merry  humour,  here's  the  note. 
How  much  your  chain  weighs  to  the  utmost  carat ; 
The  fineness  of  the  gold,  and  chargeful  fashion. 
Which  doth  amount  to  three  odd  ducats  more 
Than  I  stand  debted  to  this  gentleman  ; 
I  pray  you,  see  him  presently  discharg'd. 
For  he  is  bound  to  sea,  and  stays  but  for  it. 

Ant.  E.  I  am   not  furnish'd  vnth   the   present 
money ; 
Besides,  I  have  some  business  in  the  town  : 
Good  signior,  take  the  stranger  to  my  house, 
And  with  you  take  the  chain,  and  bid  my  wife 
Disburse  the  sum  on  the  receipt  thereof ; 
Perchance  I  will  be  there  as  soon  as  you. 

Ang.  Then  you  will  bring  the  chain  to  her  your- 
self? 
Ant.  E.   No ;  bear  it  with  you,  lest  I  come  not 

time  enough. 
Ang.   Well,  sir,  I  will :  Have  you  the  chain  about 

you? 
Ant.  E.   An  if  I  have  not,  sir,  I  hope  you  have  ; 
Or  else  you  may  return  without  your  money. 
Ang.   Nay,  come,  I  pray  you,  sir,  give  me  the 
chain ; 
Both  wind  and  tide  stays  for  this  gentleman. 
And  I,  to  blame,  have  held  him  here  too  long. 
Ant.  E.  Good  lord,  you  use  this  dalliance,  to  ex- 
cuse 
Your  breach  of  promise  to  the  Porcupine  : 
2  Accruing. 


I  should  have  chid  you  for  not  bringing  it. 
But,  like  a  shrew,  you  first  begin  to  brawl. 

Mer.  The  hour  steals  on;  I  pray  you,  sir,  despatch. 

Ang.    You    hear,  how  he  importunes  me;   the 
chain  — 

Ant.  E.   Why  give  it  to  my  wife,  and  fetch  your 
money. 

Ang.   Come,  come,  you  know,  I  gave  it  you  even 
now ; 
Either  send  the  chain,  or  send  me  by  some  token. 

Ant.  E.   Fye  !  how  you  run  this  humour  out  of 
breath  : 
Come,  Where's  the  chain  ?  I  pray  you  let  me  see  it. 

Mer.   My  business  cannot  brook  this  dalliance  ; 
Good  sir,  say,  whe'r  you'll  answer  me  or  no  ; 
If  not,  I  '11  leave  him  to  the  officer. 

Ant.  E.  I  answer  you !  What  should  I  answer  you? 

Ang.   The  money  that  you  owe  me  for  the  chain. 

Ant.  E.   I  owe  you  none,  till  I  receive  the  chain. 

Ang.  You  know,  I  gave  it  you  half  an  hour  since. 

Ant.  E.   You   gave    me   none ;  you   wrong  mo 
much  to  say  so. 

^ng.   You  wrong  me  more,  sir,  in  denying  it : 
Consider,  how  it  stands  upon  my  credit. 

Mer.   Well,  officer,  arrest  him  at  my  suit. 

0^.   I  do;  and  charge  you  in  the  duke's  namev 
to  obey  me. 

Ang.   This  touches  me  in  reputation  :  — 
Either  consent  to  pay  this  sum  for  me. 
Or  I  attach  you  by  this  officer. 

Ant.  E.   Consent  to  pay  thee  that  I  never  had  ! 
Arrest  me,  foolish  fellow,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Ang.   Here  is  thy  fee ;  arrest  him,  officer ; 
I  would  not  spare  my  brother  in  this  case. 
If  he  should  scorn  me  so  apparently. 

0^.    I  do  arrest  you,  sir ;  you  hear  the  suit. 

Ant.  E.   I  do  obey  thee,  till  I  give  thee  bail :  — 
But,  sirrah,  you  shall  buy  this  sport  as  dear 
As  all  the  metal  in  your  shop  will  answer. 

Ang.    Sir,  sir,  I  shall  have  law  in  Ephesus, 
To  your  notorious  shame,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Dro.  S.   Master,  there  is  a  bark  of  Epidamnum, 
That  stays  but  till  her  owner  comes  aboard. 
And  then,  sir,  bears  away :   our  fraughtage  3,  sir, 
I  have  convey'd  aboard  ;  and  I  have  bought 
The  oil,  the  balsamum,  and  aqua-vitae. 
The  ship  is  in  her  trim  ;  the  merry  wind 
Blows  fair  from  land :   they  stay  for  nought  at  all, 
But  for  their  owner,  master,  and  yourself. 

Ant.  E.   How    now !    a   madman !    Why,    thou 
peevish  ■*  sheep. 
What  ship  of  Epidamnum  stays  for  me  ? 

Dro.  S.  A  ship  you  sent  me  to,  to  hire  waftage.*] 

Ant.  E.   Thou  drunken  slave,  I  sent  thee  for 
rope; 
And  told  thee  to  what  purpose  and  what  end. 

Dro.  S.  You  sent  me,  sir,  for  a  rope's  end  as  soon: 
You  sent  me  to  the  bay,  sir,  for  a  bark. 

Ant.  E.  I  will  debate  this  matter  at  more  leisi 
And  teach  your  ears  to  listen  with  more  heed. 
To  Adriana,  villain,  hie  thee  straight : 


3  Freight,  cargo. 


Silly. 


*  Carriage, 


Scene  II. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


301 


Give  her  tliis  key,  and  tell  her,  in  the  desk 
That's  cover'd  o'er  with  Turkish  tapestry, 
There  is  a  purse  of  ducats  :   let  her  send  it ; 
Tell  her,  I  am  arrested  in  the  street, 
And  that  shall  bail  me:  hie  thee,  slave ;  be  gone. 
On,  oflScer,  to  prison  till  it  come. 

[Exeunt  Merchant,    Anoelo,  Officer,   and 
Ant.  E. 
Dro.  S.   To  Adriana  !  that  is  where  he  din'd. 
Where  Dowsabel  did  claim  me  for  her  husband : 
Thither  I  must,  although  against  my  will. 
For  servants  must  their  masters'  minds  fulfil.    [Exit. 

SCENE  Ih  —  The  same. 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 

^dr.    Ah,  Luciana,  did  he  tempt  thee  so  ? 
Mightst  thou  perceive  austerely  in  his  eye 
That  he  did  plead  in  earnest,  yea  or  no  ? 

Look'd  he  or  red,  or  pale  ;  or  sad  or  merily  ? 
What  observations  mad'st  thou  in  this  case. 
Of  his  heart's  meteors  tilting  in  his  face?^ 

Ltic.   First,  he  denied  you  had  in  him  no  right. 
^dr.    He  meant,  he  did  me  none ;  the  more  my 

spite. 
Luc.  Then  swore  he,  that  he  was  a  stranger  here. 
Adr.   And  true  he  swore,  though  yet  forsworn  he 

were. 
Luc.  Then  pleaded  I  for  you. 
Adr.  And  what  said  he  ? 

IjUC.  That  love  I  begg'd  for  you,  he  begg'd  of  me. 
Adr.  With  what  persuasion  did  he  tempt  thy  love? 
Luc.  With  words  that  in  an  honest  suit  might 
move. 
First  he  did  praise  my  beauty ;  then,  my  speech. 
yfdr.   Didst  speak  him  fair  ? 
Luc.  Have  patience,  I  beseech. 

jidr.   I  cannot,  nor  I  will  not,  hold  me  still ; 
My  tongue,  though  not  my  heart,  shall  have  his  will. 
He  is  deformed,  crooked,  old,  and  sere  7, 
111-fac'd,  worse-bodied,  shapeless  every  where  : 
Vicious,  ungentle,  foolish,  blunt,  unkind ; 
Stigmatical  in  making  8,  worse  in  mind. 

Luc.  Who  would  be  jealous  then  of  such  a  one  ? 
No  evil  lost  is  wail'd  when  it  is  gone. 

Adr.   Ah  !  but  I  think  him  better  than  I  say, 
And  yet  would  herein  others'  eyes  were  worse  : 
Far  from  her  nest  the  lapwing  cries  away  9  ; 

My  heart  prays  for  him,  though  my  tongue  do 
curse. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Dro.  S.    Here,  go ;  the  desk,  the  purse ;  sweet 
now,  make  haste. 

Luc.   How  hast  thou  lost  thy  breath  ? 

I>ro.  S.  By  running  fast 

Adr.  Where  is  thy  master,  Dromio  ?  is  he  well  ? 

Dro.  S.  No,  he's  in  Tartar  Umbo,  worse  than  hell : 
A  devil  in  an  everlasting  garment  '  hath  him, 
One,  whose  hard  heart  is  button'd  up  with  steel ; 
A  fiend,  a  fairy,  pitiless  and  rough ; 
A  wolf,  nay  worse,  a  fellow  all  in  buff; 
A  back-friend,  a  shoulder-clapper,  one  that  coun- 
termands 
The  passages  of  alleys,  creeks,  and  narrow  lands. 

«  An  allusion  to  the  rmlnesa  of  the  northern  light*,  likened 
to  the  appearance  of  armies.  7  Dry,  withered. 

"  Marked  by  nature  with  defonnity. 

'  Who  crieth  most  where  her  nest  is  not 

'  The  officers  in  those  days  were  clad  in  buff,  which  i»  aito 
a  cant  expression  for  a  man's  fkia 


Adr.  Why,  man,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Dro.  S.   I  do  not  know  the  matter :  he  is  'rested 

on  the  case. 
Adr.  What,  is  he  arrested  ?  tell  me,  at  whose  suit. 
Dro.  S.   I  know  not  at  whose  suit  he  is  arrested, 
well ; 
But  he's  in  a  suit  of  buff,  which  'rested  him,  that 

can  I  tell : 
Will  you  send  him,  mistress,  redemption,  the  money 
in  the  desk  ? 
Adr.   Go  fetch  it,  sister.  —  This  I  wonder  at, 

[Exit  Luciana. 
That  he,  unknown  to  me,  should  be  in  debt : 
Tell  me,  was  he  arrested  on  a  band  ?  2 

Dro.  S.  Not  on  a  band,  but  on  a  stronger  thing ; 
A  chain,  a  chain  ;  do  you  not  hear  it  ring  ? 
Adr.   What,  the  chain  ? 

Dro.  S.  No,  no,  the  bell;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 

It  was  two  ere  I  left  him,  and  now  the  clock  strikes 

one. 

Adr.  The  hours  come  back  !  that  did  I  never  hear. 

Dro.  S.   O  yes,   if  any  hour   meet  a  sergeant, 

a'tums  back  for  very  fear. 
Adr.    As  if  time  were  in  debt !  how  fondly  dost 

thou  reason  ? 
Dro.  S.  Time  is  a  very  bankrupt,  and  owes  more 
than  he's  worth  to  season. 
Nay,  he's  a  thief  too :  Have  you  not  heard  men  say. 
That  time  comes  stealing  on  by  night  and  day  ? 
If  he  be  in  debt,  and  theft,  and  a  sergeant  in  the  way. 
Hath  he  not  reason  to  turn  back  an  hour  in  a  day? 

Enter  Luciana. 
Adr.   Go,   Dromio;    there's  the  money,  bear  it 
straight ; 
And  bring  thy  master  home  immediately.  — 
Come,  sister  :    I  am  press'd  down  with  conceit  3 ; 
Conceit  my  comfort,  and  my  injury.   [Exeunt, 

SCENE  III.  —  The  same. 
Enter  Antifholus  of  Syracuse. 

Ant.  S.  There's  not  a  man  1  meet,  but  doth  salute 
me 
As  if  I  were  their  well-acquainted  friend  ; 
And  every  one  doth  call  me  by  my  name. 
Some  tender  money  to  me,  some  invite  me  ; 
Some  other  give  me  thanks  for  kindnesses ; 
Some  offer  me  commodities  to  buy  : 
Even  now  a  tailor  call'd  me  in  his  shop, 
And  show'd  me  silks  that  he  had  bought  for  me. 
And,  therewithal,  took  measure  of  my  body. 
Sure,  these  are  but  imaginary  wiles. 
And  Lapland  sorcerers  inhabit  here. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  here's  the  gold  you  sent  me  for : 
What,  have  you  got  the  picture  of  old  Adam  new 
apparel' d? 

Ant.  S.  What  gold  is  this  ?  what  Adam  dost  thou 
mean  ? 

Dro.  S.  He  that  came  behind  you,  sir,  like  an 
evil  angel,  and  bid  you  forsake  your  liberty. 

Ant.  S.    I  understand  thee  not. 

Dro.  S.  No  ?  why,  'tis  a  plain  case  :  he  that  went 
like  a  base-viol,  in  a  case  of  leather ;  the  man,  sir, 
that,  when  gentlemen  are  tired,  gives  them  a  fob, 
and  'rests  them ;  he,  sir,  that  takes  pity  on  decayed 


*  Le.  Bond. 


s  Fanciful  conception. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Act  IV. 


men,  and  gives  them  suits  of  durance ;  he  that  sets 
up  his  rest  to  do  more  exploits  with  his  mace,  than 
a  morris-pike. 

Ant.  S.   What !  thou  mean'st  an  oflScer  ? 

Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir,  the  sergeant  of  the  band ;  he, 
that  brings  any  man  to  answer  it,  that  breaks  his 
band  :  one  that  thinks  a  man  always  going  to  bed, 
and  says,  God  give  you  good  rest  I 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  tliere  rest  in  your  foolery.  Is 
there  any  ship  puts  forth  to-night  ?  may  we  be  gone  ? 

Dro.  S.  Why,  sir,  I  brought  you  word  an  hour 
since,  that  the  bark  Expedition  put  forth  to-night, 
and  then  were  you  hindered  by  the  sergeant,  to 
tarry  for  the  hoy,  Delay  :  Here  are  the  angels  that 
you  sent  for,  to  deliver  you. 

Ant.  S.   The  fellow  is  distract,  and  so  am  I ; 
And  here  we  wander  in  illusions  ; 
Some  blessed  power  deliver  us  from  hence  ! 

Enter  a  Courtezan. 

Cour.   Well  met,  well  met,  master  Antipholus. 
I  see,  sir,  you  have  found  the  goldsmith  now  ; 
Is  that  the  chain,  you  promis'd  me  to-day  ? 

Ant.  S.   I  conjure  thee  to  leave  me,  and  be  gone. 

Cour.  Give  me  the  ring  of  mine  you  had  at  dinner. 
Or,  for  my  diamond,  the  chain  you  promis'd  ; 
And  I'll  be  gone,  sir,  and  not  trouble  you. 

Dro.  S.  Some  devils  ask  but  the  paring  of  one's  nail, 
A  rush,  a  hair,  a  drop  of  blood,  a  pin, 
A  nut,  a  cherry-stone  :  but  she,  more  covetous, 
Would  have  a  chain. 
Master,  be  wise ;  and  if  you  give  it  her. 
The  dgvil  will  shake  her  chain,  and  fright  us  with  it. 

Cour.  I  pray  you,  sir,  my  ring,  or  else  the  chain  ; 
I  hope,  you  do  not  mean  to  cheat  me  so. 

Ant.  S.   Avaunt,  thou  witch  !   Come,  Dromio,  let 
us  go. 

Dro.  S.   Fly  pride,  says  the  peacock :   Mistress, 
that  you  know. 

[Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  Dro.  S. 

Cour.   Now,  out  of  doubt,  Antipholus  is  mad, 
Else  would  he  never  so  demean  himself : 
A  ring  he  hath  of  mine  worth  forty  ducats. 
And  for  the  same  he  promis'd  me  a  chain  ! 
Both  one,  and  other,  he  denies  me  now. 
The  reason  that  I  gather  he  is  mad, 
(Besides  this  present  instance  of  his  rage,) 
Is  a  mad  tale,  he  told  to-day  at  dinner. 
Of  his  own  doors  being  shut  against  his  entrance. 
Belike,  his  wife,  acquainted  with  his  fits, 
On  purpose  shut  the  doors  against  his  way. 
My  way  is  now,  to  hie  home  to  his  house, 
And  tell  his  wife,  that,  being  lunatick. 
He  rush'd  into  my  house,  and  took  perforce 
My  ring  away  :    This  course  I  fittest  choose  ; 
For  forty  ducats  is  too  much  to  lose.  [Exit. 

SCENE  lY.  — The  same. 
Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  and  an  Officer. 
Ant.  E.  Fear  me  not,  man,  I  will  not  break  away  ; 
I'll  give  thee,  ere  I  leave  thee,  so  much  money 
To  warrant  thee,  as  I  am  'rested  for. 
My  wife  is  in  a  wayward  mood  to-day  : 
And  will  not  lightly  trust  the  messenger. 
That  I  should  be  attach'd  in  Ephesus  : 
I  tell  you,  'twill  sound  harshly  in  her  ears.  — 

Enter  Dromio  of  Ephesus,  with  a  ropers  end. 
Here  comes  my  man  ;  I  think,  he  brings  the  money. 
How  now,  sir  ?  have  you  that  I  sent  you  for  ? 


Dro.  E.  Here's  that,  I  warrant  you,  will  pay 
them  all.  ^ 

Ant.  E.   But  Where's  the  money  ? 

Dro.  E.  Why,  sir,  I  gave  the  money  for  the  rope. 

Ant.  E.  Five  hundred  ducats,  villain,  for  a  rope  ? 

Dro.  E.  I'll  serve  you,  sir,  five  hundred  at  the  rate. 

Ant.  E.  To  what  end  did  I  bid  thee  hie  thee  home? 

Dro.  E.  To  a  rope's  end,  sir ;  and  to  that  end 
am  I  return'd. 

Ant  E.  And  to  that  end,  sir,  I  will  welcome  you. 

[Heating  him. 

Off.    Good  sir,  be  patient. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  'tis  for  me  to  be  patient ;  I  am  in 
adversity. 

Off.    Good  now,  hold  thy  tongue. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  rather  persuade  him  to  hold  his 
hands. 

A7it.  E,   Thou  senseless  villain  ! 

Dro.  E.  I  would  I  were  senseless,  sir,  that  I 
might  not  feel  your  blows. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  art  sensible  in  nothing  but  blows, 
and  so  is  an  ass. 

Dro.  E.  I  am  an  ass  indeed ;  you  may  prove  it 
by  my  long  ears.  I  have  serv'd  him  from  the  hour 
of  my  nativity  to  this  instant,  and  have  nothing  at 
his  hands  for  my  service,  but  blows :  when  I  am 
cold,  he  heats  me  with  beating  :  when  I  am  warm, 
he  cools  me  with  beating :  I  am  waked  with  it 
when  I  sleep  ;  raised  with  it,  when  I  sit ;  driven  out 
of  doors  with  it,  when  I  go  from  home ;  welcomed 
home  with  it,  when  I  return  :  nay,  I  bear  it  on  my 
shoulders,  as  a  beggar  wont  her  brat ;  and,  I  think, 
when  he  hath  lamed  me,  I  shall  beg  with  it  from 
door  to  door. 

Enter  Adriana,  Luoiana,  and  the  Courtezan, 

tuith  Pinch,  and  others. 
Ant.  E.    Come,  go  along  j  my  wife  is  coming 

yonder. 
Dro.  E.  Mistress,  respice  finem,  respect  your  end  ; 
or  rather  the  prophecy,  like  the  parrot.  Beware  the 
rope's  end. 

Ant.  E.   Wilt  thou  still  talk  ?  [Beats  him. 

Cour.    How  say  you  now  ?  is  not  your  husband 

mad  ? 
Adr.   His  incivility  confirms  no  less.  — 
Good  doctor  Pinch,  you  are  a  conjurer ; 
Establish  him  in  his  true  sense  again, 
And  I  will  please  you  what  you  will  demand. 
Luc.   Alas,  how  fiery  and  how  sharp  he  looks  ! 
Cour.   Mark,  how  he  trembles  in  his  ecstasy  ! 
Pinch.    Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  feel  your 

pulse. 
Ant.  E.  There  is  my  hand  and  let  it  feel  your  ear. 
Pinch.   I  charge  thee,   Satan,  hous'd  within  this 
man. 
To  yield  possession  to  my  holy  prayers, 
And  to  thy  state  of  darkness  hie  thee  straight ; 
I  conjure  thee  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven. 

Ant.  E.   Peace,  doting  wizard,  peace ;   I  am  not 

mad. 
Adr.   O,  that  thou  wert  not,  poor  distressed  soul ! 
Ant.  E.   You  minion,  you,  are  these  your  cus- 
tomers ? 
Did  this  companion  with  a  saffron  face 
Revel  and  feast  it  at  my  house  to-day. 
Whilst  upon  me  the  guilty  doors  were  shut. 
And  I  denied  to  enter  in  my  house  ? 

*  Correct  them  all. 


Scene  IV. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


S03 


Adr.   O,  husband,  God  doth  know,  you  din'd  at 
home, 
Where  'would  you  had  remain'd  until  this  time, 
Free  from  these  slanders,  and  this  open  shame  ! 
Aid.  E.   I  din'd  at  home  !    Thou  villain,  what 

say'st  thou  ? 
Dro.  E.   Sir,  sooth  to  say,  you  did  not  dine  at 

home. 
Ant.  E.  Were  not  my  doors  lock'd  up,  and  I 

shut  out? 
Dro.  E.  Perdy  *,  your  doors  were  lock'd,  and  you 

shut  out. 
Ant.  E.  And  did  not  she  herself  revile  me  there? 
Dro.  E,  Sans  fable^,  she  herself  revil'd  you  there. 
Ant.  E.    Did  not  her  kitchen-maid  rail,  taunt, 

and  scorn  me  ? 
Dro.  E.    Certes  7,   she   did ;    the   kitchen-vestal 

scorn'd  you. 
Ant.  E.  And  did  not  I  in  rage  depart  from  thence? 
Dro.  E.   In  verity  you  did  j  —  my  bones  bear 
witness, 
That  since  have  felt  tlie  vigour  of  his  rage. 

Adr.  Is't  good  to  soothe  him  in  these  contraries  ? 
Pinch.   It  is  no  shame  ;  the  fellow  finds  his  vein. 
And,  yielding  to  him,  humours  well  his  frenzy. 
Ant.  E.   Thou   hast  suborn'd  tlie  goldsmith  to 

arrest  me. 
Ad-".   Alas,  I  sent  you  money  to  redeem  you. 
By  Dromio  here,  who  came  in  haste  for  it 
Dro.  E.  Money  by  me  ?  heart  and  good- will  you 
might. 
But,  surely,  master,  not  a  rag  of  money. 

Ant.  E.   Went'st  not  thou  to  her  for  a  purse  of 

ducats  ? 
Adr.    He  came  to  me,  and  I  deliver'd  it. 
Luc.   And  I  am  witness  with  her,  that  she  did. 
Dro.  E,    Heaven  and  the  rope-maker,  bear  me 
witness, 
Tliat  I  was  sent  for  nothing  but  a  rope  ! 

Pinch.   Mistress,  both  man  and  master  is  pos- 
sess'd ; 
I  know  it  by  their  pale  and  deadly  looks  : 
They  must  be  bound,  and  laid  in  some  dark  room. 
Ant.  E.   Say,  wherefore  didst  thou  lock  me  forth 
to-day. 
And  why  dost  thou  deny  the  bag  of  gold  ? 

Adr.   I  did  not,  gentle  husband,  lock  thee  forth. 
Dro.  E.    And,  gentle  master,  I  receiv'd  no  gold  ; 
But  I  confess,  sir,  tliat  we  were  lock'd  out. 

Adr.   Dissembling  villain,  thou  speak'st  false  in 

both. 
Aiit.  E.  Dissembling  harlot  thou  art  false  in  all ; 
And  art  confederate  with  a  wicked  pack. 
To  make  a  loathsome  abject  scorn  of  me  : 
But  with  these  nails  I'll  pluck  out  these  false  eyes, 
Tliat  would  behold  in  me  this  shameful  sport. 

[Pinch  and  his  Assistants  bind  Ant.  E. 
and  Dro.  E. 
Adr.   O,  bind  him,  bind  him,  let  him  not  come 

near  me. 
Pijicli.  More   company  !  —  the   fiend  is   strong 

within  him. 
Luc.   Ah  me,  poor  man,  how  pale  and  wan  he 

looks ! 
Ant.  E.  What,  will  you  murder  me  ?  Thou  gaoler, 
thou, 

*  A  corruption  of  the  French  oath— parrfiew. 
«  Without  a  fable.  ?  Certainly. 


I  am  thy  prisoner  ;  wilt  thou  suffer  them 
To  make  a  rescue  ? 

Off".  Masters,  let  him  go  ; 

He  IS  my  prisoner,  and  you  shall  not  have  him. 

Pinch.    Go,  bind  this  man,  for  he  is  frantick  too. 

Adr.  What  wilt  thou  do,  thou  peevish  8  officer  ? 
Hast  thou  delight  to  see  a  wretched  man 
Do  outrage  and  displeasure  to  himself  ? 

Off".   He  is  my  prisoner  ;  if  I  let  him  go. 
The  debt  he  owes,  will  be  required  of  me. 

Adr.   I  will  discharge  thee,  ere  I  go  from  thee : 
Bear  me  forthwith  unto  his  creditor. 
And  knowing  how  the  debt  grows,  I  will  pay  it. 
Good  master  doctor,  see  him  safe  convey 'd 
Home  to  my  house.  —  O  most  unhappy  day  ! 

Ant.  E.   O  most  unhappy  strumpet ! 

Dro.  E.   Master,  I  am  here  entered  in  bond  fof 
you. 

Ant.  E.  Out  on  thee,  villain  !  wherefore  dost  thou 
mad  me? 

Dro.  E.  Will  you  be  bound  for  nothing  ?  be  mad, 
Good  master ;  cry,  the  devil.  — 

Luc.  God  help,  poor  souls,  how  idly  do  they  talk  ! 

Adr.    Go  bear  him  hence.  —  Sister,  go  you  witli 
me.  — 
[Exeunt  Pinch  and  Assistants,  udth  Ant.  E. 
and  Dro.  E. 
Say  now,  whose  suit  is  he  arrested  at  ? 

OJ'.   One  Angelo,  a  goldsmith  j   Do  you  know 
him  ? 

Adr.  I  know  the  man  :  What  is  the  sum  he  owes  ? 

0^.   Two  hundred  ducats. 

Adr.  Say,  how  grows  it  due  ? 

0^.   Due  for  a  chain,  your  husband  had  of  him. 

Adr.   He  did  bespeak  a  chain  for  mc,  but  had  it 
not. 

Cour.  When  as  your  husband,  all  in  rage,  to-day 
Came  to  my  house,  and  took  away  my  ring, 
(The  ring  I  saw  upon  his  finger  now,) 
Straight  after,  did  I  meet  him  with  a  chain. 

Adr.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  did  never  see  it :  — 
Come,  gaoler,  bring  me  where  the  goldsmith  is, 
I  long  to  know  the  truth  hereof  at  large. 

E7iter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse,  unth  his  rapier  draion, 
and  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 
Luc.  Heaven,  for  thy  mercy !  they  are  loose  again. 
Adr.   And  come  with  naked  swords ;  let's  call 
more  help. 
To  have  them  bound  again. 

Of.  Away,  they'll  kill  us. 

[Exeunt  Officer,  Adr.  and  Luc. 

Ant.  S.   I  see,  these  witches  are  afraid  of  swords. 

Dro.  S.   She,  that  would  be  your  wife,  now  ran 

from  you. 
Ant.  S    Come  to  tlie  Centaur ;  fetch  our  stuffs 
from  thence : 
I  long,  that  we  were  safe  and  sound  aboard. 

Dro.  S.  Faith,  stay  here  tliis  night,  they  will 
surely  do  us  no  harm  ;  you  saw,  they  speak  us  fair, 
give  us  gold :  methinks,  they  are  such  a  gentle 
nation,  tliat  but  for  the  mountain  of  mad  flesli  tliat 
claims  marriage  of  me,  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to 
stay  here  still,  and  turn  witch. 

Ant.  S.  I  will  not  stay  to-night  for  all  the  town ; 
Therefore  away,  to  get  our  stuff  aboard.    [Exeunt, 


«  Foolith. 


•  Baggage 


304 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Act  V. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. —  The  same. 

Enter  Merchant  and  Anoelo. 

Ayig.   I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  I  have  hinder'd  you ; 
But,  I  protest,  he  had  the  chain  of  me. 
Though  most  dishonestly  he  doth  deny  it. 

Mer.   How  is  the  man  esteem'd  here  in  the  city  ? 

u^ng.   Of  very  reverend  reputation,  sir, 
Of  credit  infinite,  highly  belov'd, 
Second  to  none  that  lives  here  in  the  city ; 
His  word  might  bear  my  wealth  at  any  time. 

Mer.   Speak  softly  :  yonder,  as  I  think,  he  walks. 

Enter  Antipholus,  and  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Ang.  'Tis  so  ;  and  that  self  chain  about  his  neck, 
Which  he  forswore,  most  monstrously,  to  have. 
Good  sir,  draw  near  to  me,  I'll  speak  to  him. 
Signior  Antipholus,  I  wonder  much 
That  you  would  put  me  to  this  shame  and  trouble ; 
And  not  without  some  scandal  to  yourself, 
With  circumstance,  and  oaths,  so  to  deny 
This  chain,  which  now  you  wear  so  openly  : 
Besides  the  charge,  the  shame,  imprisonment, 
You  have  done  wrong  to  this  my  honest  friend  ; 
Who,  but  for  staying  on  our  controversy. 
Had  hoisted  sail,  and  put  to  sea  to-day  : 
This  chain  you  had  of  me,  can  you  deny  it  ? 

Ant.  S.   I  think,  I  had  ;   I  never  did  deny  it  ? 

Mer.  Yes,  that  you  did,  sir ;  and  forswore  it  too. 

Ant.  S.  Who  heard  me  to  deny  it,  or  forswear  it? 

Mer.  These  ears  of  mine,  thou  knowest,  did  hear 
thee: 
Fye  on  thee,  wretch  !  'tis  pity,  that  thou  liv'st 
To  walk  where  any  honest  men  resort. 

Ant.  S.   Thou  art  a  villain,  to  impeach  me  thus : 
I'll  prove  mine  honour,  and  mine  honesty 
Against  thee  presently,  if  thou  dar'st  stand. 

Mer.   I  dare,  and  do  defy  thee  for  a  villain. 

iThet/  draw. 

Enter  Adriaka,  Luciana,  Courtezan,  and  others. 

Adr.   Hold,  hurt  him  not,  for  heaven's  sake ;  he 
is  mad ;  — 
Some  get  within  him  ',  take  his  sword  away  : 
Bind  Dromio  too,  and  bear  them  to  my  house. 
Dro.  S.   Run,   master,    run ;   for  heaven's  sake, 
take  a  house. 
This  is  some  priory  ;  —  In,  or  we  are  spoil'd. 

[Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  Dro.  S.  to  the  Priory. 

Enter  the  Abbess. 

Abb.    Be  quiet,  people;  Wherefore  throng  you 
hither  ? 

Adr.  To  fetch  my  poor  distracted  husband  hence  : 
Let  us  come  in,  that  we  may  bind  him  fast. 
And  bear  him  home  for  his  recovery. 

Ang.   I  knew,  he  was  not  in  his  perfect  wits. 

Mer.    I  am  sorry  now,  that  I  did  draw  on  him. 

Abb.  How  long  hath  this  possession  held  the  man? 

Adr.    This  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  sour,  sad. 
And  much,  much  different  from  the  man  he  was ; 
But,  till  this  afternoon,  his  passion 
Ne'er  brake  into  extremity  of  rage. 

Abb.  Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck  at  sea? 

1   i.  e.  Close,  grapple  with  him. 


Buried  some  dear  friend  ?  Hath  not  else  his  eye 
Stray'd  his  affection  in  unlawful  love  ? 
A  sin,  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men. 
Who  give  their  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing. 
Which  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to  ? 

Adr.   To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last ; 
Namely,  some  love,  that  drew  him  oft  from  home. 

Abb.  You  should  for  that  have  reprehended  him. 

Adr.   Why,  so  I  did. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  rough  enough. 

Adr.   As  roughly,  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 

Abb.   Haply,  in  private. 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

Abb.   Ay,  but  not  enough. 

Adr.   It  was  the  copy  *  of  our  conference  : 
In  bed,  he  slept  not  for  my  urging  it ; 
At  board,  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it  j 
Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme  ; 
In  company,  I  often  glanced  it ; 
Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vile  and  bad. 

Abb.  And  thereof  came  it,  that  the  man  was  mad : 
The  venom  clamours  of  a  jealous  woman 
Poison  more  deadly  than  a  mad  dog's  tooth. 
It  seems  his  sleeps  were  hinder'd  by  thy  railing : 
And  thereof  comes  it  that  his  head  is  light. 
Thou    say'st   his   meat  was   sauc'd   with   thy  up- 

braidings : 
Unquiet  meals  make  ill  digestions. 
Thereof  the  raging  fire  of  fever  bred ; 
And  what's  a  fever  but  a  fit  of  madness? 
Thou  say'st  his  sports  were  hinder'd  by  thy  brawls : 
Sweet  recreation  barr'd,  what  doth  ensue, 
But  moody  and  dull  melancholy, 
(Kinsman  to  grim  and  comfortless  despair ;) 
And,  at  her  heels,  a  huge  infectious  troop 
Of  pale  distemperatures,  and  foes  to  life  ? 
In  food,  in  sport,  and  life-preserving  rest 
To  be  disturb'd,  would  mad  or  man,  or  beast ; 
The  consequence  is  then,  thy  jealous  fits 
Have  scared  thy  husband  from  the  use  of  wits. 

Luc.    She  never  reprehended  him  but  mildly^ 
When    he    demean'd    himself   rough,    rude,    and 

wildly,  — 
Why  bear  you  these  rebukes,  and  answer  not  ? 

Adr.   She  did  betray  me  to  my  own  reproof.  — 
Good  people,  enter,  and  lay  hold  on  him. 

Abb.    No,  not  a  creature  enters  in  my  house. 

Adr.   Then,  let  your  servants  bring  my  husband 
forth. 

Abb.   Neither  ;  he  took  this  place  for  sanctuary, 
And  it  shall  privilege  him  from  your  hands. 
Till  I  have  brought  him  to  his  wits  again. 
Or  lose  my  labour  in  essaying  it. 

Adr.   I  will  attend  my  husband,  be  his  nurse, 
Diet  his  sickness,  for  it  is  my  office. 
And  will  have  no  attorney  but  myself; 
And  therefore  let  me  have  him  home  with  me. 

Abb.    Be  patient ;  for  I  will  not  let  him  stir. 
Till  I  have  us'd  the  approved  means  I  have, 
With  wholesome  syrups,  drugs,  and  holy  prayers. 
To  make  of  him  a  formal  man  again  ?  : 
It  is  a  branch  and  parcel  of  mine  oath, 
A  charitable  duty  of  my  order  ; 
Therefore  depart,  and  leave  him  here  with  me. 

2  The  theme-  3  ,-.  e.  To  bnng  him  back  to  his  seneei 


Scene  I. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


305 


Adr.  I  will  not  hence,  and  leave  my  husband 
here ; 
And  ill  it  doth  beseem  your  holiness, 
To  separate  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

Abb.    Be  quiet,  and  depart,  thou  shalt  not  have 
J»m  [Exit  Abbess. 

Luc.  Complain  unto  the  duke  of  this  indignity. 
Adr.    Come,  go ;   I  will  fall  prostrate  at  his  feet, 
And  never  rise  until  my  tears  and  prayers 
Have  won  his  grace  to  come  in  person  hither. 
And  take  perforce  my  husband  from  the  abbess. 
Mer.   By  this,  I  think,  the  dial  points  at  five  : 
Anon,  I  am  sure,  the  duke  himself  in  person 
Comes  this  way  to  the  melancholy  vale  ; 
The  place  of  death  and  sorry  -«  execution. 
Behind  the  ditches  of  the  abbey  here. 
Ang.   Upon  what  cause  ? 
Mer.   To  see  a  reverend  Syracusan  merchant. 
Who  put  unluckily  into  tliis  bay 
Against  the  laws  and  statutes  of  this  town, 
Beheaded  publickly  for  his  offence. 

Ang.   See,  where  they  come  ;  we  will  behold  his 

death. 
Luc.  Kneel  to  the  duke,  before  he  pass  the  abbey. 

Enter  Duke  attended;  Mgeov  bare-headed;   with 
the  Headsman  and  other  Officers. 

Duke.   Yet  once  again  proclaim  it  publickly, 
If  any  friend  will  pay  the  sum  for  him, 
He  shall  not  die,  so  much  we  tender  him. 

Adr.  Justice,  most  sacred  duke,  against  the  abbess ! 

Duke.  She  is  a  virtuous  and  a  reverend  lady ; 
It  cannot  be,  that  she  hath  done  thee  wrong. 

Adr.   May  it  please  your  grace,  Antipholus,  my 
husband,  — 
Whom  I  made  lord  of  me  and  all  I  had. 
At  your  important  *  letters,  —  this  ill  day 
A  most  outrageous  fit  of  madness  took  him  ; 
That  desperately  he  hurried  through  the  street 
(With  him  his  bondman,  all  as  mad  as  he,} 
Doing  displeasure  to  the  citizens 
By  rushing  in  their  houses,  bearing  thence 
Rings,  jewels,  any  thing  his  rage  did  like. 
Once  did  I  get  him  bound,  and  sent  him  home, 
Whilst  to  take  order  6  for  the  wrongs  I  went. 
That  here  and  there  his  fury  had  committed. 
Anon,  I  wot  7  not  by  what  strong  escape. 
He  broke  from  those  that  had  the  guard  of  him ; 
And,  with  his  mad  attendant  and  himself. 
Each  one  with  ireful  passion,  with  drawn  swords. 
Met  us  again,  and,  madly  bent  on  us, 
Chas'd  us  away  ;  till  raising  of  more  aid, 
We  came  again  to  bind  them  :  then  they  fled 
Into  this  abbey,  whither  we  pursued  them ; 
And  here  the  abbess  shuts  the  gates  on  us. 
And  will  not  suffer  us  to  fetch  him  out. 
Nor  send  him  forth,  that  we  may  bear  him  hence. 
Therefore,  most  gracious  duke,  with  thy  command. 
Let  him  be  brought  forth,  and  borne  hence  for  help. 

Duke.  Long  since,  thy  husband  serv'd  me  in  my 
wars ; 
And  I  to  thee  engag'd  a  prince's  word. 
When  thou  didst  make  him  master  of  thy  bed. 

To  do  liim  all  the  grace  and  good  I  could 

Go  some  of  you,  knock  at  the  abbey-gate, 
And  bid  the  lady  abbess  come  to  me  ; 
I  will  determine  this  before  I  stir. 


Enter  a  Servant. 


•  1.  e.  To  take  meuures. 


^  Impottunate. 
7  Know. 


Serv.  O  mistress,  mistress,  shift  and  save  yourself! 
My  master  and  his  man  are  both  broke  loose. 
Beaten  the  maids  a-row  8,  and  bound  the  doctor. 
Whose  beard  they  have  singed  off  with  brands  of  fire; 
And  ever  as  it  blazed,  they  tlirew  on  him 
Great  pails  of  puddled  mire  to  quench  the  hair  : 
My  master  preaches  patience  to  him,  while 
His  man  with  scissars  nicks  him  like  a  fool : 
And,  sure,  unless  you  send  some  present  help, 
Between  them  they  will  kill  the  conjurer. 

Adr.  Peace,  fool,  thy  master  and  his  man  are  here; 
And  that  is  false  thou  dost  report  to  us. 

Serv.   Mistress,  upon  my  life,  I  tell  you  true ; 
I  have  not  breath'd  almost  since  I  did  see  it. 
He  cries  for  you,  and  vows,  if  he  can  take  you. 
To  scorch  your  face,  and  to  disfigure  you  . 

[Cry  within. 
Hark,  hark,  I  hear  him  mistress ;  fly,  be  gone. 

Duke.   Come,  stand  by  me,  fear  nothing :   G  uard 
with  halberts. 

Adr.    Ah  me,  it  is  my  husband  !   Witness  you. 
That  he  is  borne  about  invisible : 
Even  now  we  hous'd  him  in  the  abbey  here ; 
And  now  he's  there,  past  thought  of  human  reason. 

Enter  Antipholus  and  Dromio  o/'Ephesus. 

Ant.  E.  Justice,  most  gracious  duke,  oh,  grant 
me  justice  ! 
Even  for  the  service  that  long  since  I  did  thee. 
When  I  bestrid  thee,  in  the  wars,  and  took 
Deep  scars  to  save  thy  life ;  even  for  the  blood 
That  then  I  lost  for  thee,  now  grant  me  justice. 

AEge.  Unless  the  fear  of  death  doth  make  me  dote, 
I  see  my  son  Antipholus,  and  Dromio. 

Ant.  E.  Justice,  sweet  prince,  against  that  woman 
there. 
She  whom  thou  gav'st  to  me  to  be  my  wife ; 
That  hath  abused  and  dishonour'd  me, 
Even  in  the  strength  and  height  of  injury  ! 
Beyond  imagination  is  the  wrong, 
That  she  this  day  hath  shameless  thrown  on  me. 
Duke.  Discover  how,  and  thou  shalt  find  me  just. 
Ant.  E.  ITiis  day,  great  duke,  she  shut  the  doors 
upon  me. 
While  she  with  harlots  9  feasted  in  my  house. 
Duke.  A  grievous  fault:  Say,  woman,  didsttliou  so? 
Adr.  No,  my  good  lord :  —  myself,  he,  and  my 
sister. 
To-day  did  dine  together  :   so  befal  my  soul, 
As  this  is  false,  he  burdens  me  withal ! 

Luc   Ne'er  may  I  look  on  day,  nor  sleep  on  night. 
But  she  tells  to  your  highness  simple  truth  ! 

Ang.  O  peijur'd  woman !  They  are  both  forsworn. 
In  this  the  madman  justly  chargeth  them. 

Ant.  E.  My  liege,  I  am  advised  what  I  say ; 
Neither  disturb'd  with  the  effect  of  wine. 
Nor  heady-rash,  provok'd  with  raging  ire, 
Albeit,  my  wrongs  might  make  one  wiser  mad. 
This  woman  lock'd  me  out  this  day  from  dinner : 
That  goldsmith  tliere,  were  he  not  pack'd  with  her. 
Could  witness  it,  for  he  was  with  me  then  ; 
^Vho  parted  with  me  to  go  fetch  a  chain. 
Promising  to  bring  it  to  the  Porcupine, 
Where  Balthazar  and  I  did  dine  together. 
Our  dinner  done,  and  he  not  coming  thither, 


»  i.e.  SucceMively,  one  after  another. 
9  Harlot  was  a  term  of  reproach  applied  to  cheaU  among 
men  aa  well  as  to  wantons  among  women. 
X 


306 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Act  V. 


I  went  to  seek  him  :   in  the  street  I  met  him  ; 

And  in  his  company,  that  gentleman  ; 

There  did  this  perjur'd  goldsmith  swear  me  down, 

That  I  this  day  of  him  receiv'd  the  chain, 

Which,  heaven  knows,  I  saw  not :  for  the  which, 

He  did  arrest  me  with  an  officer. 

I  did  ohey ;  and  sent  my  peasant  home 

For  ceitain  ducats  :  he  with  none  retum'd. 

Then  fairly  I  bespoke  the  officer, 

To  go  in  person  with  me  to  my  house. 

By  the  way  we  met 

My  wife,  her  sister,  and  a  rabble  more 

Of  vile  confederates  :   along  with  them 

They  brought   one  Pinch ;    a  hungry,  lean-ftic'd 

villain, 
A  mere  anatomy,  a  mountebank, 
A  thread-bare  juggler,  and  a  fortune-teller  ; 
A  needy,  hollow-ey'd,  sharp-looking  wretch, 
A  living  dead  man  :   thi^  pernicious  slave. 
Forsooth,  took  on  him  as  a  conjurer  ; 
And,  gazing  in  mine  eyes,  feeling  my  pulse. 
And  with  no  face,  as  'twere  out-facing  me. 
Cries  out,  I  was  possess'd  :   then  altogether 
They  fell  upon  me,  bound  me,  bore  me  thence  ; 
And  in  a  dark  and  dankish  vault  at  home 
There  left  me  and  my  man,  both  bound  together  ; 
Till  gnawing  with  my  teeth  my  bonds  in  sunder, 
I  gain'd  my  freedom,  and  immediately 
Ran  hither  to  your  grace  ;  whom  I  beseech. 
To  give  me  ample  satisfaction 
For  these  deep  shames  and  great  indignities. 

-^ng.  My  lord,  in  truth,  thus  far  I  veitness  with  him ; 
That  he  dined  not  at  home,  but  was  lock'd  out. 

Duke.    But  had  he  such  a  chain  of  thee,  or  no  ? 

Ang.   He  had,  my  lord  :   and  when  he  ran  in  here. 
These  people  saw  the  chain  about  his  neck. 

Mer.   Besides,  I  will  be  sworn,  these  ears  of  mine 
Heard  you  confess  you  had  the  chain  of  him. 
After  you  first  forswore  it  on  the  mart, 
And,  thereupon,  I  drew  my  sword  on  you  ; 
And  then  you  fled  into  this  abbey  here. 
From  whence,  I  think,  you  are  come  by  miracle. 

Ant.  E.   I  never  came  within  these  abbey  walls. 
Nor  ever  didst  thou  draw  thy  sword  on  me  : 
I  never  saw  the  chain,  so  help  me  heaven ! 
And  this  is  false  you  burden  me  withal. 

Duke.   Why,  what  an  intricate  impeach  is  this  ! 
I  think,  you  all  have  drank  of  Circe's  cup. 
If  here  you  hous'd  him,  here  he  would  have  been  ; 
If  he  were  mad,  he  would  not  plead  so  coldly :  — 
You  say  he  dined  at  home ;  the  goldsmith  here 
Denies  that  saying :  —  Sirrah,  what  say  you  ? 

Dro.  E.   Sir,  he  ilined  with  her  there,  at  the  Por- 
cupine. 

Cour.   He  did  ;  and  from  my  finger  snatch'd  that 
ring. 

Ant.  E.  *Tis  true,  my  liege,  this  ring  I  had  of  her. 

Duke.    Saw'st  thou  him  enter  at  the  abbey  here  ' 

Cour.   As  sure,  my  liege,  as  I  do  see  your  grace. 

Duke.   Why,  this  is  strange  :  —  Go  call  the  abbess 
hither ; 
I  think  you  are  all  mated,  or  stark  mad. 

\_Ent  an  Attendant. 

^ge.   Most  mighty  duke,  vouchsafe  me  speak  a 
word; 
Haply  I  see  a  friend  will  save  my  life, 
And  pay  the  sum  that  may  deliver  me. 

Duke.  Speak  freely,  Syracusan,  what  thou  wilt. 

^ge.   Is  not  your  name,  sir,  called  Antipholus  ? 
And  is  not  that  your  bondman  Dromio  ? 


Dro.  E^   Within  this  hour  I  was  his  bondman,  sir. 
But  he,  I  thank  him,  gnaw'd  in  two  my  cords ; 
Now  am  I  Dromio,  and  his  man,  unbound. 

jEge.   I  am  sure,  you  both  of  you  remember  me. 

Dro.  E.   Ourselves  we  do  remember,  sir,  by  you  ; 
For  lately  we  were  bound,  as  you  are  now. 
You  are  not  Pinch's  patient,  are  you,  sir  ? 

jEge.   Why  look  you  strange  on  me  ?  you  know 
me  well. 

Ant.  E.   I  never  saw  you  in  my  life,  till  now. 

^ge.   Oh  !  grief  hath  chang'd  me  since  you  saw 
me  last ; 
And  careful  hours,  with  Time's  deformed  hand 
Have  written  strange  defeatures  '  in  my  face : 
But  tell  me  yet,  dost  thou  not  know  my  voice? 

Ant.  E.   Neither. 

jEge.  Dromio,  nor  thou  ? 

Dro.  E.   No,  trust  me,  sir,  nor  I. 

ASge.  I  am  sure  thou  dost. 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  sir  ?  but  I  am  sure  I  do  not ;  and 
whatsosver  a  man  denies,  you  are  now  bound  to 
believe  him. 

Aige.    Not  know  my  voice  !   O,  time's  extremity  ! 
Hast  thou  so  crack 'd  and  splitted  my  poor  tongue, 
In  seven  short  years,  that  here  my  only  son 
Knows  not  my  feeble  key  of  untun'd  cares  ? 
Though  now  this  grained  2  face  of  mine  be  hid 
In  sap-consuming  winter's  drizzled  snow, 
And  all  the  conduits  of  my  blood  froze  up ; 
Yet  hath  my  night  of  life  some  memory. 
My  wasting  lamp  some  fading  glimmer  left, 
My  dull  deaf  ears  a  little  use  to  hear  : 
All  these  old  witnesses  (I  cannot  err,) 
Tell  me,  thou  art  my  son  Antipholus. 

Ant.  E.   I  never  saw  my  father  in  my  life. 

jEge.   But  seven  years  since,  in  Syracusa,  boy. 
Thou  know'st  we  parted :   but,  perhaps,  my  son. 
Thou  sham'st  to  acknowledge  me  in  misery. 

Ant.  E.   The  duke,  and  all  that  know  me  in  the 
city. 
Can  witness  with  me  that  it  is  not  so ; 
I  ne'er  saw  Syracusa  in  my  life. 

Duke.   I  tell  thee,  Syracusan,  twenty  years 
Have  I  been  patron  to  Antipholus, 
During  which  time  he  ne'er  saw  Syracusa  : 
I  see,  thy  age  and  dangers  make  thee  dote. 

Enter  the  Abbess,  with  Antipholus  Syracusan,  and 
Dromio  Syracusan. 

Abb.   Most  mighty  duke,   behold  a  man  much 
wrong'd.  \^All  gather  to  see  him. 

Adr.   I  see  two  husbands,  or  mine  eyes  deceive 
me. 

Duke.   One  of  these  men  is  Genius  to  the  other ; 
And  so  of  these  :   Which  is  the  natural  man. 
And  which  the  spirit  ?     Who  deciphers  them  ? 

Dro.  S.   I,  sir,  am  Dromio ;  command  him  away. 

Dro.  E.    I,  sir,  am  Dromio  ;  pray  let  me  stay. 

Ant.  S.   iEgeon,  art  thou  not  ?  or  else  his  ghost  ? 

Dro.  S.    O,  my  old  master  !   who  hath  bound  him 
here? 

Abb.   Whoever  bound  him,  I  will  loose  his  bonds 
And  gain  a  husband  by  his  liberty :  — 
Speak,  old  ^geon,  if  thou  be'st  the  man 
That  hadst  a  wife  once  called  Emilia, 
That  bore  thee  at  a  burden  two  fair  sons : 
O,  if  thou  be'st  the  same  .^geon,  speak. 
And  speak  unto  the  same  Emilia ! 


II 


Alteration  of  featiirci. 


Furrowed,  lined 


Scene  I. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


307 


uEge.   If  I  dream  not,  thou  art  vEmilia ; 
If  thou  art  she,  tell  me  where  is  that  son 
That  floated  with  thee  on  the  fatal  raft  ? 

Abb.    By  men  of  Epidamnum,  he  and  I, 
And  the  twin  Dromio,  all  were  taken  up ; 
But,  by  and  by,  rude  fishermen  of  Corinth 
By  force  took  Dromio  and  my  son  from  them, 
And  me  tliey  left  with  those  of  Epidamnum  : 
What  then  became  of  them  I  cannot  tell ; 
I,  to  this  fortune  that  you  see  me  in. 

Duke.  Why,  here  begins  his  morning  story  right '' ; 
These  two  Antipholus's,  tliese  two  so  like. 
And  these  two  Dromios,  one  in  semblance,  — 
Besides  her  urging  of  her  wreck  at  sea,  — 
These  are  the  parents  to  tliese  children, 
Which  accidentally  are  met  together. 
Antipholus,  thou  cam'st  from  Corinth  first. 

Ant.  S.   No,  sir,  not  I ;  I  came  from  Syracuse. 

Duke.   Stay,  stand  apart;  I  know  not  which  is 
which. 

Ani.  E.   I  came  from  Corinth,  my  most  gracious 
lord. 

Dro.  E.   And  I  with  him. 

Ant.  E.   Brought  to  this  town   with  that  most 
famous  warrior 
Duke  Menaphon,  your  most  renowned  uncle. 

Adr.   Wliich  of  you  two  did  dine  with  me  to-day  ? 

Ant.  S.   I,  gentle  mistress, 

Adr.  And  are  not  you  my  husband  ? 

Ant.  E.   No,  I  say  nay  to  that. 

Ant.  S.   And  so  do  I,  yet  did  she  call  me  so ; 
And  this  fair  gentlewoman,  her  sister  here. 
Did  call  me  brother :  —  What  I  told  you  tlien, 
I  hope,  I  shall  have  leisure  to  make  good ; 
If  this  be  not  a  dream,  I  see,  and  hear. 

Ang.   That  is  the  chain,  sir,  which  you  had  of  me. 

Ant.  S.   I  think  it  be,  sir  ;   I  deny  it  not. 

Ant.  E.   And  you,  sir,  for  this  chain,  arrested  me. 

Ang.   I  think  I  did,  sir ;  I  deny  it  not. 

Adr.   I  sent  you  money,  sir,  to  be  your  bail, 
By  Dromio  ;  but  I  think  he  brought  it  not. 

Dro.  E.   No,  none  by  me. 

Ant.  S.   This  purse  of  ducats  I  received  from  you, 
And  Dromio  my  man  did  bring  them  me  : 
I  see,  we  still  did  meet  each  other's  man. 
And  I  was  ta'en  for  him,  and  he  for  me. 
And  thereupon  these  Errors  are  arose. 

Ant.  E.    These  ducats  pawn  I  for  my  father  here. 

3  The  morning  story  is  what  ^eon  tells  the  Duke  in  the 
first  scene  of  this  play. 


Duke.  It  shall  not  need,  thy  father  hath  his  life. 
Cour.  Sir,  I  must  have  that  diamond  from  you. 
Ant.  E.   There,  take  it ;  and  much  thanks  for  my 

good  cheer. 
Abb.   Renowned  duke,  vouchsafe  to  take  the  pains 
To  go  with  us  into  the  abbey  here, 
And  hear  at  large  discoursed  all  our  fortunes :  — 
And  all  that  are  assembled  in  this  place, 
That  by  this  sympathized  one  day's  error 
Have  sufFer'd  wrong,  go,  keep  us  company. 
And  we  shall  make  full  satisfaction.  — 
Twenty-five  years  have  I  but  gone  in  travail 
Of  you,  my  sons  ;  nor,  till  this  present  hour. 
My  heavy  burdens  are  delivered :  — - 
The  duke,  my  husband,  and  my  children  both. 
And  you  the  calendars  of  their  nativity, 
Go  to  a  gossip's  feast,  and  go  with  me ; 
After  so  long  grief,  such  nativity. 

Duke.   With  all  my  heart,  I'll  gossip  at  this  feast. 

[Exeunt  Duke,  Abbess,  JEgeon,  Courtezan, 

Merchant,  Angelo,  and  Attendants. 

Dro.  S.   Master,  shall  I  fetch   your  stuff'  from 

ship-board  ? 
Ant.  E.   Dromio,  what  stuff  of  mine  hast  thou 

embark'd  ? 
Dro.  S.   Your  goods  that  lay  at  host,  sir,  in  the 

Centaur. 
Ant.  S.   He  speaks  to  me ;   I  am  your  master, 
Dromio  : 
Come,  go  with  us  :  we'll  look  to  that  anon  : 
Embrace  thy  brother  there,  rejoice  with  him. 

[Exeunt  Antipholus  S.  and  E.  Adr. 
and  Luc. 
Dro.  S.   There  is  a  fat  friend  at  your  master's 
house. 
That  kitchen'd  me  for  you  to  day  at  dinner ; 
She  now  shall  be  my  sister,  not  my  wife. 
Dro.  E.   Methinks  you  are  my  glass,  and  not  my 
brother : 
I  see  by  you,  I  am  a  sweet-faced  youth. 
Will  you  walk  in  to  see  their  gossiping  ? 
Dro.  S.   Not  I,  sir ;  you  are  my  elder. 
Dro.  E.   That's  a  question :  how  shall  we  try  it  ? 
Dro.  S.   We  will  draw  cuts  for  the  senior :  till 
then,  lead  thou  first. 

Dro.  E.   Nay,  then  thus : 
We  came  into  the  world,  like  brother  and  brother : 
And  now  let's  go  hand  in  hand,  not  one   before 
another.  [Exeunt. 


X   2 


^ 
-p 


MACBETH. 


\ 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Duncan,  King  o^  Scotland 
Malcolm, 
donalbain 
Macbeth, 
Banquo, 
Macduff. 
Lenox, 
RossE, 
Menteth, 
Angus, 
Cathness, 

Fleance,  Son  to  Banquo. 

Si  WARD,  Earl  of  Northumberland^   General  of  the 
English  Forces. 

SCENE,  in  the  End  of  the  Fourth  Jet,  lies  in  England ;  through  the  Rest  of  the  Play,  in   Scotland  ; 

and,  chi^y,  at  Macbeth's  Castle. 


y  his  Sons. 
V  Generals  of  the  Kings  Army. 


Nobleman  of  Scotland. 


Young  SiwARD,  his  Son. 

Seyton,  an  OJ^er  attending  on  Macbeth. 

Son  to  Macduff. 

An  English  Doctor.      A  Scotch  Doctor. 

A  Soldier.     A  Porter,     An  old  Man. 

Ladt  Macbeth. 

Lady  Macduff. 

Gentlewoman  attending  on  Lady  Macbeth. 

Hecate,  and  three  Witches. 

Lords,     Gentlemen,    Officers,    Soldiers,    Murderers, 
Attendants,  and  Messengers. 

The  Ghost  of  Banquo,  and  several  other  Apparitions, 


BOCND    ABODT   THE   CfinLDBON    OO  ; 
IN    THE    POISON'd    ENTRAILS    IHKOW 


MACBETH 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.  —  An  open  Place. 

Thunder  and  lightning.      Enter  three  Witches. 

1  JFitch.   When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain  ? 

2  Witch.   When  the  hurlyburly's  ^  done, 
When  the  battle's  lost  and  won. 

3  Witch.   That  will  be  ere  set  of  sun. 
1   Witch.   Where  the  place  ? 

y  Witch.  Upon  the  heatli : 

3  Witch.   There  to  meet  with  Macbeth. 

1   WUch.   I  come,  Graymalkin ! 

All.   Paddock  calls  :  —  Anon.  — 
Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair  : 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air. 

[Witches  vanish. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Camp  near  Fores. 

Alarum  within.     Enter  King  Duncan,  Malcolm, 

DoNALBAiN,    Lenox,    with    Attendants,   meeting 

a  bleeding  Soldier. 

Dun.   What  bloody  man  is  that  ?  He  can  reoort, 
As  seemeth  by  his  plight,  of  the  revolt 
The  newest  state. 

Mnl.  This  is  the  sergeant, 

'  Tumult, 


Who,  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier,  fought 
'Gainst  my  captivity  :  —  Hail,  brave  friend  ! 
Say  to  the  king  the  knowledge  of  the  broil, 
As  thou  didst  leave  it. 

Sold.  Doubtfully  it  stood  ; 

As  two  spent  swimmers,  that  do  cling  together, 
And  choke  their  art.      The  merciless  Macdonwald 
(Worthy  to  be  a  rebel  -,  for,  to  that, 
The  multiplying  villanies  of  nature 
Do  swarm  upon  him,)  from  the  western  isles 
Of  Kernes  and  Gallowglasses  was  supplied  -^ ; 
And  fortune  on  him  smil'd,  but  all  too  weak  : 
For  brave  Macbeth,  (well  he  deserves  that  name,) 
Disdaining  fortune,  with  his  brandish 'd  steel. 
Which  smok'd  with  bloody  execution, 
Like  valour's  minion, 

Carv'd  out  his  passage,  till  he  fac'd  the  slave ; 
And  ne'er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to  him, 
Till  he  unseam'd  him  from  the  nave  to  the  chaps, 
And  fix'd  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 

Dun.   O,  valiant  cousin  !  worthy  gentleman  ! 

Sold.   As  whence  the  sun  'gins  his  reflexion. 
Shipwrecking  storms  and  direful  thunders  break  ; 
So  from  that  spring,  whence  comfort  seem'd  to  come,v 
Discomfort  swells.     Mark,  king  of  Scotland,  mark ; 
No  sooner  justice  had,  with  valour  arm'd, 

-  i.  e.  Supplied  with  light  and  heavy  armed  troo[>s. 


Act  I.  Scene  III. 


MACBETH. 


309 


Compell'd  these  skipping  Kernes  to  trust  their  heels; 
But  the  Norweyan  lord,  surveying  vantage, 
With  furbish'd  arms,  and  new  supplies  of  men, 
Began  a  fresh  assault. 

Dun.  Dismay'd  not  this 

Our  captains,  Macbeth  and  Banquo? 

Sold.  Yes ; 

As  sparrows,  eagles ;  or  the  hare,  the  lion. 
If  I  say  sooth  3,  I  must  report  they  were 
As  cannons  overcharg'd  witlj  double  cracks ; 
So  they 

Doubly  redoubled  strokes  upon  the  foe  : 
Except  they  meant  to  bathe  in  reeking  wounds, 
Or  iTiemorize  another  Golgotha, 

I  cannot  tell : 

But  I  am  faint,  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 

Dun.   So  well   thy  words  become  thee,  as  thy 
wounds ; 
They  smack  of  honour  both  :  —  Go,  get  him  sur- 
geons. [Eat  Soldier,  attended. 

Enter  RossE. 

Who  comes  here  ? 

Mai.  The  worthy  thane  of  Rosse. 

Len.  What  a  haste  looks  through  his  eyes  !    So 
should  he  look, 
That  seems  to  speak  things  strange. 

Rosse.  God  save  the  king ! 

Dun.  Whence  cam'st  thou,  worthy  thane  ? 

Rosse.                                  From  Fife,  great  king. 
Where  tlje  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky. 
And  fan  our  people  cold. 
Norway  himself,  with  terrible  numbers. 
Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor 
The  thane  of  Cawdor,  'gan  a  dismal  conflict : 
Till  that  Bcllona's  bridegroom  *,  lapp'd  in  proof  *, 
Confronted  him  with  self-comparisons, 
Point  against  point  rebellious,  arm  'gainst  arm, 
Curbing  his  lavish  spirit ;   And,  to  conclude. 
The  victory  fell  on  us  j 

Dun.  Great  happiness ! 

Rosse.   That  now 
Sweno,  the  Norways'  king,  craves  composition ; 
Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men, 
Till  he  disbursed,  at  St  Colmes'  inch. 
Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 

Dun.  No  more  that  thane  of  Cawdor  shall  deceive 
Our  bosom  interest :  —  Go,  pronounce  his  death, 
And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth. 

Rosse.   I'll  see  it  done. 

Dun.   What  he  hath  .lost,  noble  Macbeth  hath 
won.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  in.— A  Heath. 

Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches. 

1  ffltch.  Where  hast  thou  been,  sister  ? 

2  Witch.    Killing  swine. 

3  Witch.    Sister,  where  thou  ? 

1  Witch.   A  sailor's  wife  had  chesnuts  in  her  lap. 
And  mounch'd,  and  mounch'd,  and  mouncb'd  :  — 

Give  me,  quoth  I : 
Aroint  thee^,  witch  I  the  rump-fed  ronyon'  cries. 
Her  husband's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o'the  Tiger: 
But  in  a  sieve  I'll  thither  sail, 
And,  like  a  rat  without  a  tail, 
I'll  do,  I'll  do,  and  I'll  do. 


»  Truth. 

*  Defended  by  annour  of  prooC 

7  A  (curvy  woman  fed  on  offkla. 


Shaksnearc  means  Mars. 
«  Avaunt,  begone. 


2  Witch.   I'll  give  thee  a  wind. 
1  WUch.   Thou  art  kind. 

3  Witch.   And  I  another. 

1  Witch.   I  myself  have  all  the  other; 
And  the  very  ports  they  blow, 

All  the  quarters  that  tliey  know 
I*  the  shipman's  card.  8 
I  will  drain  him  dry  as  hay  : 
Sleep  shall,  neither  night  nor  day, 
Hang  upon  liis  pent-house  lid  ; 
He  shall  live  a  man  forbid  f  : 
Weary  seven  nights,  nine  times  nine. 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine  : 
Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost, 
Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-toss'd. 
Look  what  I  have. 

2  Witch.    Show  me,  show  me. 

1  Witch.   Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thumb, 
Wreck'd,  as  homeward  he  did  come. 

[Drum  vithitu 

3  Witch.   A  drum,  drum  ; 
Macbeth  doth  come. 

AU.   The  weird  sisters  ',  hand  in  hand. 
Posters  of  the  sea  and  land. 
Thus  do  go  about,  about ; 
Thrice  to  thine,  and  thrice  to  mine, 
And  thrice  again,  to  make  up  nine : 
Peace  !  —  the  charm's  wound  up. 

Enter  Macbeth  and  Banquo. 
Macb.   So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 
Ban.   How  far  is't  call'd  to  Fores  —  What  are 
these. 
So  wither'd,  and  so  wild  in  their  attire  ; 
That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  o'  the  earth, 
And  yet  are  on't  ?  Live  you  ?  or  are  you  aught 
That  man  may  question  ?  You  seem  to  understand 

me. 
By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips  :  —  You  should  be  women, 
And  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 
That  you  are  so. 

Macb.  Speak,  if  you  can  ;  —  What  are  you  ? 

1  Witch.   All  hail,  Macbeth  !  hail  to  thee,  thane 

of  Glamis  ! 

2  Witch.   All  hail,  Macbeth !  hail  to  thee,  tliane 

of  Cawdor  ! 

S  WUch.   All  hail,  Macbeth  !  that  shalt  be  king 
hereafter. 

Ban.  Good  sir,  why  do  you  start  and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair  ? — I'the  name  of  truth, 
Are  ye  fantastical  ',  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  show  ?  My  noble  partner 
You  greet  with  present  grace,  and  great  prediction 
Of  noble  having  %  and  of  royal  hope, 
That  he  seems  rapt  *  withal ;  to  me  you  speak  not : 
If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time, 
And  say,  which  grain  will  grow,  and  which  will  not ; 
Speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg  nor  fear, 
Your  favours,  nor  your  hate. 

1  WUch.   Hail! 

2  WUch.   Hail! 

3  fruch.   Hail! 

1  WUch.   Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater. 

2  WUch.   Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 

3  WUch.   Thou  shalt  get  kings,  though  then  be 

none  : 
So,  all  hail,  Macbeth,  and  Banquo ! 

«  ComiMUS.  »  Accurwd.  >  Prophetic  lister*. 

'  Supematurml,  spiritual  »  EUtatc.         *  Abstracted. 


310 


MACBETH. 


Act  I. 


1  IVitch.   Banquo,  and  Macbeth,  all  hail ! 

Macb.  Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more : 
By  Sinel's  death,  I  know,  I  am  thane  of  Glamis  : 
But  how  of  Cawdor  ?  the  thane  of  Cawdor  lives, 
A  prosperous  gentleman  ;  and,  to  be  king, 
Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief, 
No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.     Say,  from  whence 
You  owe  this  strange  intelligence  ?  or  why 
Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 
With  such  prophetic  greeting  ?  —  Speak,  I  charge 
you.  [Witches  vanish. 

Ban.   The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has, 
And  these  are  of  them: —  Whither  are  they  vanish'd? 

Macb.   Into  the  air;  and  what  seem'd  corporal 
melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind.  — 'Would  they  had  staid ! 

Bari.   Were  such   things  here,  as  we    do   speak 
about  ? 
Or  have  we  eaten  of  the  insane  root, 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? 

Macb.   Your  children  shall  be  kings. 

Ban.  You  shall  be  king. 

Macb.  And  thane  of  Cawdor  too;  went  it  not  so  ? 

Ban.   To  the  self-same  tune  and  words.     Who's 
here  ? 

Enter  Rosse  and  Angus. 

Rosse.   Tlie  king  hath  happily  receiv'd,  Macbeth, 
The  news  of  thy  success  :   and  when  he  reads 
Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels'  fight, 
His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend, 
Which  should  be  thine,  or  his :    Silenc'd  with  that. 
In  viewing  o'er  the  rest  o'  the  self-same  day. 
He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks, 
Nothing  afeard  of  what  thyself  didst  make. 
Strange  images  of  death.      As  thick  as  tale  5, 
Came  post  with  post ;  and  every  one  did  bear 
Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defence, 
And  pour'd  them  down  before  him. 

Aug.  We  are  sent> 

To  give  thee,  from  our  royal  master,  thanks ; 
To  herald  thee  into  his  sight,  not  pay  thee. 

Rosse.   And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honour, 
He  bade  me,  from  him,  call  thee  thane  of  Cawdor: 
In  which  addition,  hail,  most  worthy  thane  ? 
For  it  is  thine. 

Ban.  What,  can  the  devil  speak  true  ? 

Macb.   The  thane  of  Cawdor  lives :  Why  do  you 
dress  me 
In  borrow'd  robes? 

A?ig.  Who  was  the  thane,  lives  yet ; 

But  under  heavy  judgment  bears  that  life 
Which  he  deserves  to  lose.      Whether  he  was 
Combin'd  with  Norway ;  or  did  line  the  rebel 
With  hidden  help  and  vantage ;  or  that  with  both 
He  labour'd  in  his  country's  wreck,  I  know  not ; 
But  treasons  capital,  confess'd  and  prov'd, 
Have  overthrown  him. 

Macb.  Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor  : 

The  greatest  is  behind.  —  Thanks  for  your  pains.  — 
Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings. 
When  those  that  gave  the  thane  of  Cawdor  to  me, 
Promis'd  no  less  to  them  ? 

Ban.  That,  trusted  home. 

Might  yet  enkindle  you  unto  the  crown. 
Besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor.      But  'tis  strange  : 
And  oftentimes  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths  ; 
Win  us  with  honegt  trifles,  to  betray  us 

"^  As  fast  as  they  could  be  counted 


In  deepest  consequence.  — 
Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you. 

Macb.  Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme.  —  I  thank  you,  gentlemen.— 
This  supernatural  soliciting  6 
Cannot  be  ill ;  cannot  be  good  :  —  If  ill. 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 
Commencing  in  a  truth  ?  I  am  thane  of  Cawdor  : 
If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair. 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs 
Against  the  use  of  nature  ?  Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings  : 
My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical, 
Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man,  that  function 
Is  smother'd  in  surmise :  and  nothing  is, 
But  what  is  not. 

Ban.  Look,  how  our  partner's  rapt. 

Macb.   If  chance  will  have  me  king,  why,  chance 
may  crown  me, 
Without  my  stir. 

Ban.  New  honours  come  upon  him 

Like  our  strange  garments,  cleave  7  not  to  their  mould. 
But  with  the  aid  of  use. 

Macb.  Come  what  come  may  ; 

Time  and  the  hour  8  runs  through  the  roughest  day. 

Ban.   Worthy  Macbeth  we  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Macb.   Give  me  your  favours  :  —  my  duU  brain 
was  wrought 
With  things  forgotten.   Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains 
Are  register'd  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them.  — Let  us  toward  the  king.  — 
Think  upon  what  hath  chanc'd :  and,  at  more  time^ 
The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,  let  us  speak 
Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

Ban.  Very  gladly. 

Macb.   Till  then,  enough.  —  Come,  friends. 

[JExeuni. 

SCENE  IV Fores.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish.    Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain, 
Lenox,  and  Attendants. 

Dun.   Is  execution  done  on  Cawdor  ?     Are  not 
Those  in  commission  yet  return'd  ? 

Mai.  My  liege. 

They  are  not  yet  come  back.     But  I  have  spoke 
With  one  that  saw  him  die  :   who  did  report, 
That  very  frankly  he  confess'd  his  treasons ; 
Implor'd  your  highness'  pardon  ;  and  set  forth 
A  deep  repentance :   nothing  in  his  life 
Became  him,  like  the  leaving  it ;  he  died 
As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death. 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  ow'd  ', 
As  'twere  a  careless  trifle. 

DuTi.  There's  no  art. 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face : 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust.  —  O  worthiest  cousin  ! 

Enter  Macbeth,  Banquo,  Rosse,  and  Angus.  . 

The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now 

Was  heavy  on  me ;   Thou  art  so  far  before. 

That  swiftest  wing  of  recompense  is  slow 

To  overtake  thee.  'Would  thou  hadst  less  deserv'd: 

That  the  proportion  both  of  thanks  and  payment 


i 


I 


6  Incitement. 

8  Time  and  opportunity. 

'  Owned,  possessed. 


7  t.  e.  Which  cleare  not 
9  Pardon. 


Scene  V. 


MACBETH. 


311 


Might  have  been  mine  !  only  I  have  left  to  say, 
More  is  thy  due  than  more  than  all  can  pay. 

Macb .   The  service  and  the  loyalty  I  owe, 
In  doing  it,  pays  itself.      Your  highness'  part 
Is  to  receive  our  duties :  and  our  duties 
Are  to  your  throne  and  state,  children,  and  servants ; 
Which  do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing  every  thing 
Safe  toward  your  love  and  honour. 

Dun,  Welcome  liither : 

I  have  begun  to  plant  thee,  and  will  labour 
To  make  thee  full  of  growing.  —  Noble  Banquo, 
That  hast  no  less  deserv'd,  nor  must  be  known 
No  less  to  have  done  so,  let  me  infold  thee, 
And  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

Dan.  There  if  I  grow, 

The  harvest  is  your  own. 

Dun.  My  plenteous  joys. 

Wanton  in  fulness,  seek  to  hide  themselves 
In  drops  of  sorrow.  —  Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes, 
And  you  whose  places  are  the  nearest,  know. 
We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest,  Malcolm  ;  whom  we  name  hereafter. 
The  prince  of  Cumberland :   which  honour  must 
Not,  unaccompanied,  invest  him  only. 
But  signs  of  nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine 
On  all  deservers.  —  From  hence  to  Inverness, 
And  bind  us  further  to  you. 

Macb.  The  rest  is  labour,  which  is  not  us'd  for  you : 
I'll  be  myself  the  harbinger,  and  make  joyful 
The  hearing  of  my  wife  with  your  approach ; 
So,  humbly  take  my  leave. 

Dun.  My  worthy  Cawdor  ! 

Macb.   The  prince  of  Cumberland  !  —  That  is  a 
step,  [Aside. 

On  which  I  must  fall  down,  or  else  o'er-leap. 
For  in  my  way  it  lies.      Stars  hide  your  fires  ! 
Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires : 
I'he  eye  wink  at  the  hand !  yet  let  that  be. 
Which  the  eye  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see.   [Exit. 

Dun.  True,  worthy  Banquo ;  he  is  full  so  valiant  ^ ; 
And  in  his  commendations  I  am  fed  ; 
It  is  a  banquet  to  me.     Let  us  after  him, 
Whose  care  is  gone  before  to  bid  us  welcome  : 
It  is  a  peerless  kinsman.  [Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Inverness.     A  Room  in  Macbeth'5 
Castle. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  reading  a  letter. 

Lady  M.  Tliey  met  me  in  the  day  of  success ;  and 
I  have  learned  by  the perfectest  repori,  they  have  more 
in  them  than  mortal  knowledge.  When  I  burned  in 
dt'sire  to  question  them  further,  they  made  themselves 
—  air,  into  which  they  vanished.  Whiles  I  stood  rapt 
in  tlie  wonder  of  it,  came  missives^  from  the  king,  who 
all  hailed  me,  Thane  of  Cawdor ;  by  which  title, 
bifore,  these  weird  sisters  saluted  me,  and  referred  me 
to  the  coming  on  of  lime,  with,  Hail,  king  that  shalt 
be !  This  have  I  thought  good  to  deliver  thee,  my 
dearest  partner  of  greatness ;  that  thou  mightest  not 
lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by  being  ignorant  of  what 
greatness  is  promised  thee.  Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and 
fareufell. 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor ;  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promised:  —  Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature; 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness. 
To  catch  the  nearest  way  :  Thou  wouldst  be  great ; 
Art  not  without  ambition  ;  but  without 


>  Full  M  valiant  at  described. 


Mescengcrt. 


The  illness  should  attend  it.     Wliat  thou  wouldst 

highly, 
That  wouldst  thou  holily  ;  wouldst  not  play  false. 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win  ;  thou'dst  have  great 

Glamis, 
That  which  cries,  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it. ; 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do. 
Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  thee  hither, 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear ; 
And  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round  *, 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical^  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crown'd  withal.  —  What  is  your  tidings  ? 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Attend.   The  king  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  ITiou'rt  mad  to  say  it: 

f  s  not  thy  master  with  him  ?  who,  wer't  so. 
Would  have  inform'd  for  preparation. 

Attend.   So  please  you,  it  is  true ;  our  thane  is 
coming  : 
One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him  ; 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

Lady  M.  Give  him  tending, 

He  brings  great  news.     The  raven  himself  is  hoarse, 

[Exit  Attendant. 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.      Come,  come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  ^  thoughts,  unsex  me  here ; 
And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood. 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse  7  ; 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect,  and  it !   Come  to  my  woman's  breasts. 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murd'ring  ministers. 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
You  wait  on  nature's  mischief :  Come,  thick  night. 
And  pall  8  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell ! 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes  ; 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark. 

To   cry.   Hold,  hold ! Great  Glamis  !    worthy 

Cawdor ! 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter ! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macb.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  And  when  goes  hence  ? 

Macb.  To-morrow,  —  as  he  purposes. 

Lndy  M.  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see  ! 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book,  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters :  —  To  beguile  tlic  time. 
Look  like  the  time ;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye. 
Your  hand,  your  tongue:   look   like  the  innocent 

flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under  it.      He  that's  coming 
Must  be  provided  for :   and  you  sliall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  despatch ; 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  raasterdom. 

Macb.   We  will  speak  further. 


*  Diadem. 

8  Deadly,  murderous. 

8  Wra{>  aa  in  a  mantle 


^  SupernaturaL 
'  Pity. 


X  4 


S12 

Lady  M. 
To  alter  favours  ever  is  to  fear 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  me. 


MACBETH. 


Act  I.  Scene  VII. 


Only  look  up  clear  ; 
^Exeunt. 


SCENE  VL— Before  the  Castle. 

Hautboys.     Servants  of  Macbeth  attending. 

Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain,  Banquo, 

Lenox,  Macduff,  Rosse,  Augvs,  and  Attendants. 

Dun.   This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

JSan.  This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath, 
Smells  wooingly  here  :   no  jutty,  frieze,  buttress. 
Nor  coigne  of  vantage ',  but  this  bird  hath  made 
His  pendent  bed,  and  procreant  cradle:  Where  they 
Most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observ'd,  the  air 
Is  delicate. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth, 

Dun.  See,  see  !  our  honour'd  hostess  ! 

The  love  that  follovvfs  us,  sometime  is  our  trouble, 
Which  still  we  thank  as  love.     Herein  I  teach  you, 
How  you  shall  bid  God  yields  us  for  your  pains, 
And  thank  us  for  your  trouble. 

Ladt/  M.  All  our  service 

In  every  point  twice  done,  and  then  done  double. 
Were  poor  and  single  business,  to  contend 
Against  those  honours  deep  and  broad,  wherewith 
Your  majesty  loads  our  house  :    For  those  of  old, 
And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them, 
We  rest  your  hermits. 

Dun.  Where's  the  thane  of  Cawdor  ? 

We  cours'd  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 
To  be  his  purveyor  :  but  he  rides  well ; 
And  his  great  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  hath  holp  him 
To  his  home  before  us  :    Fair  and  noble  hostess, 
We  are  your  guest  to-night. 

Lady  M.  Your  servants  ever 

Have  theirs,  themselves,  andwhat  is  theirs  in  compt3. 
To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasure. 
Still  to  return  your  own. 

Dun.  Give  me  your  hand. 

Conduct  me  to  mine  host ;  we  love  him  highly, 
And  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  him. 
By  your  leave,  hostess.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.  — A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.     Enter,  and  pass  over  the 
stage,  a  Sewer  \  and  divers  Servants  with  dishes 
and  service.      Then  enter  Macbeth. 
Macb.    If  it  were  done,   when   'tis  done,  then 
'twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly  :    If  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch, 
With  his  surcease,  success  ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here. 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time,  — 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come.  —  But,  in  these  cases, 
We  still  nave  judgment  here ;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor  :    Tliis  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.      He's  here  in  double  trust : 

9  Look,  countenance.  '  Convenient  corner. 

2  Reward.  3  Subject  to  accompt 

<  An  officer  so  called  from  his  placing  the  dishes  on  the  table. 


First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject, 

Strong  both  against  the  deed ;  then,  as  his  host, 

Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door. 

Not  bear  the  knife  myself.      Besides,  this  Duncan 

Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 

So  clear  ih  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 

Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 

The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off: 

And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe. 

Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubin,  hors'd 

Upon  tihe  sightless  couriers  ^  of  the  air. 

Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 

That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.  —  I  have  no  spur 

To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 

Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'er-leaps  itself, 

And  falls  on  the  other.  —  How  now,  what  news? 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  JW.    He  has  almost  supp'd  :    Why  have  you 
left  the  chamber  ? 

Macb.   Hath  he  ask'd  for  me  ? 

Lady  M.  Know  you  not,  he  ha&? 

Macb.  We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business: 
He  hath  honour'd  me  of  late  ;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  M.  Was  the  hope  drunk, 

Wherein  you  dress'd  yourself?  hath  it  slept  since? 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?   From  this  time, 
Such  I  account  thy  love.      Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valour. 
As  thou  art  in  desire?   Wouldst  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life. 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem  ; 
Letting  /  dare  not  wait  upon  /  would. 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage? 

Macb.  Pr'ythee,  peace  : 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man 
Who  dares  do  more,  is  none. 

Lady  M.  What  beast  was  it  then 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man  ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.      Nor  time,  nor  place, 
Did  then  adhere  ^,  and  yet  you  would  make  both  : 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness 

now 
Does  unmake  you.      I  have  given  suck,and  know 
How  tender  'tis,  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me  : 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  pluck'd  my  nipple  from  its  boneless  gums, 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn,  as  you 
Have  done  to  this. 

Macb.  If  we  should  fail, 

Lady  M.  We  fail ! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place, 
And  we'll  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep, 
(Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him,)  his  two  chamberlains 
Will  I  with  wine  and  wassel?  so  convince  8, 
That  memory,  the  warder  9  of  the  brain. 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  reason 
A  limbeck  only :   When  in  swinish  sleep 
Their  drenched  natures  lie,  as  in  a  death, 
What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 


^  Winds ;  sightless  is  invisible. 
6  In  the  same  sense  as  cohere. 
^  Overpower. 


Intemi)erance. 
Sentinel 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


MACBETH. 


313 


The  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon 
His  spongy  officers  ;  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 
Of  our  great  quell  ?  ' 

Macb.  Bring  forth  men-children  only  ! 

For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males.      "Will  it  not  be  received  2, 
When  we  have  mark'd  witli  blood  those  sleepy  two 
Of  his  own  chamber,  and  us'd  their  very  daggers, 
That  they  have  done't? 


Lady  M.  Who  dares  receive  it  other. 

As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamour  roar 
Upon  his  death  ? 

Macb.  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 
Away,  and  mock  the  time  with  fairest  show  : 
False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.  —  Court  within  Macbeth's  Castle. 

Enter  Banquo  and  Flkance,  and  a  Servant  xvith  a 
torch  before  ihem. 
JBaiu    How  goes  the  night,  boy  ? 
Fie.   The  moon  is  down ;   I  have  not  heard  the 

clock. 
Ban.   And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 
Fie.  I  take't,  'tis  later,  sir. 

Ban.   Hold,    take   my   sword :  —  There's   hus- 
bandry 3  in  heaven. 
Their  candles  are  all  out.  —  Take  thee  that  too. 
A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me. 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep  :   Merciful  powers  ! 
Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts,  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose  !  —  Give  me  my  sword  :  — 

Enter  Macbeth,  and  a  Servant  with  a  torch. 
Who's  there  ? 

Macb.    A  friend. 

Ban   What,  sir,  not  yet  at  rest?  The  king's  a-bed : 
He  hath  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 
Sent  forth  great  largess  ■*  to  your  offices^  : 
This  diamond  he  greets  your  wife  withal, 
By  tlie  name  of  most  kind  hostess ;  and  shut  up  ^ 
In  measureless  content. 

Macb.  Being  unprepar'd. 

Our  will  became  the  servant  to  defect ; 
Which  else  should  free  have  wrought. 

Ban.  All's  well. 

I  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weird  sisters  : 
To  you  they  have  show'd  some  truth. 

Macb.  I  think  not  of  them  : 

Yet  when  we  can  entreat  an  hour  to  serve, 
Would  spend  it  in  some  words  upon  that  business. 
If  you  would  grant  the  time. 

Ban.  At  your  kind'st  leisure. 

Macb,   If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consent,— when 
'tis, 
It  shall  make  honour  for  you. 

Ban.  So  I  lose  none. 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  franchis'd,  and  allegiance  clear, 
I  shall  be  counsell'd. 

Macb.  Good  repose,  tlie  while. 

Ban.  Thanks,  sir  ;   The  like  to  you. 

[Exit  Banquo  and  Fleance. 

Macb,   Go,  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is 
ready, 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.      Get  thee  to  bed. 

[Exit  Seixmit. 


'  Murder. 

*  Bounty. 

•  Conclude. 


'  Supposed.  3  Thrift 

^  The  rooms  appropriated  to  •ervantJ. 


Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me, 

The  handle  toward  my  hand  ?  Come,  let  me  clutch 

thee  :  — — 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  stilL 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling,  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind  ;  a  false  creation. 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshal'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going  ; 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'the  other  senses, 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :    I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade,  and  dudgeon  7,  gouts  ^  of  blood, 
Which  was  not  so  before.  —  There's  no  such  thing : 
It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes.  —  Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse. 
The  curtain'd  sleep  ;  now  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings ;  and  wither'd  murder, 
Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf. 
Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace. 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design 
Moves  like  a  ghost. Thou  sure  and  firm-set 

earth. 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  where-about. 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time. 
Which  now  suits  with  it.  — Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives; 
Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

[A  belt  rings. 
I  go,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me. 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan  ;  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven,  or  to  hell.         [Exit, 

SCENE  11. —  The  same. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.   That  wliich  hath  made  them  drunk, 
hath  made  me  bold  : 
What  hath  quench'd  tliem,  hath  given  me  fire :  — 

Hark  !  —  Peace  ! 
It  was  the  owl  that  shriek 'd,  the  fatal  bellman, 
Which  gives  the  stem'st  good  night.   He  is  about  it : 
The  doors  are  open ;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores :    I  have  drugg'd 

their  possets, 
I'hat  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 
Whether  they  live  or  die. 

Macb.    [  Within]   Who's  there  ?  —  what,  ho  ! 
Lady  M.    Alack  !    I  am  afraid  they  have  awak'd, 
And  'tis  not  done :  —  tlie  attempt,  and  not  the  deed, 

■  Haft,  handle.  »  Drops, 


314. 


MACBETH. 


Act  II. 


Hark  !  —  I  laid   their  daggers 


Confounds  us : 
ready, 

He  could  not  miss  them.  —  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  1  had  done't.  —  My  husband? 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Macb.   I  have  done  the  deed  :  —  Didst  thou  not 
hear  a  noise  ? 

Ladi/  M.  I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets 
cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

Macb.  When? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Macb.  As  I  descended  ? 

Ladi/  M.   Ay. 

Macb.   Hark!  — 
Who  lies  i'the  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  M.  Donalbain. 

Macb.   This  is  a  sorry  sight. 

[Looking  on  his  hands. 

Lady  M.   A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macb.   There's  one  did  laugh  in  his  sleep,  and 
one  cried,  murder  I 
That  they  did  wake  each  other ;  I  stood  and  heard 

them  : 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  addressed  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  M.  There  are  two  lodg'd  together. 

Macb.   One  cried,  God  bless  us  !  and,  Amen,  the 
other ; 
As  they  had  seen  me,  with  these  hangman's  hands 
Listening  their  fear.      I  could  not  say  amen. 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  us. 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.   But  wherefore   could   not  I  pronounce, 
amen? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  amen 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 

After  these  ways ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macb.   Methought,  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  Sleej^  no 
more  ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep,  the  innocent  sleep  ; 
Sleep,  that  knits  up  the  ravelVd  sleave  9  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labour's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast ;  — 

Lady  M.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.  Still  it  cried.  Sleep  no  more!  to  all  the  house : 
Glamis  hath  murder'd  sleep ;  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more,  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more  ! 

Lady  M.   Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?    Why, 
worthy  thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brainsickly  of  things  :  —  Go,  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand.  — 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 
They  must  lie  there  ;   Go,  carry  them  ;  and  smear 
The  sleepy  groom  with  blood. 

Macb.  I'll  go  no  more : 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ; 
Look  on't  again,  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M.  Infirm  of  purpose  ! 

Give  me  the  daggers :    The  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictures :   'tis  the  eye  of  childhood. 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.      If  he  do  bleed, 
I'll  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal. 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt. 

\_Exit.     Knocking  within. 
»  Sleave  is  unwrought  silk 


Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking? 

How  is't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here?  Ha!  they  pluck  out  mine 

eyes  ! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  .my  hand?  No;  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnardine, ' 
Making  the  green  —  one  red. 

Re-enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.   My  hands  are  of  your  colour ;  but  I  - 

shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.    [Knocking'']   I  hear  a 

knocking 
At  the  south  entry  :  —  retire  we  to  our  chamber : 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed  : 
How  easy  is  it  then  ?  Your  constancy 
Hath  left  you  unattended.  ■ —  [Knocking.']   Hark  ! 

more  knocking : 
Get  on  your  night-gown,  lest  occasion  call  us. 
And  show  us  to  be  watchers  :  —  Be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 

ifacb.  To  know  my  deed,  — 'twere  best  not  know 

myself.  [Knocking. 

Wake   Duncan  with  thy  knocking  !   I  would  thou 

couldst !  [Exeimt. 

SCENE  IIL  —  The  same. 
Enter  a  Porter.  [Knocking  ivithin. 

Porter.  Here's  a  knocking,  indeed  !  [Knocking.] 
Knock,  knock,  knock:  Who's  there?  Come  in  time. 
[KnocJcing.]  Knock,  knock:  Who's  there?  [Knock- 
ing.] Knock,  knock:  Never  at  quiet!  What  are 
you  ?  [Knocking.]  Anon,  anon  ;  I  pray  you  re- 
member the  porter.  [Opens  the  gate. 

Enter  Macduff  and  Lenox. 

Macd.  Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went  to  bed 
That  you  do  lie  so  late  ? 

Port.  Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the  se- 
cond cock. 

Macd.   Is  thy  master  stirring  ?  — 
Our  knocking  has  awak'd  him  ;  here  he  come^. 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Len.   Good-morrow,  noble  sir ! 

Macb.  Good  morrow,  both  ! 

Macd.    Is  the  king  stirring,  worthy  thane  ? 

Macb.  Not  yet. 

Macd.  He  did  command  me  to  call  timely  on  hira  j 
I  have  almost  slipp'd  the  hour. 

Macb.  I'll  bring  you  to  him. 

Macd.   I  know  this  is  a  joyful  trouble  to  you  ; 
But  yet  'tis  one. 

Macb.   The  labour  we  delight  in  physics  '2  pain. 
This  is  the  door. 

Macd.  I'll  make  so  bold  to  call, 

For  'tis  my  limited  service.  3  [Exit  Macduff. 

Len.  Goes  the  king 

From  hence  to-day  ? 

Macb.  He  does  :  —  he  did  appoint  it  so. 

Len.   The  night  has  been  unruly :    Where  we 
lay, 
Our  chimnies  were  blown  down ;  and,  as  they  say, 
Lamentings   heard   i'the   air;    strange   screams   of 
death  ; 

1  To  incarnardine  is  to  stain  of  a  flesh  colour. 

2  I.  e.  Affords  a  cordial  to  it.  3  Appointed  service. 


Scene  III. 


MACBETH. 


And  prophesying,  with  accents  terrible, 
Of  dire  combustion,  and  confus'd  events. 
New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time.     The  obscure  bird 
Clamour'd  the  livelong  night :  some  say,  the  earth 
Was  feverous,  and  did  shake. 
-¥°^*-  ^^  'Twas  a  rough  night. 

.        Len.  My  young  remembrance  cannot  parallel 
A  fellow  to  it. 

Re-enter  Macduff. 
,     Macd.   O  horror!  horror!  horror!  Tongue,  nor 

heart. 
Cannot  conceive  nor  name  thee  ! 

Macb.  Len,  What's  the  matter  ? 

Macd.  Confusion  now  hath  made  his  masterpiece  ' 
Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building. 

^^b.  What  is't  you  say  ?  the  life  ? 

Lett.    Mean  you  his  majesty  ? 
Macd.   Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your 
sight  ^ 

With  a  new  Gorgon  :  —  Do  not  bid  me  speak ; 
See,  and  then  speak  yourselves.  — Awake  !  awake  ! 
[Exeunt  Macbeth  and  Lenox. 
Ring  the  alarum-bell :  —  Murder,  and  treason  ! 
Banquo,  and  Donalbain  !  Malcolm  !  awake  ! 
Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 
And  look  on  death  itself!    Up,  up,  and  see 

The  great  doom's  image  ! Malcolm  !   Banquo ' 

As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like  sprights, 

To  countenance  this  horror.  ^jjeU  rings. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.                                  What's  the  business, 
1  liat  such  a  hideous  trumpet  calls  to  parley 
The  sleepers  of  tlie  house  ?  speak,  speak, 

.n/^'"''^*.  O,  gentle  lady, 

lis  not  for  you  to  hear  what  I  can  speak : 
The  repetition,  in  a  woman's  ear. 
Would  murder  as  it  fell O  Banquo!  Banquo! 

Enter  Banquo. 
Our  royal  master's  murder'd  ! 

Ladt/  M.  Woe,  alas  ! 

What,  in  our  house  ? 

Ran.  Too  cruel,  any  where. 

Dear  Duff,  I  pr'ythee  contradict  thyself, 
And  say,  it  is  not  so. 


315 


Re-enter  Macbeth  and  Lenox. 
Macb.   Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this  chance, 
I  had  liv'd  a  blessed  time ;  for,  from  tliis  instant, 
I  here's  nothing  serious  in  mortality  : 
All  is  but  toys  :   renown,  and  grace  is  dead  : 
The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  meer  lees 
Is  left  this  vault  to  brag  of. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  Donalbain. 
Don.  What  is  amiss  ? 

il/ac6.  You  are,  and  do  not  know  it : 

Ihe  spring,  the  head,  the  fountain  of  your  blood 
Is  stopp'd  ;  the  very  source  of  it  is  stopp'd. 

Macd.   Your  royal  father's  murder'd. 
^'^',  ^  ,.  O!  by  whom? 

i^en.    Ihose   of  his   chamber,  as  it  seem'd,  had 
done't : 
Their  hands  and  faces  were  all  badg'd  with  blood, 
bo  were  their  daggers,  which,  unwip'd,  we  found 
Ui)on  their  pillows : 


T^ey  star'd,  and  were  distracted;  no  man's  life 
Was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 

Macb.   O,  yet  I  do  repent  me  of  my  fury. 
That  I  did  kill  them.  ^      ^' 

^"cd.  Wherefore  did  you  so  ? 

Macb.   Who  can  be  wise,  amaz'd,  temperate  and 
furious. 
Loyal  and  neutral,  in  a  moment  ?  No  man  ; 
The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 
Out-ran  the  pauser  reason.  —  Here  lay  Duncan, 
His  silver  skin  lac'd  with  his  golden  blood  ; 
And  his  gash'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach  in  nature, 
^or  rum's  wasteful  entrance  :   there,  the  murderers, 
bteep'd  in  the  colours  of  their  trade,  their  daggers 
Unmanneriy  breech'd  with  gore*  :   Who  could  re- 
frain. 
That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  heart 
Courage  to  make  liis  love  known  ? 
{'""^y  M.  Help  me  hence,  ho  ! 

Macd.  Look  to  the  lady. 

Mai.  Why  do  we  hold  our  tongues, 

lliat  most  may  claim  this  argument  for  ours  ? 

Don.   What  should  be  spoken  here. 
Where  our  fate,  hid  within  an  augre-hole. 
May  rush  and  seize  us?  Let's  away;  our  tears 
Are  not  yet  brew'd. 

rr,^"}'  N^or  our  strong  sorrow  on 

liie  foot  of  motion. 

^<^n.  Look  to  the  lady  : 

.     ,     ,  [Lady  Macbeth  is  carried  otu. 

And  when  we  have  our  naked  frailties  hid. 
That  suffer  in  exposure,  let  us  meet. 
And  question  this  most  bloody  piece  of  work. 
To  know  it  further.      Fears  and  scruples  shake  us ; 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand ;  and,  thence. 
Against  the  undivulg'd  pretence  I  fight 
Of  treasonous  malice. 
Macb,  And  so  do  I. 

^^-  ,       .  So  all. 

Macb.  Let's  briefly  put  on  manly  readiness. 
And  meet  i'  the  hall  together. 

^^'  Well  contented. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Mal.  and  Don. 
Mai.   What  will  you  do  ?  Let's  not  consort  with     ' 
them  : 
To  show  an  unfelt  sorrow,  is  an  office  k 

Which  the  false  man  does  easy  :   I'll  to  England.  I 

Don.   To  Ireland,  I ;  our  separated  fortune 
Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer :   where  we  are. 
There's  daggers  in  men's  smiles  :  the  near  in  blood. 
The  nearer  bloody. 

Mat.  This  murderous  shaft  that's  shot. 

Hath  not  yet  lighted  ;  and  our  safest  way 
Is,  to  avoid  the  aim.      Therefore,  to  horse  ; 
And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave  taking. 
But  shift  away  :   there's  warrant  in  that  thefl. 
Which  steals  itself,  when  there's  no  mercy  left 

[Ereunt. 
SCENE  IV.  —  iruhoui  the  Castle. 

Enter  Rosse  and  an  Old  Man. 
Old  M.   Threescore  and  ten  I  can  rememl>er  well : 
Within  the  volume  of  which  time,  I  have  seen 
Hours  dreadful,  and  things  strange ;  but  this  sore 

night 
Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

^o«e.  Ah,  good  father. 

Thou  secst  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's  act, 

*  CoTered  with  blood  to  their  hUts. 


316 


MACBETH. 


Act  III. 


Threaten  his  bloody  stage  :  by  the  clock,  'tis  day, 
And  yet  dark  night  strangles  the  travelling  lamp  : 
Is  it  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame, 
That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  intomb. 
When  living  light  should  kiss  it  ? 

Old  M.  'Tis  unnatural, 

Even  like  the  deed  that's  done.     On  Tuesday  last 
A  falcon,  towrering  in  her  pride  of  place, 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  havvk'd  at,  and  kill'd. 

Rosse.    And    Duncan's    horses,    (a    thing    most 
strange  and  certain,) 
Beauteous  and  swift,  the  minions  of  their  race, 
Turn'd  wild  in  nature,  broke  their  stalls,  flung  out. 
Contending  'gainst  obedience,  as  they  would  make 
War  with  mankind. 

Old  M.  'Tis  said,  they  eat  each  other. 

Rosse.   They  did  so ;  to  the  amazement  of  mine 
eyes. 
That  look'd  upon't.     Here  comes  the  good  Mac- 
duff:  

Enter  Macduff. 
How  goes  the  world,  sir,  now  ? 

Macd.  Why,  see  you  not  ? 

Rosse.   Is't  known  who  did  this  more  than  bloody 

deed? 
Macd.  Those  that  Macbeth  hath  slain. 


Rosse.  Alas,  the  day : 

What  good  could  they  pretend  ?* 

Macd.  They  were  suborn'd  : 

Malcolm,  and  Donalbain,  the  king's  two  sons, 
Are  stol'n  away  and  fled ;  which  puts  upon  them 
Suspicion  of  the  deed. 

Rosse.  'Gainst  nature  still ; 

Thriftless  ambition,  that  wilt  raven  up 
Thine  own  life's  means  !  —  Then  'tis  most  like. 
The  sovereignty  will  fall  upon  Macbeth. 

Macd.   He  is  already  nam'd ;  and  gone  to  Scone, 
To  be  invested. 

Rosse.  Where  is  Duncan's  body  ? 

Macd.   Carried  to  Colmes-kill ; 
The  sacred  storehouse  of  his  predecessors, 
And  guardian  of  their  bones. 

Rosse.  Will  you  to  Scone  ? 

Macd.   No,  cousin,  I'll  to  Fife. 

Rosse.  Well,  I  will  thither. 

Macd.   Well,    may   you    see    things   well    done 
there ;  —  adieu  !  — — 
Lest  our  old  robes  sit  easier  than  our  new  ! 

Rosse.   Father,  farewell. 

Old  M.   God's  benison  go  with  you :    and  with 
those 
That  would  make  good  of  bad,  and  friends  of  foes ! 

[ExeurU* 


ACT  III, 


SCENE  I.  —  Fores.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Banquo. 
Ran.   Thou  hast  it  now.  King,  Cawdor,  Glamis, 
all. 
As  the  weird  women  promis'd ;  and,  I  fear. 
Thou  play'dst  most  foully  for't :   yet  it  was  said. 
It  should  not  stand  in  thy  posterity  ; 
But  that  myself  should  be  the  root,  and  father 
Of  many  kings.      If  there  come  truth  from  them, 
(As  upon  thee,  Macbeth,  their  speeches  shine,) 
Why,  by  the  verities  on  thee  made  good, 
May  they  not  be  my  oracles  as  well. 
And  set  me  up  in  hope?  But,  hush  j  no  more. 

Senet  sounded.  Enter  Macbeth,  as  King;  Lady 
Macbeth,  as  Queen;  Lenox,  Rosse,  Lords, 
Ladies,  and  Attendants. 

Macb.    Here's  our  chief  guest. 

Ladi/  M.  If  he  had  been  forgotten. 

It  had  been  as  a  gap  in  our  great  feast, 
And  all  things  unbecoming. 

Macb.   To-night  we  hold  a  solemn  supper,  sir. 
And  I'll  request  your  presence. 

Ban.  Let  your  highness 

Command  upon  me  ;  to  the  which,  my  duties 
Are  with  a  most  indissoluble  tie 
For  ever  knit. 

Macb.   Ride  you  this  afternoon  ? 

Ban.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  We   should  have  else  desir'd  your  good 
advice 
(Which  still  hath  been  both  grave  and  prosperous,) 
In  this  day's  council  j  but  we'll  take  to-morrow. 
Is't  far  you  ride  ? 

Ban.   As  far,  my  lord,  as  will  fill  up  the  time 
'Tvvixt  this  and  supper :  go  not  my  horse  the  better, 


I  must  become  a  borrower  of  the  night, 
For.  a  dark  hour  or  twain. 

Macb.  Fail  not  our  feast. 

Ban.   My  lord,  I  will  not. 

Macb.   We  hear,  our  bloody  cousins  are  bestow'd 
In  England,  and  in  Ireland  j  not  confessing 
Their  cruel  parricide,  filling  their  hearers 
With  strange  invention :   But  of  that  to-morrow  ; 
When,^  therewithal,  we  shall  have  cause  of  state. 
Craving  us  jointly.     Hie  you  to  horse  :    Adieu, 
Till  you  return  at  night.      Goes  Fleance  with  you  ? 

Ban.  Ay,  my  good  lord:  our  time  does  call  upon  us. 

Macb.   I  wish  your  horses  swift  and  sure  of  foot ; 
And  so  I  do  commend  you  to  their  backs. 

Farewell. \_Exit  Banquo. 

Let  every  man  be  master  of  his  time 
Till  seven  at  night ;  to  make  society 
The  sweeter  welcome,  we  will  keep  ourself 
TiU  supper-time  alone :  while  then,  God  be  with  you. 
{^Exeunt  Lady  Macbeth,  Lords,  Ladies,  ^c. 
Sirrah,  a  word :    Attend  those  men  our  pleasure  ? 

jltten.   They  are,  my  lord,  without  the  palace  gate. 

Macb.   Bring  them  before    us.  —  {Exit  Atten.] 
To  be  thus,  is  nothing ; 
But  to  be  safely  thus  :  —  Our  fears  in  Banquo 
Stick  deep  ;  and  in  his  royalty  ^  of  nature 
Reigns  that,  which  would  be  fear'd:   'Tis  much  he 

dares ; 
And,  to  that  dauntless  temper  of  his  mind, 
He  hath  a  wasdom  that  doth  guide  his  valour 
To  act  in  safety.      There  is  none,  but  he 
Whose  being  I  do  fear  :  and,  under  him, 
My  genius  is  rebuk'd ;  as,  it  is  said, 
Mark  Antony's  was  by  Caesar.      He  chid  the  sisters, 
When  first  they  put  the  name  of  King  upon  me, 


( 


■>  Intend  to  themselves. 


6  Nobleness. 


Scene  I. 


MACBETH. 


317 


And  bade  tliem  speak  to  him  ;  tlien,  prophet-like, 
They  hail'd  him  father  to  a  line  of  kings  : 
Upon  my  head  they  plac'd  a  fruitless  crown, 
And  put  a  barren  sceptre  in  my  gripe, 
Thence  to  be  wrench'd  with  an  unlineal  hand. 
No  son  of  mine  succeeding.      If  it  be  so. 
For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  fil'd  7  my  mind  ; 
For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murder'd  ; 
Put  rancours  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 
Only  for  them ;  and  mine  eternal  jewel 
Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man. 
To  make  them  kings,  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings  ! 
Ratiier  than  so,  come,  fate,  into  the  list. 
And  champion  me  to  the  utterance  !  ^  —       Who's 
there  ?  — 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  Two  Murderers. 

Now  to  the  door,  and  stay  there  till  we  call. 

[Exit  Attendant. 
Was  it  not  yesterday  we  spoke  together  ? 

1  Mur.    It  was,  so  please  your  highness. 

Macb.  Well  then,  now 

Have  you  consider'd  of  my  speeches?   Know, 
That  it  was  he,  in  the  times  past,  which  held  you 
So  under  fortune ;  which,  you  thought,  had  been 
Our  innocent  self:   this  I  made  good  to  you 
In  our  last  conference;  pass'd  in  probation^  with  you, 
How  you  were  borne  in  hand  ;  how  cross'd ;  the 

instruments ; 
Who  wrought  with  them ;  and  all  things  else,  that 

might, 
To  half  a  soul,  and  a  notion  craz'd. 
Say,  Thus  did  Banquo. 

1  Mur.  You  made  it  known  to  us. 

Macb.    I  did  so  ;  and  went  further,  which  is  now 
Our  point  of  second  meeting.      Do  you  find 
Your  patience  so  predominant  in  your  nature. 
That  you  can  let  this  go?     Are  you  so  gospell'd, 
To  pray  for  that  good  man,  and  for  his  issue, 
Whose  heavy  hand  hath  bow'd  you  to  the  grave. 
And  beggar'd  yours  for  ever? 

1  Mur.  We  are  men,  my  liege. 
Macb.    Ay,  m  the  catalogue  ye  go  for  men  ; 

As  hounds,  and  greyhounds,  mongrels,  spaniels,  curs, 
Shoughs  ',  water-rugs,  and  demi- wolves,  are  cle^jed* 
All  by  the  name  of  dogs  :   the  valued  file 
Distinguishes  the  swift,  the  slow,  the  subtle. 
The  house-keeper,  the  hunter,  every  one 
According  to  the  gift  which  bounteous  nature 
Hath  in  him  clos'd  ;  whereby  he  does  receive 
Particular  addition  ',  from  the  bill 
That  writes  them  all  alike  :    And  so  of  men. 
Now,  if  you  have  a  station  in  the  file, 
And  not  in  the  worst  rank  of  manhood,  say  it ; 
And  I  will  put  that  business  in  your  bosoms, 
Whose  execution  takes  your  enemy  off; 
Grapples  you  to  the  heart  and  love  of  us, 
Who  wear  our  health  but  sickly  in  his  life, 
Which  in  his  death  were  perfect. 

2  Mur.  1  am  one,  my  liege, 
Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 
Have  so  incens'd  that  I  am  reckless  ^  what 

I  do,  to  spite  the  world. 

1  Mur.  And  I  another. 

So  weary  with  disasters,  tugg'd  with  fortune, 
Tliat  I  would  set  my  life  on  any  chance. 
To  mend  it,  or  be  rid  on't. 

'  For  defiled.  "  ChallenRC  me  to  extremUics, 

»  Proved.  »  Wolf-dogt.  '  Called. 

»  Title,  description  *  Carelcifc 


Macb.  Both  of  you 

Know,  Banquo  was  your  enemy. 

2  Mur.  True,  my  lord, 

Macb.   So  is  he  mine :  and  in  such  bloody  distance, 
That  every  minute  of  his  being  thrusts 
Against  my  near'st  of  life  :    And  though  I  could 
With  bare-fac'd  power  sweep  him  from  my  sight, 
And  bid  my  will  avouch  it ;  yet  I  must  not. 
For  5  certain  friends  that  are  both  his  and  mine, 
Whose  loves  I  may  not  drop,  but  wail  his  fall 
Whom  I  myself  struck  down  :  and  thence  it  is, 
That  I  to  your  assistance  do  make  love ; 
Masking  the  business  from  the  common  eye. 
For  sundry  weighty  reasons. 

2  Mur.  We  shall,  my  lord. 

Perform  what  you  command  us. 

1  Mvr.  Though  our  lives 

Macb.   Your  spirits  shine  through  you.     Within 

this  hour,  at  most, 
I  will  advise  you  where  to  plant  yourselves. 
Acquaint  you  with  the  perfect  spy  o'the  time, 
The  moment  on't ;  for't  must  be  done  to-night. 
And  something  from  the  palace  ;  always  thought. 
That  I  require  a  clearness ;    And  with  hun, 
(To  leave  no  rubs,  nor  botches,  in  the  work,) 
Fleance  his  Son,  that  keeps  him  company, 
Whose  absence  is  no  less  material  to  me 
Than  is  his  father's,  must  embrace  the  fate 
Of  tliat  dark  hour.      Resolve  yourselves  apart ; 
I'll  come  to  you  anon. 

2  Mur.  We  are  resolv'd,  my  lord. 
Macb.   I'll  call  upon  you  straight ;  abide  within. 

It  is  concluded  : Banquo,  thy  soul's  flight, 

If  it  find  heaven,  must  find  it  out  to-night.    [Exeuiit. 

SCENE  II.  —Another  Room. 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  and  a  Servant. 

Lady  M.   Is  Banquo  gone  from  court  ? 

Serv.    Ay,  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

Lady  M.   Say  to  the  king,   I  would  attend  his 
leisure 
For  a  few  words. 

Serv.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

Lady  M.  Nought's  had,  all's  spent, 

Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
'Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy. 
Than,  by  destruction,  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 

Enter  Macbkth. 
How  now,  my  lord  ?  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  ^  fancies  your  companions  making  ? 
Using  those  thoughts,  which  should  indeed  have  died 
With  them  they  think  on  ?  Things  without  remedy. 
Should  be  without  regard :   what's  done,  is  done. 

Macb.   We  have  scotch'd  the  snake,  not  kill'd  it ; 
She'll  close,  and  be  herself ;  whilst  our  poor  malice 
Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 
But  let 

The  frame  of  things  disjoint,  both  the  worlds  suffer, 
Ere  we  will  eat  our  m«al  in  fear,  and  sleep 
In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams, 
That  shake  us  nightly :   Better  be  with  the  dead. 
Whom  we,  to  gfun  our  place,  have  sent  to  peace. 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 
In  restless  ecstasy.  ^     Duncan  is  in  his  grave  ; 
After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well ; 
Treason  has  done  his  worst :   nor  steel,  nor  poison, 


^  Because  of.  *  Most  melancholy. 


Agony. 


318 


MACBETH. 


Act  in. 


Malice  domestick,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 
Can  touch  him  further ! 

Lady  M.    Come  on  ; 
Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks  ; 
Be  bright  and  jovial  'mong  your  guests  to-night. 

Macb.   So  shall  I,  love  ;  and  so,  I  pray,  be  you  : 
Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo  ; 
Present  him  eminence  8,  both  with  eye  and  tongue : 
Unsafe  the  while,  that  we 

Must  lave  our  honours  in  these  flattering  streams ; 
And  make  our  faces  vizards  to  our  hearts^ 
Disguising  what  they  are. 

Lady  M.  You  must  leave  this. 

Macb.   O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife  ! 
Thou  know'st,  that  Banquo,  and  his  Fleance,  lives. 

Lady  M.   But  in  them  nature's  copy's  not  eterne.  9 

Macb.   There's  comfort  yet ;  they  are  assailable  ; 
Then  be  thou  jocund  :   Ere  the  bat  hath  flown 
His  cloister'd  flight;  ere,  to  black  Hecate's  summons, 
The  shard-borne  beetle  ',  with  his  drowsy  hums. 
Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

Lady  M.  What's  to  be  done  ? 

Macb.  Beinnocentof  the  knowledge, dearestchuck. 
Till  thou  applaud  the  deed.      Come,  seeling  2  night, 
Skarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day ; 
And,  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand, 
Cancel,  and  tear  to  pieces,  that  great  bond 
Which  keeps  me  pale !  —  Light  thickens;  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood  : 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse  ; 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  prey  do  rouse. 
Tliou  marvell'st  at  my  words ;  but  hold  thee  still ; 
Things,  bad  begun,  make  strong  themselves  by  ill : 
So,  pr'ythee,  go  with  me.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE   III A  Park  or  Lawn,    with   a   Gate 

leading  to  the  Palace. 

Enter  Three  Murderers. 

1  Mur.   But  who  did  bid  thee  join  with  us? 

3  Mur.  Macbeth. 

2  Mur.   He  needs  not  our  mistrust :   since  he  de- 

livers 
Our  offices,  and  what  we  have  to  do, 
To  the  direction  just. 

1  Mur.  Then  stand  with  us. 

The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some  streaks  of  day  : 
Now  spurs  the  lated  traveller  apace. 
To  gain  the  timely  inn  ;  and  near  approaches 
The  subject  of  our  watch. 

3  Mur.  Hark  !   I  hear  horses. 
Ban.    \^Within.'\  Give  us  a  light  there,  ho  ! 

2  Mur.  Then  it  is  he ;  the  rest 
That  are  within  the  note  of  expectation, 
Already  are  i'the  court. 

1  Mur.  His  horses  go  about. 

3  Mur.   Almost  a  mile  :  but  he  does  usually. 
So  all  men  do,  from  hence  to  the  palace  gate 
Make  it  their  walk. 

Enter  Banquo  and  Fleance,  a  Servant  with  a  torch 
preceding  them. 

2  Mur.  A  light !  a  light ! 

3  Mur.  'Tis  he. 
1  Mur.    Stand  to't. 

"  Do  him  the  highest  honours. 

8  i.  e.  The  copy,  the  lease,  by  which  they  hold  their  lives, 
is  not  eternal. 
1  The  beetle  borne  in  the  air  by  its  shards  or  scaly  wings. 
*  Blinding. 


Ban.   It  will  be  rain  to-night. 
1  Mur,  Let  iv  come  down. 

[^Assaults  Banquo. 
Ban.  O,  treachery !  Fly, good  Fleance,  fly,  fly,  fly; 
Thou  mayst  revenge.      O  slave  ! 

[Dies.      Fleance  and  Servant  escape. 
3  Mur.   Who  did  strike  out  the  light  ? 

1  Mur.  Was't  not  the  way  ? 
3  Mur.   There's  but  one  down  ;  the  son  has  fled. 

2  Mur.   We  have  lost  best  half  of  our  affair. 

1  Mur.   Well,  let's  away,  and  say  how  much  is 
done.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 
A  Banquet  prepared.   Enter  Macbeth,  Lady  Mac- 
beth, RossE,  Lenox,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 
Macb.   You  know  your  own  degrees,  sit  down : 
at  first 
And  last,  the  hearty  welcome. 

Lords.  Thanks  to  your  majesty. 

Macb.   Ourself  will  mingle  with  society. 
And  play  the  humble  host. 

Our  hostess  keeps  her  state  3  ;  but,  in  best  time, 
We  will  require  her  welcome. 

Lady  M.   Pronounce  it  for  me,  sir,  to  all  our 
friends  ; 
For  my  heart  speaks,  they  are  welcome. 

Enter  First  Murderer,  to  the  door. 

Macb.    See,    they    encounter    thee    with    their 

hearts'  thanks  :  

Both  sides  are  even  :    Here  I'll  sit  i'the  midst : 
Be  large  in  mirth ;  anon,  we'll  drink  a  measure 
The  table  round.  —  There's  blood  upon  thy  face. 

Mur.   'Tis  Banquo's  then. 

Macb.  'Tis  better  thee  without,  than  he  within. 
Is  he  despatch'd  ? 

Mur.  My  lord,  his  throat  is  cut ;  that  I  did  for  him. 

Macb.   Thou  art  the  best  o'the  cut-throats :    Yet 
he's  good, 
That  did  the  like  for  Fleance  :  if  thou  didst  it, 
Thou  art  the  nonpareil. 

Mur.  Most  royal  sir, 

Fleance  is  'scap'd. 

Macb.  Then  comes  my  fit  again  :  I  had  else  been 
perfect ; 
Whole  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock  ; 
As  broad,  and  general,  as  the  casing  air  : 
But  now,  I  am  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confin'd,  bound  in 
To  saucy  doubts  and  fears.      But  Banquo's  safe  ? 

Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides. 
With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head ; 
The  least  a  death  to  nature. 

Macb.  Thanks  for  that : 

There  the  grown  serpent  lies ;  the  worm,  that's  fled. 
Hath  nature  that  in  time  will  venom  breed, 
No  teeth  for  the  present.  —  Get  thee  gone ;  to- 
morrow 
We'll  hear  ourselves  again.  [Exit  Murderer. 

Lady  M.  My  royal  lord. 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer :   the  feast  is  sold, 
Tliat  is  not  often  vouch'd,  while  'tis  a  making, 
'Tis  given  with  welcome :    To  feed,  were  best  at 

home ; 
From  thence  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony ; 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

Macb.  Sweet  remembrancer  !  — 

Now  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite. 
And  health  on  both  ! 


I 


3  Her  chair  of  state. 


mi 


Scene  IV. 


MACBETH. 


319 


Len.  May  it  please  your  highness  sit? 

[T}ie  Ghost  of  Banquo  risesy  and  sits  in 
Macbeth's  place. 

Macb.   Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honour 
roof  'd, 
Were  the  grac'd  person  of  our  Banquo  present ; 
Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindncss, 
Than  pity  for  mischance  ! 

Rosse.  His  absence,  sir, 

Lays  blame  upon  his  promise.    Please  it  your  high- 
ness 
To  grace  us  with  your  royal  company  ? 

Macb.   The  table's  full. 

Len.  Here's  a  place  reserv'd,  sir. 

Macb.  Where? 

Len.  Here  my  lord.     What  is't  that 

moves  your  highness  ? 

Macb.   Which  of  you  have  done  this  ? 

Lords.  What,  my  good  lord  ? 

Macb.  Thou  canst  not  say,  I  did  it :  never  shake 
Thy  gory  locks  at  me. 

Rosse.  Gentlemen,  rise ;  his  highness  is  not  well. 

Lady  M.  Sit,  worthy  friends:  — my  lord  is  often 
thus, 
And  hath  been  from  his  youth :  'pray  you,  keep  seat ; 
The  fit  is  momentary ;  upon  a  thought 
He  will  again  be  well :    If  much  you  note  him. 
You  shall  offend  him,  and  extend  his  passion ; 
Feed,  and  regard  him  not.  —  Are  you  a  man  ? 

Macb.  Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 

Lady  M.  O  proper  stuff! 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear : 
This  is  the  air- drawn  dagger,  which,  you  said. 
Led  you  to  Duncan.      O,  these  flaws  *,  and  starts, 
(Impostors  to  true  fear,)  would  well  become 
A  woman's  story,  at  a  winter's  fire, 
Authoriz'd  by  her  grandam.      Shame  itself! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ?  When  all's  done. 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

Macb.   Pr'ythce,  see  there !    behold  !    look  !  lo  ! 

how  say  you  ? 

Why,  what  care  I  ?  If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too 

If  charnel-houses,  and  our  graves,  must  send 

Those  that  we  bury,  back,  our  monuments 

Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  [Ghost  disappears. 

Lady  M.  What !  quite  unmann'd  in  folly  ? 

Macb.   If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 

Lady  M.  Fye,  for  shame  ! 

Macb.  Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now,  i'the  olden 
time. 
Ere  human  statute  purg'd  the  gentle  weal ; 
Ay,  and  since  too,  murders  have  been  perform'd 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear  :   the  times  have  been, 
Thati  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end :  but  now,  they  rise  again. 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns. 
And  pusli  us  from  our  stools :  This  is  more  strange 
ITian  such  a  murder  is. 

Lady  M.  My  worthy  lord, 

Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 

Macb.  I  do  forget :  — 

Do  not  muse  ^  at  me,  my  most  worthy  friends ; 
I  have  a  strange  infirmity,  which  is  nothing 
To  those  tliat  know  me.      Come,  love  and  health 
to  all ; 

Tlun  I'll  sit  down  : Give  me  some  wine,  fill 

full : 

I  drink  to  the  general  joy  of  the  whole  table, 
*  Sudden  Rujts.  *  Wonder. 


Ghost  rises. 
And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo,  whom  we  miss : 
Would  he  were  here !  to  all,  and  him,  we  thirst. 
And  all  to  all.  6 

Lords.  Our  duties,  and  the  pledge. 

Macb.  A  vaunt !  and  quit  my  sight !  Let  the  earth 
hide  thee ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold  ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with  ! 

Lady  M.  Think  of  this,  good  peers, 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom  :   'tis  no  other  ; 
Only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time. 

Macb.   What  man  dare,  I  dare  : 
Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Russian  bear, 
The  arm'd  rhinoceros,  or  the  Hyrcan  tiger. 
Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 
Shall  never  tremble  :    Or,  be  alive  again. 
And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword  ; 
If  trembling  I  inhibit  7  thee,  protest  me 
The  baby  of  a  girl.     Hence,  horrible  shadow  ! 

[GAorf  disappears. 
Unreal  mockery,  hence  ! — Why  so  ;  —  being  gone, 
I  am  a  man  again.  —  Pray  you,  sit  still. 

Lady  M.  You  have  displac'd  the  mirth,  broke  the 
good  meeting, 
With  most  admired  disorder. 

Macb.  Can  such  things  be, 

And  overcome  8  us  like  a  summer's  cloud. 
Without  our  special  wonder  ?  You  make  me  strange 
Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe  9, 
When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights, 
And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks. 
When  mine  are  blanch'd  with  fear. 

Rosse.  What  sights,  my  lord  ? 

Lady  M.  I  pray  you,  speak  not ;  he  grows  worse 
and  worse : 
Question  enrages  him  :   at  once,  good  night :  — 
Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going. 
But  go  at  once. 

Len.  Good  night,  and  better  health 

Attend  his  majesty ! 

Lady  M.  A  kind  good  night  to  all ! 

[Exeunt  Lords  and  Attendants. 

Macb.   It  will  have  blood ;  they  say,  blood  will 
have  blood  : 
Stones  have  been  known  to  move,  and  trees  to  speak; 
Augurs,  and  understood  relations,  have 
By  magot-pies ',  and  choughs,  and  rooks,  brought 

forth 
The  secret'st  man  of  blood.  —  What  is  the  night  ? 

Lady  M.   Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which 
is  which. 

Macb.   How  say'st  thou,  that  Macduff  denies  his 
person. 
At  our  great  bidding  ? 

Lady  M.  Did  you  send  to  him,  sir  ? 

Macb.   I  hear  it  by  the  way  ;  but  I  will  send  : 
There's  not  a  one  of  them,  but  in  his  house 
I  keep  a  servant  fee'd.      I  will  to-morrow, 
(  Betimes  I  will,)  unto  the  weird  sisters : 
More  shall  they  speak  ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know, 
By  the  worst  means,  the  worst :  for  mine  own  good. 
All  causes  shall  give  way ;   I  am  in  blood 
Slept  in  so  far,  tliat,  should  I  wade  no  more, 
Retuniing  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er ; 
Strange  things  I  have  in  head,  that  will  to  hand ; 
Wliich  must  be  acted,  ere  they  may  be  scann'd.* 

«  I.  e   All  good  withes  to  all        ?  Forbid.         8  pass  over. 
>  PoifeM  ■  Magpies.  *  Exunined  nicely. 


320 


MACBETH. 


Act  IV. 


Lady  M.  You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,  sleep. 

Maci/.   Come,  we'll  to  sleep :    My  strange  and 
self-abuse 
Is  the  initiate  fear,  that  wants  hard  use  :  — 
We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  Heath. 

Thunder.     Enter  Hecate,  meeting  the  Three 
Witches. 

1  Witch.  Why,  how  now,  Hecate  ?  you  look  an- 
gerly. 

Hec.   Have  I  not  reason,  beldams,  as  you  are. 
Saucy,  and  overbold?   How  did  you  dare 
I'o  trade  and  traffick  with  Macbeth, 
In  riddles  and  affairs  of  death  ; 
And  I,  the  mistress  of  your  charms, 
The  close  contriver  of  all  harms, 
Was  never  call'd  to  bear  my  part. 
Or  show  the  glory  of  our  art  ? 
And,  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done 
Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son. 
Spiteful,  and  wrathful  j  who,  as  others  do. 
Loves  for  his  own  ends,  not  for  you. 
But  make  amends  now  :    Get  you  gone, 
And  at  the  pit  of  Acheron, 
Meet  me  i'the  morning  ;  thither  he 
Will  come  to  know  his  destiny. 
Your  vessels,  and  your  spells,  provide, 
Your  charms,  and  every  thing  beside  : 
I  am  for  the  air  :   this  night  I'll  spend 
Unto  a  dismal-fatal  end. 
Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon  ; 
Upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 
There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound  3 ; 
I'll  catch  it  ere  it  come  to  ground  : 
And  that  distill'd  by  magick  slights. 
Shall  raise  such  artificial  sprights, 
As  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion. 
Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion  : 
He  shall  spurn  fate,  scorn  death,  and  bear 
His  hopes  'bove  wisdom,  grace,  and  fear  : 
And  you  all  know,  security 
Is  mortal's  chiefest  enemy. 

Song.    [Within.'}    Come  away,  come  away,  <^c. 
Hark,  I  am  call'd :  my  little  spirit  see. 
Sits  in  a  foggy  cloud,  and  stays  for  me.  [Exit. 

1   Witch.    Come,  let's  make  haste ;  she'll  soon  be 
back  again.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  Fores.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 


Enter  Lenox  and  another  Lord. 
Len.  My  former  speeches   have  but 
thoughts, 


hit 


your 


Which  can  interpret  further  :  only,  I  say. 

Things  have  been  strangely  borne :   The  gracious 

Duncan 
Was  pitied  of  Macbeth  :  —  marry,  he  was  dead  :  — 
And  the  right-valiant  Banquo  walk'd  too  late  ; 
Whom,  you  may  say,  if  it  please  you,  Fleance  kill'd, 
For  Fleance  fled.      Men  must  not  walk  too  late. 
Who  cannot  want  the  thought,  how  monstrous 
It  was  for  Malcolm,  and  for  Donalbain,  ; 

To  kill  their  gracious  father  ?  damned  fact !  ' 

How  it  did  grieve  Macbeth  !  did  he  not  straight. 
In  pious  rage,  the  two  delinquents  tear. 
That  were  the  slaves  of  drink,  and  thralls  of  sleep  ? 
Was  not  that  nobly  done  ?  Ay,  and  wisely  too  ; 
For  'twould  have  anger'd  any  heart  alive. 
To  hear  the  men  deny  it.      So  that,  I  say, 
He  has  borne  all  things  well :   and  I  do  think, 
That,  had  he  Duncan's  sons  under  his  key, 
(As,  an't  please  heaven,  he  shall  not,)  theyshould  find 
What  'twere  to  kill  a  father ;  so  should  Fleance. 
But,  peace  !  —  for  from  broad  words,  and  'cause  he 

fail'd 
His  presence  at  the  tyrant's  feast,  I  hear, 
Macduff  lives  in  disgrace :    Sir,  can  you  tell 
Where  he  bestows  himself? 

Lord.  The  son  of  Duncan, 

From  whom  this  tyrant  holds  the  due  of  birth. 
Lives  in  the  English  court ;  and  is  receiv'd 
Of  the  most  pious  Edward  with  such  grace. 
That  the  malevolence  of  fortune  nothing 
Takes  from  his  high  respect :    Thither  Macduff 
Is  gone  to  pray  the  holy  king,  on  his  aid 
To  wake  Northumberland,  and  warlike  Siward : 
That,  by  the  help  of  these,  (with  Him  above 
To  ratify  the  work,)  we  may  again 
Give  to  our  tables  meat,  sleep  to  our  nights ; 
Free  from  our  feasts  and  banquets  bloody  knives  ; 
Do  faithful  homage,  and  receive  free  honours  % 
All  which  we  pine  for  now  :    And  this  report 
Hath  so  exasperate  the  king,  that  he 
Prepares  for  some  attempt  of  war 

Len.  Sent  he  to  Macduff? 

Lord.   He  did :  and  with  an  absolute.  Sir,  not  I, 
The  cloudy  messenger  turns  me  his  back. 
And  hums ;  as  who  should  say.  You  II  rue  the  time 
That  clogs  me  with  this  answer. 

Len.  And  that  well  might 

Advise  him  to  a  caution,  to  hold  what  distance 
His  wisdom  can  provide.      Some  holy  angel 
Fly  to  the  court  of  England,  and  unfold 
His  message  ere  he  come  :   Tliat  a  swift  blessing 
May  soon  return  to  this  our  suffering  country 
Under  a  hand  accurs'd  ! 

Lord.  My  prayers  with  him  ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  L 


A   dark    Cave.      In  the   middle,   a 
Cauldron  boiling. 


Thunder.     Enter  the  Three  Witches. 

1  Witch.   Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mew'd. 

2  WUch.  Thrice  ;  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whin'd. 

3  Witch.   Harper  cries  :  —  'Tis  time,  'tis  time. 

3  i.  e.  A  drop  that  has  deep  or  hidden  qualities. 


1   Witch.   Round  about  the  cauldron  go; 

In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. 

Toad,  that  under  coldest  stone. 
Days  and  nights  hast  thirty-one 
Swelter'd  venom  sleeping  got. 
Boil  thou  first  i'the  charmed  pot ! 

All.    Double,  double  toil  and  trouble  j 
Fire,  burn  ;  and,  cauldron,  bubble. 
<  Honours  freely  bestowed. 


Scene  I. 


MACBETH. 


321 


2  WUch.    Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  cauldron  boil  and  bake  : 
Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog, 
Adder's  fork,  and  blind-worm's  sting, 
Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing, 

For  a  chann  of  powerful  trouble, 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 

All.   Double,  double  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Fire,  burn ;  and,  cauldron,  bubble. 

3  Witch.   Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf ; 
Witches'  mummy  ;  maw,  and  gulf*. 

Of  the  ravin'd  ^  salt-sea  shark  ; 
Root  of  hemlock,  digg'd  i'the  dark  ; 
Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew  ; 
Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew, 
Sliver'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse ; 
Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips ; 
Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe, 
Ditch-deliver'd  by  a  drab, 
INIake  the  gruel  thick  and  slab : 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron. 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  cauldron. 

All.   Double,  double  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Fire,  bum  ;  and,  cauldron,  bubble. 

2  JVitch.    Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood, 
Then  tlie  charm  is  firm  and  good. 

Enter  Hecate. 
Hec.   O,  well  done  !   I  commend  your  pains  j 
And  every  one  shall  share  i'the  gains. 
And  now  about  the  cauldron  sing. 
Like  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring, 
Enchanting  all  that  you  put  in. 

SONG. 

Slack  spirits  and  white, 

Blue  spirits  and  grey  ; 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle. 

You  that  mingle  may. 

2  Witch.    By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs. 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes  : 
Open  locks,  whoever  knocks. 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Macb.  How  now,  you  secret,  black,  and  mid- 
night hags  ? 
What  is't  you  do  ? 

All.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

Macb.   I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess, 
(Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it,)  answer  me : 
Though  you  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 
Against  the  churches ;  though  the  yesty  waves 
Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up ; 
Though  bladed  com  be  lodg'd  7,  and  trees  blown 

down; 
Though  castles  topple  8  on  their  warders'  heads ; 
Though  palaces,  and  pyramids,  do  slope 
Their  heads  to  their  foundations ;  though  the  treasure 
Of  nature's  germins  9  tumble  all  together. 
Even  till  destruction  sicken,  answer  me 
To  what  I  ask  you. 

1  WUch.  Speak. 

2  WUch.  Demand. 

3  Witch.  We'll  answer. 
1  WUch.   Say,  if  thou'dst  rather  hear  it  from  our 

mouths, 
Or  from  our  masters'  ? 

*  The  throat  *  Ravenou*. 

^  Laid  flat  by  wind  or  rain.  *  Tumble. 

B  Seeda  whicn  have  begun  to  sprout. 


Macb.  Call  them,  let  me  see  them. 

1  WUch.   Pour  in  sow's  blood,  tliat  hath  eaten 
Her  nine  farrow ;  grease,  that's  sweaten 
From  tlie  murderer's  gibbet,  throw 
Into  the  flame. 

All.  Come,  high  or  low 

Thyself,  and  oflSce,  deftly  *  show. 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  an  armed  Head  rises. 

Macb,   Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power, 

1  WUch.  He  knows  thy  thought ; 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  nought.* 

App.   Macbeth !    Macbeth !    Macbeth  !    beware 
Macduff; 
Beware  the  thane  of  Fife. — Dismiss  me : —  Enough. 

[Descends. 
Macb.   Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  -caution 
tlianks ; 
Thou  hast  harp'd*  my  fear  aright :  —  But  one  word 
more.  — 
1  WUch.   He  will  not  be  commanded :    Here's 
another, 
More  potent  than  the  first. 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  a  bloody  Child  rises. 
App.  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !   Macbeth  !  — 

Macb.   Had  I  three  ears,  I'd  hear  thee. 
App.  Be  bloody,  bold. 

And  resolute :   laugh  to  scorn  the  power  of  man. 
For  none  of  woman  born  shall  harm  Macbeth. 

[Descends. 
Macb.  Then  live,  Macduff:  What  need  I  fear  of 
thee? 
But  yet  I'll  make  assurance  double  sure, 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate  :  thou  shalt  not  live  ; 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear,  it  lies, 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder.  —  What  is  this, 

Thunder.    An  Apparition  of  a  Child  crowned,  with 
a  tree  in  his  hand,  rises. 

That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king ; 

And  wears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 

And  top  of  sovereignty  ? 

All.  Listen,  but  speak  not. 

Ajyp.   Be  lion-mettled,  proud  ;  and  take  no  care 
Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are : 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquish'd  be,  until 
Great  Bimam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him.  [Descends. 

Macb.  That  will  never  be  : 

Who  can  impress  the  forest ;  bid  the  tree 
Unfix  his  earth-bound  root?  sweet  bodements!  good ! 
Rebellious  head,  rise  never,  till  the  wood 
Of  Birnam  rise,  and  our  high-plac'd  Macbeth 
Shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 
To  time,  and  mortal  custom.  —  Yet  my  heart 
Throbs  to  know  one  thing  :    Tell  me,  (if  your  art 
Can  tell  so  much,)  shall  Banquo's  issue  ever 
Reign  in  tliis  kingdom  ? 

All.  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Macb.    I  will  be  satisfied  :   deny  me  this. 
And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you  !  Let  me  know  :  — 
Why  sinks  that  cauldron  ?  and  what  noise  is  this  ? 

[Hautboys. 

1  WUch.  Show  !  2  WUch.  Show !  3  WUch.  Show ! 

Alt.   Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart  j 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart. 

»   Adroitly 

s  Touched  on  a  paation  as  a  harper  touches  a  string 

Y 


S22 


MACBETH. 


Act  IV. 


Eight  hngs  appear,  and  pass  over  the  Stage  in 
order  ;  the  last  wUh  a  glass  in  his  hand ;  Banquo 
following. 

Macb.   Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo; 
down ! 
Thy  crown  does  sear  mine  eye-balls :  —  And  thy 

hair, 
Thou  other  gold-bound  brow,  is  like  the  first :  — 
A  third  is  like  the  former  :  —  Filthy  hags ! 
Wliy  do  you  show  me  this  ?  —  A  fourth  ?  —  Start, 

eyes  ! 
What !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  ? 
Another  yet?  —  A  seventh ?  —  I'll  see  no  more  :  — 
And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass. 
Which  shows  me  many  more  ;  and  some  I  see, 
That  two-fold  balls  and  treble  scepters  carry : 
Horrible  sight !  —  Ay,  now,  I  see,  'tis  true  ; 
For  the  blood-bolter'd  3  Banquo  smiles  upon  me, 
And  points  at  them  for  his.  —  What,  is  this  so  ? 

1   Witch.    Ay,  sir,  all  this  is  so  :  —  But  why 
Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly  ?  — 
Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprights, 
And  show  the  best  of  our  delights  ; 
I'll  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound. 
While  you  perform  your  antique  round : 
That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 

[Musick.      The  Witches  dance,  and  vanish. 

Macb.   Where  are  they?  gone?  —  Let  this  per- 
nicious hour 
Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar !  — 
Come  in,  without  there  ! 

Uyiter  Lenox. 

Len.  What's  your  grace's  will  ? 

Macb.   Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

Len.  No,  my  lord. 

Macb.   Came  they  not  by  you  ? 

Len.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

Macb.   Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride  ; 
And  damn'd,  all  those  that  trust  them  !  —  I  did  hear 
The  galloping  of  horse  :   Who  was't  came  by  ? 

Len.   'Tis  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you 
word, 
Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 

Macb.  Fled  to  England? 

Len.   Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  Time,  thou  anticipat'sf*  my  dread  exploits: 
The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook. 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it :    From  this  moment. 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 
The  firstlings  of  my  hand.      And  even  now 
To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and 

done : 
The  castle  of  Macduff  I  will  surprise  ; 
Seize  upon  Fife  ;  give  to  the  edge  o'the  sword 
His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 
That  trace  his  line.      No  boasting  like  a  fool ; 
This  deed  I'll  do,  before  this  purpose  cool: 
But  no  more  sights  !  — Where  are  these  gentlemen? 
Come,  bring  me  where  they  are.  {^Exeunt. 

S  CENE  II.  —  Fife.    A  Room  in  Macduff's  Castle. 

Enter  Lady  Macduff,  her  Son,  and  Rosse. 
L.  Macd.  What  had  he  done,  to  make  him  fly  the 

land  ? 
Rosse.   You  must  have  patience,  madam. 

3  Besmeared  with  blood. 

*  Preventest,  by  taking  away  the  opportunity. 


L.  Macd.  He  had  none  : 

His  flight  was  madness :   When  our  actions  do  not. 
Our  fears  do  make  us  traitors. 

Rosse.  You  know  not. 

Whether  it  was  his  wisdom  or  his  fear. 

L.  Macd.  Wisdom !  to  leave  his  wife,  to  leave  his 
babes. 
His  mansion,  and  his  titles,  in  a  place 
From  whence  himself  does  fly  ?  He  loves  us  not ; 
He  wants  the  natural  touch  :  for  the  poor  wren. 
The  most  diminutive  of  birds,  will  fight. 
Her  young  ones  in  her  nest,  against  the  owl. 
All  is  the  fear,  and  nothing  is  the  love ; 
As  little  is  the  wisdom,  where  the  flight 
So  runs  against  all  reason. 

Rosse.  My  dearest  coz, 

I  pray  you,  school  yourself:  But,  for  your  husban 
He  is  noble,  wise,  judicious,  and  best  knows 
The  fits  o'the  season.   I  dare  not  speak  much  further 
But  cruel  are  the  times,  when  we  are  traitors. 
And  do  not  know  ourselves  ;  when  we  hold  rumour 
From  what  we  fear,  yet  know  not  what  we  fear ; 
But  float  upon  a  wild  and  violent  sea. 
Each  way,  and  move.  —  I  take  my  leave  of  you : 
Shall  not  be  long  but  I'll  be  here  again : 
Things  at  the  worst  will  cease,  or  else  climb  upward 
To  what  they  were  before.  —  My  pretty  cousin, 
Blessing  upon  you ! 

L.  Macd.    Father'd  he  is,  and  yet  he's  fatherless. 

Rosse.  I  am  so  much  a  fool,  should  I  stay  longer, 
It  would  be  my  disgrace,  and  your  discomfort : 
I  take  my  leave  at  once.  [Exit  Rosse. 

L.  Macd.  Sirrah,  your  father's  dead  ; 

And  what  will  you  do  now  ?  How  will  you  live  ? 

Son.   As  birds  do,  mother. 

L.  Macd.  What,  with  worms  and  flies  ? 

Son.   With  what  I  get,  I  mean  ;  and  so  do  they. 

L.  Macd.  Poor  bird  !  thou'dst  never  fear  the  net, 
nor  lime. 
The  pit-fall,  nor  the  gin. 

Son.  Why  should  I,  mother?  Poor  birds  they  are 
not  set  for. 
My  father  is  not  dead,  for  all  your  saying. 

L.  Macd,   Yes,  he  is  dead ;  how  wilt  thou  do  for 
a  father  ? 

Son.   Nay,  how  will  you  do  for  a  husband  ? 

i.  Macd.   Why,  I  can  buy  me  twenty  at   any 
market. 

Son.   Then  you'll  buy  'em  to  sell  again. 

L.  Macd.   Thou  speak'st  with  all  thy  wit ;  and 
yet  i'faith. 
With  wit  enough  for  thee. 

Son.   Was  my  father  a  traitor,  mother  ? 

L.  Macd.    Ay,  that  he  was. 

Son.   What  is  a  traitor  ? 

L.  Macd.   Why,  one  that  swears  and  lies, 

Son.    And  be  all  traitors,  that  do  so  ? 

L.  Macd.  Every  one  that  does  so,  is  a  traitor,  and 
must  be  hanged. 

Son.   And  must  they  all  be  hanged,  that  swear 
and  lie  ? 

L.  Macd.   Every  one. 

Son.   Who  must  hang  them  ? 

L.  Macd.   Why,  the  honest  men. 

Son.  Then  the  liars  and  swearers  are  fools :  for 
there  are  liars  and  swearers  enough  to  beat  the 
honest  men,  and  hang  up  them. 

L.  Macd.  Now,  God  help  thee,  poor  monkey  I 
But  how  wilt  thou  do  for  a  father  ? 

Son.  If  he  were  dead,  you'd  weep  for  him  :  if  you 


r 

II 


A 


Scene  III. 


MACBETH. 


323 


would  not,  it  were  a  good  sign  that  I  should  quickly 
have  a  new  father. 

L.  Macd.   Poor  prattler !  how  thou  talk'st. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Bless  you,  fair  dame !  I  am  not  to  you  known, 
Though  in  your  state  of  honour  I  am  perfect.  * 
I  doubt,  some  danger  does  approach  you  nearly  : 
If  you  will  take  a  homely  man's  advice, 
Be  not  found  here ;  hence,  with  your  little  ones. 
To  fright  you  thus,  methinks,  I  am  too  savage  j 
To  do  worse  to  you,  were  fell  cruelty, 
Which  is  too  nigh  your  person.     Heaven  preserve 

you ! 
I  dare  abide  no  longer.  [Exit  Messenger. 

L.  Macd.  Whither  should  I  fly  ? 

I  have  done  no  harm.      But  I  remember  now 
I  am  in  this  earthly  world  ;  where,  to  do  harm. 
Is  often  laudable  :   to  do  good,  sometime, 
Accounted  dangerous  folly  :    Why,  then,  alas  ! 
Do  I  put  up  that  womanly  defence. 
To  say,  I  have  done  no  harm !  —  What  are  these 
faces  ? 

Enter  Murderers. 

Mur.  Where  is  your  husband? 

L.  Macd.   I  hope,  in  no  place  so  unsanctified, 
Where  such  as  thou  mayst  find  liim. 

Mur.  He's  a  traitor. 

Son,   Thou  ly'st,  thou  shag-ear'd  villain. 

Mur.  What,  you  egg  ?     [Stabbing  him. 

Young  fry  of  treachery  ? 

Son.  He  has  killed  me,  mother ; 

Run  away,  I  pray  you.  [Dies. 

[Exit  Lady  Macduff,  crying  Murder, 
and  pursued  by  the  Murderers. 

SCENE  III.  —  England.    A  Room  in  the  King'* 
Palace. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  Macduff. 

Mai.  Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade,  and 
tliere 
Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty. 

Macd.  Let  us  rather 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword ;  and,  like  good  men, 
Bestride  our  downfall'n  birthdom:  Each  new  morn. 
New  widows  howl ;  new  orphans  cry ;  new  sorrows 
Strike  heaven  on  tlie  face,  that  it  resounds 
As  if  it  felt  with  Scotland,  and  yell'd  out 
Like  syllable  of  dolour. 

Mai.  What  I  believe,  I'll  wail ; 

What  know,  believe ;  and,  what  I  can  redress. 
As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend  <5,  I  will. 
What  you  have  spoke,  it  may  be  so,  perchance. 
This  tyrant,  whose  sole  name  blisters  our  tongues, 
Was  once  thought  honest :  you  have  lov'd  him  well ; 
He  hath  not  touch'd  you  yet.      I  am  young ;  but 

something 
You  may  deserve  of  him  through  me ;  and  wisdom 
To  offer  up  a  weak,  poor,  innocent  Iamb, 
To  appease  an  angry  god. 

Macd.   I  am  not  treacherous. 

Mai.  But  Macbeth  is. 

A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil, 
In  an  imperial  charge.?     But  crave  your  pardon  ; 
That  which  you  are,  my  thoughts  cannot  transpose: 
Angels  are  bright  still,  though  the  brightest  fell : 

*  1  am  perfectly  acquainted  with  your  rank. 
«  Befriend. 

^,».  e.  A  good  mind  may  recede  flrom  goodneu  in  the  exc- 
•uuoo  of  a  royal  commission. 


Though  all  things  foul  would  bear  the  brows  of  grace, 
Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 

Macd.  I  have  lost  my  hopes. 

Mai.   Perchance,  even  there,  where  I  did  find 
my  doubts. 
Why  in  that  rawness  left  you  wife,  and  child, 
(Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  notes  of  love,) 
Without  leave-taking  ?  —  I  pray  you. 
Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonours, 
But  mine  own  safeties :  —  You  may  be  rightlyjust, 
Whatever  I  shall  tliink. 

Macd.  Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country  ! 

Great  tyranny,  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure. 
For  goodness  dares  not  check  thee !  wear  thou  thy 

wrongs. 
Thy  title  is  affeer'd !  8  —  Fare  thee  well,  lord  : 
I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st 
For  the  whole  space  that's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp, 
And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 

Mai.  Be  not  offended : 

I  speak  not  as  in  an  absolute  fear  of  you. 
I  think  our  country  sinks  beneath  the  yoke ; 
It  weeps,  it  bleeds  ;  and  each  new  day  a  gash 
Is  added  to  her  wounds :   I  think,  withal. 
There  would  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right ; 
And  here  from  gracious  England,  have  I  offer 
Of  goodly  thousands  :    But,  for  all  this, 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head. 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet  my  poor  country 
Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before ; 
More  suffer,  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever, 
By  him  that  shall  succeed. 

Macd.  What  should  he  be  ? 

Mai.    It  is  myself  I  mean  :   in  whom  I  know 
All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted, 
That,  when  they  shall  be  open'd,  black  Macbeth 
Will  seem  as  piu-e  as  snow  ;  and  the  poor  state 
Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compar'd 
With  my  confineless  harms.  —  I  grant  him  bloody, 
Luxurious,  avaricious,  false,  deceitful, 
Sudden  9,  malicious,  smacking  of  every  sin 
That  has  a  name  :   But  tliere's  no  bottom,  none. 
In  my  voluptuousness  j  and  my  desire 
All  continent  impediments  would  o'er-bear. 
That  did  oppose  my  will :   Better  Macbeth 
Than  such  a  one  to  reign. 

Macd.  Boundless  intemperance 

In  nature  is  a  tyranny ;  it  hath  been 
The  untimely  emptying  of  the  happy  throne. 
And  fall  of  many  kings.      But  fear  not  yet 
To  take  upon  you  what  is  yours :   you  may 
Convey  your  pleasures  in  a  spacious  plenty. 
And  yet  seem  cold,  the  time  you  may  so  hood- wink. 

Mai.  With  tliis,  there  grows, 

In  my  most  ill-compos'd  affection,  such 
A  stanchless  avarice,  that,  were  I  king, 
I  should  cut  off  the  nobles  for  their  lands  ; 
Desire  his  jewels,  and  this  other's  house  : 
And  my  more-having  would  be  as  a  sauce 
To  make  me  hunger  more  ;  that  I  should  forge 
Quarrels  unjust  against  the  good,  and  loyal, 
Destroying  them  for  wealth. 

Macd.  This  avarice 

Grows  vrith  pernicious  root ;  and  it  hath  been 
The  sword  of  our  slain  kings  :    Yet  do  not  fear  ; 
Scotland  hath  foysons '  to  fill  up  your  will, 
Of  your  mere  own  :    All  these  are  portable  3, 
With  other  graces  weigh'd. 

"  Legally  settled  by  those  who  had  the  final  adjudication. 
9  Passionate.  *  Plenty.  >  ^^y  t)c  endured. 

Y  2 


321 


MACBETH. 


Act  IV.  Scene  IIJ. 


Mai.   But    I    have   none :    Tlio    king-becoming 
graces, 
As  justice,  verity,  temperance,  stableness, 
Bounty,  perseverance,  mercy,  lowliness, 
Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude, 
I  have  no  relish  of  them  ;  but  abound 
In  the  division  of  each  several  crime. 
Acting  it  many  veays.     Nay,  had  I  power,  I  should 
Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 
All  unity  on  earth. 

Macd.  O  Scotland  !   Scotland ! 

Mai.   If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak  : 
I  am  as  I  have  spoken. 

Macd.  Fit  to  govern  ! 

No,  not  to  live.  —  O  nation  miserable, 
With  an  untitled  tyrant  bloody-scepter' d. 
When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again  ! 
Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 
By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accurs'd, 
And  does  blaspheme  his  breed  ?  —  Thy  royal  father 
Was  a  most  sainted  king  ;  the  queen,  that  bore  thee, 
Oftner  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet, 
Died  every  day  she  liv'd.      Fare  thee  well ! 
These  evils,  thou  repeat'st  upon  thyself, 
Have  banish'd  me  from  Scotland,  —  O,  my  breast, 
Thy  hope  ends  here ! 

Mai.  Macduff,  this  noble  passion. 

Child  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul 
Wip'd  the  black  scruples,  reconcil'd  my  thoughts 
To  thy  good  truth  and  honour.     Devilish  Macbeth 
By  many  of  these  trains  hath  sought  to  win  me 
Into  his  power ;  and  modest  wisdom  plucks  me 
From  over-credulous  haste  3  :    But  God  above 
Deal  between  thee  and  me  !  for  even  now 
I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 
Unspeak  mine  own  detraction  :   here  abjure 
The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself. 
For  strangers  to  my  nature.      I  am  yet 
Unknown  to  woman  ;  never  was  forsworn ; 
Scarcely  have  coveted  what  was  mine  own  ; 
At  no  time  broke  my  faith  ;  would  not  betray 
The  devil  to  his  fellow  ;  and  delight 
No  less  in  truth  than  life :   my  first  false  speaking 
Was  this  upon  myself:   What  I  am  truly. 
Is  thine,  and  my  poor  country's,  to  command  : 
Whither,  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach, 
Old  Siward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men. 
All  ready  at  a  point,  was  setting  forth : 
Now  we'll  together ;  and  the  chance  of  goodness. 
Be  like  our  warranted  quarrel !   Why  are  you  silent  ? 

Macd.  Such  welcomeandunwelcomethingsatonce, 
'Tis  hard  to  reconcile. 

Enter  a  Doctor. 

Mai.  Well ;  more  anon.  —  Comes  the  king  forth, 
I  pray  you  ? 

Doct.  Ay,  sir :  there  are  a  crew  of  wretched  souls 
That  stay  his  cure :   their  malady  convinces  * 
The  great  assay  of  art ;  but,  at  his  touch. 
Such  sanctity  hath  heaven  given  his  hand. 
They  presently  amend. 

Mai.  I  thank  you,  doctor, 

[Exit  Doctor. 

Macd.  What's  the  disease  he  means  ? 

Mai.  'Tis  call'd  the  evil : 

A  most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king ; 
Which  often,  since  my  here-remain  in  England, 
I  have  seen  him  do.      How  he  solicits  heaven. 


'  Over-hasty  credulity. 


*  Overpowers,  subdues. 


Himself  best  knows;  but  strangely  visited  people, 

All  swoln  and  ulcerous,  pitiful  to  the  eye. 

The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures  ; 

Hanging  a  golden  stamp  ^  about  their  necks, 

Put  on  with  holy  prayer :   and  'tis  spoken. 

To  the  succeeding  royalty  he  leaves 

The  healing  benediction.     With  this  strange  virtue. 

He  hath  a  heavenly  gift  of  prophecy  ; 

And  sundry  blessings  hang  about  liis  throne. 

That  speak  him  full  of  grace. 

Enter  Rosse. 

Macd.  See,  who  comes  here 

Mai.   My  countryman  ;  but  yet  I  know  him  not.! 

Macd.   My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 

Mai.  I  know  him  now :  Good  God,  betimes  remove 
The  means  that  make  us  strangers  ! 

Rosse.  Sir,  Amen. 

Macd.   Stands  Scotland  where  it  did? 

Rosse.  Alas,  poor  country  ; 

Almost  afraid  to  know  itself!   It  cannot 
Be  call'd  our  mother,  but  our  grave :  where  nothing, 
But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile ; 
Where  sighs,  and  groans,  and  shrieks  that  rent  the  air. 
Are  made,  not  mark'd;  where  violent  sorrow  seems 
A  modern  ecstasy  6  ;  the  dead  man's  knell 
Is  there  scarce  ask'd,  for  who ;  and  good  men's  lives 
Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps, 
Dying,  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macd.  O,  relation. 

Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true  ! 

Mai.  What  is  the  newest  grief? 

Rosse.  That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the  speaker ; 
Each  minute  teems  a  new  one. 

Macd.  How  does  my  wife  ? 

Rosse.  Why,  well. 

Macd.  And  all  my  children  ? 

Rosse.  Well  too. 

Macd.  The  tyrant  has  not  batter'd  at  their  peace  ? 

Rosse.   No  ;  they  were  well  at  peace,  when  I  did 
leave  them. 

Macd.   Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech ;   How 
goes  it  ? 

Rosse.  When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the  tidings. 
Which  1  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumour 
Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out : 
Which  was  to  my  belief  witness'd  the  rather. 
For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  a-foot : 
Now  is  the  time  of  help  ;  your  eye  in  Scotland 
Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight. 
To  doff  7  their  dire  distresses. 

Mai.  Be  it  their  comfort, 

We  are  coming  thither :   gracious  England  hath 
Lent  us  good  Siward,  and  ten  thousand  men ; 
An  older,  and  a  better  soldier  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 

Rosse.  Would  I  could  answei 

This  comfort  with  the  like  !   But  I  have  words 
That  would  be  howl'd  out  in  the  desert  air. 
Where  hearing  should  not  latch  ^  them. 

Macd.  What  concern  they 

The  general  cause  ?  or  is  it  a  fee-grief  9, 
Due  to  some  single  breast  ? 

Rosse.  No  mind  that's  honest. 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe  ;  though  the  main  part 
Pertains  to  you  alone. 

Macd.  If  it  be  mine. 

Keep  it  not  from  me,  quickly  let  me  have  it. 

^  The  coin  called  an  angel.        ^  Common  distress  of  mind. 
7  Put  ofE       "  Catch.       9  A  grief  that  has  a  single  owner. 


I 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


MACBETH. 


325 


Rosse.  Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue  for  ever, 
Which  shall  possess  them  with  tlie  heaviest  sound. 
That  ever  yet  they  heard. 

Macd.  Humph  !   I  guess  at  it. 

Rosse.  Your  castle  is  surpris'd;  your  wife  and  babes. 
Savagely  slaughter'd  !  to  relate  the  manner, 
Were,  on  the  quarry  '  of  these  murder'd  deer. 
To  add  the  death  of  you. 

Mai.  Merciful  heaven  !  — 

What,  man !  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows ; 
Give  sorrow  words :   the  grief  that  does  not  speak. 
Whisper's  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 

Macd.   My  children  too  ? 

Rosse.  Wife,  children,  servants,  all 

That  could  be  found. 

Macd.  And  I  must  be  from  thence  ! 

My  wife  kill'd  too  ? 

Rosse.  I  have  said. 

AIol.  Be  comforted : 

Let's  make  us  med'cines  of  our  great  revenge. 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief. 

Macd.  He  has  no  children.  —  All  my  pretty  ones  ? 
Did  you  say,  all  ?  —  O,  hell-kite  !  —  All  ? 
What,  all  my  pretty  chickens,  and  their  dam, 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? 


Mai.    Dispute  it  like  a  man. 

Macd.  I  shall  do  so  ; 

But  I  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man  : 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were. 
That  were  most  precious  tome. — Did  heaven  look  on. 
And  would  not  take  their  part?  Sinful  MacduflT, 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee  !  naught  that  I  am, 
Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine, 
Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls :  Heaven  rest  them  now ! 

Mai.  Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword :  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it. 

Macd.  O,  I  could  play  tlie  woman  with  mine  eyes. 

And  braggart  with   my  tongue  ! But,  gentle 

heaven. 
Cut  short  all  intermission  ;  front  to  front. 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland,  and  myself; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him  j  if  he  'scape, 
Heaven  forgive  him  too  ! 

Afal.  This  tune  goes  manly. 

Come,  go  we  to  the  king ;  our  power  is  ready ; 
Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave  :    Macbeth 
Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above 
Put  on  their  instruments.     Receive  what  cheer  you 

may; 
The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  Dunsinane.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  a  Doctor  of  Physick,  and  a  waiting  Gentle- 
woman. 

Doct.  I  have  two  nights  watched  with  you,  but 
can  perceive  no  truth  in  your  report.  When  was  it 
she  last  walked  ? 

Gent.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have 
seen  her  rise  from  her  bed,  throw  her  night-gown 
upon  her,  unlock  her  closet,  take  forth  paper,  fold 
it,  write  upon  it,  read  it,  afterwards  seal  it,  and  again 
return  to  bed :  yet  all  this  while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 

Doct.  A  great  perturbation  in  nature  !  to  receive 
at  once  the  benefit  of  sleep,  and  do  the  effects  of 
watching.  —  In  this  slumbry  agitation,  besides  her 
walking,  and  other  actual  performances,  what,  at 
any  time,  have  you  heard  her  say  ? 

Gent.   That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 

Doct.  You  may,  to  me ;  and  'tis  most  meet  you 
should. 

Gent.  Neither  to  you,  nor  any  one;  having  no 
witness  to  confirm  my  speech. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  with  a  Taper. 

Lo  you,  here  she  comes  !  This  is  her  very  guise : 
and,  upon  my  life,  fast  asleep.  Observe  her ;  stand 
close. 

Doct.   How  came  she  by  that  light  ? 

Gent.  Why,  it  stood  by  her:  she  has  light  by 
her  continually  ;  'tis  her  command. 

Doct.   You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 

Gent.    Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 

Doct.  What  is  it  she  does  now  ?  Look,  how  she 
rubs  her  hands. 

Gent.  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her,  to 
seem  thus  washing  her  hands ;  I  have  known  her 
continue  in  tliis  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

'  The  game  after  it  is  killed. 


Lady  M.   Yet  here's  a  spot. 

Doct.  Hark,  she  speaks  :  I  will  set  down  what 
comes  from  her,  to  satisfy  my  remembrance  the 
more  strongly. 

Lady  M.  Out,  damned  spot !  out,  I  say  !  —  One ; 

Two ;   Why,  then  'tis  time  to  do't : Hell  is 

murky  !  2 —  Fye,  my  lord,  fye  !  a  soldier, and  afear'd? 
What  need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  none  can 
call  our  power  to  account?  —  Yet  who  would  have 
thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much  blood  in 
him  ? 

Doct.   Do  you  mark  that  ? 

Lady  M.  The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife ;  Where 
is  she  now  ?  What,  will  these  hands  ne'er  be 

clean  ?  —  No  more  o'that,  my  lord,  no  more  o'that : 
you  mar  all  with  this  starting. 

Doct.  Go  to,  go  to ;  you  have  known  what  you 
should  not. 

Gent.  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I  am 
sure  of  that :    Heaven  knows  what  she  has  known. 

Lady  M.  Here's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still  :  all 
the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  tliis  little 
hand.      Oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! 

Doct.  What  a  sigh  is  there !  The  heart  is  sorely 
charged. 

Gent.  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom, 
for  the  dignity  of  the  whole  body. 

Doct.   Well,  well,  well,  — 

Getit.   'Pray  God,  it  be,  sir. 

Doct.  This  disease  is  beyond  rny  practice :  Yet  I 
have  known  tliose  which  have  walked  in  tlieir  sleep, 
who  have  died  holily  in  tlieir  beds. 

Lady  M.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your  night- 
gown ;  look  not  so  pale  :  I  tell  you  yet  again,  Ban- 
quo's  buried ;  he  cannot  come  out  of  his  grave. 

Doct.   Even  so? 

Lady  M.  To  bed,  to  bed ;  there's  knocking  at 

«  Dark. 
Y  S 


326 


MACBETH. 


Act  V. 


the  gate.  Come,  come,  come,  come,  give  me  your 
hand :  What's  done,  cannot  be  undone :  To  bed,  to 
bed,  to  bed.  [ExU  Lady  Macbeth. 

Doct.   Will  she  go  now  to  bed  ? 

Gent.   Directly. 

Doct.   Foul  whisperings  are  abroad;  Unnatural 
deeds 
Do  breed  unnatural  troubles  :   Infected  minds 
To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets. 
More  needs  she  the  divine,  than  the  physician.  — 
God,  God,  forgive  us  all !  Look  after  her ; 
Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance, 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her :  —  So,  good  night : 
My  mind  she  has  mated  3,  and  amaz'd  my  sight : 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

Gent.  Good  night,  good  doctor. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  11.  —  The  country  near  Dunsinane. 

Enter,  with  Drum  and  Colours,  Menteth,  Cathness, 
Angus,  Lenox,  and  Soldiers. 

Ment.  The  English  power  is  near,  led  on  by  Mal- 
colm, 
His  uncle  Siward,  and  the  good  Macduff. 
Revenges  burn  in  them :  for  their  dear  causes 
Would,  to  the  bleeding,  and  the  grim  alarm, 
Excite  the  mortified  man.  ^ 

Ang.  Near  Birnam  wood 

Shall  we  well  meet  them ;  that  way  are  they  coming. 

Cath.  Who  knows  if  Donalbain  be  with  his  brother  ? 

Len.   For  certain,  sir,  he  is  not :    I  have  a  file 
Of  all  the  gentry  ;  there  is  Siward's  son. 
And  many  unrough  ^  youths,  that  even  now 
Protest  their  first  of  manhood. 

Ment.  What  does  the  tyrant  ? 

Cath.   Great  Dunsindne,  he  strongly  fortifies  : 
Some  say,  he's  mad ;  others,  that  lesser  hate  him, 
Do  call  it  valiant  fury  :  but,  for  certain. 
He  cannot  buckle  his  distemper'd  cause 
Within  the  belt  of  rule. 

Ang.  Now  does  he  feel 

His  secret  murders  sticking  on  his  hands ; 
Now  minutely  revolts  upbraid  his  faith-breach  j 
Those  he  commands,  move  only  in  command. 
Nothing  in  love  :   now  does  he  feel  his  title 
Hang  loose  about  him,  like  a  giant's  robe 
Upon  a  dwarfish  thief. 

Ment.  Who  then  shall  blame 

His  pester'd  senses  to  recoil  and  start. 
When  all  that  is  within  him  does  condemn 
Itself,  for  being  there  ? 

Cath.  Well,  march  we  on, 

To  give  obedience  where  'tis  truly  ow'd  : 
Meet  we  the  medecin  ^  of  the  sickly  weal ; 
And  with  him  pour  we,  in  our  country's  purge, 
Each  drop  of  us. 

Len.  Or  so  much  as  it  needs, 

To  dew  the  sovereign  flower,  and  drown  the  weeds. 
Make  we  our  march  towards  Birnam. 

[Exeunt,  marching. 

SCENE  III.  —  Dunsinane.  A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Macbeth,  Doctor,  and  Attendants. 
Macb.  Bring  me  no  more  reports;  let  them  fly  all ; 
Till  Birnam  wood  remove  to  Dunsinane, 
I  cannot  taint  with  fear.    What's  the  boy  Malcolm  ! 
Was  he  not  born  of  woman  ?  The  spirits  that  know 
All  mortal  consequents,  pronounc'd  me  thus : 


Fear  not,  Macbeth  ;  no  man,  that's  bom  of  woman. 

Shall  e'er  have  power  on  thee. Then  fly,  false 

thanes. 
And  mingle  with  the  English  epicures : 
The  mind  I  sway  by,  and  the  heart  I  bear. 
Shall  never  sagg  7  with  doubt,  nor  shake  with  fear. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

The  devil  damn  thee  black,  thou  cream-fac'd  loon !  • 
Where  gott'st  thou  that  goose  look  ? 

Serv.   There  is  ten  thousand 

Macb.  Geese,  villain? 

Serv.  Soldiers,  sir. 

Macb.    Go  prick  thy  face,  and  over-red  thy  fear. 
Thou  lily-liver'd  boy.     What  soldiers,  patch  ?  9 
Death  of  thy  soul !  those  linen  cheeks  of  thine 
Are  counsellors  to  fear.    What  soldiers,  whey-face  ? 

Serv.   The  English  force,  so  please  you. 

Macb.   Take  thy  face  hence Seyton  !  —  I  am 

sick  at  heart. 
When  I  behold  —  Seyton,  I  say  !  —  This  push 
Will  cheer  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 
I  have  liv'd  long  enough  :   my  May  of  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sear',  the  yellow  leaf: 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have ;  but,  in  their  stead. 
Curses  not  loud,  but  deep,  mouth-honour,  breath. 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  but  dare  not. 
Seyton ! 

Enter  Seyton. 

Sey.   What  is  your  gracious  pleasure  ? 

Macb.  What  news  more  ? 

Sey.   All  is  confirm'd,  my  lord,  which  was  re- 
ported. 

Macb.   I'll  fight,  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh  be 
hack'd. 
Give  ms  my  armour. 

Sey.  'Tis  not  needed  yet. 

Macb.   I'll  put  it  on. 
Send  out  more  horses,  skirr  ^  the  country  round  ; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear.  —  Give  me  mine  ar- 
mour. — 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Doct.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord. 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Macb.  Cure  her  of  that : 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseas'd ; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow  ; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain ; 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote. 
Cleanse  the  stuff 'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff, 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

Doct.  Therein  the  patient] 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Macb.   Throw  physick  to  the  dogs,  I'll  none  of 
it.  — 

Come,  put  mine  armour  on  ;  give  me  my  staff :  — 
Seyton,  sendout. — Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  me :— i 
Come,  sir,  despatch  :  —  If  thou  couldst,  doctor,  cast] 
The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease. 
And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo. 
That  should  applaud  again.  —  PuU't  off,  I  say.  — 
What  rhubarb,  senna,  or  what  purgative  drug. 
Would  scour  these  English  hence  !  —  Hearest  thou 
of  them  ? 


Confounded. 
Unbearded. 


"»  A  religious  ;  an  ascetic, 
p  The  physician 


7  Sink. 

9  An  appellatiou  of  contempt 


8  Base  fellow. 
Dry.  2  Scour. 


J 


Scene  IV. 


MACBETH. 


S27 


I 


Dcct.  Ay,  tny  good  lord  ;  your  royal  preparation 
Makes  us  hear  sometliing. 

Macb.  Bring  it  after  me.. 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane, 

Till  Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane.  [Exit. 

Doct.   Were  I  from  Dunsindne  away  and  clear, 
Pi-ofit  again  should  hardly  dra^*  me  here.        \^ExU. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Country  near  Dunsinane.   A  Wood 

in  view. 
Entert   with    Drum    and   Colours,    Malcolm,   old 

SiwARD    and    his    Son,    Macduff,    Menteth, 

Cathness,  Angus,  Lenox,  Rosse,  and  Soldiers, 

marching. 

Mai.   Cousins,  I  hope,  the  days  are  near  at  hand 
That  chambers  will  be  safe. 

Ment.  We  doubt  it  nothing. 

Siw.  What  wood  is  this  before  us  ? 

Ment.  The  wood  of  Birnam. 

Mai.   Let  every  soldier  hew  him  down  a  bough. 
And  bear't  before  him  ;  thereby  shall  we  shadow 
The  numbers  of  our  host,  and  make  discovery 
Err  in  report  of  us. 

Sold.  It  shall  be  done. 

Siw.  We  learn  no  other,  but  the  confident  tyrant 
Keeps  still  in  DunsinAne,  and  will  endure 
Our  setting  down  before't. 

Mai.  'Tis  his  main  hope : 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  given, 
Both  more  and  less  3  have  given  him  the  revolt  j 
And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things, 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 

Macd.  Let  our  just  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on 
Industrious  soldiership. 

Siw.  The  time  approaches, 

That  will  with  due  decision  make  us  know 
What  we  shall  say  we  have,  and  what  we  owe. 
Thoughts  speculative  their  unsure  hopes  relate ; 
But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate : 
Towards  which,  advance  the  war. 

[Exeunt,  marching. 

SCENE  V.  —  Dunsinane.      JFithin  the  Castle. 

Enter,  with  Drums  and  Colours,  Macbeth,  Seyton, 
and  Soldiers. 

Macb.   Hang  out  our  banners  on   the  outward 
walls ; 
The  cry  is  still,  They  come :  Our  castle's  strength 
Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn :  here  let  them  lie, 
Till  famine,  and  the  ague,  eat  them  up  : 
Were  they  not  forc'd  with  those  that  should  be  ours, 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 
And  beat  them  backward  home.   What  is  that  noise? 
[A  cry  within  of  women. 

Sey.  It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears  : 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd 
To  hear  a  night-shriek  ;  and  my  fell  *  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse,  and  stir 
As  hfe  were  in't :   I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors ; 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaught'rous  thoughts, 
Cannot  once  start  me.  —  Wherefore  was  that  cry  ? 

Sey.   The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 

Macb.   She  should  have  died  hereafter  ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word.  — 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time ; 

'  I.  f.  Greater  and  leu.  ♦Skin.         < 


And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.      Out,  out,  brief  candle 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow  :  a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  :   it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Thou  com'st  to  use  thy  tongue  ;  thy  story  quickly. 

Mess.    Gracious  my  lord, 
I  shall  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 

Macb.  Well,  say,  sir. 

Mess.    As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought. 
The  wood  began  to  move. 

Macb.  Liar,  and  slave ! 

[Striking  him. 

Mess.   Let  me  endure  your  wrath,  if 't  be  not  so : 
Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming  ; 
I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

Macb.  If  thou  speak 'st  false. 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive. 
Till  famine  cling  *  thee  :  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 
I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much.  — 
I  pull  in  resolution ;  and  begin 
To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend. 
That  lies  like  truth :   Eear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane  i  — and  now  a  wood 
Comes  toward  Dunsinane.  —  Arm,  arm,  and  out — 
If  this  which  he  avouches,  does  appear. 
There  is  nor  flying  hence,  nor  tarrying  here. 
I  'gin  to  be  a-weary  of  the  sun, 
And  wish  the  estate  of  the  world  were  now  undone. — 
Ring  the  alarum  bell :  —  Blow,  wind !  come,  wrack  ! 
At  least  we'll  die  with  harness  on  our  back. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  VI.  —  A  Plain  before  the  Castle. 

Enter,   with  Drums    and   Colours,  Malcolm,  old 

SiwARD,    Macduff,  ^c.   and  their  Army,  with 

Boughs. 

Mai.  Now  near  enough ;  your  leavy  screens  throw 
down, 
And  show  like  those  you  are :  —  You,  worthy  uncle. 
Shall,  with  my  cousin,  your  right-noble  son. 
Lead  our  first  battle  ;  worthy  MacduJBf,  and  we, 
Shall  take  upon  us  what  else  remains  to  do, 
According  to  our  order. 

Siw.  Fare  you  well.  — 

Do  we  but  find  the  tyrant's  power  to-night. 
Let  us  be  beaten,  if  we  cannot  fight. 

Macd.  Make  all  our  trumpets  speak ;  give  them 
all  breath, 
Those  clamorous  harbingers  of  blood  and  death. 

[Exeunt.     Alarums  continued. 

SCENE  VIL  —  Another  Part  of  the  Plain. 

Enter  Macbeth. 
Macb.  They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake;  I  cannot  fly, 
But,  bear-like,  I  must  fight  the  course.  —  What's  he. 
That  was  not  bom  of  woman  ?  Such  a  one 
Am  I  to  fear,  or  none. 

Enter  young  Siward. 
Yo.  Siw.  What  is  thy  name  ? 
Macb.  Thou'lt  be  afraid  to  hear  it. 

Yo.  Siw.  No ;  though  thou  call'st  thyself  a  hotter 
name 
Than  any  is  in  hell. 

»  ShrivtL 
Y  4 


328 


MACBETH. 


Act  V. 


Mach.  My  name's  Macbeth. 

Yo.  Siw.   The  devil  himself  could  not  pronounce 
a  title 
More  hateful  to  mine  ear. 

Macb.  No,  nor  more  fearful. 

Yo.  Siw.   Thou  liest,  abhorred  tyrant ;  with  my 
sword 
I'll  prove  the  lie  thou  speak'st, 

\_They  jight,  and  young  Siward  is  slain. 
Macb,  Thou  wast  born  of  woman,  — 

But  swords  I  smile  at,  weapons  laugh  to  scorn. 
Brandish 'd  by  man  that's  of  a  woman  born,    [Exit. 

Alarums.     Enter  Macduff. 
Macd.   That  way  the  noise  is :  —  Tyrant,  show 
thy  face  : 
If  thou  be'st  slain,  and  with  no  stroke  of  mine. 
My  wife  and  children's  ghosts  will  haunt  me  still. 
I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kernes  6,  whose  arms 
Are  hir'd  to  bear  their  staves ;  either  thou,  Macbeth, 
Or  else  my  sword,  with  an  unbatter'd  edge, 
I  sheathe  again  undeeded.    There  thou  shouldst  be ; 
By  this  great  clatter,  one  of  greatest  note 
Seems  bruited  7  :   Let  me  find  him,  fortune  ! 
And  more  I  beg  not.  \_Exit.     Alarum. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  old  Siward. 
Siw.   This  way,  my  lord ;  —  the  castle's  gently 
render'd : 
The  tyrant's  people  on  both  sides  do  fight ; 
The  noble  thanes  do  bravely  in  the  war ; 
The  day  almost  itself  professes  youre, 
And  little  is  to  do. 

Mai.  We  have  met  with  foes 

That  strike  beside  us. 

Siw.  Enter,  sir,  the  castle. 

{Exeunt.     Alarum, 
Re-enter  Macbeth. 
Macb.  Why  should  I  play  the  Roman  fool,  and  die 
On  mine  own  sword  ?  whiles  I  see  lives,  the  gashes 
Do  better  upon  them. 

Re-enter  Macduff. 

Macd.  Turn,  hell-hound,  turn. 

Macb.  Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee  :  "' 
But  get  thee  back,  my  soul  is  too  much  charg'd' 
With  blood  of  thine  already. 

Macd.  I  have  no  words. 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword ;  thou  bloodier  villain 
Than  terms  can  give  thee  out !  [They Jight. 

Macb.  Thou  losest  labour : 

As  easy  mayst  thou  the  intrenchant  air  » 
With  thy  keen  sword  impress,  as  make  me  bleed  : 
Let  fall  thy  blade  on  vulnerable  crests ; 
I  bear  a  charmed  life,  which  must  not  yield 
To  one  of  woman  born. 

Macd.  Despair  thy  charm  ; 

And  let  the  angel,  whom  thou  still  hast  serv'd. 
Tell  thee,  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb 
Untimely  ripp'd. 

Macb.   Accursed  be  that  tongue  that  tells  me  so, 
For  it  hath  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man  ! 
And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believ'd, 
That  palter  9  with  us  in  a  double  sense  ; 
That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 
And  break  it  to  our  hope I'll  not  fight  with  thee. 

Macd.   Then  yield  thee,  coward, 
And  live  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'the  time. 
We'll  have  thee,  as  our  rarer  monsters  are, 

^  Foot-soldiers.  7  Reported  with  clamour. 

«  The  air  which  cannot  be  cut.  9  Shuffle. 


Painted  upon  a  pole  ;  and  underwrit. 
Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant, 

Macb.  I'll  not  yield, 

To  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 
And  to  be  baited  with  the  rabble's  curse. 
Though  Birnam  wood  be  come  to  Dunsindne, 
And  thou  oppos'd,  being  of  no  woman  born. 
Yet  I  will  try  the  last :   Before  my  body 
I  throw  my  warlike  shield  :   lay  on,  Macduff; 
And  damn'd  be  him  that  first  cries.  Hold,  enough. 

[  Exeunt  Jlghting, 

Retreat.  Flourish.  Re-enter  with  Drum  and  Co 
lours,  Malcolm,  old  Siward,  Rosse,  Lexoi 
Angus,  Cathness,  Menteth,  and  Soldiers. 

Mai.   I  would,  the  friends  we  miss  were  safe 
riv'd. 

Siw.   Some  must  go  off:  and  yet,  by  these  I 
So  great  a  day  -as  this  is  cheaply  bought. 

Mai.   Macduff  is  missing,  and  your  noble  son. 

Rosse.  Your  son,  my  lord,  has  paid  a  soldier's  debt  :j 
He  only  liv'd  but  till  he  was  a  man ; 
The  which  no  sooner  had  his  prowess  confirm'd 
In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought. 
But  like  a  man  he  died. 

Siw.  Then  he  is  dead  ? 

Rosse.   Ay,  and  brought  off  the  field  :  your  cause] 
of  sorrow 
Must  not  be  measur'd  by  his  worth,  for  then 
It  hath  no  end. 

Siw.  Had  he  his  hurts  before  ? 

Rosse.   Ay,  on  the  front. 

Siw.  Why  then,  God's  soldier  be  he  I^ 

Had  I  as  many  sons  as  I  have  hairs, 
I  would  not  wish  them  to  a  fairer  death : 
And  so  his  knell  is  knoU'd. 

Mai.  He's  worth  more  sorrow, 

And  that  I'll  spend  for  him. 

Siiv.  He's  worth  no  more ; 

They  say  he  parted  well,  and  paid  his  score : 
So  God  be  with  him.  —  Here  comes  newer  comfort. 

Re-enter  Macduff,  with  Macbeth's  Head  on  a  Pole,  ■. 

Macd.    Hail,  king !  for  so  thou  art :    Behold^j 
where  stands 
The  usurper's  cursed  head :  the  time  is  free : 
I  see  thee  compass'd  with  thy  kingdom's  pearl, 
That  speak  my  salutation  in  their  minds  ; 
Whose  voices  I  desire  aloud  with  mine,  — 
Hail,  king  of  Scotland  ! 

All.  King  of  Scotland,  hail !    [Flourish.  \ 

Mai.  We  shall  not  spend  a  large  expense  of  time,] 

Before  we  reckon  with  your  several  loves. 

And  make  us  even  with  you.    My  thanes  and  kins«] 

men. 
Henceforth  be  earls,  the  first  that  ever  Scotland 
In  such  an  honour  nam'd.     What's  more  to  do. 
Which  would  be  planted  newly  with  the  time,  — 
As  calling  home  our  exil'd  friends  abroad. 
That  fled  the  snares  of  watchful  tyranny ; 
Producing  forth  the  cruel  ministers 
Of  this  dead  butcher,  and  his  fiend-like  queen  ; 
Who,  as  'tis  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands 
Took  off  her  life :  —  This,  and  what  needful  else 
That  calls  upon  us,  by  the  grace  of  Grace, 
We  will  perform  in  measure,  time,  and  place  ^ 
So  thanks  to  all  at  once,  and  to  each  one, 
Whom  we  invite  to  see  us  crown'd  at  Scone. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt, 


KING  JOHN. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Kino  Johk. 

Prince  Henry,  his  Son;  afterwards  IT.  Henry  Til. 
Arthur,  Duke  of  Bretagne,  Son  of  Geffrey,  late 
Dtike  of  Bretagne,  the  elder  Brother  of  King  John. 
William  Mareshall,  Earl  of  Pembroke. 
Geffrey  Fitz- Peter,  Earl  of  Essex,  Chief  Jtis- 

tidary  of  England. 
William  Longsword,  Earl  of  Salisbury. 
Robert  Bigot,  Earl  of  Norfolk. 
Hubert  de  Burgh,  Chamberlain  to  the  King. 
Robert  Faulconbridge,  Son  of  Sir  Robert  Faul- 

conbridge. 
Philip  Faulconbridge,  his  Half-Brother,  Bastard 

Son  to  King  Richard  the  First. 
James  Gurney,  Servant  to  Lady  Faulconbridge. 
Peter  of  Pomfret,  a  Prophet. 
Philip,  King  of  France. 


Lewis,  the  Dauphiru 

Archduke  of  Austria. 

Cardinal  Pandolph,  the  Papers  Legate. 

Melun,  a  French  Lord. 

Chatillon,  Ambassador  from  France  to  King  John. 

Elinor,  the  Widow  of  King  Henry  II.  and  Mother 

of  King  John. 
Constance,  Mother  to  Arthur. 
Blanch,  Daughter  to  Alphonso,  King  (f  CasXWe,  and 

Niece  to  King  John. 
Lady  Faulconbridge,  Mother  to  the  Bastardy  and 

Robert  Faulconbridge. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Citizens  of  Angiers,  Sheriff^,  Heralds, 
Officers,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  other  Attendants, 


SCENE,  —  sometimes  in  England,  and  sometimes  in  France. 


O,   SAVE    UK,    UOBEKT,  8AVB    U£! 


KING    J  0  H  xN 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  — Northampton.      A  Room  of  State  in 
tfie  Palace. 

Enter   King   John,    Queen    Elinor,    Pembroke, 

Essex,  Salisbury,  and  others,  with  Chatillon. 

A'.    John.     Now,    say,    Chatillon,     what    would 
France  with  us? 

Chat.   Thus,  after  greeting,  speaks  the   king  of  j 
France, 
In  my  behaviour  ',  to  the  majesty, 
The  borrow'd  majesty  of  England  here. 

Elu    A  strange  beginning  ;  —  borrow'd  majesty  ! 

IT.  John.    Silence,   good   mother;    hear  the  em- 
bassy. 

Chat.    Philip  of  France,  in  right  and  true  behalf 
Of  thy  deceased  brother  Geffrey's  son, 
Arthur  Plantagcnet,  lays  most  lawful  claim 
To  this  fair  island,  and  the  territories ; 
To  Ireland,  Poictiers,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine : 
Desiring  thee  to  lay  aside  the  sword. 
Which  sways  usurpingly  these  several  titles  ; 
And  put  the  same  into  young  Arthur's  hand. 
Thy  nephew,  and  right  royal  sovereign. 

A'.  John.    What  follows,  if  we  disallow  of  this  ? 

1  In  the  m.inncr  I  now  do. 


ChfU.   The   proud  control   of  fierce  and  blomly 
war. 
To  enforce  these  rights  so  forcibly  withheld. 

A'.  John.   Here  have  we  war  for  war,  and  blood 
for  blood, 
Controlment  for  controlment :  so  answer  France. 

Chat.   Then  take  my  king's  defiance   from   my 
mouth, 
Tlie  furthest  limit  of  my  embassy. 

A".  John.   Bear   mine  to  him,  and  so  depart  in 
peace : 
Be  thou  as  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  France ; 
For  ere  thou  canst  report  I  will  be  there. 
The  thunder  of  my  cannon  shall  be  heard  : 
So,  hence  !   Be  thou  the  trumpet  of  our  wrath. 
And  sullen  presage  of  your  own  decay.  — 
An  honourable  conduct  let  him  have  :  — 
Pembroke,  look  to't :    Farewell,  Chatillon. 

[Exeunt  Chatilix)N  and  Pembroke. 

Eli.    What  now,  my  son  ?  have  I  not  ever  said, 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease. 
Till  she  had  kindled  France,  and  all  the  world. 
Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son  ? 
'ITiis  might  have  been  prevented,  and  made  whole. 
With  very  easy  arguments  of  love  ; 


330 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  I.    Scene  I. 


WWch  now  the  manage  '2  of  two  kingdoms  must 
With  fearful  bloody  issue  arbitrate. 

K.  John.   Our  strong  possession,  and  our  right, 

for  us. 
Elu   Your  strong  possession,  much   more  than 
your  right ; 
Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you,  and  me  : 
So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear  ; 
Which  none  but  heaven,  and  you,  and  I,  shall  hear. 

Enter  the  Sheriff"  of  Northamptonshire,  who  whispers 
Essex. 

Essex.  My  liege,  here  is  the  strangest  controversy. 
Come  from  the  country  to  be  judg'd  by  you, 
That  e'er  I  heard :  Shall  I  produce  the  men  ? 

K.  John.   Let  them  approach,  —       \^Exit  Sheriff. 
Our  abbies,  and  our  priories,  shall  pay 

Re  enter  Sheriff,  with  Robert  Faulconbridge,  and 

Philip,  his  bastard  Brother. 
This  expedition's  charge.  —  What  men  are  you  ? 

Bast.   Your  faithful  subject  I,  a  gentleman, 
Born  in  Northamptonshire  ;  and  eldest  son, 
As  I  suppose,  to  Robert  Faulconbridge ; 
A  soldier,  by  the  honour-giving  hand 
Of  Cceur-de-lion  knighted  in  the  field. 

K.  John.   What  art  thou  ?. 

Rob.   The  son  and  heir  to  that  same  Faulcon- 
bridge. 

K.  John.  Is  that  the  elder,  and  art  thou  the  heir? 
You  came  not  of  one  mother  then,  it  seems. 

Bast.   Most  certain  of  one  mother,  mighty  king, 
That  is  well  known  ;  and,  as  I  think,  one  father  : 
But,  for  the  certain  knowledge  of  that  truth, 
I  put  you  o'er  to  heaven,  and  to  my  mother  ; 
Of  that  I  doubt,  as  all  men's  children  may. 

Eli.   Out  on  thee,  rude  man !  thou  dost  shame 
thy  mother. 
And  wound  her  honour  with  this  diffidence. 

Bast.   I,  madam  ?  no,  I  have  no  reason  for  it ; 
That  is  my  brother's  plea,  and  none  of  mine  ; 
The  which  if  he  can  prove,  'a  pops  me  out 
At  least  from  fair  five  hundred  pound  a  year  : 
Heaven  guard  my  mother's  honour,  and  my  land  ! 

K.  John.   A  good  blunt  fellow  :  —  Why,  being 
younger  born. 
Doth  he  lay  claim  to  thine  inheritance  ? 

Bast.   I  know  not  why,  except  to  get  the  land. 
But  once  he  slander'd  me  with  bastardy  : 
But  whe'r  I  be  as  true-begot,  or  no. 
That  still  I  lay  upon  my  mother's  head ; 
But,  that  I  am  as  well  begot,  my  liege. 
Compare  our  faces,  and  be  judge  yourself. 
If  old  sir  Robert  did  beget  us  both. 
And  were  our  father,  and  this  son  like  him ;  — 

0  old  sir  Robert,  father,  on  my  knee, 

1  give  heaven  thanks,  I  was  not  like  to  thee. 

K.  John.   Why,  what  a  madcap  hath  heaven  lent 
us  here  ! 

Eli.   He  hath  a  tricks  of  Coeur-de-lion's  face, 
The  accent  of  his  tongue  afFecteth  him  : 
Do  you  not  read  some  tokens  of  my  son 
In  the  large  composition  of  this  man  ? 

K.  John.  Mine  eye  hath  well  examined  his  parts. 

And  finds  them  perfect  Richard. Sirrah,  speak, 

What  doth  move  you  to  claim  your  brother's  land  ? 

Bast.  Because  he  hath  a  half-face,  like  my  father : 
With  that  half-face  would  he  have  all  my  land  : 
A  half-faced  groat  five  hundred  pound  a  year  ! 


2  Conduct,  administration. 


3  Trace,  outline. 


Rob.   My  gracious  liege,  when  that  my  father 
liv'd, 
Your  brother  did  employ  my  father  much  ; 
And  once  despatch'd  him  in  an  embassy 
To  Germany,  there,  with  the  emperor. 
To  treat  of  high  affairs  touching  that  time  : 
The  advantage  of  his  absence  took  the  king, 
And  in  the  mean  time  sojourn  d  at  my  father's ; 
Where  how  he  did  prevail,  I  shame  to  speak ; 
But  truth  is  truth ;  large  lengths  of  seas  and  shonet- 
Between  my  father  and  my  mother  lay, 
(As  I  have  heard  my  father  speak  himself, 
When  this  same  lusty  gentleman  was  got. 
Upon  his  death-bed  he  by  will  bequeath'd 
His  lands  to  me ;  and  took  it,  on  his  death, 
That  this  my  mother's  son,  was  none  of  his  ; 
And,  if  he  were,  he  came  into  the  world 
Full  fourteen  weeks  before  the  course  of  time. 
Then,  good  my  liege,  let  me  have  what  is  mine, 
My  father's  land,  as  was  my  father's  will. 

K.  John.    Sirrah,  your  brother  is  legitimate  ; 
Your  father's  wife  did  after  wedlock  bear  him  : 
And,  if  she  did  play  false,  the  fault  was  hers ; 
Which  fault  lies  on  the  hazards  of  all  husbands 
That  marry  wives.      Tell  me,  how  if  my  brother 
Had  of  your  father  claim'd  this  son  for  his  ? 
In  sooth,  good  friend,  your  father  might  have  kept 

him  ; 
In  sooth,  he  might :   then,  if  he  were  my  brother's, 
My  brother  might  not  claim  him ;  nor  your  father, 
Being  none  of  his,  refuse  him  :    This  concludes,  — 
Your  father's  heir  must  have  your  father's  land. 

Rob.   Shall  then  my  father's  will  be  of  no  force. 
To  dispossess  that  child  which  is  not  his  ? 

Bast.   Of  no  more  force  to  dispossess  me,  sir. 
Than  was  his  will  to  get  me,  as  I  think. 

Eli.  Whether  hadst  thou  rather,  —  be  a  Faulcon- 
bridge, 
And  like  thy  brother,  to  enjoy  thy  land ; 
Or  the  reputed  son  of  Coeur-de-lion, 
Lord  of  thy  presence,  and  no  land  beside  ? 

Bast.   Madam,  an  if  my  brother  had  my  shape, 
And  I  had  his,  sir  Robert  his,  like  him : 
And  if  my  legs  were  two  such  riding-rods, 
My  arms  such  eel-skins  stuff 'd ;  my  face  so  thin, 
That  in  mine  ear  I  durst  not  stick  a  rose. 
Lest  men  should  say.  Look,  where  three-farthings 

goes! 
And,  to  his  shape,  were  heir  to  all  this  land, 
'Would  I  might  never  stir  from  off  this  place, 
I'd  give  it  every  foot  to  have  this  face  ; 
I  would  not  be  sir  Nob  in  any  case. 

Eli.   I  like  thee  well ;  Wilt  thou  forsake  thy  fori 
tune. 
Bequeath  thy  land  to  him,  and  follow  me  ? 
I  am  a  soldier,  and  now  bound  to  France. 

Bast.   Brother,  take  you  my  land,  I'll  take 
chance  : 
Your  face  hath  got  five  hundred  pounds  a  year ; 
Yet  sell  your  face  for  five  pence,  and,  'tis  dear.  — 
Madam,  I'll  follow  you  unto  the  death. 

Eli.  Nay,  I  would  have  you  go  before  me  thither. 

Bast.  Our  country  manners  give  our  betters  way. 

K.  John.  What  is  thy  name  ? 

Bast.   Philip,  my  liege  ;  so  is  my  name  begun 
Philip,  good  old  sir  Robert's  wife's  eldest  son. 

K.  Jolin.    From  henceforth  bear  his  name  whose 
form  thou  bear'st : 
Kneel  thou  down  Philip,  but  arise  more  great : 
Arise  sir  Richard,  and  Plantagenet. 


I 


I 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


KING  JOHN. 


331 


Bast.  Brother,  by  my  mother's  side,  give  me  your 
hand; 
My  father  gave  me  honour,  yours  gave  land.  — 

ElU   The  very  spirit  of  Plantagenet !  — 
I  am  thy  grandame,  Richard  j  call  me  so. 

Bast.  Madam,  by  chance,  but  not  by  truth  :  What 
though  ? 

jr.  John.  Go,  Faulconbridge ;  now  hast  thou  thy 
desire, 
A  landless  knight  makes  thee  a  landed  'squire.  — 
Come,  madam,  and  come,  Richard ;  we  must  speed 
For  France,  for  France ;  for  it  is  more  than  need. 

Bast.     Brother,  adieu  ;   good  fortune  come  to 
thee ! 
For  thou  wast  got  i'the  way  of  honesty. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  Bastard. 
A  foot  of  honour  better  than  I  was  ; 
But  many  a  foot  of  land  the  worse. 

Well,  now  can  I  make  any  Joan  a  lady : 

Good  den  S  sir  Richard, —  God-or-mercy,  fellow ;  — 
And  if  his  name  be  George,  I'll  call  him  Peter  : 
For  new-made  honour  doth  forget  men's  names  ; 
*Tis  too  respective,  and  too  sociable, 
For  your  conversion.     Now  your  traveller,  — 
He  and  his  tooth-pick  at  my  worship's  mess ; 
And  when  my  knightly  stomach  is  suffic'd. 
Why  then  I  suck  my  teeth  and  catechise 

My  picked  man  of  countries  ^  : _My  dear  sir, 

(Thus,  leaning  on  mine  elbow,  I  begin,) 

I  shall  beseech  you  —  That  is  question  now ; 

And  then  comes  answer  like  an  ABC-book  :  — 

0  sir,  says  answer,  at  your  best  command  ; 

At  your  employinerU ;  at  your  sei-vice,  sir  : 

JVo,  sir,  says  question,  I,  sweet  sir,  at  yours  : 

And  so,  ere  answer  knows  what  question  would, 

(Saving  in  dialogue  of  compliment ; 

And  talking  of  the  Alps,  and  Apennines, 

The  Pyrenean,  and  the  river  Po,) 

It  draws  toward  supper  in  conclusion  so. 

But  this  is  worshipful  society, 

And  fits  the  mounting  spirit,  like  myself: 

And  not  alone  in  habit  and  device. 

Exterior  form,  outward  accoutrement ; 

But  from  the  inward  motion  to  deliver 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  poison  for  the  age's  tooth : 

Which,  though  I  will  not  practise  to  deceive. 

Yet,  to  avoid  deceit,  I  mean  to  learn ; 

For  it  shall  strew  the  footsteps  of  my  rising.  — 

But  who  comes  in  such  haste,  in  riding  robes  ? 

What  woman-post  is  this  ?  hath  she  no  husband. 

That  will  take  pains  to  blow  a  horn  before  her  ? 


Enter  Lady  Faulconbridge  and  James  Gurnex. 

0  me  !  it  is  my  mother :  —  How  now,  good  lady  ? 
What  brings  you  here  to  court  so  hastily  ? 

Lady  F.  Where  is  that  slave,  thy  brother  ?  where 
is  he? 
That  holds  in  chase  mine  honour  up  and  down  ? 

Bast.  My  brother  Robert?  old  sir  Robert's  son? 
Colbrand  the  giant,  that  same  mighty  man  ? 
Is  it  sir  Robert's  son,  that  you  seek  so  ? 

Lady  F.  Sir  Robert's  son  !  Ay,  thou  imreverend 
boy. 
Sir  Robert's  son  :  Why  scom'st  thou  at  sir  Robert? 
He  is  sir  Robert's  son ;  and  so  art  thou. 

Bast.  James  Gumey,  wilt  thou  give  us  leave 
a  while  ? 

Gur.   Good  leave,  good  Philip. 

Bast.  Philip  ?  —  sparrow  !  —  James, 

There's  toys  «  abroad ;  anon  I'll  tell  thee  more. 

[ExU  GUKNET. 

Madam,  I  was  not  old  sir  Robert's  son. 

Lady  F.  Hast  thou  conspired  with  thy  brother  too. 
That  for  thine  own  gainshouldst  defend  mine  honour? 
What  means  this  scorn,  thou  most  untoward  knave  ? 

Bast.  Knight,  knight,  good  mother,  —  Basilisco- 
like7: 
What !  I  am  dubb'd ;  I  h'ave  it  on  my  shoulder. 
But,  mother,  I  am  not  sir  Robert's  son ; 

1  have  disclaim'd  sir  Robert,  and  my  land ; 
Legitimation,  name,  and  ^1  is  gone  : 

Then,  good  my  mother,  let  me  know  my  father ; 
Some  proper  man,  I  hope  ;  Who  was  \t,  mother  ? 

Lady  F.   Hast  thou  denied  thyself  a  Faulcon- 
bridge ? 

Bast.   As  faithfully  as  I  deny  the  devil. 

Lady  F.   King  Richard  Coeur-de-lion  was  thy 
father ; 
By  long  and  vehement  suit  I  was  seduc'd 
To  make  room  for  him  in  my  husband's  bed :  ■ 

Heaven  lay  not  my  transgression  to  my  charge  ! 
Thou  art  the  issue  of  my  great  offence. 
Which  was  so  strongly  urg'd,  past  my  defence. 

Bast»  Madam,  I  would  not  wish  a  better  father. 
Some  sins  do  bear  their  privilege  on  earth. 
And  so  doth  yours  ;  yoiu"  fault  was  not  your  folly  : 
Needs  must  you  lay  your  heart  at  his  dispose,  — 
Subjected  tribute  to  commanding  love,  — 
Against  whose  fury  and  unmatched  force 
The  awless  lion  could  not  wage  the  fight. 
Nor  keep  his  princely  heart  from  Richard's  hand. 

{Exeunt. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.  —  France.    Bef<»re  the  WaUs  o/" Angicrs. 

Enter,  on  one  side,  the  Archduke  of  Austria,  and 
Forces;  on  the  other,  Philip,  £ing  of  France, 
and  Forces:  Lewis,  Constance,  Arthur,  and 
Attendants. 

Lew.  Before  Angierswell  met,  brave  Austria. — 
Arthur,  that  great  fore-runner  of  thy  blood, 
Richard,  tliat  robb'd  the  lion  of  his  heart, 
And  fought  the  holy  wars  in  Palestine, 
By  this  brave  duke  came  early  to  his  grave ; 


Good  evening. 


»  My  tniveUed  fop. 


And,  for  amends  to  his  posterity. 
At  our  importance  8,  hither  is  he  come. 
To  spread  his  colours,  boy,  in  thy  behalf; 
And  to  rebuke  the  usurpation 
Of  thy  unnatural  uncle,  English  John : 
Embrace  him,  love  him,  give  him  welcome  hither. 
Arth.   Heaven  vdll   forgive  you  Coeur-de-lion's 
death. 
The  rather,  that  you  give  his  offspring  life. 
Shadowing  their  right  under  your  wings  of  war  : 


8  Idle  report*. 

7  A  character  In  an  old  drama  called 

•  Importunity, 


SoUman  and  Peruda, 


332 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  II. 


I  give  you  welcome  with  a  powerless  hand, 
But  with  a  heart  full  of  unstained  love  : 
Welcome  before  the  gates  of  Angiers,  duke. 

Lew.  A  noble  boy!  Who  would  not  do  thee  right? 

Aust.   Upon  thy  cheek  lay  I  this  zealous  kiss, 
As  seal  to  this  indenture  of  my  love  ; 
That  to  my  home  I  will  no  more  return, 
Till  Anglers,  and  the  right  thou  hast  in  France, 
Together  with  that  pale,  that  white-fac'd  shore, 
Whose  foot  spurns  back  the  ocean's  roaring  tides, 
And  coops  from  other  lands  her  islanders. 
Even  till  that  England,  hedg'd  in  with  the  main. 
The  water-walled  bulwark,  still  secure 
And  confident  from  foreign  purposes, 
Even  till  that  utmost  corner  of  the  west 
Salute  thee  for  her  king  :  till  then,  fair  boy. 
Will  I  not  think  of  home,  but  follow  arms. 

Const.  O,  take  his  mother's  thanks,  a  widow's  thanks, 
Till  your  strong  hand  shall  help  to  give  him  strength, 
To  make  a  more  requital  to  your  love. 

Aust.   The  peace   of  heaven  is  theirs,  that  lift 
their  swords 
In  such  a  just  and  charitable  war. 

K.  Phi.   Well  then,  to  work ;  our  cannon  shall 
be  bent 
Against  the  brows  of  this  resisting  town. 
Call  for  our  chiefest  men  of  discipline, 
To  cull  the  plots  of  best  advantages  • :  — 
We'll  lay  before  this  town  our  royal  bones, 
Wade  to  the  market-place  in  Frenchmen's  blood. 
But  we  will  make  it  subject  to  this  boy. 

Const.   Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy. 
Lest  imadvis'd  you  stain  your  swords  with  blood  : 
My  lord  Chatillon  may  from  England  bring 
That  right  in  peace,  which  here  we  urge  in  war ; 
And  then  we  shall  repent  each  drop  of  blood, 
That  hot  rash  haste  so  indirectly  shed. 

Enter  Chatillon. 

K.  Phi   A  wonder,  lady  !  —  lo,  upon  thy  wish. 
Our  messenger  Chatillon  is  arriv'd.  — 
What  England  says,  say  briefly,  gentle  lord, 
We  coldly  pause  for  thee ;  Chatillon,  speak. 

Chat.  Then  turn  your  forces  from  this  paltry  siege, 
And  stir  them  up  against  a  mightier  task. 
England,  impatient  of  your  just  demands, 
Hath  put  himself  in  arms  ;  the  adverse  winds. 
Whose  leisure  I  have  staid,  have  given  him  time 
To  land  his  legions  all  as  soon  as  I : 
His  marches  are  expedient  ^  to  this  town, 
His  forces  strong,  his  soldiers  confident. 
With  him  along  is  come  the  mother-queen. 
An  At6  3,  stirring  him  to  blood  and  strife  ; 
With  her  her  niece,  the  lady  Blanch  of  Spain  ; 
With  them  a  bastard  of  the  king  deceas'd  : 
And  all  the  unsettled  humours  of  the  land,  — 
Rash,  inconsiderate,  fiery  voluntaries. 
With  ladies'  faces,  and  fierce  dragons'  spleens,  .— 
Have  sold  their  fortunes  at  their  native  homes. 
Bearing  their  birthrights  proudly  on  their  backs. 
To  make  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  here. 
In  brief,  a  braver  choice  of  dauntless  spirits. 
Than  now  the  English  bottoms  have  waft  o'er 
Did  never  float  upon  the  swelling  tide. 
To  do  offence  and  scath  4  in  Christendom. 
The  interruption  of  their  churlish  drums 

{Drums  heat. 

1  Best  stations  to  over-awe  the  town. 

2  Immediate,  expeditious.  3  xhe  Goddess  of  Revenge. 
*  Mischief. 


Cuts  off  more  circumstance  :   they  are  at  hand. 
To  parley,  or  to  fight ;  therefore,  prepare. 

K.  Phi.  How  much  unlook'd  for  is  this  expedition! 

Aust.   By  how  much  unexpected,  by  so  much 
We  must  awake  endeavour  for  defence  ; 
For  courage  mounted  with  occasion  : 
Let  them  be  welcome  then,  we  are  prepar'd. 

Enter  King  John,  Elinor,  Blanch,  the  Bastard, 
Pembroke,  and  Forces. 

K.  John.  Peace  be  to  France ;  if  France  in  peace 
permit 
Our  just  and  lineal  entrance  to  our  own  ! 
If  not ;  bleed  France,  and  peace  ascend  to  heaven. 
Whiles  we,  God's  wrathful  agent,  do  correct 
Their  proud  contempt  that  beat  his  peace  to  heaven. 

K.  Phi.  Peace  be  to  England  :  if  that  war  return 
From  France  to  England,  there  to  live  in  peace ! 
England  we  love  :   and,  for  that  England's  sake. 
With  burden  of  our  armour  here  we  sweat : 
This  toil  of  ours  should  be  a  work  of  thine  ; 
But  thou  from  loving  England  art  so  far. 
That  thou  hast  under-wrought  his  lawful  king, 
Cut  off  the  sequence  of  posterity. 
Outfaced  infant  state,  and  done  a  rape 
Upon  the  maiden  virtue  of  the  crown. 
Look  here  upon  thy  brother  Geffrey's  face ;  — 
These  eyes,  these  brows,  were  moulded  out  of  his : 
This  little  abstract  doth  contain  that  large. 
Which  died  in  Geffrey ;  and  the  hand  of  time 
Shall  draw  this  briefs  into  as  huge  a  volume. 
That  Geffrey  was  thy  elder  brother  bom. 
And  this  his  son  ;   England  was  Geffrey's  right. 
And  this  is  Geffrey's  :   In  the  name  of  God, 
How  comes  it  then,  that  thou  art  call'd  a  king. 
When  living  blood  doth  in  these  temples  beat. 
Which  owe  ^  the  crown  that  thou  o'ermasterest  ? 

K.  John.   From  whom  hast  thou  this  great  com- 
mission, France, 
To  draw  my  answer  from  thy  articles  ? 

K.  Phi.  From   that   supernal  judge,   that   stirs 
good  thoughts 
In  any  breast  of  strong  authority. 
To  look  into  the  blots  and  stains  of  right. 
That  judge  hath  made  me  guardian  to  this  boy : 
Under  whose  warrant,  I  impeach  thy  wrong  ; 
And,  by  whose  help,  I  mean  to  chastise  it. 

K.  John.   Alack,  thou  dost  usurp  authority. 

K.  Phi.   Excuse  ;  it  is  to  beat  usurping  down. 

Eli.  Who  is  it,  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France  ? 

Const.  Let  me  make  answer ;  —  thy  usurping  son. 

Eli.   Out,  insolent !  thy  bastard  shall  be  king  ; 
That  thou  mayst  be  a  queen,  and  check  the  world ! 

Const.   My  bed  was  ever  to  thy  son  as  true. 
As  thine  was  to  thy  husband  :  and  this  boy 
Liker  in  feature  to  his  father  Geffrey, 
Than  thou  and  John  in  manners  ;  and,  I  think. 
His  father  never  was  so  true  begot ; 
It  cannot  be,  an  if  thou  wert  his  mother. 

Eli.   There's  a  good  mother,  boy,  that  blots  thy  j 
father. 

Const.   There's  a  good  grandam,  boy,  that  would  ^ 
blot  thee. 

Aust.   Peace  ! 

Bast.  Hear  the  crier. 

Aust.  What  the  devil  art  thou  fl 

Bast.   One  that  will  play  the  devil,  sir,  with  you,] 
An  'a  may  catch  your  hide  and  you  alone. 
You  are  the  hare  of  whom  the  proverb  goes, 

*  A  short-writing.  6  Own. 


Scene  I. 


KING  JOHN. 


333 


Whose  valour  plucks  dead  lions  by  the  beard  ; 
I'll  smoke  your  skin-coat,  an  I  catch  you  right : 
Sirrah,  look  to't ;  i'faith,  I  will,  i'faith. 

Blanch.    O,  well  did  he  become  that  lion's  robe, 
That  did  disrobe  the  lion  of  that  robe  ! 

Bast.    It  lies  as  sightly  on  the  back  of  him, 
As  great  Alcides'  shoes  upon  an  ass  :  — 
But,  ass,  I'll  take  tliat  burden  froju  your  back  ; 
Or  lay  on  that,  shall  make  your  shoulders  crack. 

Aust.  What  cracker  is  this  same,  that  deafs  our  ears 
With  this  abundance  of  superfluous  breath  ? 

K.  Phi.    Lewis,    determine    what  we    shall    do 
straight. 

Lew.   Women  and  fools,  break  ofif  your  confer- 
ence. — 
King  John,  this  is  the  very  sum  of  all,  — 
England,  and  Ireland,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine, 
In  right  of  Arthur  do  I  claim  of  thee : 
Wilt  thou  resign  them,  and  lay  down  thy  arms  ? 

K.  John.   My  life   as    soon  :  —  I  do   defy  thee 
France. 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  yield  thee  to  my  hand  ; 
And,  out  of  my  dear  love,  I'll  give  thee  more 
Than  e'er  the  coward  hand  of  France  can  win  : 
Submit  thee,  boy. 

Eh.  Come  to  thy  gran  dam,  child. 

Const.   Do,  child,  go  to  it'  grandam,  child  ; 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  it'  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig : 
There's  a  good  grandam. 

Arth.  Good  my  mother,  peace  ! 

I  would,  that  I  were  low  laid  in  my  grave ; 
I  am  not  worth  this  coil '  that's  made  for  me. 

Eli.   His  mother  shames  him  so,  poor  boy,  he 
weeps. 

Const.  Now  shame  upon  you,  whe'r  she  does,  or  no ! 
His  grandam 's  wrongs,  and  not  his  mother's  shames. 
Draw  those  heaven-moving  pearls  from  his  poor  eyes, 
Which  heaven  shall  take  in  nature  of  a  fee ; 
Ay,  with  these  crystal  beads  heaven  shall  be  brib'd 
To  do  him  justice,  and  revenge  on  you. 

Eli.  Thou  monstrous  slanderer  of  heaven   and 
earth  ! 

Const.  Thou  monstrous  injurer  of  heaven  and 
earth ! 
Call  not  me  slanderer ;  thou,  and  thine,  usurp 
The  dominations,  royalties,  and  rights, 
Of  this  oppressed  boy  :   This  is  thy  eldest  son's  son, 
Infortunate  in  nothing  but  in  thee  ; 
Thy  sins  are  visited  in  this  poor  child. 

Eli.    Thou  unadvised  scold,  I  can  produce 
A  will  that  bars  the  title  of  thy  son. 

Const.  Ay,  who  doubts  that  ?  a  will !  a  wicked  will ; 
A  woman's  will  ;  a  canker'd  grandam's  will ! 

K.  Phi.  Peace,  lady;  pause,  or  be  more  temperate  : 
It  ill  beseems  this  presence,  to  cry  aim« 
To  these  ill-timed  repetitions.  — 
Some  trumpet  summon  hither  to  the  walls 
These  men  of  Anglers  ;  let  us  hear  them  speak. 
Whose  title  they  admit,  Arthur's  or  John's. 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Citizens  upon  the  Walls. 
1  Cit.  Who  is  it  that  hath  warn'd  us  to  the  walls  ? 
K.  Phi.   'Tis  France,  for  England. 
K.  John.  England,  for  itself: 

You  men  of  Angiers,  and  my  loving  subjects,  — 
JC.  Phi.   You   loving  men  of  Angiers,   Arthur's 
subjects. 
Our  trumpet  call'd  you  to  this  gentle  parle.  9 

'  Bustle.  •  To  encourage.  »  Conference. 


JT.  John.    For  our  advantage ;  —  Therefore  hear 

us  first. 

These  flags  of  France,  that  are  advanced  here 

Before  the  eye  and  prospect  of  your  town, 

Have  hither  march'd  to  your  endamagement : 

The  cannons  have  their  bowels  full  of  wrath  ; 

And  ready  mounted  are  they  to  spit  forth 

Their  iron  indignation  'gainst  your  walls  : 

All  preparation  for  a  bloody  siege. 

And  merciless  proceeding  by  these  French, 

Confront  your  city's  eyes,  your  winking  gates ; 

And,  but  for  our  approach,  those  sleeping  stones, 

That  as  a  waist  do  girdle  you  about, 

By  the  compulsion  of  their  ordnance 

By  this  time  from  their  fixed  beds  of  lime 

Had  been  dishabited,  and  vnde  havock  made 

For  bloody  power  to  rush  upon  your  peace. 

But,  on  the  sight  of  us,  your  lawful  king,  — 

Who  painfully  with  much  expedient  march. 

Have  brought  a  countercheck  before  your  gates, 

To  save  unscratch'd  your  city's  threaten'd  cheeks,  — 

Behold,  the  French,  amaz'd,  vouchsafe  a  parle : 

And  now,  instead  of  bullets  wrapp'd  in  fire. 

To  make  a  shaking  fever  in  your  walls, 

They  shoot  but  calm  words,  folded  up  in  smoke. 

To  make  a  faithless  error  in  your  ears : 

Which  trust  accordingly,  kind  citizens. 

And  let  us  in,  your  king  ;  whose  labour'd  spirits, 

Forwearied  '  in  this  action  of  swift  speed, 

Crave  harbourage  within  your  city  walls. 

JC.  Phi.   When  I  have  said,  make  answer  to  us 
both. 
Lo,  in  this  right  hand,  whose  protection 
Is  most  divinely  vow'd  upon  the  right 
Of  him  it  holds,  stands  young  Plantagenet ; 
Son  to  the  elder  brother  of  this  man, 
And  king  o'er  him,  and  all  that  he  enjoys  : 
For  this  down-trodden  equity,  we  tread 
It  warlike  march  these  greens  before  your  town  ; 
Being  no  further  enemy  to  you, 
Tlian  the  constraint  of  hospitable  zeal, 
In  the  relief  of  this  oppressed  child. 
Religiously  provokes.     Be  pleased  then 
To  pay  that  duty,  which  you  truly  owe. 
To  him  that  owes  «  it ;  namely,  this  young  prince : 
And  then  our  arms,  like  to  a  muzzled  bear. 
Save  in  aspect,  have  all  offence  seal'd  up  ; 
Our  cannons'  malice  vainly  shall  be  spent 
Against  the  invulnerable  clouds  of  heaven  ; 
And,  with  a  blessed  and  unvex'd  retire. 
With  unhack'd  swords,  and  helmets  all  unbruis'd. 
We  will  bear  home  that  lusty  blood  again. 
Which  here  we  came  to  spout  against  your  town. 
And  leave  your  children,  wives,  and  you  in  peace. 
But  if  you  fondly  pass  our  proffer'd  offer, 
'Tis  not  the  roundure  3  of  your  old-fac'd  walls 
Can  hide  you  from  our  messengers  of  war : 
Though  all  these  English,  and  their  discipline, 
Were  harbour'd  iji  their  rude  circumference. 
Then,  tell  us,  shall  your  city  call  us  lord. 
In  that  behalf  which  we  have  challeng'd  it? 
Or  shall  we  give  the  signal  to  our  rage, 
And  stalk  in  blood  to  our  possession  ? 

1  Cit.   In  brief,  we  are  tlie  king  of  England's 
subjects  ; 
For  him,  and  in  his  right,  we  hold  this  town. 

JC.  John.   Acknowledge   then  the  king,  and  let 


'  Worn  out 


3  Owns. 


»  Circle. 


834. 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  II. 


1  Cit.  That  can  we  not:  but  he  that  proves  the  king, 
To  him  will  we  prove  loyal ;  till  that  time, 
Have  we  ramm'd  up  our  gates  against  the  world. 
JT.  John.   Doth  not  the  crown  of  England  prove 
the  king  ? 
And,  if  not  that,  I  bring  you  witnesses. 
Twice  fifteen  thousand  hearts  of  England's  breed,  — 
Bast.   Bastards,  and  else. 
JT.  John.    To  verify  our  title  with  their  lives. 
JT.  Phi.    As  many,  and  as  well-bom  bloods  as 

those, 

JBast.   Some  bastards  too. 

jr.  Phi.  Stand  in  his  face  to  contradict  his  claim. 
1  Cit.  Till  you  compound  whose  right  is  worthiest, 
We,  for  the  worthiest,  hold  the  right  from  both. 
JT.  Joh7i.   Then  God  forgive  the  sin  of  all  those 
souls, 
That  to  their  everlasting  residence, 
Before  the  dew  of  evening  fall,  shall  fleet, 
In  dreadful  trial  of  our  kingdom's  king  ! 
JT.  Phi.  Amen !  Amen  !  —  Mount,  chevaliers,  to 

arms  ! 
Bast.   St.  George,  —  that   swing'd  the   dragon, 
and  e'er  since. 
Sits  on  his  horseback  at  mine  hostess'  door, 
Teach  us  some  fence  !  —  Sirrah,  were  I  at  home. 
At  your  den,  sirrah,  [To  Austria.]  with  your  lioness, 
I'd  set  an  ox-head  to  your  lion's  liide. 
And  make  a  monster  of  you. 

Aust.  Peace  ;  no  more. 

Bast.   O,  tremble ;  for  you  hear  the  lion  roar. 
jr.  John.   Up  higher  to  the  plain  j  where  we'll  set 
forth. 
In  best  appointment,  all  our  regimetits. 

Bast.   Speed  then,  to  take  advantage  of  the  field. 
IT.  Phi.  It  shall  be  so ;  —  [To  Lewis.]  and  at  the 
other  hill 
Command  the  rest  to  stand.  —  God,  and  our  right ! 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  II.  —  The  same. 

Alarums  and  Excursions ;  then  a  Retreat.     Enter  a 
French  Herald,  with  Trumpets,  to  the  Gates. 
F.Her.  You  men  of  Angiers,  open  wide  your  gates. 
And  let  young  Arthur,  duke  of  Bretagne,  in ; 
Who,  by  the  hand  of  France,  this  day  hath  made 
Much  work  for  tears  in  many  an  English  mother, 
Whose  sons  lie  scatter'd  on  the  bleeding  ground : 
Many  a  widow's  husband  grovelling  lies, 
Coldly  embracing  the  discolour'd  earth ; 
And  victory,  with  little  loss,  doth  play 
Upon  the  dancing  banners  of  the  French ; 
Who  are  at  hand,  triumphantly  display'd. 
To  enter  conquerors,  and  to  proclaim 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  England's  king,  and  yours. 

Enter  an  English  Herald,  with  Trumpets. 
E.  Her.   Rejoice,  you  men  of  Angiers,  ring  your 
bells. 
King  John,  your  king  and  England's,  doth  approach. 
Commander  of  this  hot  malicious  day  ! 
Their  armours,  that  march'd  hence  so  silver-bright, 
Hither  return  all  gilt  with  Frenchmen's  blood  ; 
There  stuck  no  plume  in  any  English  crest. 
That  is  removed  by  a  staff  of  France ; 
Our  colours  do  return  in  those  same  hands 
That  did  display  them  when  we  first  march'd  forth ; 
And,  like  a  jolly  troop  of  huntsmen,  come 
Our  lusty  English,  all  with  purpled  hands. 
Died  in  the  dying  slaughter  of  their  foes  : 
Open  your  gates,  and  give  the  victors  way. 


CU.  Heralds,  from  off  our  towers  we  might  behold, 
From  first  to  last,  the  onset  and  retire 
Of  both  your  armies  j  whose  equality 
By  our  best  eyes  cannot  be  censured  *  : 
Blood  hath  bought  blood,  and  blows  have  answer'd 

blows ; 
Strength   match'd  with  strength,  and  power  con- 
fronted power : 
Both  are  alike ;  and  both  alike  we  like. 
One  must  prove  greatest :  while  they  weigh  so  even. 
We  hold  our  town  for  neither ;  yet  for  both. 

Enter,  at  one  side.  King  John,  uith  his  Power; 
Elinor,  Blanch,  and  the  Bastard ;  at  the  other, 
King  Philip,  Lewis,  Austria,  and  Forces. 

K.  John.  France,  hast  thou  yet  more  blood  to  cast 
away? 
Say,  shall  the  current  of  our  right  run  on  ? 
Whose  passage,  vex'd  with  thy  impediment, 
Shall  leave  his  native  channel,  and  o'erswell 
With  course  disturb'd  even  thy  confining  shores, 
Unless  thou  let  his  silver  water  keep 
A  peaceful  progress  to  the  ocean. 

K.  Phi.  England,  thou  hast  not  sav'd  one  drop  of 
blood, 
In  this  hot  trial,  more  than  we  of  France ; 
Rather,  lost  more  :    And  by  this  hand  I  swear. 
That  sways  the  earth  this  climate  overlooks,  — 
Before  we  will  lay  down  our  just-borne  arms. 
We'll  put  thee  down,  'gainst  whom  these  arms  we  bear, 
Or  add  a  royal  number  to  the  dead ; 
Gracing  the  scroll,  that  tells  of  this  war's  loss, 
With  slaughter  coupled  to  the  name  of  kings. 

Bast.   Ha,  majesty  !  how  high  thy  glory  towers. 
When  the  rich  blood  of  kings  is  set  on  fire  ! 
O,  now  doth  death  line  his  dead  chaps  with  steel ; 
The  swords  of  soldiers  are  his  teeth,  his  fangs  ; 
And  now  he  feasts,  mouthing  the  flesh  of  men. 
In  undetermin'd  differences  of  kings.  — 
Why  stand  these  royal  fronts  amazed  thus  ? 
Cry,  havock,  kings  !  back  to  the  stained  field. 
You  equal  potents  *,  fiery  kindled  spirits  ! 
Then  let  confusion  of  one  part  confirm 
The  other's  peace ;  till  then,  blows,  blood,  and  death  ! 

K.  John.  Whose  party  do  the  townsmen  yet  admit? 

K.  Phi.  Speak,  citizens,  for  England ;  who's  your 
king  ? 

1  Cit.  The  king  of  England,  when  we  know  the  king. 

K.  Phi.   Know  him  in  us,  that  here  hold  up  his 
right. 

K.  John.   In  us  that  are  our  own  great  deputy. 
And  bear  possession  of  our  person  here  ; 
Lord  of  our  presence,  Angiers,  and  of  you. 

1  Cit.    A  greater  power  than  we,  denies  all  this ; 
And,  till  it  be  undoubted,  we  do  lock 
Our  former  scruple  in  our  strong-barr'd  gates : 
King'd  of  our  fears ;  until  our  fears  resolv'd, 
Be  by  some  certain  king  purg'd  and  depos'd. 

Bast.   By  heaven  these  scroyles  6  of  Angiers  flout 
you,  kings ; 
And  stand  securely  on  their  battlements. 
As  in  a  theatre,  whence  they  gape  and  point 
At  your  industrious  scenes  and  acts  of  death. 
Your  royal  presences  be  rul'd  by  me ; 
Do  like  the  mutines  7  of  Jerusalem  ; 
Be  friends  a  while,  and  both  conjointly  bend 
Your  sharpest  deeds  of  malice  on  this  town  : 
By  east  and  west  let  France  and  England  mount 


4  Judged,  determined. 
6  Scabby  fellows. 


5  Potentates. 
1  Mutineers. 


Scene  II. 


KING  JOHN. 


335 


Tlieir  battering  cannon,  charged  to  the  mouths ; 

Till  their  soul-fearing  clamours  have  brawl'd  down 

The  flinty  ribs  of  this  contemptuous  city  : 

I'd  play  incessantly  upon  these  jades, 

Even  till  unfenced  desolation 

Leave  them  as  naked  as  the  vulgar  air. 

That  done,  dissever  your  united  strengths. 

And  part  your  mingled  colours  once  again ; 

Turn  face  to  face,  and  bloody  point  to  point : 

Then,  in  a  moment,  fortune  shall  cull  forth 

Out  of  one  side  her  happy  minion ; 

To  whom  in  favour  she  shall  give  the  day, 

And  kiss  him  with  a  glorious  victory. 

How  like  you  this  wild  counsel,  mighty  states  ? 

Smacks  it  not  something  of  the  policy  ? 

K.John.  Now,  by  the  sky  that  hangs  above  our  heads, 
I  like  it  well ;  —  France,  shall  we  knit  our  powers, 
And  lay  this  Angiers  even  with  the  ground ; 
Then,  after,  fight  who  shall  be  king  of  it  ? 

Bast.   An  if  thou  hast  the  mettle  of  a  king,  — 
Being  wrong'd,  as  we  are,  by  this  peevish  town,  — 
Turn  thou  the  mouth  of  thy  artillery. 
As  we  will  ours,  against  these  saucy  walls : 
And  when  that  we  have  dash'd  them  to  the  ground, 
Why,  then  defy  each  other ;  and  pell-mell, 
ISIake  work  upon  ourselves,  for  heaven,  or  hell. 

K.  Phi.  Let  it  be  so :  —  Say,  where  will  you  assault? 

K.  John.  We  from  the  west  will  send  destruction 
Into  this  city's  bosom. 

Aust.   I  from  the  north. 

K.  Phi.  Our  thunder  from  the  south. 

Shall  rain  their  drift  of  bullets  on  this  town. 

Bast.  O  prudent  discipline  !  From  north  to  south ; 
Austria  and  France  shoot  in  each  other's  mouth : 

\^Aside. 
I'll  stir  them  to  it :  —  Come,  away,  away  ! 

1  Cit.  Hear  us,  great  kings :  vouchsafe  a  while  to 
stay. 
And  I  shall  show  you  peace,  and  fair-faced  league; 
Win  you  this  city  without  stroke,  or  wound  j 
Rescue  those  breathing  lives  to  die  in  beds, 
ITiat  here  come  sacrifices  for  the  field  : 
Pers^ver  not,  but  hear  me,  mighty  kings. 

K.  John.  Speak  on,  with  favour ;  we  are  bent  to  hear. 

1  Cit.  That  daughter  there  of  Spain,  the  lady  Blanch, 
Is  near  to  England :    Look  upon  the  years 
Of  Lewis  the  Dauphin,  and  that  lovely  maid : 
If  youthful  love  should  go  in  quest  of  beauty. 
Where  should  he  find  it  fairer  than  in  Blanch? 
If  zealous  8  love  should  go  in  search  of  virtue, 
Wliere  should  he  find  it  purer  than  in  Blanch  ? 
If  love  ambitious  sought  a  match  of  birth, 
Whose  veins  bound  richer  blood  than  lady  Blanch  ? 
Such  as  she  is,  in  beauty,  virtue,  birth. 
Is  the  young  Dauphin  every  way  complete : 
If  not  complete,  O  say,  he  is  not  she  ; 
And  she  again  wants  nothing,  to  name  want. 
If  want  it  be  not,  that  she  is  not  he : 
He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man. 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  as  she; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence. 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him. 
O,  two  such  silver  currents,  when  they  join, 
Do  glorify  the  banks  that  bound  them  in  : 
And  two  such  shores  to  two  such  streams  made  one, 
Two  such  controlling  bounds,  shall  you  be,  kings, 
To  these  two  princes,  if  you  marry  them. 
This  union  shall  do  more  than  battery  can, 
To  our  fast-closed  gates ;  for,  at  this  match, 
8  Plouc 


With  swifter  spleen  9  than  powder  can  enforce, 
The  mouth  of  passage  shall  we  fling  wide  ope. 
And  give  you  entrance ;  but  without  this  match. 
The  sea  enraged  is  not  half  so  deaf. 
Lions  more  confident,  mountains  and  rocks 
More  free  from  motion ;  no,  not  death  himself 
In  mortal  fury  half  so  peremptory. 
As  we  to  keep  this  city. 

Bast.  Here's  a  stay. 

That  shakes  the  rotten  carcase  of  old  Death 
Out  of  his  rags !   Here's  a  large  mouth,  indeed. 
That  spits  forth  death,  and  mountains,  rocks,  and  seas; 
And  talks  familiarly  of  roaring  lions. 
He  speaks  plain  cannon,  fire,  and  smoke,  and  bounce; 
He  gives  the  bastinado  with  his  tongue  ; 
Gur  ears  are  cudgel'd ;  not  a  word  of  his, 
But  buffets  better  than  a  fist  of  France  : 
Why !   I  was  never  so  bethump'd  with  words, 
Since  I  first  call'd  my  brother's  father,  dad. 

Eli.  Son,  list  to  this  conjunction,  make  this  match ; 
Give  with  our  niece  a  dowry  large  enough : 
For  by  this  knot  thou  shalt  so  surely  tie 
Thy  now  unsur'd  assurance  to  the  crown. 
That  yon  green  boy  shall  have  no  sun  to  ripe 
The  bloom  that  promiseth  a  mighty  fruit. 
I  see  a  yielding  in  the  looks  of  France  ; 
Mark,  how  they  whisper :  urge  them,  while  their  souls 
Are  capable  of  this  ambition : 
Lest  zeal,  now  melted  by  the  windy  breath 
Of  soft  petitions,  pity  and  remorse, 
Cool  and  congeal  again  to  what  it  was. 

1  Cit.  Why  answer  not  the  double  majesties 
This  friendly  treaty  of  our  threaten 'd  town? 

K.  Phi.   Speak  England  first,  that  hath  been  for- 
ward first 
To  speak  unto  this  city :  What  say  you  ? 

IT.  John.  If  that  the  Dauphin  there,  thy  princely  son. 
Can  in  this  book  of  beauty  read,  I  love, 
Her  dowry  shall  weigh  equal  with  a  queen : 
For  Anjou,  and  fair  Touraine,  Maine,  Poictiers, 
And  all  that  we  upon  this  side  the  sea 
(Except  this  city  now  by  us  besieg'd) 
Find  liable  to  our  crown  and  dignity. 
Shall  gild  her  bridal  bed ;  and  make  her  rich 
In  titles,  honours,  and  promotions^ 
As  she  in  beauty,  education,  blood. 
Holds  hand  with  any  princess  of  the  world. 

JT.  Phi.  What  say'st  thou,  boy  ?  look  in  tlie  lady's 
face. 

Le^v.   I  do,  my  lord,  and  in  her  eye  I  find 
A  wonder,  or  a  wonderous  miracle, 
The  shadow  of  myself  form'd  in  her  eye  ; 
Which,  being  but  the  shadow  of  your  son. 
Becomes  a  sun,  and  makes  your  son  a  shadow : 
I  do  protest,  I  never  lov'd  myself. 
Till  now  infixed  I  beheld  myself. 
Drawn  in  the  flattering  table  of  her  eye. 

[JVhisj)ers  with  Blanch. 

Bast.  Drawn  in  the  flattering  table  of  her  eye  !  — 
Hang'd  in  the  frowning  wrinkleof  her  brow !  — 
And  quartcr'd  in  her  heart !  —  he  doth  espy 

Himself  love's  traitor  :   Tliis  is  pity  now. 
That  hang'd,  and  dra  wn,and  quarter'd,there  should  be. 
In  such  a  love,  so  vile  a  lout  as  he. 

Blanch.  My  uncle's  will,  in  this  respect  is  mine : 
If  he  see  aught  in  you,  that  makes  him  like, 
Tliat  any  tiling  he  sees,  which  moves  his  liking, 
I  can  with  ease  translate  it  to  my  will ; 
Or,  if  you  will,  (to  speak  more  properly,) 
•Speed. 


S36 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  IIL 


I  will  enforce  it  easily  to  my  love. 
Further  I  will  not  flatter  you,  my  lord, 
That  all  I  see  in  you  is  worthy  love, 
Than  this  —  that  nothing  do  I  see  in  you, 
(Though  churlish  thoughts  themselves  should  be 

your  judge,) 
That  I  can  find  should  merit  any  hate. 

K.  John.  What  say  these  young  ones  ?  What  say 
you,  my  niece? 

Blanch.   That  she  is  bound  in  honour  still  to  do 
What  you  in  wisdom  shall  vouchsafe  to  say. 

K.  John.   Speak  then,  prince  Dauphin  ;  can  you 
love  this  lady  ? 

Lew.  Nay,  ask  me  if  I  can  refrain  from  love ; 
For  I  do  love  her  most  unfeignedly. 

K.  John.  Then  I  do  give  Volquessen,  Touraine, 
Maine, 
Poictiers,  and  Anjou,  these  five  provinces, 
With  her  to  thee  ;  and  this  addition  more, 
Full  thirty  thousand  marks  of  English  coin.  — 
Pliilip  of  France,  if  thou  be  pleas'd  withal. 
Command  thy  son  and  daughter  to  join  hands. 

K.  Phi.   It  likes  us  well ;  —  Young  princes,  close 
your  hands. 

Aust.   And  your  lips  too ;  for,  I  am  well  assur'd, 
That  I  did  so,  when  I  was  first  assur'd. ' 

JT.  Phi.  Now,  citizens  of  Anglers,  ope  your  gates, 
Let  in  that  amity  which  you  have  made ; 
For  at  Saint  Mary's  chapel,  presently, 
The  rites  of  marriage  shall  be  solemniz'd.  — 
Is  not  the  lady  Constance  in  this  troop?  — 
I  know,  she  is  not ;  for  this  match,  made  up, 
Her  presence  would  have  interrupted  much  :  — 
Where  is  she  and  her  son  ?  tell  me,  who  knows. 

Lew.  She  is  sad  and  passionate  2  at  your  highness' 
tent. 

K.  Phi.   And,  by  my  faith,  this  league,  that  we 
have  made. 
Will  give  her  sadness  very  little  cure.  — 
Brother  of  England,  how  may  we  content 
This  widow  lady  ?  In  her  right  we  came : 
Which  we.  Heaven  knows,  have  turn'd  another  way, 
To  our  own  vantage. 

K.  John.  We  will  heal  up  all ; 

For  we'll  create  young  Arthur  duke  of  Bretagne, 


And  earl  of  Richmond ;  and  this  rich  fair  town 

We  make  him  lord  of.  —  Call  the  lady  Constance  ; 

Some  speedy  messenger  bid  her  repair 

To  our  solemnity :  —  I  trust  we  shall. 

If  not  fill  up  the  measure  of  her  will. 

Yet  in  some  measure  satisfy  her  so. 

That  we  shall  stop  her  exclamation. 

Go  we,  as  well  as  haste  will  suffer  us. 

To  this  unlook'd  for  unprepared  pomp. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  Bastard.  —  The  Citizens 
retire  from  the  walls. 
Bast.  Mad  world !  mad  kings  !  mad  composition  ! 
John,  to  stop  Arthur's  title  in  the  whole. 
Hath  willingly  departed  with  a  part : 
And  France,  (whose  armour  conscience  buckled  on; 
Whom  zeal  and  charity  brought  to  the  field. 
As  God's  own  soldier,)  rounded  4  in  the  ear 
With  that  same  purpose-changer,  that  sly  devil ; 
That  broker,  that  still  breaks  the  pate  of  faith  ; 
That  daily  break-vow  ;  he  that  wins  of  all. 
Of  kings,  of  beggars,  old  men,  young  men,  maids;— 
Commodity,  the  bias  of  the  world ; 
The  world,  who  of  itself  is  peised  ^  well. 
Made  to  run  even,  upon  even  ground ; 
Till  this  advantage,  this  vile  drawing  bias. 
This  sway  of  motion,  this  commodity. 
Makes  it  take  head  from  all  indilFerency, 
From  all  direction,  purpose,  course,  intent : 
And  this  same  bias,  this  commodity, 
Clapp'd  on  the  outward  eye  of  fickle  France, 
Hath  drawn  him  from  his  own  determin'd  aid, 
From  a  resolv'd  and  honourable  war, 
To  a  most  base  and  vile-concluded  peace.  — 
And  why  rail  I  on  this  commodity  ? 
But  for  because  he  hath  not  woo'd  me  yet : 
Not  that  I  have  the  power  to  clutch  6  my  hand, 
When  his  fair  angels  7  would  salute  my  palm : 
But  for  my  hand,  as  unattempted  yet, 
Like  a  poor  beggar,  raileth  on  the  rich. 
Well,  whiles  I  am  a  beggar,  I  will  rail. 
And  say,  —  there  is  no  sin,  but  to  be  rich ; 
And  being  rich,  my  virtue  then  shall  be. 
To  say,  —  there  is  no  vice  but  beggary  : 
Since  kings  break  faith  upon  commodity. 
Gain,  be  my  lord  !  for  I  will  worship  thee  !     \_Exit. 


ACT  IIL 


SCENE  I.  —  The  French  King's  Tent. 

Enter  Constance,  Arthur,  and  Salisbury. 

Const.  Gone  to  be  married !  gone  to  swear  a  peace ! 
False  blood  to  false  blood  join'd !  Gone  to  be  friends ! 
Shall  Lewis  have  Blanch  ?  and  Blanch  those  pro- 
vinces ? 
It  is  not  so  ;  thou  hast  mis-spoke,  misheard  ; 
Be  well  advis'd,  tell  o'er  thy  tale  again  : 
It  cannot  be  ;  thou  dost  but  say,  'tis  so  : 
I  trust,  I  may  not  trust  thee  ;  for  thy  word 
Is  but  the  vain  breath  of  a  common  man  : 
Believe  me,  I  do  not  believe  thee,  man  ; 
I  have  a  king's  oath  to  the  contrary. 
Thou  shalt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me, 
For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  3  of  fears ; 
Oppress'd  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  full  of  fears ; 


'  Affianced. 


2  Mournful 


'  Susceptible. 


A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears  ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears ; 
And  though  thou  now  confess,  thou  didst  but  jest 
With  my  vex'd  spirits,  I  cannot  take  a  truce, 
But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day. 
What  dost  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  head  ? 
Why  dost  thou  look  so  sadly  on  my  son  ? 
What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thine  ? 
Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum, 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  8  o'er  his  bounds  ? 
Be  these  sad  signs  confirmers  of  thy  words  ? 
Then  speak  again  ;  not  all  thy  former  tale, 
But  this  one  word ;  whether  thy  tale  be  true. 

Sal.    As  true,  as,  I  believe,  you  think  them  false 
That  give  you  cause  to  prove  my  saying  true. 

Const.    O,  if  thou  teach  me  to  believe  this  sorrow. 


*  Conspired. 
7  Coin. 


5  Poised,  balanced.  ^  Clasp. 

8  Appearing. 


Scene  I. 


KING  JOHN. 


337 


Teach  thou  this  sorrow  how  to  make  me  die ; 
And  let  belief  and  life  encounter  so, 
As  doth  the  fury  of  two  desperate  men, 
Which,  m  the  very  meeting,  fall,  and  die.  — 
Lewis  marry  Blanch !   0,boy,  then  where  art  thou  ? 
France  friend  with  England!  what  becomes  of  me? — 
Fellow,  be  gone ;   I  cannot  brook  thy  sight ; 
This  news  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man. 

<Sq/.   What  other  harm  have  I,  good  lady,  done. 
But  spoke  the  harm  that  is  by  otliers  done  ? 

Const.   Which  harm  within  itself  so  heinous  is, 
As  it  makes  harmful  all  that  spoak  of  it. 

Arlh.   I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

Const.    If  thou,  that  bid'st  me  be  content,  wert 
grim. 
Ugly,  and  sland'rous  to  thy  mother's  womb. 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots,  and  sightless  9  stains. 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swarth,  prodigious  ', 
Patch'd  with  foul  moles,  and  eye-offending  marks, 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  tlien  I  should  not  love  thee  ;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  art  fair ;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy  ! 
Nature  and  fortune  join'd  to  make  thee  great : 
Of  nature's  gifts  thou  mayst  with  lilies  boast. 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose  :   but  fortune,  O  ! 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee ; 
She  adulterates  hourly  with  thine  uncle  John ; 
And  with  hpr  golden  hand  hath  pluck'd  on  France 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 
Tell  me,  thou  fellow,  is  not  France  forsworn  ? 
Envenom  him  with  words ;  or  get  thee  gone. 
And  leave  those  woes  alone,  which  I  alone 
Am  bound  to  under-bear. 

Sal.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 

Const.   Thou  mayst,  thou  shalt,  I  will  not  go  with 
thee  : 
I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud  ; 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout. 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  %  of  my  great  grief. 
Let  kings  assemble  ;  for  my  grief's  so  great. 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up  :   here  I  and  sorrow  sit ; 
Here  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

[5Ae  throws  lierself  on  the  ground. 

Enter  King  John,  Kino  Philip,  Lewis,  Blanch, 
EuNoa,  Bastard,  Austria,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  'Tis  true,  fair  daughter ;  and  this  blessed 
day. 
Ever  in  France  shall  be  kept  festival : 
To  solemnize  this  day,  the  glorious  sun 
Stays  in  his  course,  and  plays  the  alchemist ; 
Turning,  with  splendour  of  his  precious  eye. 
The  meagre  cloddy  earth  to  glittering  gold  : 
The  yearly  course,  that  brings  this  day  about. 
Shall  never  see  it  but  a  holyday. 

Const.   A  wicked  day,  and  not  a  holyday  ! 

[Rising. 
What  hath  this  day  deserv'd  ;  what  hath  it  done  ; 
That  it  in  golden  letters  should  be  set, 
Among  tlie  high  tides,  in  the  kalendar? 
Nay,  rather,  turn  this  day  out  of  the  week  ; 
This  day  of  shame,  oppression,  perjury : 
Or,  if  it  must  stand  still,  let  wives  with  child 
Pray,  that  their  burdens  may  not  fall  this  day, 
Lest  that  their  hopes  prodigiously  be  cross'd  : 
But  on  this  day,  let  seamen  fear  no  wreck, 

»  Unsightly.  >  Monttroui.  »  Dignity. 


No  bargains  break,  that  are  not  this  day  made : 
This  day,  all  things  begun  come  to  ill  end  ; 
Yea,  faith  itself  to  hollow  falsehood  change  ! 

JT.  P/ii.    By  heaven,  lady,  you  shall  have  no  cause 
To  curse  the  fair  proceedings  of  this  day  : 
Have  I  not  pawn'd  to  you  my  majesty? 

Const.   You  have  beguil'd  me  with  a  counterfeit. 
Resembling  majesty ;  which,  being  touch'd  and  tried. 
Proves  valueless  :    You  are  forsworn,  forsworn  ; 
You  came  in  arms  to  spill  mine  enemies'  blood. 
But  now  in  arms  you  strengthen  it  with  yours : 
The  grappling  vigour  and  rough  frown  of  war. 
Is  cold  in  amity  and  painted  peace. 
And  our  oppression  hath  made  up  this  league :  — 
Arm,  arm,  you  heavens,  against  these  perjur'd  kings ! 
A  widow  cries  ;  be  husband  to  me,  heavens  ! 
Let  not  the  hours  of  this  ungodly  day 
Wear  out  the  day  in  peace ;  but,  ere  sunset, 
Set  arm'd  discord  'twixt  these  perjur'd  kings  ! 
Hear  me,  O,  hear  me  ! 

Aust.  Lady  Constance,  peace. 

Const.  War !  war!  no  peace !  peace  is  to  me  a  war. 

0  Lymoges  !   O  Austria  !  thou  dost  shame 

That  bloody  spoil :    Thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou 

coward ; 
Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villainy  ! 
Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side  ! 
Thou  fortune's  champion,  that  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety !  thou  art  perjur'd  too, 
And  sooth'st  up  greateness.     What  a  fool  art  thou, 
A  ramping  fool ;  to  brag,  and  stamp,  and  swear, 
Upon  my  party  !  Thou  cold-blooded  slave. 
Hast  thou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  my  side  ? 
Been  sworn  my  soldier  ?  bidding  me  depend 
Upon  thy  stars,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  strength  ? 
And  dost  thou  now  fall  over  to  my  foes  ? 
Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide  !  doff  it  '  for  shame. 
And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  tliose  recreant  limbs. 

Aust.  O,  that  a  man  should  speak  those  words  to 
me ! 

Bast.   And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  those  recreant 
limbs. 

Aust.   Thou  dar'st  not  say  so,  villain,  for  thy  life. 

Bast.   And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  those  recreant 
limbs. 

IT.  John.  We  like  not  this :  thou  dost  forget  thyself. 

Enter  Pandulph. 
JT.  Phi.  Here  comes  the  holy  legate  of  the  pope. 
Pand.  Hail,  you  anointed  deputies  of  heaven!  — 
To  thee,  king  John,  my  holy  errand  is. 

1  Pandulph,  of  fair  Milan  cardinal, 
And  from  pope  Innocent  the  legate  here, 
Do,  in  his  name,  religiously  demand. 

Why  thou  against  the  church,  our  holy  mother. 
So  wilfully  dost  spurn  ;  and,  force  perforce. 
Keep  Stephen  Langton,  chosen  archbishop 
Of  Canterbury,  from  that  holy  see? 
This  in  our  'foresaid  holy  father's  name. 
Pope  Innocent,  I  do  demand  of  thee. 

A".  John.   What  earthly  name  to  interrogatories 
Can  task  the  free  breath  of  a  sacred  king  ? 
Thou  canst  not,  cardinal,  devise  a  name 
So  slight,  unworthy,  and  ridiculous. 
To  charge  me  to  an  answer,  as  the  pope. 
Tell  him  this  tale  ;  and  from  the  mouth  of  England, 
Add  thus  much  more,  —  That  no  Italian  priest 
Shall  tithe  or  toll  in  our  dominions  : 
3  Put  it  ofT. 
Z 


338 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  III. 


But  as  we  under  lieaven  are  supreme  bead, 
So,  under  him,  that  great  supremacy, 
Where  we  do  reign,  we  will  alone  uphold, 
"Without  the  assistance  of  a  mortal  hand : 
So  tell  the  pope  ;  all  reverence  set  apart, 
To  him,  and  his  usurp'd  authority. 

K.  Phi.    Brother  of  England,  you  blaspheme  in 
this. 

JC  John.  Though  you,  and  all  the  kings  of  Chris- 
tendom, 
Are  led  so  grossly  by  this  meddling  priest. 
Dreading  the  curse  that  money  may  buy  out ; 
And,  by  the  merit  of  vile  gold,  dross,  dust, 
Purchase  corrupted  pardon  of  a  man, 
Who,  in  that  sale,  sells  pardon  from  himself: 
Though  you,  and  all  the  rest,  so  grossly  led. 
This  juggling  witchcraft  with  revenue  cherish ; 
Yet  I,  alone,  alone  do  me  oppose 
Against  the  pope,  and  count  his  friends  my  foes. 

Pand.   Then,  by  the  lawful  power  that  I  have, 
Thou  shalt  stand  curs'd  and  excommunicate  : 
And  blessed  shall  he  be,  that  doth  revolt 
From  his  allegiance  to  an  heretick  ; 
And  meritorious  shall  that  hand  be  call'd, 
Canonized,  and  worshipp'd  as  a  saint, 
That  takes  away  by  any  secret  course 
Thy  hateful  life. 

Const.  O,  lawful  let  it  be, 

That  I  have  room  with  Rome  to  curse  a  while  ! 
Good  father  cardinal,  cry  thou,  amen, 
To  my  keen  curses ;  for,  without  my  wrong, 
There  is  no  tongue  hath  power  to  curse  him  right. 

Pand.  There's  law  and  warrant,  lady,  for  my  curse. 

Const.  And  for  mine  too ;  when  law  can  do  no  right. 
Let  it  be  lawful  that  law  bar  no  wrong : 
Law  cannot  give  my  child  his  kingdom  here ; 
For  he,  that  holds  his  kingdom,  holds  the  law : 
Therefore,  since  law  itself  is  perfect  wrong, 
How  can  the  law  forbid  my  tongue  to  curse  ? 

Pand.  Philip  of  France,  on  peril  of  a  curse. 
Let  go  the  hand  of  that  arch-heretick  ; 
And  raise  the  power  of  France  upon  his  head. 
Unless  he  do  submit  himself  to  Rome. 

Eli.   Look'st  thou  pale,  France?  do  not  let  go 
thy  hand. 

Const.  Look  to  that,  devil !  lest  that  France  repent. 

uiust.  King  Philip,  listen  to  the  cardinal. 

Past.  And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  his  recreant  limbs. 

JT.  Joh7i.  Philip,  what  say'st  thou  to  the  cardinal  ? 

Const.   What  should  he  say,  but  as  the  cardinal  ? 

Lew.   Bethink  you,  father :   for  the  difference 
Is,  purchase  of  a  heavy  curse  from  Rome, 
Or  the  light  loss  of  England  for  a  friend  : 
Forego  the  easier. 

Blanch.  That's  the  curse  of  Rome. 

Const.  O  Lewis,  stand  fast ;  the  devil  tempts  thee 
here. 
In  likeness  of  a  new  untrimmed  bride. 

Planch.  The  lady  Constance  speaks  not  from  her 
faith. 
But  from  her  need. 

Const.  O,  if  thou  grant  my  need. 

Which  only  lives  but  by  the  death  of  faith. 

That  need  must  needs  infer  this  principle, 

That  faith  would  live  again  by  death  of  need ; 

O,  then,  tread  down  my  need,  and  faith  mounts  up  ; 

Keep  my  need  up,  and  faith  is  trodden  down. 

K.John.  The  king  is  mov'd,  and  answers  not  to 

this. 
Const.  O,  be  remov'd  from  him,  and  answer  well. 


Aust.     Do  so,   king    Philip;   hang  no  more  in 
doubt. 

Bast.   Hang  nothing  but  a  calf's  skin,  most  sweet 
lout. 

jr.  Phi.  I  am  perplex'd,  and  know  not  what  to  say. 

Pand.  What  canst  thou  say,  but  will  perplex  thee 
more. 
If  thou  stand  excommunicate,  and  curs'd  ? 

K.  Phi.   Good  reverend  father,  make  my  person 
yours, 
And  tell  me,  how  you  would  bestow  yourself. 
This  royal  hand  and  mine  are  newly  knit ; 
And  the  conjunction  of  our  inward  souls 
Married  in  league,  coupled  and  link'd  together 
With  all  religious  strength  of  sacred  vows  ; 
The  latest  breath  that  gave  the  sound  of  words, 
Was  deep-sworn  faith,  peace,  amity,  true  love, 
Between  our  kingdoms,  and  our  royal  selves ; 
And  even  before  this  truce,  but  new  before,  — 
No  longer  than  we  well  could  wash  our  hands. 
To  clap  this  royal  bargain  up  of  peace,  — — 
Heaven  knows,  they  were  besmear'd  and  overstain'd 
With  slaughter's  pencil ;  where  revenge  did  paint 
The  fearful  difference  of  incensed  kings : 
And  shall  these  hands  so  lately  purg'd  of  blood. 
So  newly  join'd  in  love,  so  strong  in  both, 
Unyoke  this  seizure,  and  this  kind  regreet  ? 
Play  fast  and  loose  with  faith  ?  so  jest  with  heaven. 
Make  such  unconstant  children  of  ourselves. 
As  now  again  to  snatch  our  palm  from  palm  ; 
Unswear  faith  sworn  ;  and  on  the  marriage  bed 
Of  smiling  peace  to  march  a  bloody  host, 
And  make  a  riot  on  the  gentle  brow 
Of  true  sincerity  ?  O  holy  sir, 
My  reverend  father,  let  it  not  be  so  : 
Out  of  your  grace,  devise,  ordain,  impose 
Some  gentle  order  ;  and  then  we  shall  be  bless'd 
To  do  your  pleasure,  and  continue  friends. 

Pand.   All  form  is  formless,  order  orderless, 
Save  what  is  opposite  to  England's  love. 
Therefore,  to  arms  !  be  champion  of  our  church ! 
Or  let  the  church,  our  mother,  breathe  her  curse, 
A  mother's  curse,  on  her  revolting  son. 
France,  thou  mayst  hold  a  serpent  by  the  tongue, 
A  cased  lion  by  the  mortal  paw, 
A  fasting  tiger  safer  by  the  tooth, 
Than  keep  in  peace  that  hand  which  thou  dost  hold. 

K-  Phi.  I  may  disjoin  my  hand,  but  not  my  faith. 

Pand.   So  mak'st  thou  faith  an  enemy  to  faith  ; 
And,  like  a  civil  war,  sett'st  oath  to  oath. 
Thy  tongue  against  thy  tongue.      O,  let  thy  vow 
First  made  to  heaven,  first  be  to  heaven  perform'd ; 
That  is,  to  be  the  champion  of  our  church  ! 
What  since  thou  swor'st,  is  sworn  against  thyself. 
And  may  not  be  performed  by  thyself : 
For  that,  which  thou  hast  sworn  to  do  amiss, 
Is  not  amiss  when  it  is  truly  done  ; 
And  being  not  done,  where  doing  tends  to  ill, 
The  truth  is  then  most  done  not  doing  it : 
The  better  act  of  purposes  mistook 
Is,  to  mistake  again  ;  though  indirect. 
Yet  indirection  thereby  grows  direct. 
And  falsehood,  falsehood  cures ;  as  fire  cools  fire. 
Within  the  scorched  veins  of  one  new  burn'd. 
It  is  religion,  that  doth  make  vows  kept ; 
But  thou  hast  sworn  against  religion  ; 
By  what  thou  swear'st,  against  the  thing  thou  swear'st ; 
And  mak'st  an  oath  the  surety  for  thy  truth 
Against  an  oath  :    The  truth  thou  art  unsure 
^  Exchange  of  salutation. 


Scene  I. 


KING  JOHN. 


339 


To  swear,  swear  only  not  to  be  forsworn  : 

Else,  what  a  mockery  should  it  be  to  swear  ? 

But  thou  dost  swear  only  to  be  forsworn  ; 

And  most  forsworn,  to  keep  what  thou  dost  swear. 

Therefore,  thy  latter  vows,  against  thy  first. 

Is  in  thyself  rebellion  to  thyself: 

And  better  conquest  never  canst  thou  make. 

Than  arm  thy  constant  and  thy  nobler  parts 

Against  those  giddy  loose  suggestions  : 

Upon  which  better  part  our  prayers  come  in, 

If  thou  vouchsafe  them  :   but,  if  not,  then  know, 

The  peril  of  our  curses  light  on  thee ; 

So  heavy,  as  thou  shalt  not  shake  them  off. 

But,  in  despair,  die  under  their  black  weight. 

Aust.   Rebellion,  flat  rebellion  ! 

Bast.  Will'tnotbe? 

Will  not  a  calf's  skin  stop  that  mouth  of  thine  ? 

Lew.   Father,  to  arms  ! 

Blanch.  Upon  thy  wedding  day  ? 

Against  the  blood  that  thou  hast  married  ? 
What,  shall   our    feast  be  kept  with   slaughter'd 

men? 
Shall  braying  trumpets,  and  loud  churlish  drums,  — 
Clamours  of  hell,  —  be  measures  *  to  our  pomp  ? 
O,  husband,  hear  me  !  — ah,  alack,  how  new 
Is  husband  in  my  mouth !  —  even  for  that  name, 
Which  till  this  time  my  tongue  did  ne'er  pronounce. 
Upon  my  knee  I  beg,  go  not  to  arms 
Against  mine  uncle. 

Const.  O,  upon  my  knee, 

Made  hard  with  kneeling,  I  do  pray  to  thee. 
Thou  virtuous  Dauphin,  alter  not  the  doom 
Fore-thought  by  heaven. 

Blanch.  Now  shall  I  see  thy  love ;  What  motive  may 
Be  stronger  with  thee  than  the  name  of  wife  ? 

Const.  That  which  upholdethhim  that  thee  upholds, 
His  honour  ;  O,  thine  honour,  Lewis,  thine  honour  ! 

Lew.   I  muse^,  your  majesty  doth  seem  so  cold. 
When  such  profound  respects  do  pull  you  on. 

Pand.   I  will  denounce  a  curse  upon  his  head. 

A".  Phi.   Thou  shalt  not  need :  —  England,  I'll 
fall  from  thee. 

Const.   O  fair  return  of  banish'd  majesty  ! 

Eli.   O  foul  revolt  of  French  inconstancy  ! 

K.  John.   France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  hour  within 
this  hour. 

Bast.  Old  time,  the  clock-setter,  that  bald  sexton 
time. 
Is  it  as  he  vdll  ?  well  then,  France  shall  rue. 

Blanch.  The  sun's  o'ercast  with  blood ;   Fair  day, 
adieu  ! 
Which  is  the  side  that  I  must  go  withal  ? 
I  am  with  both  :  each  army  hath  a  hand  j 
And,  in  their  rage,  I  having  hold  of  both, 
They  whirl  asunder,  and  dismember  me. 
Husband,  I  cannot  pray  that  thou  mayst  win  ; 
Uncle,  I  needs  must  pray  that  thou  mayst  lose  ; 
Father,  I  may  not  wish  the  fortune  thine  ; 
Grandam,  I  will  not  vnsh  thy  wishes  thrive : 
Whoever  wins,  on  that  side  shall  I  lose  ; 
Assured  loss,  before  the  match  be  play'd. 

Lew,   Lady,  with  me  j  with  me  thy  fortune  lies. 

Blanch.   There  where  my  fortune  lives,  there  my 
life  dies. 

JT.  John.   Cousin,  go  draw   our   puissance  ^   to- 
gether. —  {Exit  Bastard. 
France,  I  am  bum'd  up  vnth  inflaming  wrath  ; 
A  rage,  whose  heat  hath  this  condition, 


*  Music  for  dancing. 
7  Force 


«  Wonder. 


That  nothing  can  allay,  nothing  but  blood, 
The  blood,  and  dearest-valu'd  bluod  of  France. 
IC.  Phi.   Thy  rage  shall  burn  thee  up,  and  thou 
shalt  turn 
To  ashes,  ere  our  blood  shall  quench  that  fire  : 
Look  to  thyself,  thou  art  in  jeopardy. 

A'.  John.    No  more  than  he  that  threats.  —  To 
arms  let's  hie !  {Fxeunl. 

SCENE  II Plains  near  Angiers. 

Alarums  ;  Excursions.     Enter  t/ie  Bastard,  with 
Austria's  head. 

Bast.  Now,  by  my  life,  thisday  grows  wondrous  hot ; 
Some  airy  devil  hovers  in  the  sky. 
And  pours  down  mischief.     Austria's  head  lie  there, 
While  Philip  breathes. 

Enter  ^ing  John,  Arthur,  and  Hubert. 
A".  John.  Hubert,  keep  thisboy :  —  Philip,  make  up ; 
My  mother  is  assailed  in  our  tent, 
And  ta'en,  I  fear. 

'  Bast.  My  lord,  I  rescu'd  her ; 

Her  highness  is  in  safety,  fear  you  not : 
But  on,  my  liege  :  for  very  little  pains 
Will  bring  this  labour  to  an  happy  end.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  lU.  —  TJie  same. 

Alarums  ;  Excursions  ;  Retreat.    Enter  Kino  John, 
Elinor,  Arthur,  the  Bastard,  Hubert,  and  Lords. 

K.  John.   So  shall  it  be ;   your  grace  shall  stay 
behind,  [  To  Elinor. 

So  strongly  guarded.  —  Cousin,  look  not  sad : 

{To  Arthur. 
Thy  grandam  loves  thee  ;  and  thy  uncle  will 
As  dear  be  to  thee  as  thy  father  was. 

Arth.  O,  this  will  make  my  mother  die  with  grief. 

K.  John.    Cousin,   [To  the  Bastard.]   away  for 
England ;  haste  before : 
And,  ere  our  coming,  see  thou  shake  the  bags 
Of  hoarding  abbots ;  angels  8  imprison'd 
Set  thou  at  liberty  :  the  fat  ribs  of  peace 
Must  by  the  hungry  now  be  fed  upon : 
Use  our  commission  in  its  utmost  force. 

Bast.    Bell,  book,  and  candle  shall  not  drive  me 
back. 
When  gold  and  silver  becks  me  to  come  on. 
I  leave  your  highness  :  —  Grandam,  I  will  pray 
(If  ever  I  remember  to  be  holy,) 
For  your  fair  safety  ;  so  I  kiss  your  hand. 

Eli.   Farewell,  my  gentle  cousin. 

K.  John.  Cor,  farewell. 

[El-it  Bastard. 

Eli.   Come  hither,  little  kinsman  ;  hark,  a  word. 
[She  lakes  Arthur  aside. 

K.  John.   Come  hither,  Hubert.     O  my  gentle 
Hubert, 
We  owe  thee  much ;  within  this  wall  of  flesh 
There  if  a  soul,  counts  thee  her  creditor, 
And  with  advantage  means  to  pay  thy  love  : 
And,  my  good  friend,  thy  voluntary  oath 
Lives  in  this  bosom,  dearly  cherished. 
Give  me  thy  hand.     I  liad  a  thing  to  say,  — 
But  I  will  fit  it  with  some  better  time. 
By  heaven,  Hubert,  I  am  almost  asham'd 
To  say  what  good  respect  I  have  of  thee. 

Huh.    I  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty. 

*  Gold  cola 
Z  2 


340 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  III. 


K.  John.    Good  friend,  tliou  hast  no  cause  to  say 
so  yet : 
But  thou  shalt  have  ;  and  creep  time  ne'er  so  slow, 
Yet  it  shall  come,  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 
I  had  d  thing  to  say,  —  But  let  it  go : 
The  Sim  is  in  the  heaven,  and  the  proud  day, 
Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  tlie  world, 
Is  all  too  wanton,  and  too  full  of  gawds  9, 
To  give  me  audience  :  —  If  the  midnight  bell 
Did,  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 
Sound  one  unto  the  drowsy  race  of  night ; 
If  this  same  were  a  church-yard  where  we  stand. 
And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wrongs  ; 
Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy. 
Had  bak'd  thy  blood,  and  made  it  heavy,  thick  ; 
(Which,  else,  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  veins. 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men's  eyes. 
And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment, 
A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes  ;) 
Or  if  that  thou  couldst  see  me  without  eyes. 
Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a  tongue,  using  conceit  *  alone, 
Without  eyes,  ears,  and  harmful  sound  of  words ; 
Then,  in  despite  of  brooded  watchful  day, 
I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts  : 
But,  ah,  I  will  not :  —  Yet  I  love  thee  well ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  I  think,  thou  lov'st  me  well. 

Hub.    So  well,  that  what  you  bid  me  undertake, 
Though  that  my  death  were  adjunct  *  to  my  act, 
By  heaven,  I'd  do't. 

K.  John.  Do  not  I  know,  thou  would'st  ? 

Good  Hubert,  Hubert,  Hubert,  throw  thine  eye 
On  yon  young  boy :   I'll  tell  thee  what,  my  friend, 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  my  way ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  this  foot  of  mine  doth  tread, 
He  lies  before  me  :    Dost  thou  understand  me  ? 
Thou  ait  his  keeper. 

Hub.  And  I  will  keep  him  so. 

That  he  shall  not  offend  your  majesty. 

X.  John.   Death. 

Hub.  My  lord? 

K.  John,  A  grave. 

Huh.  He  shall  not  live. 

K.  John.  Enough. 

I  could  be  merry  now  :   Hubert,  I  love  thee ; 
Well,  I'll  not  say  what  I  intend  for  thee ; 

Remember. Madam,  fare  you  well : 

I'll  send  those  powers  o'er  to  your  majesty. 

Eli.   My  blessing  go  with  thee  ! 

K.  John.  For  England,  cousin  : 

Hubert  shall  be  your  man,  attend  on  you 
With  all  true  duty.  —  On  toward  Calais,  ho  ! 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Thesame.    The  French  King's  Tent. 

Enter  King  Philip,  Lewis,  Pandulph,  and 
Attendants. 

K.  Phi.   So,  by  a  roaring  tempest  on  the  flood, 
A  whole  armado  3  of  convicted  *  sail 
Is  scatter'd  and  disjoin'd  from  fellowship. 

Pand.  Courage  and  comfort!  all  shall  yet  go  well. 

JT.  Phi.  What  can  go  well,  when  we  have  run  so 
ill? 
Are  we  not  beaten  ?  Is  not  Angiers»lost  ? 
Arthur  ta'en  prisoner  ?  divers  dear  friends  slain  ? 
And  bloody  England  into  England  gone, 
O'erbearing  interruption,  spite  of  France  ? 


9  Showy  ornaments. 

2  Joined.  3  Fleet  of  i 


1  Conception. 
'^  Overcome. 


Lew.   What  he  hath  won,  that  hath  he  fortified  : 
So  hot  a  speed  with  such  advice  dispos'd, 
Such  temperate  order  in  so  fierce  a  cause. 
Doth  want  example :    Who  hath  read,  or  heard. 
Of  any  kindred  action  like  to  this  ? 

jr.  Phi.  Well  could  I  bear  that  England  had  this 
praise, 
So  we  could  find  some  pattern  of  our  shame. 

Enter  Constance. 
Look,  who  comes  here !  a  grave  unto  a  soul ; 
Holding  the  eternal  spirit,  against  her  will. 
In  the  vile  prison  of  afflicted  breath  :  — 
I  pr'ythee,  lady,  go  away  with  me. 

Const.   Lo,  now!  now  see  the  issue  of  your  peace! 

JT.  Phi.   Patience,  good   lady  !    comfort,   gentle 
Constance ! 

Const.   No,  I  defy  5  all  counsel,  all  redress, 
But  that  which  ends  all  counsel,  true  redress. 
Death,  death  :  —  O  awiiable  lovely  death  ! 
Arise  forth  from  the  couch  of  lasting  night. 
Thou  hate  and  terror  to  prosperity. 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  detestable  bones ; 
And  put  my  eye-balls  in  thy  vanity  brows ; 
And  ring  these  fingers  with  thy  household  worms ; 
And  stop  this  gap  of  breath  with  fulsome  dust, 
And  be  a  carrion  monster  like  thyself : 
Come,  grin  on  me,  and  I  will  think'st  thou  smil'st,^ 
And  buss  thee  as  thy  wife  !   Misery's  love, 
O,  come  to  me. 

IT.  Phi.  O  fair  affliction,  peace. 

Co?ist.    No,   no,    I   will    not,  having   breath   to 
cry :  — 
O,  that  my  tongue  were  in  the  thunder's  mouth  ! 
Then  with  a  passion  would  I  shake  the  world ; 
And  rouse  from  sleep  that  fell  anatomy, 
Which  cannot  hear  a  lady's  feeble  voice. 
Which  scorns  a  modern  ^  invocation. 

Pand.   Lady,  you  utter  madness,  and  not  sorrow. 

Const.   Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me  so ; 
I  am  not  mad  :  this  hair  I  tear,  is  mine ; 
My  name  is  Constance  ;   I  was  Geffrey's  wife  ; 
Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost : 
I  am  not  mad ;   I  would  to  heaven,  I  were  ! 
For  then,  'tis  like  I  should  forget  myself : 
O,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget !  — 
Preach  some  philosophy,  to  make  me  mad. 
And  thou  shalt  be  canoniz'd,  cardinal ; 
For,  being  not  mad,  but  sensible  of  grief. 
My  reasonable  part  produces  reason 
How  I  may  be  deliver'd  of  these  woes. 
And  teaches  me  to  kill  or  hang  myself: 
If  I  were  mad,  I  should  forget  my  son ; 
Or  madly  think,  a  babe  of  clouts  were  he  : 
I  am  not  mad ;  too  well,  too  well  I  feel 
The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 

if.  Phi.  Bind  up  those  tresses:  0,what  love  I  note 
In  the  fair  multitude  of  those  her  hairs  I 
Where  but  by  chance  a  silver  drop  hath  fallen. 
Even  to  that  drop  ten  thousand  wiry  friends 
Do  glew  themselves  in~ sociable  grief; 
like  true,  inseparable,  faithful  loves. 
Sticking  together  in  calamity. 

Const.   To  England,  if  you  will. 

jr.  Phi.  Bind  up  your  hairs. 

Const.   Yes,  that  I  will ;   and  wherefore  will  ] 
doit? 
r  tore  them  from  their  bonds :   and  cried  aloud, 
0  that  these  hands  could  so  redeem  my  son, 

s  Refuse.  «  Common. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  JOHN. 


341 


As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty  / 

But  now  1  envy  at  their  liberty, 

And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds, 

Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner. 

And,  father  cardinal,  I  have  heard  you  say, 

That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heaven ; 

If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again : 

For  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child. 

To  liira  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire  ', 

There  was  not  such  a  gracious  8  creature  born. 

But  now  will  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud, 

And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek, 

And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost ; 

As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit ; 

And  so  he'll  die  ;  and,  rising  so  again, 

When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 

I  shall  not  know  him :  therefore  never,  never 

Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more. 

Pand.   You  hold  too  heinous  a  respect  of  grief. 

Const.    He  talks  to  me  that  never  had  a  son. 

IT.  Phi.   You  are  as  fond  of  grief,  as  of  your  child. 

Const.   Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form ; 
Tlien  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 
Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do.  — 
I  will  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head, 

[Tearing  off  her  liead-dress. 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
O  lord,  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son  ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world  ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrow's  cure.     [Exit. 

K.  Phi.    I  fear  some  outrage,  and  I'll  follow  her. 

[ExU. 

Lew.  There's  nothing  in  this  world  can  make  me 
joy: 
Life  is  as  tedious  as  a  twice-told  tale, 
Vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man ; 
And  bitter  shame  hath  spoil'd  the   sweet  world's 

taste. 
That  it  yields  nought  but  shame  and  bitterness. 

Pand.    Before  the  curing  of  a  strong  disease. 
Even  in  tlie  instant  of  repair  and  health. 
The  fit  is  strongest ;  evils  that  take  leave, 
On  their  departure  most  of  all  show  evil : 
What  have  you  lost,  by  losing  of  this  day  ? 

Lew.   All  days  of  glorj',  joy,  and  happiness. 

Pand.   If  you  had  won  it,  certainly  you  had. 
No,  no  :   when  fortune  means  to  men  most  good. 
She  looks  upon  them  with  a  threatening  eye. 
'Tis  strange,  to  think  how  much  king  John  hath  lost 
In  this  which  he  accounts  so  clearly  won  : 
Are  not  you  griev'd  that  Arthur  is  his  prisoner? 

Lew.    As  heartily  as  he  is  glad  he  hath  him. 

Pand.  Your  mind  is  all  as  youthful  as  your  blood. 
Now  hear  me  speak  with  a  prophetick  spirit ; 
For  even  the  breath  of  what  I  mean  to  speak 
7  Breathe.  »  Graceful. 


Shall  blow  each  dust,  each  straw,  each  little  rub. 
Out  of  the  path  which  shall  directly  lead 
Thy  foot  to  England's  throne;  and,  therefore,  mark. 
John  hath  seiz'd  Arthur ;  and  it  cannot  be, 
That,  whiles  warm  life  plays  in  that  infant's  veins, 
The  misplac'd  John  should  entertain  an  hour. 
One  minute,  nay,  one  quiet  breath  of  rest : 
A  sceptre  snatch'd  with  an  unruly  hand, 
Must  be  as  boisterously  maintain'd  as  gain'd  : 
And  he  that  stands  upon  a  slippery  place. 
Makes  nice  of  no  vile  hold  to  stay  him  up : 
Tiiat  John  may  stand,  then  Arthur  needs  must  fall  j 
So  be  it,  for  it  cannot  be  Ijut  so. 

Lew.   But  what  shall  I  gain  by  young  Arthur's 
fall? 

Pand.   You,  in  tlie  right  of  lady  Blanch,  your 
wife. 
May  then  make  all  the  claim  that  Arthur  did. 

Lew.    And  lose  it,  life  and  all,  as  Arthur  did. 

Pa7id.   How  green  are  you,  and  fresh  in  this  old 
world  ! 
John  lays  you  plots ;  the  times  conspire  with  you  : 
For  he  that  steeps  his  safety  in  true  blood, 
Shall  find  but  bloody  safety,  and  untrue. 
This  act,  so  evilly  born,  shall  cool  the  hearts 
Of  all  his  people,  and  freeze  up  their  zeal ; 
That  none  so  small  advantage  shall  step  forth. 
To  check  his  reign,  but  they  will  cherish  it : 
No  natural  exhalation  in  the  sky. 
No  scai)e  of  nature,  no  distemper'd  day. 
No  common  wind,  no  customed  event. 
But  they  will  pluck  away  his  natural  cause, 
And  call  them  meteors,  prodigies,  and  signs. 
Abortives,  presages,  and  tongues  of  heaven, 
Plainly  denouncing  vengeance  upon  John. 

Lew.   May  be,  he  will  not  touch  young  Arthur's 
life. 
But  hold  himself  safe  in  his  prisonment. 

Pand.  O,  sir,  when  he  shall  hear  of  your  approach. 
If  that  young  Artliur  be  not  gone  already, 
Even  at  that  news  he  dies  :  and  then  the  heart 
Of  all  his  people  shall  revolt  from  him. 
And  kiss  the  lips  of  unacquainted  change  ; 
And  pick  strong  matter  of  revolt,  and  wrath. 
Out  of  the  bloody  fingers'  ends  of  John. 
Methinks,  I  see  this  hurly  all  on  foot; 
And,  O,  what  better  matter  breeds  for  you. 
Than  I  have  nam'd  !  —  The  bastard  Faulconbridgc 
Is  now  in  England,  ransacking  the  church, 
Offending  charity  :    If  but  a  dozen  French 
Were  there  in  arms,  they  would  be  as  a  call 
To  train  ten  tliousand  English  to  their  side ; 
Or,  as  a  little  snow,  tumbled  about, 
Angn  becomes  a  mountain.      O  noble  Dauphin, 
Go  with  me  to  the  king  :   'Tis  wonderful. 
What  may  be  wrought  out  of  their  discontent : 
Now  that  their  souls  are  topful  of  offence. 
For  England  go  ;  I  will  whet  on  the  king. 

Lew.   Strong  reasons  make  strong  actions ;  Let 
us  go; 
If  you  say,  ay,  the  king  will  not  say,  no.   [Exeunt. 


Z3 


342 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  IV 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  — Northampton.  A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  HuBEaT  and  two  Attendants. 
Hub.   Heat  me  these  irons  hot:  and  look  thou 
stand 
Within  the  arras  9  :   when  I  strike  my  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth  : 
And  bind  the  boy,  which  you  shall  find  with  me, 
Fast  to  the  chair  :  be  heedful :  hence,  and  watch. 
1  Attend.  I  hope  your  warrant  will  bear  out  the 

deed. 
Hub.    Uncleanly  scruples  !   Fear  not  you  :  look 

to't [Exeunt  Attendants. 

Young  lad,  come  forth  ;   I  have  to  say  with  you. 

Enter  Arthur. 
Arth.  Good-morrow,  Hubert. 
Hub.  Good-morrow,  little  prince. 

Arth.    As  little  prince  (having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince,)  as  may  be.  —  You  are  sad. 
Hub,   Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 
Arth.  Mercy  on  me  ! 

Methinks,  no  body  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet  I  remember,  "when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night,  I 

Only  for  wantonness.      By  my  Christendom, 
So  I  were  out  of  prison  and  kept  sheep, 
I  should  be  merry  as  the  day  is  long  ;  i 

And  so  I  would  be  here,  but  that  I  doubt 
My  uncle  practises  more  harm  to  me : 
He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him  : 
Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geffrey's  son  ? 
No,  indeed,  is't  not ;   And  I  would  to  heaven, 
I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert, 
Hub.   If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate 
He  will  awake  my  mercy  which  lies  dead  : 
Therefore,  I  will  be  sudden  and  despatch.    [Aside. 
Arth.  Are  you  sick,  Hubert  ?  you  look  pale  to-day : 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick. 
That  I  might  sit  all  night,  and  watch  with  you : 
I  warrant  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Huh.  His  words  do  take  possession  of  my  bosom. 
Read  here,  young  Arthur.  [Showing  a paper.'\  How 
now,  foolish  rheum  :  [Aside. 

Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door  ! 
I  must  be  brief;  lest  resolution  drop 

Out  at  mine  eyes,  in  tender  womanish  tears. 

Can  you  not  read  it  ?  is  it  not  fair  writ  ? 

Arth.   Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect : 
Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes? 
Hub.   Young  boy,  I  must. 
Arth.  And  will  you  ? 

Hub.  And  I  will. 

Arth.  Have  you  the  heart  ?  When  your  head  did 
but  ake, 
I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows, 
(The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  me,) 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again  : 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head  ; 
And,  like  the  watchful  minutes  to  the  hour, 
Still  and  anon  cheer'd  up  the  heavy  time  ; 
Saying,  What  lack  you  ?  and.  Where  lies  your  grief? 
Or,  What  good  love  may  I  perform  for  you  ? 
Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lain  still, 
9  Tapestry. 


And  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you; 
But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a  prince.     • 
Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  was  crafty  love. 
And  call  it  cunning  ;   Do,  an  if  you  will : 
If  heaven  be  pleas'd  that  you  must  use  me  ill, 
Why,  then  you  must.  — Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes? 
These  eyes,  that  never  did,  nor  never  shall, 
So  much  as  frown  on  you  ? 

Hub.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it ; 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  Ah,  none,  but  in  this  iron  age,  would  do  it ! 
The  iron  of  itself,  though  heat  red-hot. 
Approaching  near  these  eyes,  would  drink  my  tears, 
And  quench  his  fiery  indignation. 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mine  innocence  : 
Nay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust, 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eye. 
Are  you  more  stubborn-hard  than  hammer'd  iron? 
An  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me. 
And  told  me,  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  believ'd  no  tongue,  but  Hubert's. 

Hub.    Come  forth.  [Stamps. 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  Cord,  Irons,  ^c 

Do  as  I  bid  you  do. 

Arth.   O,  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me  !  my  eyes 
are  out. 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 
Hub.  Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him  here. 
Arth.  Alas !  what  need  you  be  so  boist'rous  rough  ? 
I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone-still. 
For  heaven's  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound  ! 
Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert !  drive  these  men  away, 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb ; 
I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly  : 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I'll  forgive  you, 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

Hub.    Go,  stand  within  ;  let  me  alone  with  him. 
1  Attend.    I  am  best  pleas'd  to  be  from  such  a 
deed.  [Exeunt  Attendants. 

Arth.   Alas  !   I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend ; 
He  hath  a  stem  look,  but  a  gentle  heart  :  — 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Hub.  Come,  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arth.   Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Hub.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arth.   O  heaven  !  — that  there  were  but  a  mote 
in  yours, 
A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wand'ring  hair, 
Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense  ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boist'rous  there. 
Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible. 

Hub.   Is  this  your  promise?   go  to,  hold  your 

tongue. 
Arth.  Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of  tongues 
Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes  : 
Let  me  not  hold  my  tongue  ;  let  me  not,  Hubert ! 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue. 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes ;   O,  spare  mine  eyes ; 
Though  to  no  use,  but  still  to  look  on  you  ! 
Lo,  by  my  troth,  the  instrument  is  cold. 
And  would  not  harm  me. 

ffyf,,  I  can  heat  it,  boy. 


4 


Scene  II. 


KING  JOHN. 


343 


r 


Arth.   No,  in  good  sooth  :   the  fire  is  dead  with 
grief, 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  us'd 
In  undeserv'd  extremes  • :    See  else,  yourself  j 
There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal ; 
The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out. 
And  strcw'd  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hub.    But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it,  boy. 

Arth.  And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush. 
And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert : 
Nay,  it,  perchance,  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes  ; 
And,  like  a  dog  that  is  compell'd  to  fight, 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  ^  him  on. 
All  things,  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong, 
Deny  their  office :   only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy,  which  fierce  fire,  and  iron,  extends, 
Creatures  of  note,  for  mercy-lacking  uses. 

Hub.  Well,  see  to  live;  I  will  not  touch  tlune  eyes 
For  all  the  treasure  that  thine  uncle  owes  3  : 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy. 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  bum  them  out. 

Arth.  O,  now  you  look  like  Hubert !  all  this  while 
You  were  disguised. 

Hub.  Peace  :   no  more.      Adieu ; 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead  : 
I'll  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports. 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless,  and  secure. 
That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world. 
Will  not  offend  thee. 

Arth.  O  heaven  !  —  I  thank  you,  Hubert. 

Hub.   Silence ;  no  more  :  Go  closely  "*  in  with  me  ; 
Much  danger  do  I  undergo  for  thee.  \^Exeu7it. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Kiaa  Jons,  crowned ;  Pembrokk,  Salisbury, 
and  otiier  Lords.      The  King  takes  his  State. 

JT.  John.   Here  once  again  we    sit,  once   again 
crown'd, 
And  look'd  upon,  I  hope,  with  cheerful  eyes. 

Pern.   This  once  again,  but  that  your  highness 
pleas'd. 
Was  once  superfluous :  you  were  crown'd  before, 
And  that  high  royalty  was  ne'er  pluck'd  off  j 
The  faiths  of  men  ne'er  stained  with  revolt ; 
Fresh  expectation  troubled  not  the  land. 
With  any  long'd-for  change,  or  better  state. 

Sal.  llierefore,  to  be  possess'd  with  double  pomp. 
To  guard  *  a  title  that  was  rich  before. 
To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet. 
To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 
Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish  7, 
Is  wasteful,  and  ridiculous  excess. 

Pern.  But  that  your  royal  pleasure  must  be  done. 
This  act  is  as  an  ancient  tale  new  told  ; 
And,  in  the  last  repeating,  troublesome, 
Being  urged  at  a  time  unseasonable. 

Sal.   In  tliis  the  antique  and  well-noted  face 
Of  plain  old  form  is  much  disfigured  : 
And,  like  a  shifted  wind  unto  a  sail. 
It  makes  the  course  of  thoughts  to  fetch  about : 
Startles  and  frights  consideration  ; 
Makes  sound  opinion  sick,  and  truth  suspected. 
For  putting  on  so  new  a  fashion'd  robe. 

Pern.  When  workmen  strive  to  do  better  than  well, 


In  cruelty  I  have  not  deMtved. 

Ownt. 

Lace. 


«  Set  him  on. 

*  Secretly. 

•  Decorate. 


They  do  confound  their  skill  in  covetousness  ^  : 

And,  oftentimes,  excusing  of  a  fault, 

Doth  make  the  fault  the  worse  by  the  excuse  ; 

As  patches,  set  upon  a  little  breach. 

Discredit  more  in  hiding  of  the  fault, 

Than  did  the  fault  before  it  was  so  patch'd. 

Sal.   To  this  effect  before  you  were  new  crown'd, 
We  breath 'd  our  counsel :  but  it  pleas'd  your  highness 
To  overbear  it ;  and  we  are  all  well  pleas'd  ; 
Since  all  and  every  part  of  what  we  would. 
Doth  make  a  stand  at  what  your  highness  will. 

IT.  John.    Some  reasons  of  this  double  coronation 
I  have  possess'd  you  with,  and  think  them  strong  ; 
And  more,  more  strong,  (when  lesser  is  my  fear,) 
I  shall  indue  you  with  :    Mean  time,  but  ask 
What  you  would  have  reform'd  that  is  not  well ; 
And  well  shall  you  perceive,  how  willingly 
I  will  both  hear  and  grant  you  your  requests. 

Pern.  Then  I,  (as  one  that  am  the  tongue  of  these 
To  soimd  8  the  purposes  of  all  their  hearts,) 
Both  for  myself  and  them,  (but  chief  of  all, 
Your  safety,  for  the  which  myself  and  them 
Bend  their  best  studies,)  heartily  request 
The  enfranchisement  of  Arthur  ;  wFiose  restraint 
Doth  move  the  murmuring  lips  of  discontent 
To  break  into  this  dangerous  argument,  — 
If,  what  in  rest  you  have,  in  right  you  hold, 
Why  then  your  fears,  (which  as  they  say,  attend 
The  steps  of  wrong, )  should  move  you  to  mew  up 
Your  tender  kinsman,  and  to  choke  his  days 
With  barbarous  ignorance,  and  deny  his  youth 
The  rich  advantage  of  good  exercise  ? 
That  the  time's  enemies  may  not  have  this 
To  grace  occasions,  let  it  be  our  suit, 
That  you  have  bid  us  ask  his  liberty  ; 
Which  for  our  goods  we  do  no  further  ask. 
Than  whereupon  our  weal,  on  you  depending. 
Counts  it  your  weal,  he  have  his  liberty. 

IT.  John,  Let  it  be  so  ;  I  do  commit  his  youth 

Enter  Hubert. 
To  your  direction.  —  Hubert,  what  news  with  you 

Pern.  This  is  the  man  should  do  the  bloody  deed ; 
He  show'd  his  warrant  to  a  friend  of  mine  : 
The  image  of  a  wicked  heinous  fault 
Lives  in  his  eye  ;  that  close  aspect  of  his 
Does  show  tlie  mood  of  a  much-troubled  breast ; 
And  I  do  fearfully  believe,  'tis  done. 
What  we  so  fear'd  he  had  a  charge  to  do. 

Sal.   The  colour  of  the  king  doth  come  and  go. 
Between  his  purpose  and  his  conscience, 
Like  heralds  'twixt  two  dreadful  battles  set : 
His  passion  is  so  ripe,  it  needs  must  break. 

Pern.  And,  when  it  breaks,  I  fear,  will  issue  thence 
The  foul  corruption  of  a  sweet  child's  death. 

K.  John.    We    cannot    hold    mortality's    strong 
hand : — 
Good  lords,  although  my  will  to  give  is  living. 
The  suit  which  you  demand  is  gone  and  dead : 
He  tells  us,  Arthur  is  deceas'd  to-night 

Sal.  Indeed,  we  fear'd,  his  sickness  was  past  cure. 

Pern.  Indeed  we  heard  howTiear  his  death  he  was, 
Before  the  child  himself  felt  he  was  sick : 
This  must  be  answer'd,  either  here,  or  hence. 

K.  John.  Why  do  you  bend  sucli  solemn  brows  on 
me? 
Think  you,  I  bear  the  sliears  of  destiny  ? 
Have  I  commandment  on  the  pulse  of  life  ? 

Sal.    It  is  apparent  foul-play  ;  and  'tis  shame. 


'  Desire  of  ex ceMing. 


Z  4 


"  Publish. 


344 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  IV. 


That  gref&tness  should  so  grossly  offer  it : 
So  thrive  it  in  your  game  !  and  so  farewell. 

Pern.  Stay  yet,  lord  Salisbury ;  I'll  go  with  thee, 
And  find  the  inheritance  of  this  poor  child, 
This  little  kingdom  of  a  forced  grave. 
That  blood,  which  ow'd  9  the  breadth  of  all  this  isle. 
Three  foot  of  it  doth  hold  :   Bad  world  the  while  ! 
This  must  not  be  thus  borne  :  this  will  break  out 
To  all  our  sorrows,  and  ere  long,  I  doubt 

[Exeunt  Lords. 

K.  John.  They  burn  in  indignation  ;  I  repent  j 
There  is  no  sure  foundation  set  on  blood ;  , 
No  certain  life  achiev'd  by  others'  death.  — — 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
A  fearful  eye  thou  hast :   Where  is  that  blood, 
That  I  have  seen  inhabit  in  those  cheeks  ? 
So  foul  a  sky  clears  not  without  a  storm  : 
Pour  down  thy  weather :  —  How  goes  all  in  France  ? 

Mess.  From  France  to  England.  —  Never  such  a 
power 
For  any  foreign  preparation, 
Was  levied  in  the  body  of  a  land  ! 
The  copy  of  your  speed  is  learn'd  by  them  ; 
For,  when  you  should  be  told  they  do  prepare. 
The  tidings  come,  that  they  are  all  arriv'd. 

iT.  John.    O,  where   hath   our  intelligence  been 
drunk  ? 
Where  hath  it  slept  ?  Where  is  my  mother's  care  ? 
That  such  an  army  could  be  drawn  in  France, 
And  she  not  hear  of  it  ? 

Mess.  My  liege,  her  ear 

Is  stopp'd  with  dust ;  the  first  of  April,  died 
Your  noble  mother :    And,  as  I  hear,  my  lord. 
The  lady  Constance  in  a  frenzy  died 
Three  days  before  :   but  this  from  rumour's  tongue 
I  idly  heard  ;  if  true,  or  false,  I  know  not. 

K.  John,   Withhold  thy  speed,  dreadful  occasion ; 
O,  make  a  league  with  me,  till  I  have  pleas'd 
My  discontented  peers  !  —  What !  mother  dead  ? 
How  wildly  then  walks  my  estate  in  France  !  — 
Under  whose  conduct  came  those  powers  of  France, 
That  thou  for  truth  giv'st  out,  are  landed  here  ? 

Mess.   Under  the  Dauphin. 

Enter  the  Bastard  and  Peter  of  Pomfret. 

K.  John.  Thou  hast  made  me  giddy 

With  these  ill  tidings.  —  Now,  what  says  the  world 
To  your  proceedings  ?  do  not  seek  to  stuflf 
My  head  with  more  ill  news,  for  it  is  full. 

Bast.   But,  if  you  be  afeard  to  hear  the  worst. 
Then  let  the  worst,  unheard,  fall  on  your  head. 

K.  John.   Bear  with  me,  cousin  ;  for  I  was  amaz'd 
Under  the  tide  ;  but  now  I  breathe  again 
Aloft  the  flood ;  and  can  give  audience 
To  any  tongue,  speak  it  of  what  it  will. 

Bast.    How  I  have  sped  among  the  clergymen, 
Tlie  sums  I  have  collected  shall  express. 
But,  as  I  travelled  hither  through  the  land, 
I  find  the  people  strangely  fantasied ; 
Possess'd  with  rumours,  full  of  idle  dreams ; 
Not  knowing  what  ttiey  fear,  but  full  of  fear  : 
And  here's  a  prophet,  that  I  brought  with  me 
From  forth  the  streets  of  Pomfret,  whom  I  found 
With  many  hundreds  treading  on  his  heels  ; 
To  whom  he  sung,  in  rude  harsh-sounding  rhymes. 
That,  ere  the  next  Ascension-day  at  noon. 
Your  highness  should  deliver  up  your  crown. 

9  Owned.     . 


K.  John.   Thou  idle  dreamer,  wherefore  didst  thou 
so? 

Peter.    Foreknowing  that  the  truth  will  fall  out  so. 

K.  John.  Hubert,  away  with  him  ;  imprison  him ; 
And  on  that  day  at  noon,  whereon,  he  says, 
I  shall  yield  up  my  crown,  let  him  be  hang'd : 
Deliver  him  to  safety  ',  and  return. 
For  I  must  use  thee.  —  O  my  gentle  cousin, 

\^Exit  Hubert,  ivith  Peter. 
Hear'st  thou  the  news  abroad,  who  are  arriv'd  ? 
-  Bast.   The  French,  my  lord ;  men's  mouths  are 
full  of  it : 
Besides,  I  met  lord  Bigot,  and  lord  Salisbury, 
(With  eyes  as  red  as  new-enkindled  fire,) 
And  others  more,  going  to  seek  the  grave 
Of  Arthur,  who,  they  say,  is  kill'd  to-night 
On  your  suggestion. 

K.  John.  Gentle  kinsman,  go. 

And  thrust  thyself  into  their  companies  : 
I  have  a  way  to  win  their  loves  again ; 
Bring  them  before  me. 

Bast.  I  will  seek  them  out. 

K.  John.   Nay,  but  make  haste ;  the  better  foot 

before. 

O,  let  me  have  no  subject  enemies. 

When  adverse  foreigners  affright  my  towns 

With  dreadful  pomp  of  stout  invasion  !  — 

Be  Mercury,  set  feathers  to  thy  heels ; 

And  fly,  like  thought,  from  them  to  me  again. 

Bast.   The  spirit  of  the  time  shall  teach  me  speed. 

[Exit. 

K.  John.  Spoke  like  a  spiteful  noble  gentleman. — 
Go  after  him  ;  for  he,  perhaps,  shall  need 
Some  messenger  betwixt  me  and  the  peers  ; 
And  be  thou  he. 

Mess.  With  all  my  heart,  my  liege. 

[Exit. 

K.  John.   My  mother  dead  ! 

He-enter  Hubert. 

Huh.   My  lord,  they  say,  five  moons  were  seen 
to-night : 
Four  fixed ;  and  the  fifth  did  whirl  about 
The  other  four,  in  wond'rous  motion. 

K.  John.   Five  moons  ? 

Hub.  Old  men,  and  beldams,  in  the  streets 

Do  prophecy  upon  it  dangerously  : 
Young  Arthur's  death  is  common  in  their  mouths  : 
And  when  they  talk  of  him,  they  shake  their  heads. 
And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear ; 
And  he,  that  speaks,  doth  gripe  the  hearer's  wrist ; 
Whilst  he,  that  hears,  makes  fearful  action. 
With  wrinkled  brows,  with  nods,  with  rolling  eyes. 
I  saw  a  smith  stand  with  his  hammer,  thus. 
The  whilst  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool, 
With  open  mouth  swallowing  a  tailor's  news  ; 
Who,  with  his  shears  and  measure  in  his  hand. 
Standing  on  slippers,  (which  his  nimble  haste 
Had  falsely  thrust  upon  contrary  feet,) 
Told  of  a  many  thousand  warlike  French, 
That  were  embattled  and  rank'd  in  Kent : 
Another  lean  unwash'd  artificer 
Cuts  off  his  tale,  and  talks  of  Arthur's  death. 

K.  John.   Why  seek'st  thou  to  possess  me  with 
these  fears  ? 
Why  urgest  thou  so  oft  young  Arthur's  death  ? 
Thy  hand  hath  murder'd  him  :    I  had  mighty  cause 
To  wish  him  dead,  but  thou  hadst  none  to  kill  him. 


^  Safe  custody. 


il 


Scene  II. 


Hub. 


KING  JOHN. 


34.5 


Had  none,  my  lord !  why,  did  you  not  pro- 
voke me  ? 

K.  John.   It  is  the  curse  of  kings,  to  be  attended 
By  slaves,  that  take  their  humours  for  a  warrant 
To  break  within  the  bloody  house  of  life  : 
And,  on  the  winking  of  authority. 
To  understand  a  law ;  to  know  the  meaning 
Of  dangerous  majesty,  when,  perchance,  it  frowns 
More  upon  humour  than  advis'd  respect.  ^ 

Hub.    Here  is  your  hand  and  seal  for  what  I  did. 
K.  John.   O,  when  the  last  account  'twixt  heaven 
and  earth 
Is  to  be  made,  then  shall  this  hand  and  seal 
Witness  against  us  to  damnation  ! 
How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds. 
Makes  deeds  ill  done  !   Hadest  not  thou  been  by, 
A  fellow  by  the  hand  of  nature  mark'd. 
Quoted  ^,  and  sign'd,  to  do  a  deed  of  shame. 
This  murder  had  not  come  into  my  mind: 
But,  taking  note  of  thy  abhorr'd  aspect. 
Finding  thee  fit  for  bloody  villainy. 
Apt,  liable,  to  be  employ'd  in  danger, 
I  faintly  broke  with  tliee  of  Arthur's  death  ; 
And  thou,  to  be  endeared  to  a  king. 
Made  it  no  conscience  to  destroy  a  prince. 

Hub.   My  lord, 

K.  John.   Hadst  thou  but  shook  thy  head,  or  made 
a  pause, 
When  I  spake  darkly  what  I  purposed ; 
Or  tum'd  an  eye  of  doubt  upon  my  face. 
As  bid  me  tell  my  tale  in  express  words  ; 
Deep  shame  had  struck  me  dumb,  made  me  break 

off. 
And  those  thy  fears  might  have  wrought  fears  in  me : 
But  thou  didst  understand  me  by  my  signs. 
And  didst  in  signs  again  parley  with  sin : 
Yea,  without  stop,  didst  let  thy  heart  consent. 
And,  consequently,  thy  rude  hand  to  act 
The  deed,    which  both  our  tongues   held  vile   to 

name,  —  • 

Out  of  my  sight,  and  never  see  me  more  ! 
My  nobles  leave  me ;  and  my  state  is  brav'd. 
Even  at  my  gates,  with  ranks  of  foreign  powers : 
Nay  in  the  body  of  this  fleshly  land. 
This  kingdom,  this  confine  of  blood  and  breath, 
Hostility  and  civil  tumult  reigns 
Between  my  conscience,  and  my  cousin's  death. 

Hub.   Arm  you  against  your  other  enemies, 
I'll  make  a  peace  between  your  soul  and  you. 
Young  Arthur  is  alive  :    This  hand  of  mine 
Is  yet  a  maiden  and  an  innocent  hand. 
Not  painted  with  the  crimson  spots  of  blood. 
Within  this  bosom  never  enter'd  yet 
The  dreadful  motion  of  a  murd'rous  thought. 
And  you  have  slander'd  nature  in  my  form  ; 
Which,  howsoever  rude  exteriorly. 
Is  yet  the  cover  of  a  fairer  mind 
Than  to  be  butcher  of  an  innocent  child. 

K.  John.   Doth  Arthur  live  ?  O,  haste  thee  to  the 
peers. 
Throw  this  report  on  their  incensed  rage. 
And  make  them  tame  to  their  obedience  ! 
Forgive  the  comment  that  my  passion  made 
Upon  thy  feature ;  for  my  rage  was  blind, 
And  foul  imaginary  eyes  of  blood 
Presented  thee  more  hideous  than  thou  art. 
O,  answer  not ;  but  to  my  closet  bring 
Tlie  angry  lords  with  all  expedient  haste  : 
I  conjure  thee  but  slowly  ;  run  more  fast.    \^Exeuni. 
2  Deliberate  coiisideratioa  '  Noted,  observed. 


SCENE  III.  —  Before  tlie  Castle. 


Enter  Arthur,  on  the  Walls. 

Arth'  Tlie  wall  is  high  ;  and  yet  will  I  leap  down  : 
Good  ground,  be  pitiful,  and  hurt  me  not !  — 
There's  few,  or  none,  do  know  me ;  if  they  did. 
This  ship-boy's  semblance  hath  disguis'd  me  quite. 
I  am  afraid  ;  and  yet  I'll  venture  it. 
If  I  get  down,  and  do  not  break  my  limbs, 
I'll  find  a  thousand  shifts  to  get  away : 
As  good  to  die,  and  go,  as  die,  and  stay. 

[Leaps  down. 
O  me  !  my  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones :  — 
Heaven  take  my  soul,  and  England  keep  my  bones ' 

\^Dies. 
Enter  Pembroke,  Salisbury,  and  Bigot. 

Sal,  Lords,  I  will  meet  him  at  Saint  Edmund's 
Bury  ; 
It  is  our  safety,  and  we  must  embrace 
This  gentle  offer  of  the  perilous  time. 

Pern.  Who  brought  that  letter  from  the  cardinal  ? 

Sal.   The  count  Melun,  a  noble  lord  of  France  ; 
Whose  private  with  me  \  of  the  Dauphin's  love. 
Is  much  more  general  than  these  lines  import. 

Big.   To-morrow  morning  let  us  meet  liim  then. 

Sal.    Or,  rather  then  set  forward  :    for  'twill  be 
Two  long  days' journey,  lords,  or  e'er  we  meet. 

Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.   Once  more  to-day  well  met,  distemper'd  * 
lords ! 
The  king,  by  me,  requests  your  presence  straight. 

Sal.   Tlie  king  hath  dispossess'd  himself  of  us  ; 
We  will  not  line  his  thin  bestained  cloak 
With  our  pure  honours,  nor  attend  the  foot 
That  leaves  the  print  of  blood  where-e'er  it  walks  : 
Return,  and  tell  him  so ;  we  know  the  worst. 

Bast.   Whate'er  you  think,  good  words,  I  tliink, 
were  best. 

Sal.  Our  griefs,  and  not  our  manners,  reason  now. 

Bast.   But  there  is  little  reason  in  your  grief; 
Therefore,  'twere  reason  you  had  manners  now. 

Peni.    Sir,  sir,  impatience  hath  his  privilege. 

Bast.   'Tis  true  ;  to  hurt  his  master,  no  man  else. 

Sal.   This  is  the  prison  :   What  is  he  lies  here  ? 

[Seeing  Arthur. 

Pern.  O  death,  made  proud  with  pure  and  princely 
beauty  ! 
The  earth  had  not  a  hole  to  hide  this  deed. 

Sal.   Murder,  as  hating  what  himself  hath  done, 
Doth  lay  it  open,  to  urge  on  revenge. 

Big.   Or  when  he  doom'd  this  beauty  to  a  grave, 
Found  it  too  precious-princely  for  a  grave. 

Sal.   Sir   Richard,   what  think  you?  Have  you 
beheld. 
Or  have  you  read,  or  heard  ?  or  could  you  think  ? 
Or  do  you  almost  think,  although  you  see, 
That  you  do  see  ?  could  thought,  without  this  object, 
Form  such  another  ?  Tliis  is  the  very  top. 
The  height,  the  crest,  or  crest  unto  the  crest. 
Of  murder's  arms  :   this  is  the  bloodiest  shame. 
The  wildest  savag'ry,  the  vilest  stroke. 
That  ever  wall-ey'd  wrath,  or  staring  rage, 
Presented  to  the  tears  of  soft  remorse.  " 

Pent.   All  murders  past  do  stand  excus'd  in  this : 
And  this,  so  sole,  and  so  unmatchable. 
Shall  give  a  holiness,  a  purity, 
To  the  yet-unbegottcn  sin  of  time ; 

*  Private  account  *  Out  of  humour.  «  Titj; 


346 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  IV.  Scene  III. 


And  prove  a  deadly  bloodshed  but  a  jest, 
Exampled  by  this  heinous  spectacle. 

Bast.    It  is  a  damned  and  a  bloody  work  ; 
The  graceless  action  of  a  heavy  hand, 
If  that  it  be  thie  work  of  any  hand. 

Sal.   If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand  ?  — 
We  had  a  kind  of  light,  what  would  ensue  : 
It  is  the  shameful  work  of  Hubert's  hand ; 
The  practice,  and  the  purpose,  of  the  king  :  — 
From  whose  obedience  I  forbid  my  soul, 
Kneeling  before  this  ruin  of  sweet  life. 
And  breathing  to  his  breathless  excellence 
The  incense  of  a  vow,  a  holy  vow ; 
Never  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  world. 
Never  to  be  infected  with  delight, 
Nor  conversant  with  ease  and  idleness. 
Till  I  have  set  a  glory  to  this  hand, 
By  giving  it  the  worship  of  revenge. 

Pern.  Big.  Our  soulsreligiously  confirm  thy  words. 

Enter  Hubert. 

Hub.   Lords,  I  am  hot  with  haste  in  seeking  you  : 
Arthur  doth  live  ;  the  king  hath  sent  for  you. 

Sal.    O,  he  is  bold,  and  blushes  not  at  death  :  — 
Avaunt,  thou  hateful  villain,  get  thee  gone  ! 

Hub.   I  am  no  villain. 

Sal.  Must  I  rob  the  law  ? 

[Drawing  his  sword. 

Bast.   Your  svord  is  bright,  sir  :   put  it  up  again. 

Sal.   Not  till  I  sheath  it  in  a  murderer's  skin. 

Hub.  Stand  back,  lord  Salisbury,  stand  back,  I  say ; 
By  heaven,  I  think,  my  sword's  as  sharp  as  yours ; 
I  would  not  have  you,  lord,  forget  yourself. 
Nor  tempt  the  danger  of  my  true  7  defence  ; 
Lest  I,  by  marking  of  vour  rage,  forget 
Your  worth,  your  ajreatness,  and  nobility. 

Big.  Out,  dunghill !  dar'st  thou  brave  a  nobleman? 

Hub.   Not  for  my  life :   but  yet  I  dare  defend 
My  innocent  life  against  an  emperor. 

Sal.   Thou  art  a  murderer. 

Hub.  Do  not  prove  me  so  ^  ; 

Yet,  I  am  none :   Whose  tongue  soe'er  speaks  false, 
Not  truly  speaks ;  who  speaks  not  truly,  lies. 

Pern.    Cut  him  to  pieces. 

Bast.  Keep  the  peace,  I  say. 

Sal.  Stand  by,  or  I  shall  gall  you,  Faulconbridge. 

Bast.  Thou  wert  better  gall  the  devil,  Salisbury  : 
If  thou  but  frown  on  me,  or  stir  thy  foot. 
Or  teach  thy  hasty  spleen  to  do  me  shame, 
I'll  strike  thee  dead.      Put  up  thy  sword  betime. 

J9^.  What  wilt  thou  do,  renowned  Faulconbridge? 
Second  a  villain,  and  a  murderer  ? 

Hub.  Lord  Bigot,  I  am  none. 

Big.  Who  kill'd  this  prince  ? 

Hitb.  'Tis  not  an  hour  since  I  left  him  well : 
I  honour'd  him,  I  lov'd  him ;  and  will  weep 
My  date  of  life  out,  for  his  sweet  life's  loss. 

Sal.   Trust  not  those  cunning  waters  of  his  eyes, 


'  Honest 


8  By  compelling  me  to  kill  you. 


For  villainy  is  not  williout  such  rheum  9 ; 
And  he,  long  traded  in  it,  makes  it  seem 
Like  rivers  of  remorse  !  and  innocency. 
Away,  with  me,  all  you  whose  souls  abhor 
The  uncleanly  savours  of  a  slaughter-house, 
For  I  am  stifled  with  this  smell  of  sin. 

Big.   Away,  toward  Bury,  to  the  Dauphin  there. 

Pern.  There,  tell  the  king,  he  may  inquire  us  out. 
[Exeunt  Lords. 

Bast.   Here's  a  good  world !  —  Knew  you  of  this 
fair  work  ? 
Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach 
Of  mercy,  if  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death, 
Art  thou  damn'd,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Do  but  hear  me,  sir. 

Bast.   Ha  !   I'll  tell  thee  what  j 
There  is  not  yet  so  ugly  a  fiend  of  hell 
As  thou  shalt  be,  if  thou  didst  kill  this  child. 

Hub.   Upon  my  soul, 

Bast.  If  thou  didst  but  consent 

To  this  most  cruel  act,  do  but  despair. 
And,  if  thou  wantest  a  cord,  the  smallest  thread 
That  ever  spider  twisted  from  her  womb 
Will  serve  to  strangle  thee  :   a  rush  will  be 
A  beam  to  hang  thee  on ;  or  wouldst  thou  drown 

thyself. 
Put  but  a  little  water  in  a  spoon. 
And  it  shall  be  as  all  the  ocean. 
Enough  to  stifle  such  a  villain  up.  — — 
I  do  suspect  thee  very  grievously. 

Hub.   If  I  in  act,  consent,  or  sin  of  thought, 
Be  guilty  of  the  stealing  that  sweet  breath 
Which  was  embounded  in  this  beauteous  clay, 
Let  hell  want  pains  enough  to  torture  me  ! 
I  left  him  well. 

Bast.  Go  bear  him  in  thine  arms.  — 

I  am  amaz'd,  raethinks ;  and  lose  my  way 
Among  the  thorns  and  dangers  of  this  world.  — 
How  easy  dost  thou  take  all  England  up  ! 
Froi*  forth  this  morsel  of  dead  royalty. 
The  life,  the  right,  and  truth  of  all  this  realm 
Is  fled  to  heaven ;  and  England  now  is  left 
To  tug  and  scamble,  and  to  part  by  the  teeth 
The  unowed  ^  interest  of  proud  swelling  state. 
Now,  for  the  bare-picked  bone  of  majesty, 
Doth  dogged  war  bristle  his  angry  crest. 
And  snarleth  in  the  gentle  eyes  of  peace  : 
Now  powers  from  home,  and  dicontents  at  home, 
Meet  in  one  line ;  and  vast  confusion  waits 
( As  doth  a  raven  on  a  sick-fallen  beast,) 
The  imminent  decay  of  wrested  pomp. 
Now  happy  he,  whose  cloak  and  cincture  3  can 
Hold  out  this  tempest.      Bear  away  that  child, 
And  follow  me  with  speed ;  I'll  to  the  king : 
A  thousand  businesses  are  brief  in  hand. 
And  heaven  itself  doth  frown  upon  the  land. 

[Exeunt 


9  Moisture 
'  Unowned. 


»  Pity. 
3  Girdle. 


Act  V.  ScENB  I. 


KING  JOHN. 


347 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Kivo  John,  Pandulpu  with  the  Crovm,  and 
Attendants. 

K.  John.  Thus  have  I  yielded  up  into  your  hand 
The  circle  of  my  glory. 

Pand.  Take  again 

[Giving  John  tlie  Crown. 
From  this  my  hand,  as  holding  of  the  pope, 
Your  sovereign  greatness  and  authority. 

jr.  John.  Now  keep  your  holy  word :  go  meet  the 
French ; 
And  from  his  holiness  use  all  your  power 
To  stop  their  marches,  'fore  we  are  inflam'd. 
Our  discontented  counties  do  revolt ; 
Our  people  quarrel  with  obedience ; 
Swearing  allegiance,  and  the  love  of  soul. 
To  stranger  blood,  to  foreign  royalty. 
This  inundation  of  distemper'd  humour 
Rests  by  you  only  to  be  qualified. 
Then  pause  not ;  for  the  present  time's  so  sick. 
That  present  medicine  must  be  minister'd. 
Or  overthrow  incurable  ensues. 

Pand.  It  was  my  breath  that  blew  this  tempest  up. 
Upon  your  stubborn  usage  of  the  pope  : 
But,  since  you  are  a  gentle  convertite^. 
My  tongue  shall  hush  again  this  storm  of  war. 
And  make  fair  weather  in  your  blustering  land. 
On  this  Ascension-day,  remember  well. 
Upon  your  oath  of  service  to  the  pope, 
Go  I  to  make  the  French  lay  down  their  arms.  \_Exit. 

K.John.  Is  this  Ascension-day  ?  Did  not  the  prophet 
Say,  that,  before  Ascension-day  at  noon, 
My  crown  I  should  give  off?  Even  so  I  have : 
I  did  suppose,  it  should  be  on  constraint ; 
But  heaven  be  thank'd,  it  is  but  voluntary. 

Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  All  Kent  hath  yielded ;  nothing  there  holds 
out. 
But  Dover  castle :    London  hath  receiv'd, 
yke  a  kind  host,  the  Dauphin  and  his  powers : 
Your  nobles  will  not  hear  you,  but  are  gone 
To  offer  service  to  your  enemy  ; 
And  wild  amazement  hurries  up  and  down 
The  little  number  of  your  doubtful  friends. 

K.  John.  Would  not  my  lords  return  to  me  ag£un, 
After  they  heard  young  Arthur  was  alive? 

jBfw*.  They  found  him  dead,  and  cast  into  the  streets ; 
An  empty  casket,  wliere  the  jewel  of  life 
By  some  curst  hand  was  robb'd  and  ta'en  away. 

K.  John.  That  villain  Hubert  told  me  he  did  live. 

Bast.  So,  on  my  soul,  he  did,  for  aught  he  knew. 
But  wherefore  do  you  droop  ?  why  look  you  sad  ? 
Be  great  in  act,  as  you  have  been  in  thought ; 
Let  not  the  world  see  fear,  and  sad  distrust. 
Govern  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye : 
Be  stirring  as  the  time ;  be  fire  with  fire ; 
Threaten  the  threat'ner,  and  outface  the  brow 
Of  bragging  horror :   so  shall  inferior  eyes. 
That  borrow  their  behaviours  from  the  great. 
Grow  great  by  your  example,  and  put  on 
The  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution. 
Away  ;  and  glister  like  the  god  of  war, 
*  Convert 


When  he  intendeth  to  become  the  field : 

Show  boldness,  and  aspiring  confidence. 

What,  shall  they  seek  the  lion  in  his  den, 

And  fright  him  there?  and  make  him  tremble  tliere? 

O,  le^t  it  not  be  said  !  —  Forage,  and  run 

To  meet  displeasure  further  from  the  doors ; 

And  grapple  with  him,  ere  he  come  so  nigh. 

K.  John.  The  legate  of  the  pope  hath  been  witli  me. 
And  I  have  made  a  happy  peace  with  him ; 
And  he  hath  promis'd  to  dismiss  the  powers 
Led  by  the  Dauphin. 

Bast.  O  inglorious  league ! 

Shall  we,  upon  the  footing  of  our  land. 
Send  fair-play  orders,  and  make  compromise. 
Insinuation,  parley,  and  base  truce. 
To  arms  invasive  ?  Shall  a  beardless  boy, 
A  cocker'd  ^  silken  wanton  brave  our  field-J, 
And  flesh  his  spirit  in  a  warlike  soil. 
Mocking  the  air  with  colours  idly  spread, 
And  find  no  check  ?  Let  us,  my  liege,  to  arms  : 
Perchance,  the  cardinal  cannot  make  your  peace ; 
Or  if  he  do,  let  it  at  least  be  said, 
They  saw  we  had  a  purpose  of  defence. 

Jr.  John.  Havethoutheorderingof  this  present  time. 

Bast.  Away  then,  with  good  courage ;  yet,  I  know, 
Our  party  may  well  meet  a  prouder  foe.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — A  Plain  near  St.  Edmund's  Bury. 

Enter,  in  arms,  Lewis,  Salisbury,  Melun,  Pem- 
broke, Bigot,  and  Soldiers. 

Lew.   My  lord  Melun,  let  this  be  copied  out. 
And  keep  it  safe  for  our  remembrance  : 
RetiuTi  the  precedent  to  these  lords  again  ; 
That,  having  our  fair  order  written  down. 
Both  they,  and  we,  perusing  o'er  these  notes. 
May  know  wherefore  we  took  the  sacrament. 
And  keep  our  faiths  firm  and  inviolable. 

Sal.    Upon  our  sides  it  never  shall  be  broken. 
And,  noble  Dauphin,  albeit  we  swear 
A  voluntary  zeal,  and  unurg'd  faith, 
To  your  proceedings ;  yet,  believe  me,  prince, 
I  am  not  glad  that  such  a  sore  of  time 
Should  seek  a  plaster  by  contemn'd  revolt. 
And  heal  the  inveterate  canker  of  one  wound, 
By  making  many  :    O,  it  grieves  my  soul. 
That  I  must  draw  this  metal  from  my  side 
To  be  a  widow-maker ;   O,  and  there. 
Where  honourable  rescue,  and  defence. 
Cries  out  upon  the  name  of  Salibbury : 
But  such  is  the  infection  of  the  time. 
That,  for  the  health  and  physick  of  our  right, 
We  cannot  deal  but  with  the  very  hand 
Of  stern  injustice  and  confused  wrong.  — 
And  is't  not  pity,  O  my  grieved  friends  ! 
That  we,  the  sons  and  children  of  this  isle, 
Were  bom  to  see  so  sad  an  hour  as  this ; 
Wherein  we  step  after  a  stranger  march 
Upon  her  gentle  bosom,  and  fill  up 
Her  enemies'  ranks  (I  must  withdraw  and  weep 
Upon  the  spot  of  this  enforced  cause,) 
To  grace  the  gentry  of  a  land  remote. 
And  follow  unacquainted  colours  here  ? 
What  here  ?  —  O  nation,  that  thou  couldst  remove ! 
»  Fondled. 


S48 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  V. 


That  Neptune's  arms,  who  clippeth  "  thee  about, 

Would  bear  thee  from  the  knowledge  of  thyself, 

And  grapple  thee  unto  a  pagan  shore ; 

Where  these  two  Christian  armies  might  combine 

The  blood  of  malice  in  a  vein  of  league. 

And  not  to  spend  it  so  unneighbourly  ! 

Lew.   A  noble  temper  dost  thou  show  in  tnis ; 
And  great  affections,  wrestling  in  thy  bosom. 
Do  make  an  earthquake  of  nobility. 
O,  what  a  noble  combat  hast  thou  fought. 
Between  compulsion  and  a  brave  respect !  7 
Let  me  wipe  off  this  honourable  dew, 
That  silverly  doth  progress  on  thy  cheeks  : 
My  heart  hath  melted  at  a  lady's  tears, 
Being  an  ordinary  inundation  ; 
But  this  effusion  of  such  manly  drops. 
This  shower,  blown  up  by  tempest  of  the  soul, 
Startles  mine  eyes,  and  makes  me  more  amaz'd 
Than  had  I  seen  the  vanity  top  of  heaven 
Figur'd  quite  o'er  with  burning  meteors. 
Lift  up  thy  brow,  renowned  Salisbury, 
And  with  a  great  heart  heave  away  this  storm  : 
Commend  these  waters  to  those  baby  eyes. 
That  never  saw  the  giant  world  enrag'd ; 
Nor  met  with  fortune  other  than  at  feasts, 
Full  warm  of  blood,  of  mirth,  of  gossiping. 
Come,  come ;  for  thou  shalt  thrust  thy  hand  as  deep 
Into  the  purse  of  rich  prosperity, 
As  Lewis  himself:  —  so,  nobles,  shall  you  all. 
That  knit  your  sinews  to  the  strength  of  mine. 

Enter  Pandulph,  attended. 
And  even  there,  methinks  an  angel  spake  : 
Look,  where  the  holy  legate  comes  apace. 
To  give  us  warrant  from  the  hand  of  heaven ; 
And  on  our  actions  set  the  name  of  right. 
With  holy  breath. 

Pand.  Hail,  noble  prince  of  France  ! 

The  next  is  this,  —  king  John  hath  reconcil'd 
Himself  to  Rome ;  his  spirit  is  come  in, 
That  so  stood  out  against  the  holy  church, 
The  great  metropolis  and  see  of  Rome  : 
Therefore  thy  threat'ning  colours  now  wind  up. 
And  tame  the  savage  spirit  of  wild  war ; 
That,  like  a  lion  foster'd  up  at  hand. 
It  may  lie  gently  at  the  foot  of  peace. 
And  be  no  further  harmful  than  in  show. 

Lew.  Your  grace  shall  pardon  me,  I  will  not  back ; 
I  am  too  high-born  to  be  propertied  8, 
To  be  a  secondary  at  control. 
Or  useful  serving-man,  and  instrument, 
To  any  sovereign  state  throughout  the  world. 
Your  breath  first  kindled  the  dead  coal  of  wars, 
Between  this  chastis'd  kingdom  ar^d  myself, 
And  brought  in  matter  that  should  feed  this  fire  ; 
And  now  'tis  far  too  huge  to  be  blown  out 
With  that  same  weak  wind  which  enkindled  it. 
You  taught  me  how  to  know  the  face  of  right, 
Acquainted  me  with  interest  to  this  land, 
Yea,  thrust  this  enterprize  into  my  heart ; 
And  come  you  now  to  tell  me,  John  hath  made 
His  peace  with  Rome  ?    What  is  that  peace  to  me  ? 
I,  by  the  honour  of  my  marriage-bed. 
After  young  Arthur,  claim  this  land  for  mine ; 
And,  now  it  is  half-conquer'd  must  I  back. 
Because  that  John  hath  made  his  peace  with  Rome  ? 
Am  I  Rome's  slave  ?  What  penny  hath  Rome  borne. 
What  men  provided,  what  munition  sent. 


"  Embraceth. 
»  Appropriated. 


Love  of  country. 


To  underjjrop  this  action  ?  is't  not  1, 
That  undergo  this  charge  ?  who  else  but  I, 
And  such  as  to  my  claim  are  liable, 
Sweat  in  this  business,  and  maintain  this  war  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  these  islanders  shout  out, 
Vive  le  roy  !  as  I  have  bank'd  their  towns  ? 
Have  I  not  here  the  best  cards  for  the  game. 
To  win  this  easy  match  play'd  for  a  crown  ? 
And  shall  I  now  give  o'er  the  yielded  set? 
No,  on  my  soul,  it  never  shall  be  said. 

Pand.  You  look  but  on  the  outside  of  this  work. 

Lew.    Outside  or  inside,  I  will  not  return 
Till  my  attempt  so  much  be  glorified 
As  to  my  ample  hope  was  promised 
Before  I  drew  this  gallant  head  of  war, 
,And  cuU'd  these  fiery  spirits  from  the  world. 
To  outlook  9  conquest,  and  to  win  renown 
Even  in  the  jaws  of  danger  and  of  death.  — 

[Trumpet  sounds. 
What  lusty  trumpet  thus  doth  summon  us  ? 

Enter  the  Bastard,  attended. 

Bast.   According  to  the  fair  play  of  the  world. 
Let  me  have  audience  ;   I  am  Sent  to  speak :  — 
My  holy  lord  of  Milan,  from  the  king 
I  come,  to  learn  how  you  have  dealt  for  him  ; 
And,  as  you  answer,  I  do  know  the  scope 
And  warrant  limited  unto  my  tongue. 

Pand.   The  Dauphin  is  too  wilful-opposite, 
And  will  not  temporize  with  my  entreaties  ; 
He  flatly  says,  he'll  not  lay  down  liis  arms. 

Bast.    By  all  the  blood  that  ever  fury  breath'd. 
The  youth  says  well :  —  Now  hear  our  English  king; 
For  thus  his  royalty  doth  speak  in  me. 
He  is  prepar'd  ;  and  reason  too,  he  should : 
This  apish  and  unmannerly  approach. 
This  harness'd  masque,  and  unadvised  revel, 
This  unhair'd  sauciness,  and  boyish  troops. 
The  king  doth  smile  at ;  and  is  well  prepar'd 
To  whip  this  dwarfish  war,  these  pigmy  arms. 
From  out  the  circle  of  his  territories. 
That  hand,  which  had  the  strength,  even  at  your  door. 
To  cudgel  you,  and  make  you  take  the  hatch  ' ; 
To  dive  like  buckets,  in  concealed  wells ; 
To  crouch  in  litter  of  your  stable  planks  ; 
To  lie,  like  pawns,  lock'd  up  in  chests  and  trunks ; 
To  hug  with  swine ;  to  seek  sweet  safety  out 
In  vaults  and  prisons  ;  and  to  thrill  and  shake, 
Even  at  the  crying  of  your  nation's  crow  '■\ 
Thinking  his  voice  an  armed  Englishman  ; 
Shall  that  victorious  hand  be  feebled  here. 
That  in  your  chambers  gave  you  chastisement  ? 
No  :    Know  the  gallant  monarch  is  in  arms  ; 
And  like  an  eagle  o'er  his  aiery  3  towers. 
To  souse  annoyance  that  comes  near  his  nest.  — 
And  you  degenerate,  you  ingrate  revolts. 
You  bloody  Neroes,  ripping  up  the  womb 
Of  your  dear  mother  England,  blush  for  shame : 
For  your  own  ladies,  and  pale-visag'd  maids. 
Like  Amazons,  come  tripping  after  drums  ; 
Their  thimbles  into  armed  gauntlets  change. 
Their  neelds  ^  to  lances,  and  their  gentle  hearts 
To  fierce  and  bloody  inclination. 

Lew.  There  end  thy  brave  ^,  and  turn  thy  face  in 
peace  ; 
We  grant,  thou  canst  outscold  us :   fare  thee  well ; 
We  hold  our  time  too  precious  to  be  spent 
With  such  a  brabbler. 


9  Face  down. 

2  The  crowing  of  a  cock. 

<  Needles. 


Leap  over  the  hatch. 
3  Nest. 
^  Boast 


Scene  III. 


KING  JOHN. 


349 


Pand.  Give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Bast.    No,  I  will  speak. 

Lew.  We  will  attend  to  neither  :  — 

Strike  up  the  drums ;  and  let  the  tongue  of  war 
Plead  for  our  interest,  and  our  being  here. 

Bast.   Indeed,  your  drums  Leing  beaten,  will  cry 
out ; 
And  so  shall  you,  being  beaten :   Do  but  start 
An  echo  with  the  clamour  of  thy  drum, 
And  even  at  hand  a  drum  is  ready  brac'd. 
That  shall  reverberate  all  as  loud  as  thine  ; 
Sound  but  another,  and  another  shall. 
As  loud  as  thine,  rattle  the  welkin's  6  ear. 
And  mock  the  deep-mouth 'd  thunder ;  for  at  hand 
(Not  trusting  to  this  halting  legate  here. 
Whom  he  hath  us'd  rather  for  sport  than  need,) 
Is  warlike  John ;  and  in  his  forehead  sits 
A  bare-ribb'd  death,  whose  office  is  this  day 
To  feast  upon  whole  thousands  of  the  French. 

Lew.   Strike  up  our  drums  to  find  this  danger  out. 

Bast.   And  thou  shalt  find  it,  Dauphin,  do  not 
doubt.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  111.  —  A  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarums.     Enter  King  John  and  Hubert. 
X.  John.   How  goes  the  day  with  us  ?  O,  tell  me, 

Hubert. 
Hub.    Badly,  I  fear  :   How  fares  your  majesty  ? 
iT.  Jofm.  Thisfever,  that  hath  troubled  me  so  long. 
Lies  heavy  on  me ;  O,  my  heart  is  sick  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Afess.   My  lord,  your  valiant  kinsman,  Faulcon- 
bridge. 
Desires  your  majesty  to  leave  the  field  ; 
And  send  him  word  by  me,  which  way  you  go. 

JT.  John.   Tell  him  toward  Swinstead,  to  the  abbey 
there. 

Mess.   Be  of  good  comfort ;  for  the  great  supply 
That  was  expected  by  the  Dauphin  here. 
Are  wreck 'd  three  nights  ago  on  Goodwin  sands. 
This  news  was  brought  to  Richard  but  even  now  : 
The  French  fight  coldly,  and  retire  themselves. 

A".  John.   Ah  me  !  this  tyrant  fever  burns  me  up. 

And  will  not  let  me  welcome  this  good  news. 

Set  on  toward  Swinstead  :   to  my  litter  straight : 
Weakness  possesscth  me,  and  I  am  faint.   [Exeu7it. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Another  Part  of  the  same. 

Enter  Salisbury,  Pembroke,  Bigot,  and  others. 
Sal.  I  did  not  think  the  king  so  stor'd  with  friends. 
Pern.    Up  once  again  ;  put  spirit  in  the  French  ; 
If  they  miscarry,  we  miscarry  too. 

Sal.   That  misbegotten  devil,  Faulconbridge, 
In  spite  of  spite,  alone  upholds  the  day. 

Pem.   They  say,  king  John,  sore  sick,  hath  left 
the  field. 

EtUer  Melun  wounded,  and  led  by  Soldiers. 

Mel.   Lead  me  to  the  revolts  of  England  here. 

Sal.   When  we  were  happy,  we  had  other  names. 

Pem.   It  is  the  count  Melun. 

Sal.  Wounded  to  death. 

Mel.  Fly,  noble  English,  you  are  bought  and  sold  ' ; 
Unthread  the  rude  eye  of  rebellion. 
And  welcome  home  again  discarded  faith. 
Seek  out  king  John,  and  fall  before  his  feet ; 


Sky. 


A  proverb  intimating  treachery. 


For,  if  the  French  be  lords  of  this  loud  day. 
He  8  means  to  recompense  the  pains  you  take. 
By  cutting  off  your  heads  :    Thus  hath  he  sworn, 
And  I  with  him,  and  many  more  with  me, 
Upon  the  altar  at  St.  Edmund's  Bury ; 
Even  on  that  altar,  where  we  swore  to  you 
Dear  amity  and  everlasting  love. 

Sal.   May  this  be  possible  ?  may  this  be  true  ? 

Mel.   Have  I  not  hideous  death  within  my  view. 
Retaining  but  a  quantity  of  life  ; 
Which  bleeds  away,  even  as  a  form  of  wax 
Resolved  from  his  figure  'gainst  the  fire  ?  ^ 
What  in  the  world  should  make  me  now  deceive, 
Since  I  must  lose  the  use  of  all  deceit  ? 
Why  should  I  tlien  be  false  ;  since  it  is  true 
That  I  must  die  here,  and  live  hence  by  truth  ? 
I  say  again,  if  Lewis  do  win  the  day, 
He  is  forsworn,  if  e'er  those  eyes  of  yours 
Behold  another  day  break  in  the  east : 
But  even  this  night, — whose  black  contagiousbreath 
Already  smokes  about  the  burning  crest 
Of  the  old,  feeble,  and  day-wearied  sun,  — 
Even  this  ill  night  your  breathing  shall  expire  ; 
Paying  the  fine  of  rated  treachery. 
Even  with  a  treacherous  fine  of  all  your  lives. 
If  Lewis  by  your  assistance  win  the  day. 
Commend  me  to  one  Hubert,  with  your  king  ; 
The  love  of  him,  —  and  this  respect  besides. 
For  that  my  grandsire  was  an  Englishman,  — 
Awakes  my  conscience  to  confess  all  this. 
In  lieu  whereof,  I  pray  you  bear  me  hence 
From  forth  the  noise  and  rumour  of  the  field  ; 
Where  I  may  think  the  remnant  of  my  thoughts 
In  peace,  and  part  this  body  and  my  soul 
With  contemplation  and  devout  desires. 

Sal.   We  do  believe  thee.  —  And  beshrew  my  soul 
But  I  do  love  the  favour  and  the  form 
Of  this  most  fair  occasion,  by  the  which 
We  will  unthread  the  steps  of  this  our  flight ; 
And,  like  a  bated  and  retired  flood. 
Leaving  our  rankness  and  irregular  course. 
Stoop  low  within  those  bounds  we  have  o'erlook'd. 
And  calmly  run  on  in  obedience, 

Even  to  our  ocean,  to  our  great  king  John. 

My  arm  shall  give  thee  help  to  bear  thee  hence ; 
For  I  do  see  the  cruel  pangs  of  death 
Right  in  thine  eye.  —  Away,  my  friends!  New  flight : 
And  happy  newness  i,  that  intends  old  right. 

[Exeunt,  leading  off  M.Y.WS. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  French  Camp. 
Enter  Lewis  and  his  Train. 
Lew.   The  sun  of  heaven,  methought,  was  loth  to 
set; 
But  stay'd  and  made  the  western  welkin  blush. 
When  the  English  measur'd  backward  their  own 

ground, 
In  faint  retire  :   O,  bravely  came  we  off. 
When  with  a  volley  of  our  needless  shot, 
After  such  bloody  toil  we  bid  good  night ; 
And  wound  our  tatter'd  colours  clearly  up, 
Last  in  the  field,  and  almost  lords  of  it ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  Where  is  my  prince,  the  Dauphin  ? 
Lew.  Here :  —  What  news  ? 

Mess.  The  count  Melun  is  slain ;  the  English  lords. 
By  his  persuasion,  are  again  fall'n  off: 

»  Lewis.  9  In  allusion  to  the  images  made  by  witchet. 

>  Innovation. 


350 


KING  JOHN. 


Act  V. 


And  your  supply,  which  you  have  wish*d  so  long, 
Are  cast  away,  and  sunk,  on  Goodwin  sands. 

Lew.  Ah,  foul  shrewd  news  !  —  Beshrcw  thy  very 
heart ! 
I  did  not  think  to  be  so  sad  to-night, 
As  this  hath  made  me.  —  Who  was  he,  that  said. 
King  John  did  fly,  an  hour  or  two  before 
The  stumbling  night  did  part  our  weary  powers  ? 

Mess.   Whoever  spoke  it,  it  is  true,  my  lord. 

Lew*  Well ;  keep  good  quarter,  and  good  care 
to-night ; 
The  day  shall  not  be  up  so  soon  as  I, 
To  try  the  fair  adventure  of  to-morrow.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  An  open  Place  in  the  Neighbour- 
hood of  Swinstead- Abbey. 

Enter  the  Bastard  and  Hubert  meeting. 

Hub.  Who's  there?  speak,  ho!    speak  quickly, 
or  I  shoot. 

Bast.   A  friend  :  — -  What  art  thou? 

Hub.  Of  the  part  of  England. 

Bast.   Whither  dost  thou  go  ? 

Hub.   What's  that  to  thee?  Why  may  not  I  demand 
Of  thine  affairs,  as  well  as  thou  of  mine  ? 

Bast.   Hubert,  I  think. 

-Hub.  Thou  hast  a  perfect  thought : 

I  will  upon  all  hazards,  well  believe 
Thou  art  my  friend,  that  know'st  my  tongue  so  well : 
Who  art  thou  ? 

Bast.  Who  thou  wilt :  an  if  thou  please, 

Thou  mayst  befriend  me  so  much  as  to  think 
I  come  one  way  of  the  Plantagenets 

Hub.   Unkind  remembrance !  thou,  and  eyeless 
night. 
Have  done  me  shame :  —  Brave  soldier,  pardon  me, 
That  any  accent,  breaking  from  thy  tongue. 
Should  'scape  the  true  acquaintance  of  mine  ear. 

Bast.  Come,  come;  sans'^  compliment,  what  news 
abroad  ? 

Hub.  Why,  here  walk  I,  in  the  black  brow  of  night, 
To  find  you  out. 

Bast.  Brief,  then  ;  and  what's  the  news  ? 

Hub.   O,  my  sweet  sir,  news  fitting  to  the  night. 
Black,  fearful,  comfortless,  and  horrible. 

Bast.  Show  me  the  very  wound  of  this  ill  news  ; 
I  am  no  woman,  I'll  not  swoon  at  it. 

Hiib.  The  king,  I  fear,  is  poison'd  by  a  monk  : 
I  left  him  almost  speechless,  and  broke  out 
To  acquaint  you  with  this  evil ;  that  you  might 
The  better  arm  you  to  the  sudden  time. 
Than  if  you  had  at  leisure  known  of  this. 

Bast.   How  did  he  take  it  ?  who  did  taste  to  him  ? 

Hub.   A  monk,  I  tell  you  :   a  resolved  villain. 
Whose  bowels  suddenly  burst  out :   the  king 
Yet  speaks,  and,  peradventure,  may  recover. 

Bast.   Who  didst  thou  leave  to  tend  his  majesty  ? 

Hub.   Why,  know  you  not?  the  lords  are  all  come 
back. 
And  brought  prince  Henry  in  their  company  ; 
At  whose  request  the  king  hath  pardon'd  them, 
And  they  are  all  about  his  majesty. 

Bast.  Withhold  thine  indignation,  mighty  heaven ! 

And  tempt  us  not  to  bear  above  our  power  ! 

I'll  tell  thee,  Hubert,  half  my  power  this  night. 
Passing  these  flats,  are  taken  by  the  tide. 
These  Lincoln  washes  have  devoured  them  ; 
Myself,  well  mounted,  hardly  have  escaped. 

"  Without. 


Away,  before  !  conduct  me  to  the  king  ; 

I  doubt,  he  will  be  dead,  or  e'er  I  come.    [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII The  Orchard  of  Swinstead- Ahhey. 

Enter  Prince  Henry,  Salisbury,  and  Bigot. 

P.  Hen.  It  is  too  late  ;  the  life  of  all  his  blood 
Is  touch'd  corruptibly ;  and  his  pure  brain 
(Which  somesupposethesoul's  frail  dwelling-house,) 
Doth  by  the  idle  comments  that  it  makes. 
Foretell  the  ending  of  mortality. 

Enter  Pembroke. 

Pern.   His  highness  yet  doth  speak  ;  and  holds 
belief. 
That,  being  brought  into  the  open  air. 
It  would  allay  the  burning  quality 
Of  that  fell  poison  which  assaileth  him. 

P.  Hen.   Let  him  be  brought  into  the  orchard 
here.  — 
Doth  he  still  rage  ?  ^  [ExU  Bigot. 

Pern.  He  is  more  patient 

Than  when  you  left  him ;  even  now  he  sung. 

P.  Hen.   O  vanity  of  sickness  !  fierce  extremes. 
In  their  continuance,  will  not  feel  themselves. 
Death,  having  prey'd  upon  the  outward  parts. 
Leaves  them  insensible ;  and  his  siege  is  now 
Against  the  mind,  the  which  he  pricks  and  wounds 
With  many  legions  of  strange  fantasies ; 
Which,  in  their  throng  and  press  to  that  last  hold. 
Confound   themselves.       'Tis   strange,  that   death 

should  sing. 

I  am  the  cygnet  to  this  pale  faint  swan. 
Who  chants  a  doleful  hymn  to  his  own  death ; 
And,  from  the  organ-pipe  of  frailty,  sings 
His  soul  and  body  to  their  lasting  rest. 

Sal.  Be  of  good  comfort,  prince ;  for  you  are  bom 
To  set  a  form  upon  that  indigest 
Which  he  hath  left  so  shapeless  and  so  rude. 

Re-enter  Bigot  and  Attendants,  who  bring  in  King 
John  in  a  Chair. 

K.  John.   Ay,  marry,  now  my  soul  hath  elbow- 
room  ; 
It  would  not  out  at  windows,  nor  at  doors. 
There  is  so  hot  a  summer  in  my  bosom. 
That  all  my  bowels  crumble  up  to  dust : 
I  am  a  scribbled  form,  drawn  with  a  pen 
Upon  a  parchment ;  and  against  this  fire 
Do  I  shrink  up. 

P.  Hen.  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

K.  John.   Poison'd,  —  ill  fare  ;  —  dead,  forsook, 
cast  off; 
And  none  of  you  will  bid  the  winter  come. 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw ; 
Nor  let  my  kingdom's  rivers  take  their  course 
Through  my  burn'd  bosom  ;  nor  entreat  the  north 
To  make  his  bleak  winds  kiss  my  parched  lips. 
And  comfort  me  with  cold: — I  do  not  ask  you  much, 
I  beg  cold  comfort;  and  you  are  so  strait 3 
And  so  ingrateful,  you  deny  me  that. 

P.  Hen.  0,tliat  there  were  some  virtue  in  my  tears. 
That  might  relieve  you  ! 

K.  John.   The  salt  in  them  is  hot.  — 
Within  me  is  a  hell ;  and  there  the  poison 
Is,  as  a  fiend,  confin'd  to  tyrannize 
On  unreprievable  condemned  blood. 

'  Narrow,  avaricious. 


Scene  VII. 


KING  JOHN. 


351 


Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.   O,  I  am  scalded  with  my  violent  motion, 
And  spleen  of  speed  to  see  your  majesty. 

IT.  John.  O  cousin,  thou  art  come  to  set  mine  eye  : 
The  tackle  of  my  heart  is  crack'd  and  bum'd  ; 
And  all  the  shrouds,  wherewith  my  life  should  sail. 
Are  turned  to  one  thread,  one  little  hair : 
My  heart  hath  one  poor  string  to  stay  it  by, 
Which  holds  but  till  thy  news  be  uttered  ; 
And  then  all  this  thou  see'st,  is  but  a  clod, 
And  module*  of  confounded  royalty. 

Bast.   The  Dauphin  is  preparing  hitherward ; 
Where,  heaven  he  knows,  how  we  shall  answer  him  : 
For,  in  a  night,  the  best  part  of  my  power. 
As  I  upon  advantage  did  remove. 
Were  in  the  washes,  all  unwarily. 
Devoured  by  the  unexpected  flood.    [The ^ing dies. 

Sal.    You  breathe  these  dead  news  in  as  d^d  an 
ear.  — 
My  liege  !  my  lord  !  —  Butnow  a  king,  —  now  thus. 

P.  Hen.  Even  so  must  I  run  on,  and  even  so  stop. 
What  surety  of  the  world,  what  hope,  what  stay, 
When  this  was  now  a  king,  and  now  is  clay  ! 

Bast.   Art  thou  gone  so  ?  I  do  but  stay  behind, 
To  do  the  office  for  thee  of  revenge ; 
And  then  my  soul  shall  wait  on  thee  to  heaven. 

As  it  on  earth  hath  been  thy  servant  still. 

Now,  now,  you  stars,  that  move  in  your  right  spheres. 
Where  be  your  powers  ?  Show  now  your  mended 

faiths ; 
And  instantly  return  with  me  again, 
To  push  destruction,  and  perpetual  shame. 
Out  of  the  weak  door  of  our  fainting  land  : 
Straight  let  us  seek,  or  straight  we  ^all  be  sought ; 
The  Dauphin  rages  at  our  very  heels. 

Sal.   It  seems,  you  know  not  then  so  much  as  we : 
The  cardinal  Pandulph  is  within  at  rest, 
4  Model 


Who  half  an  hour  since  came  from  the  Dauphin ; 
And  brings  from  him  such  offers  of  our  peace 
As  we  with  honour  and  respect  may  take. 
With  purpose  presently  to  leave  this  war. 

Bast.    He  will  the  rather  do  it,  when  he  sees 
Ourselves  well  sinewed  to  our  defence. 

Sal.   Nay,  it  is  in  a  manner  done  already  ; 
For  many  carriages  be  hath  despatch'd 
To  the  sea-side,  and  put  his  cause  and  quarrel 
To  the  disposing  of  the  cardinal : 
With  whom  yourself,  myself,  and  other  lords, 
If  you  think  meet,  this  afternoon  will  post 
To  consummate  this  business  happily. 

Bast.  Let  it  be  so  :  —  And  you,  my  noble  prince, 
With  other  princes  that  may  best  be  spar"d. 
Shall  wait  upon  your  father's  funeral. 

P.  Hen.  At  Worcester  must  his  body  be  interr'd  ; 
For  so  he  will'd  it. 

Bast.  Thither  shall  it  then. 

And  happily  may  your  sweet  self  put  on 
The  lineal  state  and  glory  of  the  land  ! 
To  whom,  with  all  submission,  on  my  knee, 
I  do  bequeath  my  faithful  services 
And  true  subjection  everlastingly. 

Sal.   And  the  like  tender  of  our  love  we  make, 
To  rest  without  a  spot  for  evermore. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  a  kind  soul,  that  would  give  you 
thanks. 
And  knows  not  how  to  do  it,  but  with  tears. 

Bast.  O,  let  us  pay  the  time  but  needful  woe. 
Since  it  hath  been  beforehand  with  our  griefs.  — 
This  England  never  did  (nor  never  shall) 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror. 
But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself. 
Now  these  her  princes  are  come  home  again, 
Come  the  three  comers  of  the  world  in  arms. 
And  we  shall  shock  them :  Nought  shaU  make  us  rue. 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true.  [Exeunt. 


,1/ 


•^ 


^THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF 

KING     RICHARD     II. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  Richard  the  Second. 

Edmund  of  Langley,  Duke  of  York  ;  1  Uncles  to 
John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster  ;   ^  the  King. 
Henry,  sumamed  Bolingbroke,  Duke  if  Hereford, 
Sm  to  John  of  Gaunt ;  afterwards  K.  Henry  IV. 
Duke  of  Aumerle,  So7i  to  the  Duke  of  York. 
Mowbray,  Duke  of  Norfolk. 
Duke  of  Surrey. 

Earl  of  Salisbury.      Earl  Berkeley. 
Bushy,  "j 

Bagot,    i  Creatures  to  King  Richard. 
Green,  J 

Earl  of  Northumberland. 
Henry  Percy,  his  Son. 


Lord  Ross.     Lord  Willoughby. 

Lord  Fitzwater. 

Bishop  of  Carlisle.     Abbot  of  Westminsteb- 

Lord  Marshal ;  and  another  Lord. 

Sir  Pierce  of  Exton.      Sir  Stephen  Scroop. 

Captain  of  a  Band  <f  Welshmen. 

Queen  to  King  Richard. 
Duchess  of  Gloster. 
Duchess  of  York. 
Lady  attending  on  tlie  Queen. 

Lords,  Heralds,   Officers,    Soldiers,   two    Gardeners. 
Keeper,  Messenger,  Groom,  ami  otfier  Attendants. 


SCENE,  dispcrsedli/  in  England  and  Wales. 


I 


;EPa:R.  —  Mr  loro,  will  x  pi.k&.sb  voa  to  fall,  to? 

Utca. — T&3TE   OF   IT   FIRST,  AS   THOO   ART   WONT   TO   DO. 


THE   LIFE   AND   DEATH   OF 

KING    RICHARD    II, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  London.      A  Room  in  the  Palace.    | 

Enter  King  Richard,  attended:  John  of  Gaunt,  I 
and  other  Nobles,  with  him. 
K.  Rich.   Old    John    of    Gaunt,    time-honour'd 
Lancaster, 
Hast  thou,  according  to  thy  oath  and  band  ', 
Brought  hither  Henry  Hereford,  thy  bold  son ; 
Here  to  make  good  the  boisterous  late  appeal, 
Which  then  our  leisure  would  not  let  us  hear. 
Against  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray  ? 
Gaunt.   I  have,  my  liege. 

K.  Rich.  Tell  me,  moreover,  hast  thou  sounded  him. 
If  he  appeal  the  duke  on  ancient  malice  ; 
Or  worthily  as  a  good  subject  should, 
On  some  known  ground  of  treachery  in  him  ? 
Gaunt.  As  near  as  I  could  sift  him  on  that  argu- 
ment, — 
On  some  apparent  danger  seen  in  him, 
Aim'd  at  your  highness ;  no  inveterate  malice. 
K.  Rich.   Tlien  call  them  to  our  presence;  face 
to  face, 
And  frowning  brow  to  brow,  ourselves  will  hear 
The  accuser,  and  the  accused,  freely  speak  : 

[Exeunt  some  Attendants. 
*  Bond. 


High-stomach'd  are  they  both,  and  full  of  ire, 
In  rage  deaf  as  the  sea,  hasty  as  fire. 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  Boling broke  avn 
Norfolk. 

Boling.   May  many  years  of  happy  days  befal 
My  gracious  sovereign,  my  most  loving  liege ! 

Nor.   Each  day  still  better  other's  happiness ; 
Until  the  heavens,  envying  eartli's  good  hap. 
Add  an  immortal  title  to  your  crown  ! 

K.  Rich.    We  thank  you  both :   yet  one  but  flat- 
ters us. 
As  well  appeareth  by  the  cause  you  come ; 
Namely,  to  appeal  each  other  of  high  treason. 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  what  dost  thou  object 
Against  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray  ? 

Boling.    First,    (heaven    be    the    record   to    my 
speech ! ) 
In  the  devotion  of  a  subject's  love, 
Tendering  the  precious  safety  of  my  prince, 
And  free  from  other  misbegotten  hate. 
Come  I  appellant  to  this  princely  presence.  - 
Now,  Thomas  Mowbray,  do  I  turn  to  thee. 
And  mark  my  greeting  well  ;  for  what  I  speakj 
My  body  sha  1  make  good  upon  this  earth. 


Act  I.  Scene  I. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


353 


Sob 
^■Thai 


Or  my  divine  soul  answer  it  in  heaven. 
Thou  art  a  traitor,  and  a  miscreant ; 
Too  good  to  be  so,  and  too  bad  to  live  : 
Since,  the  more  fair  and  crystal  is  the  sky, 
The  uglier  seem  the  clouds  that  in  it  fly. 
Once  more,  the  more  to  aggravate  the  note, 
With  a  foul  traitor's  name  stuff'  I  thy  throat ; 
And  wish,  (so  please  my  sovereign,)  ere  I  move, 
What  my  tongue  speaks,  my  right-drawn  sword  may 

prove. 
Nor.  Let  not  my  cold  words  here  accuse  my  zeal : 
'Tis  not  the  trial  of  a  woman's  war. 
The  bitter  clamour  of  two  eager  tongues. 
Can  arbitrate  tliis  cause  betwixt  us  twain  : 
The  blood  is  hot,  that  must  be  cool'd  for  this, 
Yet  can  I  not  of  such  tame  patience  boast. 
As  to  be  hush'd,  and  nought  at  all  to  say  : 
First,  the  fair  reverence  of  your  highness  curbs  me 
From  giving  reins  and  spurs  to  my  free  speech  : 
Which  else  would  post,  until  it  had  return'd 
These  terms  of  treason  doubled  down  his  throat. 
Setting  aside  his  high  blood's  royalty. 
And  let  him  be  no  kinsman  to  my  liege, 
I  do  defy  him,  and  I  spit  at  him ; 
Call  him  —  a  slanderous  coward,  and  a  villain  : 
Whicti  to  maintain,  I  would  allow  him  odds, 
And  meet  him,  were  I  tied  to  run  a-foot 
Even  to  tho  frozen  ridges  of  tlie  Alps, 
Or  any  other  ground  inhabitable  2, 
Where  ever  Englishman  durst  set  his  foot. 
Mean  time,  let  this  defend  my  loyalty,  — 
By  all  my  hopes,  most  falsely  doth  he  lie. 

Boling.   Pale  trembling  coward,  there   I  throw 

my  gage. 
Disclaiming  here  the  kindred  of  a  king ; 
And  lay  aside  my  high  blood's  royalty,^ 
Which  fear,  not  reverence,  makes  thee  to  except : 
If  guilty  dread  hath  left  thee  so  much  strength. 
As  to  take  up  mine  honour's  pawn,  then  stoop  ; 
By  that,  and  all  the  rights  of  knighthood  else. 
Will  I  make  good  against  thee,  arm  to  arm. 
What  I  have  spoke,  or  thou  canst  worse  devise. 

Nor.   I  take  it  up ;  and,  by  that  sword  I  swear. 
Which  gently  laid  my  knighthood  on  my  shoulder, 
I'll  answer  thee  in  any  fair  degree, 
Or  chivalrous  design  of  knightly  trial : 
And,  when  I  mount,  alive  may  I  not  light, 
If  I  be  traitor,  or  unjustly  fight ! 

JT.  JRich.  What  doth  our  cousin  lay  to  Mowbray's 

charge  ? 
It  must  be  great,  that  can  inherit  us 
So  much  as  of  a  thought  of  ill  in  him. 

JSoling.   Look,  what  I  speak  my  life  shall  prove 

it  true ;  — 
t  Mowbray  hath  receiv'd  eight  thousand  nobles, 
name  of  lendings  for  your  highness'  soldiers  ; 
The  which  he  hath  detain'd  for  vile  employments. 
Like  a  false  traitor,  and  injurious  villain. 
Besides  I  say,  and  will  in  battle  prove,  — 
Or  here,  or  elsewhere,  to  tlie  furthest  verge 
'lliat  ever  was  survey'd  by  English  eye,  — 
That  all  the  treasons,  for  these  eighteen  years 
Complotted  and  contrived  in  tliis  land. 
Fetch  from  false  Mowbray  their  first  head  and  spring. 
Further  I  say,  —  and  furtlier  will  maintain 
I^pon  his  bad  life,  to  make  all  this  good,  — 
I'hat  he  did  plot  the  duke  of  Gloster's  death ; 
Suggest  his  soon-believing  adversaries  ; 
And,  consequently,  like  a  traitor  coward, 
<  UiihabiUble. 


Sluic'dout  his  innocentsoul  through  streamsof  blood: 
Which  blood,  like  sacrificing  Abel's,  cries, 
Even  from  tlie  tongueless  caverns  of  the  earth, 
To  me,  for  justice,  and  rough  chastisement; 
And,  by  the  glorious  worth  of  my  descent. 
This  arm  shall  do  it,  or  this  life  be  spent. 

K.  Rich.    How    high    a    pitch    his    resolution 
soars ! — 
Thomas  of  Norfolk,  what  say'st  thou  to  this  ? 

Nor.   O,  let  my  sovereign  turn  away  his  face. 
And  bid  his  ears  a  little  while  be  deaf. 
Till  I  have  told  this  slander  of  his  blood, 
How  God,  and  good  men,  hate  so  foul  a  liar. 

K'  Rich.   Mowbray,  impartial  are  our  eyes,  and 
ears: 
Were  he  my  brother,  nay,  my  kingdom's  heir, 
(As  he  is  but  my  father's  brother's  son,) 
Now  by  my  scepter's  awe  I  make  a  vow. 
Such  neighbour  nearness  to  our  sacred  blood 
Should  nothing  privilege  him,  nor  partialize 
The  unstooping  firmness  of  my  upright  soul ; 
He  is  our  subject,  Mowbray,  so  art  thou  ; 
Free  speech,  and  fearless,  I  to  thee  allow. 

Nor.   Then,  Bolingbroke,  as  low  as  to  thy  heart, 
Through  the  false  passage  of  thy  throat,  thou  liest ! 
Three  parts  of  that  receipt  I  had  for  Calais, 
Disburs'd  I  duly  to  his  highness'  soldiers  : 
The  other  part  reserv'd  I  by  consent ; 
For  that  my  sovereign  liege  was  in  my  debt, 
Upon  remainder  of  a  dear  account. 
Since  last  I  went  to  France  to  fetch  his  queen : 

Now  swallow  down   that  lie. For  Gloster's 

death,  — 
I  slew  him  not ;  but  to  my  own  disgrace, 
Neglected  my  sworn  duty  in  that  case.  — 
For  you,  my  noble  lord  of  Lancaster, 
The  honouraI)le  father  to  my  foe. 
Once  did  I  lay  in  ambush  for  your  life, 
A  trespass  that  doth  vex  my  grieved  soul, 
But,  ere  I  last  receiv'd  the  sacrament, 
I  did  confess  it ;  and  exactly  begg'd 
Your  grace's  pardon,  and,  I  hope,  I  had  it. 
This  is  my  fault :    As  for  the  rest  appeal'd. 
It  issues  from  the  rancour  of  a  villain, 
A  recreant  and  most  degenerate  traitor  : 
Which  in  myself  I  boldly  will  defend  ; 
And  interchangeably  hurl  down  my  gage 
Upon  this  overweening  traitor's  foot. 
To  prove  myself  a  loyal  gentleman 
Even  in  the  best  blood  chamber'd  in  his  bosom  : 
In  haste  whereof,  most  heartily  I  pray 
Your  highness  to  assign  our  trial  day. 

K.  Rich.   Wratli-kindled  gentlemen,  be  rul'd  by 
me; 
Let's  purge  this  choler  without  letting  blood  : 
This  we  prescribe,  though  no  physician  ; 
Deep  malice  makes  too  deep  incision  : 
Forget,  forgive  ;  conclude,  and  be  agreed  ; 
Our  doctors  say,  this  is  no  time  to  bleed.  — 
Good  uncle,  let  this  end  where  it  begun  ; 
We'll  calm  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  you  your  son. 

Gaunt.  To  be  a  make-peace  shall  become  ray  age: 
Throw  down,  my  son,  the  duke  of  Norfolk's  gage. 

K.  Rich.   And,  Norfolk,  tlirow  down  his. 

Gaunt.  When,  Harry?  when? 

Obedience  bids,  I  should  not  bid  again. 

K.  Rich.   Norfolk,  throw  down;  we  bid;  there 
is  no  boot.' 

Nor.  Myself  I  throw,  dread  sovereign,  at  thy  foot: 
'  No  advantage  in  delay. 
A  a 


354. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  I, 


My  life  thou  shall  command,  but  not  my  shame  : 
The  one  my  duty  owes  ;  but  my  fair  name, 
(  Despite  of  death,  that  lives  upon  my  grave, ) 
To  dark  dishonour's  use  thou  shalt  not  have. 
I  am  disgrac'd,  impeach'd,  and  baffled  here ; 
Pierc'd  to  the  soul  with  slander's  venom'd  spear ; 
The  which  no  balm  can  cure,  but  his  heart-blood 
Whicli  breath'd  this  poison. 

K.  Rich.  Rage  must  be  withstood  ; 

Give  me  his  gage  :  —  Lions  make  leopards  tame. 

JVor.   Yea,  but  not  change  their  spots  :   take  but 
my  shame, 
And  I  resign  my  gage.     My  dear  dear  lord, 
The  purest  treasure  mortal  times  afford. 
Is  —  spotless  reputation  ;  that  away, 
Men  are  but  gilded  loam,  or  painted  clay. 
A  jewel  in  a  ten-times-barr'd-up  chest 
Is  —  a  bold  spirit  in  a  loyal  breast. 
Mine  honour  is  my  life  ;  both  grow  in  one  ; 
Take  honour  from  me,  and  my  life  is  done  : 
Then,  dear  my  liege,  mine  honour  let  me  try  ; 
In  that  1  live,  and  for  that  will  I  die. 

A'  Rich,    Cousin,  throw  down  your  gage  ;  do  you 
begin. 

Baling.  O,  God  defend  my  soul  from  such  foul  sin ! 
Shall  I  seem  crest-fallen  in  my  father's  siglit  ? 
Or  with  pale  beggar-fear  impeach  my  height 
Before  this  outdar'd  dastard  ?  Ere  my  tongue 
Shall  wound  mine  honour  with  such  feeble  wrong, 
Or  sound  so  base  a  parle,  my  teeth  shall  tear 
The  slavish  motive  of  recanting  fear ; 
And  spit  it  bleeding  in  his  high  disgrace, 
Where  shame  doth  harbour,   even  in  Mowbray's 
face.  \_Exit  (jacjnt. 

K'  Rich.  We  were  not  born  to  sue,  but  to  command : 
Which  since  we  cannot  do  to  make  you  friends, 
Be  ready  as  your  lives  shall  answer  it. 
At  Coventry,  upon  saint  Lambert's  day  ; 
There  shall  your  swords  and  lances  arbitrate 
The  swelling  difference  of  your  settled  hate  ; 
Since  we  cannot  atone  '^  you,  we  shall  see 
Justice  design  ^  the  victor's  chivalry.  — 
Marshal  command  our  officers  at  arms 
Be  ready  tp  direct  these  liome-alarms.         [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Duke 
of  Lancaster's  Palace. 

Enter  Gaunt  and  Duchess  of  Gloster. 

Gaunt.   Alas !  the  part  I  had  in  Gloster's  blood 
Doth  more  solicit  me,  than  your  exclaims, 
To  stir  against  the  butchers  of  his  life. 
But  since  correction  lieth  in  those  hands, 
Which  made  the  fault  that  we  cannot  correct. 
Put  we  our  quarrel  to  the  will  of  heaven ; 
Who  when  he  sees  the  hours  ripe  on  earth, 
Will  rain  hot  vengeance  on  offenders'  heads. 

Duch.  Finds  brotherhood  in  thee  no  sharper  spur? 
Hath  love  in  thy  old  blood  no  living  fire? 
Edward's  seven  sons,  whereof  thyself  art  one, 
Were  as  seven  phials  of  his  sacred  blood. 
Or  seven  fair  branches  springing  from  one  root : 
Some  of  those  seven  are  dried  by  nature's  course, 
Some  of  those  branches  by  the  destinies  cut : 
But,  Thomas,  my  dear  lord,  my  life,  my  Gloster,  — 
One  phial  full  of  Edward's  sacred  blood. 
One  flourishing  branch  of  his  most  royal  root,  — 
Is  crack'd,  and  all  the  precious  liquor  spilt ; 


*  Reconcile. 


5  Show. 


Is  hack'd  down,  and  his  summer  leaves  all  faded, 

By  envy's  hand,  and  murder's  bloody  axe. 

Ah,  Gaunt!  his  blood  was  thine j  and  though  thou 

liv'st. 
Yet  art  thou  slain  in  him  :   thou  dost  consent 
In  some  large  measure  to  thy  father's  death. 
In  that  thou  seest  thy  wretched  brother  die, 
Who  was  the  model  of  thy  father's  life. 
Call  it  not  patience.  Gaunt,  it  is  despair  : 
In  suffering  thus  thy  brother  to  be  slaughter'd. 
Thou  show'st  the  naked  patliway  to  thy  life, 
Teaching  stern  murder  how  to  butcher  thee  : 
That  which  in  mean  men  we  entitle  —  patience. 
Is  pale  cold  cowardice  in  noble  breasts. 
What  shall  I  say  ?  to  safeguard  tliine  own  life, 
Tlie  best  way  is  —  to  'venge  my  Gloster's  death. 

Gaunt.   Heaven's  is  the  quarrel;  for  heaven's 
substitute, 
His  deputy  anointed  in  his  sight. 
Hath  caus'd  his  death  :   the  which  if  wrongfully. 
Let  heaven  revenge ;  for  I  may  never  lift 
An  angry  arm  against  his  minister. 

Duch.  Where  then,  alas!  may  I  complain  myself ? 

Gaunt.   To  heaven,  the  widow's  champion  and 
defence. 

Duch.   Why  then,  I  will.      Farewell,  old  Gaunt. 
Thou  go'st  to  Coventry,  there  to  behold 
Our  cousin  Hereford  and  fell  Mowbray  fight : 
O,  sit  my  husband's  wrongs  on  Hereford's  spear. 
That  it  may  enter  butcher  Mowbray's  breast ! 
Or,  if  misfortune  miss  the  first  career. 
Be  Mowbray's  sins  so  heavy  in  his  bosom. 
That  they  may  break  his  foaming  courser's  back. 
And  throw  the  rider  headlong  in  the  lists, 
A  caitiff  recreant  to  my  cousin  Hereford  ! 
Farewell,  old  Gaunt;  thy  sometimes  brother's  wife, 
With  her  companion  grief  must  end  her  life. 

Gaunt.   Sister ;  farewell  :    I  must  to  Coventry  ! 
As  much  good  stay  with  thee,  as  go  with  me  ! 

Duch.   Yet  one  word  more ;  —  Grief  boundeth 
where  it  falls. 
Not  with  the  empty  hollowness,  but  weight : 
I  take  my  leave  before  I  have  begun  ; 
For  sorrow  ends  not  when  it  seemeth  done. 
Commend  me  to  my  brother,  Edmund  York. 
Lo,  this  is  all :  —  Nay,  yet  depart  not  so  : 
Though  this  be  all,  do  not  so  quickly  go ; 
I  shall  remember  more.      Bid  him  —  O,  what  ?  — 
With  all  good  speed  at  Flashy  6  visit  me. 
Alack,  and  what  shall  good  old  York  there  see. 
But  empty  lodgings  and  unfumish'd  walls. 
Unpeopled  offices,  untrodden  stones  ? 
And  what  cheer  there  for  welcome,  but  my  groans? 
Therefore  commend  me ;  let  him  not  come  there, 
To  seek  out  sorrow  that  dwells  every  where  : 
Desolate,  desolate,  will  I  hence,  and  die ; 
The  last  leave  of  thee  takes  my  weeping  eye. 

\^Exeunt. 
SCENE  III.  —  Gosford  Green,  near  Coventry. 

Lists  set  out,  and  a  Throne.      Heralds,  <^c.  attending. 
Enter  the  Lord  Marshal,  and  Aumerle. 
Mar.  My  lord  Aumerle,  is  Harry  Hereford  arm'd? 
Aum.   Yea,  at  all  points  :  and  longs  to  enter  in. 
Mar.   The  duke  of  Norfolk,  sprightfully  and  bold. 
Stays  but  the  summons  of  the  appellant's  trumpet. 
Aum.   Why,  then  the  champions  are  prepar'd  and 
stay 
For  nothing  but  his  majesty's  approach. 
6  Her  house  in  Essex. 


1 


Scene  III. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


355 


Flourish  of  Trumpets.  Enter  Kino  Richard,  who 
takes  his  seat  on  his  throne ;  Gaunt,  and  several 
Noblemen,  who  take  tlieir  places.     A  trumpet  is 

■  sounded,  and  anstvercd  by  another  trumpet  within. 
Then  enter  Norfolk,  in  armour,  preceded  by  a 
Herald. 

K.  Bich.  Marshal,  demand  of  yonder  champion 
The  cause  of  his  arrival  here  in  arms : 
Ask  him  his  name ;  and  orderly  proceed 
To  swear  him  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.   In  God's  name,  and  the  king's,  say  who 
thou  art, 
And  why  thou  com'st,  thus  knightly  clad  in  arms : 
Against  what  man  thou  com'st,  and  what  thy  quarrel : 
Speak  truly,  on  thy  knighthood,  and  thy  oath ; 
And  so  defend  tliee  heaven,  and  thy  valour  ! 

Nor.   My  name  is  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of 
Norfolk ; 
Who  hither  come  engaged  by  my  oath, 
(Which,  heaven  defend,  a  knight  should  violate  !) 
Both  to  defend  my  loyalty  and  truth, 
To  God,  my  king,  and  my  succeeding  issue, 
Against  the  duke  of  Hereford  that  appeals  me : 
And,  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  this  mine  arm, 
To  prove  him,  in  defending  of  myself, 
A  traitor  to  my  God,  my  king,  and  me : 
And,  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven  ! 

[7/t?  takes  his  seat. 

Trumpet  sounds.     Enter  Bolingbroke,  in  armour ; 
preceded  by  a  Herald. 

K.  Rich.   Marshal,  ask  yonder  knight  in  arms. 
Both  who  he  is,  and  why  he  cometh  hither 
Tlius  plated  in  habiliments  of  war  ; 
And  formally  according  to  our  law 
Depose  him  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.   What  is  thy  name  ?  and  wherefore  com'st 
thou  hither. 
Before  king  Richard,  in  his  royal  lists? 
Against  whom  comest  thou?  and  what's  thy  quarrel? 
Speak  like  a  true  knight,  so  defend  thee  heaven  ! 

Baling.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Am  I ;  who  ready  here  do  stand  in  arms. 
To  prove,  by  heaven's  grace,  and  my  body's  valour. 
In  lists,  on  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of  Norfolk, 
That  he's  a  traitor,  foul  and  dangerous. 
To  God  of  heaven,  king  Richard,  and  to  me  : 
And,  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven ! 

Mar.   On  pain  of  death,  no  person  be  so  bold, 
Or  daring-hardy,  as  to  touch  the  lists ; 
Except  the  marshal,  and  such  ofliicers 
Appointed  to  direct  these  fair  designs. 

Baling.   Lord  marshal,  let  me  kiss  my  sovereign's 
hand, 
And  bow  my  knee  before  his  majesty  : 
For  Mowbray,  and  myself,  are  like  two  men 
That  vow  a  long  and  weary  pilgrimage  ; 
Then  let  us  take  a  ceremonious  leave, 
And  loving  farewell,  of  our  several  friends. 

Mar.   Tlie   appellant   in   all   duty   greets    your 
highness. 
And  craves  to  kiss  your  hand,  and  take  his  leave. 

K.  Rich.   We  will  descend,  and  fold  him  in  our 
arms. 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  as  thy  cause  is  right, 
So  be  thy  fortune  in  this  royal  fight ! 
Farewell,  my  blood  ;  which  if  t^ay  thou  ^cd. 
Lament  we  may,  but  not  revenge  thee  dead. 

Boling.   O,  let  no  noble  eye  profane  a  tear 
For  me,  if  I  be  gored  with  Mowbray's  spear ; 


As  confident,  as  is  the  falcon's  flight 

Against  a  bird,  do  I  with  Mowbray  fight. 

My  loving  lord,   [To  Lord  Marshal.]    I  take  my 

leave  of  you ;  — 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin,  lord  Aumerle ;  — 
Not  sick,  although  I  have  to  do  with  death  ; 
But  lusty,  young,  and  cheerly  drawing  breath.  — — . 
Lo,  as  at  English  feasts,  so  I  regreet 
The  daintiest  last,  to  make  tlie  end  most  sweet : 
O  thou,  the  earthly  author  of  my  blood,  — 

[To  Gaunt. 
Whose  youthful  spirit,  in  me  regenerate, 
Doth  with  a  two-fold  vigour  lift  me  up 
To  reach  at  victory  above  my  head,  — 
Add  proof  unto  mine  armour  with  thy  prayers ; 
And  with  thy  blessings  steel  my  lance's  point. 
That  it  may  enter  Mowbray's  waxen  coat. 
And  furbish  new  the  name  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
Even  in  the  lusty  'haviour  of  his  son. 

Gaunt.   Heaven  in  thy  good  cause  make  thee 
prosperous ! 
Be  swift  like  lightning  in  the  execution  : 
And  let  thy  blows,  doubly  redoubled, 
Fall  like  amazing  thunder  on  the  casque 
Of  thy  adverse  pernicious  enemy  : 
Rouse  up  thy  youthful  blood,  be  valiant,  and  live. 

Boling.   Mine  innocency,  and  saint   George   to 
thrive  !  [He  takes  his  seat. 

Nor.    [Bising.]   However  heaven,  or  fortune,  cast 
my  lot, 
There  lives  or  dies,  true  to  king  Richard's  tlirone, 
A  loyal,  just,  and  upright  gentleman  : 
Never  did  captive  with  a  freer  heart 
Cast  off  his  chains  of  bondage,  and  embrace 
His  golden  uncontroU'd  enfranchisement, 
More  tlian  my  dancing  soul  doth  celebrate 
This  feast  of  battle  with  mine  adversary.  — 
Most  nughty  liege,  — and  my  companion  peers,— 
Take  from  my  mouth  the  wish  of  happy  years  : 
As  gentle  and  as  jocund,  as  to  jest. 
Go  I  to  fight ;  Truth  hath  a  quiet  breast. 

JT.  Bich.   Farewell,  my  lord  :  securely  I  espy 

Virtue  with  valour  couched  in  thine  eye. 

Order  the  trial,  marshal,  and  begin. 

[T/ie  King  and  the  Lords  return  lo  their  seats. 

Mar.   Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Receive  tliy  lance ;  and  God  defend  the  right ! 

Boling.   [Bising.]   Strong  as  a  tower  in  hope,  I 
cry  —  amen. 

Mar.   Go   bear  this    lance   [To  an  Officer.]   to 
Thomas  duke  of  Norfolk. 

1  Her.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Stands  here  for  God,  his  sovereign,  and  himself, 
On  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant. 

To  prove  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray, 
A  traitor  to  his  God,  his  king*  and  him, 
And  dares  him  to  set  forward  to  the  fight. 

2  Her.   Here  standeth  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke 

of  Norfolk, 
On  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant. 
Both  to  defend  himself,  and  to  approve 
Henry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
To  God,  his  sovereign,  and  to  him  disloyal ; 
Courageously,  and  with  a  free  desire. 
Attending  but  tiie  signal  to  begin. 

Mar.   Sound  trumpets  j   and  set  forward,  com- 
batants. [A  charge  sounded. 
Stay,  the  king  hath  thrown  his  warder  ^  down. 

7  TruneheoiL 
Aa  2 


356 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  I. 


A".  Rich.   Let  them  lay  by  their  helmets  and  their 
spears, 
And  both  return  back  to  their  chairs  again  :  — 
Withdraw  with  us :  —  and  let  the  trumpets  sound, 
"While  we  return  these  dukes  what  we  decree,  — 

[A  long  ^flourish. 
Draw  near,  [  To  tlie  Combatants. 

And  list,  what  with  our  council  we  have  done. 
For  that  our  kingdom's  earth  should  not  be  soil'd 
With  that  dear  blood  which  it  hath  fostered  ; 
And  for  our  eyes  do  hate  the  dire  aspect 
Of  civilwounds  plough'd  up  with  neighbours' swords; 
[And  for  we  think  the  eagle-winged  pride 
Of  sky-aspiring  and  ambitious  thoughts, 
With  rival-hating  envy,  set  you  on 
To  wake  our  peace,  which  in  our  country's  cradle 
Draws  the  sweet  infant  breath  of  gentle  sleep ;] 
Which  so  rous'd  up,  with  boisterous  untun'd  drums. 
With  harsh  resounding  trumpets'  dreadful  bray. 
And  grating  shock  of  wrathful  iron  arms, 
Might  from  our  quiet  confines  fright  fair  peace. 
And  make  us  wade  even  in  our  kindred's  blood  j  — 
Therefore  we  banish  you  our  territories  :  — 
You,  cousin  Hereford,  upon  pain  of  death. 
Till  twice  five  summers  have  enrich'd  our  fields. 
Shall  not  regreet  our  fair  dominions. 
But  tread  the  stranger  paths  of  banishment. 

Baling.   Your  will  be  done  :    This  must  my  com- 
fort be, 

That  sun  that  warms  you  here,  shall  shine  on  me ; 
And  those  his  golden  beams,  to  you  here  lent. 
Shall  point  on  me,  and  gild  my  banishment. 

JC.  Rich.  Norfolk,  for  thee  remains  a  heavier  doom, 
Which  I  with  some  unwillingness  pronounce : 
The  fly-slow  hours  shall  not  determinate 
The  dateless  limit  of  thy  dear  exile ;  — 
The  hopeless  word  of —  never  to  return 
Breathe  I  against  thee,  upon  pain  of  life. 

N'o?'.  A  heavy  sentence,  my  most  sovereign  liege, 
And  all  unlook'd  for  from  your  highness'  mouth : 
A  dearer  merit,  not  so  deep  a  maim 
As  to  be  cast  forth  in  the  common  air, 
Have  I  deserved  at  your  highness'  hand. 
The  language  I  have  learn'd  these  forty  years. 
My  native  English,  now  I  must  forego. 
And  now  my  tongue's  use  is  to  me  no  more. 
Than  an  unstringed  viol  or  a  harp  ; 
Or,  like  a  cunning  instrument  cas'd  up. 
Or,  being  open,  put  into  his  hands 
That  knows  no  touch  to  tune  the  harmony. 
§  Within  my  mouth  you  have  engaol'd  my  tongue. 

Doubly  portcullis'd,  with  my  teeth,  and  lips  ; 
And  dull,  unfeeling  barren  ignorance 
Is  made  my  gaoler  to  attend  on  me. 
I  am  too  old  to  fawn  upon  a  nurse. 
Too  far  in  years  to  be  a  pupil  now ; 
What  is  thy  sentence,  then,  but  speechless  death, 
Which  robs  my  tongue  from  breathing  native  breatli? 

A".  Rich.   It  boots  thee  not  to  be  compassionate  ; 
After  our  sentence,  plaining  comes  too  late. 

A^r.  Then  thus,  I  turn  me  from  my  country's  light, 
To  dwell  in  solemn  shades  of  endless  night.  [Retiring. 

K.  Rich.  Return  again,  and  take  an  oath  witli  thee. 
Lay  on  our  royal  sword  your  banish'd  hands ; 
Swear  by  the  duty  that  you  owe  to  heaven, 
(Our  part  therein  we  banish  with  yourselves,) 
To  keep  the  oath  that  we  administer  :  — 
You  never  shall,  (so  help  you  truth  and  heaven  !) 
Embrace  each  other's  love  in  banishment ; 
Nor  never  look  xipon  each  other's  face  ; 


Nor  never  write,  regreet,  nor  reconcile 

This  lowering  tempest  of  your  home-bred  hate  ; 

Nor  never  by  advised  purpose  meet. 

To  plot,  contrive,  or  complot  any  ill, 

'Gainst  us,  our  state,  our  subjects,  or  our  land. 

Holing.   I  swear. 

Kor.   And  I,  to  keep  all  this. 

Baling.   Norfolk,  so  far  as  to  mine  enemy 
By  this  time,  had  the  king  permitted  us. 
One  of  our  souls  had  wander'd  in  the  air, 
Banish'd  this  frail  sepulchre  of  our  flesh. 
As  now  our  flesh  is  banish'd  from  this  land  : 
Confess  thy  treasons,  ere  thou  fly  the  realm ; 
Since  thou  hast  far  to  go,  bear  not  along 
The  clogging  burden  of  a  guilty  soul. 

Kor.   No,  Bolingbroke  ;   If  ever  I  were  traitor. 
My  name  be  blotted  from  the  book  of  life. 
And  I  from  heaven  banish'd  as  from  hence  ! 
But  what  thou  art,  heaven,  thou,  and  I  do  know ; 
And  all  too  soon,  I  fear,  the  king  shall  rue-  — 
Farewell,  my  liege  :  —  Now  no  way  can  I  stray  ; 
Save  back  to  England,  all  the  world's  my  way.  [I!xit. 

jr.  Rich.   Uncle,  even  in  the  glasses  of  thine  eyes 
I  see  thy  grieved  heart,  thy  sad  aspect 
Hath  from  the  number  of  his  banish'd  years 
Pluck'd  four  away ;  —  Six  frozen  winters  spent. 
Return   [To  Boling.]   with  welcome  home  from 
banishment. 

Boling.    How  long  a  time  lies  in  one  little  word  ! 
Four  lagging  winters,  and  four  wanton  springs. 
End  in  a  word  ;  such  is  the  breath  of  kings. 

Gaunt.   I  thank  my  liege,  that  in  regard  of  me. 
He  shortens  four  years  of  my  son's  exile  : 
But  little  vantage  shall  I  reap  thereby ; 
For,  ere  the  six  years  that  he  hath  to  spend. 
Can  change  their  moons,  and  bring  their  times  about. 
My  oil-dried  lamp,  and  time  bewasted  light, 
Shall  be  extinct  with  age,  and  endless  night ; 
My  inch  of  taper  will  be  burnt  and  done. 
And  blindfold  death  not  let  me  see  my  son. 

IT.  Rich.  Why,  uncle,  thou  hast  many  years  to  live. 

Gaunt.  Butnotaminute,  king,  that  thou  canst  give: 
Shorten  my  days  thou  canst  with  sullen  sorrow. 
And  pluck  nights  from  me,  but  not  lend  a  morrow : 
Thou  canst  help  time  to  furrow  me  with  age. 
But  stop  no  wrinkle  in  his  pilgrimage ; 
Thy  word,  is  current  with  him  for  my  death ; 
But,  dead,  thy  kingdom  cannot  buy  my  breath. 

A'.  Rich.   Thy  son  is  banish'd  upon  good  advice ; 
Whereto  thy  tongue  a  party  verdict  gave  ^ ; 
Why  at  our  justice  seem'st  thou  then  to  lower? 

Gaunt.   Things  sweet  to  taste,  prove  in  digestion 
sour. 
You  urg'd  me  as  a  judge  ;  but  I  had  rather, 
You  would  have  bid  me  argue  like  a  father :  — 
O,  had  it  been  a  stranger,  not  my  child. 
To  smooth  his  fault,  I  should  have  been  more  mild : 
A  partial  slander  9  sought  I  to  avoid. 
And  in  the  sentence  my  own  life  destroy'd. 
Alas,  I  look'd,  when  some  of  you  should  say, 
I  was  too  strict,  to  make  mine  own  away ; 
But  you  gave  leave  to  my  unwilling  tongue. 
Against  my  will  to  do  myself  this  wrong. 

JT.  Rich.  Cousin,  farewell : — and,  uncle,  bid  him  so, 
Six  years  we  banish  him,  and  he  shall  go. 

[Flourish.      Exeunt  K.  Richarp  and  Train. 

Aum.  Cousin,  farewell :   what  presence  must  not 
know, 
From  where  you  do  remain  let  paper  show. 

8  Had  a  part  or  share.  »  Rt^proacli  of  partiality 


^ 


Scene  IV. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


357 


Mar.   My  lord,  no  leave  take  I ;  for  I  will  ride, 
As  far  as  land  will  let  me,  by  your  side. 

Gaunt.  0,to  what  purpose  dost  tliou  hoard  thy  words, 
That  thou  return'st  no  greeting  to  thy  friends  ? 

Boling.   I  have  too  few  to  take  my  leave  of  you, 
"When  the  tongue's  office  sliould  be  prodigal 
To  breatlie  the  abundant  dolour  of  the  heart. 

Gaunt.   Thy  grief  is  but  tliy  absence  for  a  time. 

Holing.  Joy  absent,  grief  is  present  for  that  time. 

Gaunt.VfhsLt  is  six  winters?  they  are  quickly  gone. 

Boling.  To  men  in  joy :  but  grief  makes  one  hour 
ten. 

Garint.  Call  it  a  travel  tliat  thou  tak'st  for  pleasure. 

Boling.   My  heart  will  sigh  when  I  miscall  it  so, 
Which  finds  it  an  enforced  pilgrimage. 

Gaunt.   Tlie  sullen  passage  of  thy  weary  steps 
Esteem  a  foil,  wherein  thou  art  to  set 
The  precious  jewel  of  thy  home-return. 

Boling.   Nay,  rather,  every  tedious  stride  I  make 
Will  but  remember  me  what  a  deal  of  world 
I  wander  from  tlie  jewels  that  I  love. 
Must  I  not  serve  a  long  apprenticehood 
To  foreign  passages,  and  in  the  end. 
Having  my  freedom,  boast  of  nothing  else. 
But  that  I  was  a  journeyman  to  grief? 

Gaunt.   All  places  that  the  eye  of  heaven  visits. 
Are  to  a  wise  man  ports  and  happy  havens  : 
Teach  thy  necessity  to  reason  thus  ; 
There  is  no  virtue  like  necessity. 
Think  not,  the  king  did  banish  thee ; 
But  thou  tlie  king :   Woe  doth  the  heavier  sit. 
Where  it  perceives  it  is  but  faintly  borne. 
Go,  say  —  I  sent  thee  forth  to  purchase  honour. 
And  not  —  the  king  exil*d  thee  :   or  suppose. 
Devouring  pestilence  hangs  in  our  air. 
And  thou  art  flying  to  a  fresher  clime. 
Look,  what  thy  soul  holds  dear,  imagine  it 
To  lie  that  way  thou  go'st,  not  whence  thou  com'st : 
Suppose  the  singing  birds,  musicians ; 
The  grass  whereon  thou  tread'st,  the  presence^  strew'd ; 
Tlie  flowers,  fair  ladies ;  and  thy  steps  no  more 
Than  a  delightful  measure  or  a  dance  : 
For  gnarling  -  sorrow  hath  less  power  to  bite 
The  man  that  mocks  at  it,  and  sets  it  light. 

Boling.    O,  who  can  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand. 
By  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus  ? 
Or  cloy  the  hungry  edge  of  appetite, 
By  bare  imagination  of  a  feast  ? 
Or  wallow  naked  in  December  snow, 
By  thinking  on  fantastick  summer's  heat? 
O,  no,  the  apprehension  of  the  good. 
Gives  but  the  greater  feeling  to  the  worse : 
Fell  sorrow's  tooth  doth  never  rankle  more, 
Tlian  when  it  bites,  but  lanceth  not  the  sore. 

Gaunt.   Come,  come,  my  son,  I'll  bring  thee  on 
thy  way  : 
Had  I  thy  youth,  and  cause,  I  would  not  stay. 

Boling.  Then,  England's  ground,  farewell ;  sweet 
soil,  adieu ; 
My  mother,  and  my  nurse,  that  bears  me  yet ! 

Where-e'er  I  wander,  boast  of  this  I  can, 

Thougli  banish'd,  yet  a  truebom  Englishman. 

{Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV.  —  The  same.     A  Room  in  the  King's 

Castle. 

Enter  King  Richard,  Bagot,  and  Green;  Au- 

MJiKi^r.  following. 

JT.  Rich   We  did  observe.  —  Cousin  Aumerle, 

How  far  brougiit  you  high  Hereford  on  his  way  ? 

'  Presence  chamber  at  court  *  Growling. 


Aum.  I  brought  higii  Hereford,  if  you  call  him  so, 
But  to  the  next  high  way,  and  there  I  left  him. 

K.  Rich.    And,  say,  what  store  of  parting  tears 
were  shed? 

Aum.  'Faith,  none  by  me  :  except  the  north-east 
wind. 
Which  then  blew  bitterly  against  our  faces, 
Awak'd  the  sleeping  rheum ;  and  so,  by  chance. 
Did  grace  our  hollow  parting  with  a  tear. 

K.  Rich.  What  said  our  cousin,  when  you  parted 
with  him  ? 

Aum.   Farewell : 
And,  for  my  heart  disdain'd  that  my  tongue 
Should  so  profane  the  word,  that  taught  me  craft 
To  counterfeit  oppression  of  such  grief, 
That  words  seem'd  buried  in  my  sorrow's  grave. 
Marry,  would  the  word  farewell  have  lengthen 'd 

hours. 
And  added  years  to  his  short  banishment. 
He  should  have  had  a  volume  of  farewells; 
But,  since  it  would  not,  he  had  none  of  nie. 

K.  Rich.  He  is  our  cousin,  cousin  ;  but  'tis  doubt. 
When  time  shall  call  him  home  from  banishment, 
Whether  our  kinsman  come  to  st  e  his  friends. 
Ourself,  and  Bushy,  Bagot  here,  and  Green, 
Observ'd  his  courtship  to  the  common  people :  — 
How  he  did  seem  to  dive  into  their  hearts. 
With  humble  and  familiar  coui-tcsy ; 
What  reverence  he  did  throw  away  on  slaves  ; 
Wooing  poor  craftsmen,  with  the  craft  of  smiles, 
And  patient  underbearing  of  his  fortune, 
As  'twere  to  banish  their  affects  with  him. 
Otf  goes  his  bonnet  to  an  oyster-wench  ; 
A  brace  of  draymen  bid  —  God  speed  him  well. 
And  had  the  tribute  of  his  supple  knee. 
With — Thanks,  mi/  countrymen^  my  loving  friends  i 
As  were  our  England  in  reversion  his. 
And  he  our  subjects'  next  degree  in  hope. 

Green.  Well,  he  is  gone ;  and  with  him  go  these 
thoughts. 
Now  for  the  rebels,  which  stand  out  in  Ireland  ;  — 
Expedient  manage  must  be  made,  my  liege  ; 
Ere  further  leisure  yield  them  further  means. 
For  their  advantage,  and  your  highness'  loss. 

K.  Rich.  W^e  will  ourself  in  person  to  this  war. 
And,  for  3  our  coffers  —  with  too  great  a  court. 
And  liberal  largess  —  are  gi-own  somewhat  light. 
We  are  enforc'd  to  farm  our  royal  realm ; 
The  revenue  whereof  shall  furnish  us 
For  our  affairs  in  hand  :    If  that  come  short. 
Our  substitutes  at  home  shall  have  blank  charters ; 
Whereto,  when  they  shall  know  wliat  men  are  rich, 
They  shall  subscribe  them  for  large  sums  of  gold. 
And  send  them  after  to  supply  our  wants  ; 
For  we  will  make  for  Ireland  presently. 

Enter  Bushy. 
Bushy,  what  news? 

Bushy.  Old  John  of  Gaunt  is  gnevoussick,  my  lord; 
Suddenly  taken  ;  and  hatli  sent  post-haste. 
To  entreat  your  majesty  to  visit  him. 

K.  Rich.   Where  lies  he  ? 

Bushy.    At  Ely-house. 

A'.  Rich.  Now  put  it,  heaven,  in  his  phj'sician'smind. 
To  lielp  him  to  his  grave  immediately  ! 
llie  lining  of  his  coffers  sliall  make  coats 
To  deck  our  soldiers  for  these  Irish  wars.  — 
Come,  gentlemen,  let's  all  go  visit  him  : 
Pray  heaven,  we  may  make  haste,  and  come  too 
late !  [ExeurU. 

3  Became 
A  a  3 


358 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  II, 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  London.     A  Room  in  Ely-house. 

Gaunt  on  a  Couch;  the  Duke  of  York,  and  others 
standing  by  him. 

Gaunt.  Will  the  king  come  ?  that  I  may  breathe 
my  last 
In  wholesome  counsel  to  his  unstayed  youth. 

York.   Vex  not  yourself,  nor  strive  not  with  your 
breath ; 
For  all  in  vain  comes  counsel  to  his  ear. 

Gaunt.  O,  but  they  say,  the  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention,  like  deep  harmony  : 
"Where  words  are  scarce,  they  are  seldom  spent  in  vain : 
For  they  breathe  truth,  that  breathe  their  words  in 

pain. 
He,  that  no  more  must  say,  is  listen'd  more 

Than  they  whom  youth  and  ease  have  taught  to* 
glose  ^ ; 
More  are  men's  ends  mark'd,  than  their  lives  before : 

The  setting  sun,  and  musick  at  the  close, 
As  the  last  taste  of  sweets,  is  sweetest  last ; 
Writ  in  remembrance,  more  than  things  long  past  • 
Though  Richard  my  life's  counsel  would  not  hear, 
My  death's  sad  tale  may  yet  undeaf  his  ear. 

York.  No;  it  is  stopp'd  with  other  flattering  sounds, 
As,  praises  of  his  state  :   then,  there  are  found 
Lascivious  metres  ;  to  whose  venom  sound 
The  open  ear  of  youth  doth  always  listen  : 
Report  of  fashions  in  proud  Italy  ; 
Whose  manners  still  our  tardy  apish  nation 
Limps  after,  in  base  imitation. 
Where  doth  the  world  thrust  forth  a  vanity, 
(So  it  be  new,  there's  no  respect  how  vile,) 
That  is  not  quickly  buzz'd  into  his  ears  ? 
Then  all  too  late  comes  counsel  to  be  heard 
Where  will  doth  mutiny  with  wit's  regard. 
Direct  not  him,  whose  way  himself  will  choose  ; 
'Tis  breath  thou  lack'st,  and  that  breath  wilt  thou  lose. 

Gaunt.   Methinks,  I  am  a  prophet  new  inspir'd ; 
And  thus,  expiring,  do  foretell  of  him  : 
His  rash  fierce  blaze  of  riot  cannot  last : 
For  violent  fires  soon  burn  out  themselves : 
Small  showers  last  long,  but  sudden  storms  are  short; 
He  tires  betimes,  that  spurs  too  fast  betimes ; 
With  eager  feeding,  food  doth  choke  the  feeder  : 
Light  vanity,  insatiate  cormorant. 
Consuming  means,  soon  preys  upon  itself. 
This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle. 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise  ; 
This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself. 
Against  infection,  and  the  hand  of  war  ; 
This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world ; 
This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea. 
Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall. 
Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house. 
Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands  ; 
This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England, 
This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings, 
Fear'd  by  their  breed,  and  famous  by  their  birth. 
Renowned  for  their  deeds  as  far  from  home, 
(For  Christian  service,  and  true  chivalry,) 
As  is  the  sepulchre  in  stubborn  Jewry, 
Of  the  world's  ransom,  blessed  Mary's  son  : 

'  Flatter. 


This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear  dear  land. 
Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world. 
Is  now  leas'd  out  (I  die  pronouncing  it,) 
Like  to  a  tenement  or  pelting  ^  farm  : 
England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea. 
Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  envious  siege 
Of  watery  Neptune,  is  now  bound  Jh  with  shame. 
With  inky  blots,  and  rotten  parchment  bonds  ; 
That  England,  that  was  wont  to  conquer  others, 
Hath  made  a  shameful  conquest  of  itself : 
O,  would  the  scandal  vanish  with  my  life. 
How  happy  then  were  my  ensuing  death  ! 

Enter    King    Richard,   and  Queen  ;    Aumerle, 
Bushy,  Green,  Bagot,  Ross,  and  Willoughby. 

York.   The  king  is  come  :    deal  mildly  with  his 
youth  ; 
For  young  hot  colts,  being  rag'd,  do  rage  the  more. 

Queen.   How  fares  our  noble  uncle,  Lancaster  ? 

K.  Rich.  What  comfort,  man  ?  How  is't  with  aged 
Gaunt  ? 

Gaunt.   O,  how  that  name  befits  my  composition ! 
Old  Gaunt,  indeed  ;  and  gaunt  ^  in  being  old  : 
Within  me  grief  hath  kept  a  tedious  fast ; 
And  who  abstains  from  meat,  that  is  not  gaunt  ? 
For  sleeping  England  long  time  have  I  watch'd ; 
Watching  breeds  leanness,  leanness  is  all  gaunt : 
The  pleasure  that  some  fathers  feed  upon. 
Is  my  strict  fast,  I  mean  —  my  children's  looks ; 
And,  therein  fasting,  hast  thou  made  me  gaunt : 
Gaunt  am  I  for  the  grave,  gaunt  as  a  grave. 
Whose  hollow  womb  inherits  nought  but  bones. 

K.  Rich.   Can  sick  men  play  so  nicely  with  their 
names  ? 

Gaunt.   No,  misery  makes  sport  to  inock  itself: 
Since  thou  dost  seek  to  kill  my  name  in  me, 
I  mock  my  name,  great  king,  to  flatter  thee. 

IT.  Rich.   Should  dying  men   flatter  with  those 
that  live  ? 

Gaunt.  No,  no ;  men  living  flatter  those  that  die. 

IT.  Rich.   Thou,  now  a  dying,  say*st  —  thou  flat- 
ter'st  me. 

Gaunt.  Oh]  no;  thou  diest,  though  I  the  sicker  be. 

JT.  Rich.  I  am  in  health,  I  breathe,  and  see  thee  ill. 

Gaunt.   Now,  He  that  made  me,   knows  I  see 
thee  ill  ; 
111  in  myself  to  see,  and  in  thee  seeing  ill. 
Thy  death-bed  is  no  lesser  than  the  land. 
Wherein  thou  liest  in  reputation  sick : 
And  thou,  too  careless  patient  as  thou  art, 
Commit'st  thy  anointed  body  to  the  cure 
Of  those  physicians  that  first  wounded  thee  : 
A  thousand  flatterers  sit  within  thy  crown. 
Whose  compass  is  no  bigger  than  thy  head  ; 
And  yet,  incaged  in  so  small  a  verge, 
The  waste  is  no  whit  lesser  than  thy  land. 
O,  had  thy  grandsire,  with  a  prophet's  eye. 
Seen  how  his  son's  son  should  destroy  his  sons, 
From  forth  thy  reach  he  would  have  laid  thy  shame  j 
Deposing  thee  before  thou  wert  possess'd. 
Which  art  possess'd  now  to  depose  thyself. 
Why,  coiisin,  wert  thou  regent  of  the  world, 
It  were  a  shame  to  let  this  land  by  lease  : 
But,  for  thy  world,  enjoying  but  this  land. 


I 


Paltry. 


Lean,  thin. 


Scene  I. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


359 


Is  it  not  more  than  shame,  to  shame  it  so  ? 
Landlord  of  England  art  thou  now,  not  king  : 
Thy  state  of  law  is  bondslave  to  the  law  ; 
And  tliou 

K.  Rich.  a  lunatick  lean-witted  fool, 

Presuming  on  an  ague's  privilege, 

Dar'st  with  thy  frozen  admonition 

Make  pale  our  cheek  j  chasing  the  royal  blood, 

With  fury,  from  liis  native  residence. 

Now  by  my  seat's  right  royal  majesty, 

Wert  thou  not  brother  to  great  Edward's  son. 

This  tongue  that  runs  so  roundly  in  thy  head, 

Should  run  thy  head  from  thy  unreverend  shoulders. 

Gau7it.  O,  spare  me  not,  my  brother  Edward's  son. 
For  that  I  was  his  father  Edward's  son ; 
That  blood  already,  like  the  pelican. 
Hast  tliou  tapp'd  out,  and  drunkenly  carous'd : 
My  brother  Gloster,  plain  well-meaning  soul, 
(  Whom  fair  befall  in  heaven  'mongst  happy  souls  !) 
May  be  a  precedent  and  witness  good. 
That  tliou  respect'st  not  spilling  Edward's  blood  : 
Join  with  the  present  sickness  that  I  have ; 
And  thy  unkindness  be  like  crooked  age, 
To  crop  at  once  a  too-long  wither'd  flower. 
Live  in  thy  shame,  but  die  not  shame  with  thee  !  — 
These  words  hereafter  thy  tormentors  be,  — 
Convey  me  to  my  bed,  then  to  my  grave : 
Love  they  to  live,  that  love  and  honour  have. 

[Exit,  borne  out  by  his  Attendants. 

K.  Rich.   And  let  them  die,  that  age  and  suUens 
have; 
For  both  hast  thou,  and  both  become  the  grave. 

York.  'Beseech  your  majesty,  impute  his  words 
To  wayward  sickliness  and  age  in  him : 
He  loves  you,  on  my  life,  and  holds  you  aear 
As  Harry  duke  of  Hereford,  were  he  here. 

A".  Rich.  Right;  you  say  true:  as  Hereford's  love, 
so  his: 
As  theirs,  so  mine ;  and  all  be  as  it  is. 

Enter  Northumberland. 

North.   My  liege,  old  Gaunt  conmiends  him  to 
your  majesty. 

IT.  Rich.   What  says  he  now  ? 

North.  Nay,  nothing ;  all  is  said : 

His  tongue  is  now  a  stringless  instrument ; 
Words,  life,  and  all,  old  Lancaster  hath  spent. 

York.  Be  York  the  next  that  must  be  bankrupt  so ! 
Though  death  be  poor,  it  ends  a  mortal  woe. 

A'  Rich.  The  ripest  fruit  first  falls,  and  so  doth  he ; 
His  time  is  spent,  our  pilgrimage  must  be  : 

So  much  for  that.  Now  for  our  Irish  wars : 

We  must  supplant  those  rough  rug-headed  kerns'  j 

Which  live  like  venom,  where  no  venom  else, 

But  only  they,  hath  privilege  to  live. 

And  for  these  great  affairs  do  ask  some  charge. 

Towards  our  assistance,  we  do  seize  to  us 

The  plate,  coin,  revenues,  and  moveables, 

Whereof  our  uncle  Gaunt  did  stand  possess'd. 

York.  How  long  shall  I  be  patient  ?  Ah,  how  long 
Shall  tender  duty  make  me  suffer  wrong  ? 
Not  Gloster's  death,  nor  Hereford's  banishment. 
Not  Gaunt's  rebukes,  nor  England's  private  wrongs, 
Nor  tlie  prevention  of  poor  Bolingbroke 
About  his  marriage,  noi  my  own  disgrace, 
Have  ever  made  me  sour  my  patient  cheek, 
Or  bend  one  wrinkle  on  my  sovereign's  face.  — 
I  am  the  last  of  noble  Edward's  sons. 
Of  whom  thy  father,  prince  of  Wales,  was  first ; 
'  Irith  soldiers. 


In  war,  was  never  lion  rag'd  more  fierce. 
In  peace  was  never  gentle  lamb  more  mild. 
Than  was  that  young  and  princely  gentleman  : 
His  face  thou  hast,  for  even  so  look'd  he, 
Accomplish'd  with  the  number  of  thy  hours  ; 
But,  when  he  frown'd,  it  was  against  the  French, 
And  not  against  his  friends  :   his  noble  hand 
Did  win  what  he  did  spend,  and  spent  not  that 
Which  his  triumphant  father's  hand  had  won : 
His  hands  were  guilty  of  no  kindred's  blood. 
But  bloody  with  the  enemies  of  his  kin. 
O,  Richard !    York  is  too  far  gone  with  grief. 
Or  else  he  never  would  compare  between. 

A".  Rich.   Why,  uncle,  what's  the  matter? 

York.  O,  my  liege, 

Pardon  me,  if  you  please ;  if  not,  I,  i)leaii'd 
Not  to  be  pardon'd,  am  content  withal. 
Seek  you  to  seize,  and  gripe  into  your  hands, 
The  royalties  and  rights  of  banish'd  Hereford  ? 
Is  not  Gaunt  dead  ?  and  doth  not  Hereford  live? 
Was  not  Gaunt  just?  and  is  not  Harry  true? 
Did  not  the  one  deserve  to  have  an  heir? 
Is  not  his  heir  a  well- deserving  sou  ? 
Take  Hereford's  rights  away,  and  take  from  time 
His  charters,  and  his  customary  rights  j 
Let  not  to-morrow  then  ensue  to-day  ; 
Be  not  thyself,  for  how  art  thou  a  king. 
But  by  fair  sequence  and  succession  ? 
If  you  do  wrongfully  seize  Hereford's  rights. 
Call  in  the  letters  patent  that  he  hath 
By  his  attornies-general  to  sue 
His  livery  8,  and  deny  his  offer'd  homage, 
You  pluck  a  thousand  dangers  on  your  hea 
You  lose  a  thousand  well-disposed  hearts. 
And  prick  my  tender  patience  to  those  thoughts 
Which  honour  and  allegiance  cannot  think. 

IT.  Rich.    Think  what  you  will ;    we  seize  into 
our  hands 
His  plate,  his  goods,  his  money,  and  liis  lands. 

York.   I'll  not  be  by,  tlie  while  :   My  liege,  fare- 
well : 
What  will  ensue  hereof,  there's  none  can  tell ; 
But  by  bad  courses  may  be  understood. 
That  their  events  can  never  fall  out  good.        [Ejnt. 

K.  Rich.    Go,  Bushy,    to  the  earl  of  Wiltshire 
straight ; 
Bid  him  repair  to  us  to  Ely-house, 
To  see  tliis  business  :   To-morrow  next 
We  will  for  Ireland  ;  and  'tis  time,  I  trow  j 
And  we  create,  in  absence  of  ourself. 
Our  uncle  York  lord  governor  of  England, 
For  he  is  just  and  always  lov'd  us  well.  — 
Come  on,  our  queen  :  to-morrow  must  we  part ; 
Be  merry,  for  our  time  of  stay  is  short.     [Flourish. 
[Exeunt  King,  Queen,  Bushy,  Aumerle, 
Green,  and  Bagot. 

North.  Well,  lords,  the  duke  of  Lancaster  is  dead. 

Ross.   And  living  too  ;  for  now  his  son  is  duke. 

IVillo.   Barely  in  title,  not  in  revenue. 

North.    Richly  in  both,  if  justice  had  her  right. 

Ross.   My  heart  is  great ;  but  it  must  break  with 
silence, 
Ere't  be  disburden'd  with  a  liberal  tongue. 

North.   Nay,  speak  thy  mind  ;  and  let  him  ne'er 
speak  more. 
That  sjKjaks  thy  words  again,  to  do  thee  harm ! 

U'i/lo.   Tends  that  thou'dst  speak,  to  the  duke  of 
Hereford  ? 

*  Claim  po«en*ion ;  a  Uw  term. 
A  a  4 


360 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  II. 


If  it  be  so,  out  with  it  boldly,  man ; 

Quick  is  mine  ear  to  hear  of  good  towards  him. 

Ross.   No  good  at  all,  that  I  can  do  for  him  ; 
Unless  you  call  it  good  to  pity  him, 
Stript  and  bereft  of  all  his  patrimony. 

Nbrl/i.     Now,   afore   heaven,    'tis   shame,    such 
wrongs  are  borne. 
In  him  a  royal  prince,  and  many  more 
Of  noble  blood  in  this  declining  land. 
The  king  is  not  himself,  but  basely  led 
By  flatterers ;  and  what  they  will  inform, 
Merely  in  hate,  'gainst  any  of  us  all. 
That  will  the  king  severely  prosecute 
'Gainst  us,  our  lives,  our  children,  and  our  heirs. 

Boss.  The  commons  hath  he  pill'd  9  with  grievous 
taxes. 
And  lost  their  hearts  ;  the  nobles  hath  he  fin'd 
For  ancient  quarrels,  and  quite  lost  their  hearts. 

WUlo.  And  daily  new  exactions  are  devis'd ; 
As  blanks,  benevolences,  and  I  wot  not  what: 
But  what,  in  heaven's  name,  doth  become  of  this  ? 

N'ortk.  Wars  have  not  wasted  it,  for  warr'd  he  hath 
not. 
But  basely  yielded  upon  compromise 
That  which  liis  ancestors  achiev'd  with  blows  : 
More  hath  he  spent  in  peace,  than  they  in  wars 

Jioss.  The  earl  of  Wiltshire  hath  the  realm  in  farm. 

IFUlo.   The  king's  grown  bankrupt,  like  a  broken 
man. 

A^orth.    Reproach,  and  dissolution,  hangeth  over 
him. 

Ross.   He  hath  not  money  for  these  Irish  wars. 
His  burdenous  taxations  notwithstanding. 
But  by  the  robbing  of  the  banish'd  duke. 

North.  His  noble  kinsman ;  most  degenerate  king ! 
But,  lords,  we  hear  this  fearful  tempest  sing, 
Yet  seek  no  shelter  to  avoid  the  storm  : 
We  see  the  wind  sit  sore  upon  our  sails, 
And  yet  we  strike  not,  but  securely  perish,  i 

Ross.   We  see  the  very  wreck  that  we  must  suffer  ; 
And  unavoided  is  the  danger  now. 
For  suffering  so  the  causes  of  our  wreck. 

North.   Not  so  ;  even  through  the  hollow  eyes  of 
death, 
I  spy  life  peering  ;  but  I  dare  not  say 
How  near  the  tidings  of  our  comfort  is. 

WUlo.   Nay,  let  us  share  thy  thoughts,  as  thou  dost 
ours. 

Ross.   Be  confident  to  speak,  Northumberland  .• 
We  three  are  but  thyself ;  and,  speaking  so, 
Thy  words  are  but  as  thoughts  ;  therefore  be  bold. 

North,   Then  thus  :  —  I  have  from  Port  le  Blanc, 
a  bay 
In  Britanny,  receiv'd  intelligence, 
That  Harry  Hereford,  Reignold  lord  Cobham, 
[The  son  of  Richard  earl  of  Arundel,] 
That  late  broke  from  the  duke  of  Exeter, 
His  brother,  archbishop  late  of  Canterbury, 
Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,  sir  John  Ramston, 
Sir  John  Norbery,  sir  Robert  Waterton,  and  Francis 

Quoint, 

All  these  well  furnish'd  by  the  duke  of  Bretagne, 
With  eight  tall  2  ships,  three  thousand  men  of  war, 
Are  making  hither  with  all  due  expedience  3, 
And  shortly  mean  to  touch  our  northern  shore : 
Perhaps,  they  had  ere  this ;  but  that  they  stay 
The  first  departing  of  tlie  king  for  Ireland. 
If  then,  we  shall  sliake  of!"  our  slavish  yoke. 


9  Pillaged. 
a  Stout. 


'  Perish  by  confidence  in  our  security. 
3  Exiiedition. 


Imp  *  out  oilr  drooping  country's  broken  wing, 
Redeem  from  broking  pawn  the  blemish'd  crown, 
Wipe  off  the  dust  that  hides  our  sceptre's  gilt  ^, 
And  make  high  majesty  look  like  itself. 
Away,  with  me,  in  post  to  Raven spurg  ; 
But  if  you  faint,  as  fearing  to  do  so. 
Stay,  and  be  secret,  and  myself  will  go. 

Ross.   To  horse,  to  horse  !   urge  doubts  to  them 
that  fear. 

WUlo.  Hold  out  my  horse,  and  I  will  first  be  there. 

{Exeunt. 
SCENE  II.  —  The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Queen,  Bushy,  and  Bagot. 

Bushy.   Madam,  your  majesty  is  too  much  sad  : 
You  promis'd,  when  you  parted  with  the  king. 
To  lay  aside  life-harming  heaviness. 
And  entertain  a  cheerful  disposition. 

Queen.  To  please  the  king,  I  did ;  to  please  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it ;  yet  I  know  no  cause 
Why  I  should  welcome  such  a  guest  as  grief, 
Save  bidding  farewell  to  so  sweet  a  guest 
As  my  sweet  Richard  :    Yet,  again,  methinks. 
Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  fortune's  womb, 
Is  coming  towards  me  ;  and  my  inward  soul 
With  nothing  trembles  :   at  something  it  grieves, 
More  than  with  parting  from  my  lord  the  king. 

Bushy.   Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty 
shadows, 
Which  show  like  grief  itself,  but  are  not  so : 
For  sorrow's  eye,  glazed  with  blinding  tears, 
Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  objects  ; 
Like  pf^rspectives  6,  which,  rightly  gaz'd  upon, 
Show  nothing  but  confusion  ;  ey'd  awry. 
Distinguish  form  :   so  your  sweet  majesty, 
Looking  awry  upon  your  lord's  departure. 
Finds  shapes  of  grief,  more  than  himself  to  wail ; 
Which,  look'd  on  as  it  is,  is  nought  but  shadows 
Of  what  it  is  not.      Then,  thrice-gracious  queen, 
More  than  your  lord's  departure  weep  not ;  more's 

not  seen : 
Or  if  it  be,  'tis  with  false  sorrow's  eye. 
Which,  for  things  true,  weeps  things  imaginary. 

Queen.   It  may  be  so ;  but  yet  my  inward  soul 
Persuades  me,  it  is  otherwise  :    Howe'er  it  be, 
I  cannot  but  be  sad  ;  so  heavy  sad, 
As,  —  though,  in  thinking  on  no  thought  I  think,  — 
Makes  me  with  heavy  nothing  faint  and  shrink. 

Bushy.   'Tis  nothing  but  conceit',  my  gracious 
lady. 

Quee7i.  'Tis  nothing  less;   conceit  is  still  deriv'd 
From  some  fore-father  grief ;  mine  is  not  so ; 
For  nothing  hath  begot  my  something  grief ; 
Or  something  hath  the  nothing  that  I  grieve  : 
'Tis  in  reversion  that  I  do  possess; 
But  what  it  is,  that  is  not  yet  known  ;  what 
I  cannot  name;  'tis  nameless  woe,  I  wot.** 

Enter  Gkeen. 

Green.   Heaven  save  your  majesty  !  —  and  well 
met,  gentlemen :  — 
I  hope,  the  king  is  not  yet  shipp'd  for  Ireland. 

Queen.  Why  hop'st  thou  so  ?  'tis  better  hope,  he  is , 
For  his  designs  crave  haste,  his  haste  good  hope ; 
Then  wherefore  dost  thou  hope,  he  is  not  sliipp'd  ? 
Green.   That  he,  our  hope,  might  have  retir'd  Iiis 
power, 


4  Supply  with  new  feathers. 
s  Pictures. 
^  Know 


5  Gilding. 
Fanciful  conception. 


Scene  II. 


KING  RICHARD  II, 


361 


And  driven  into  despair  an  enemy's  hope, 
Who  strongly  hath  set  footing  in  tliis  land : 
The  banish'd  Bolingbroke  repeals  himself, 
And  with  uplifted  arms  is  safe  arriv'd 
At  Ravenspurg. 

Queen.  Now  God  in  heaven  forbid ! 

Green.    O,   madam,    'tis  too   true :  and  that  is 
worse,  — 
The  lord  Nortlmmberland,  his  young  son  Henry 

Percy, 
The  lords  of  Ross,  Beaumond,  and  Willoughby, 
With  all  their  powerful  friends,  are  fled  to  him. 

Bushy.   Why  have  you  not  proclaim'd  Nortlium- 
berland. 
And  all  the  rest  of  the  revolting  faction 
Traitors  ? 

Green.   We  have  :  whereon  the  earl  of  Worcester 
Hath  broke  his  staff',  resign'd  his  stewardship, 
And  all  the  household  servants  fled  with  him 
To  Bolingbroke. 

Queen.  So,  Gr8en,thou  art  the  midwife  to  my  woe, 
And  Bolingbroke  my  sorrow's  dismal  heir  : 
Now  hath  my  soul  brought  forth  her  prodigy  j 
And  I,  a  gasping  new-deliver'd  mother, 
Have  woe  to  woe,  sorrow  to  sorrow  join'd. 

Bushy.   Despair  not,  madam. 

Queen.  Who  shall  liinder  me  ? 

I  will  despair,  and  be  at  enmity 
With  cozening  hope  ;   he  is  a  flatterer, 
A  parasite,  a  keeper-back  of  death, 
Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  life, 
Which  false  hope  lingers  in  extremity. 

Enter  York. 

Green    Here  comes'  the  duke  of  York. 

Queen.   With  signs  of  war  about  his  aged  neck  ; 

O,  full  of  careful  business  are  his  looks  ! 

Uncle, 

For  heaven's  sake,  speak  comfortable  words. 

York.  Should  I  do  so,  I  should  belie  my  thoughts : 
Comfort's  in  heaven  ;  and  we  are  on  the  earth. 
Where  nothing  lives  but  crosses,  care,  and  grief. 
Your  husband  he  is  gone  to  save  far  off", 
Whilst  others  come  to  make  him  lose  at  home  : 
Here  am  I  left  to  underprop  his  land; 

Who,  weak  with  age,  cannot  support  myself; 

Now  comes  the  sick  hour  that  his  surfeit  made ; 
Now  shall  he  try  his  friends  that  flatter'd  him. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.   My  lord,  your  son  was  gone  before  I  came. 

York.   He  was  ?  —  Why,  so  !  —  go  all  which  way 

it  will  ! 

The  nobles  they  are  fled,  the  commons  cold, 

And  will,  I  fear,  revolt  on  Hereford's  side. 

Sirrah, 

Get  thee  to  Flashy,  to  my  sister  Gloster ; 

Bid  her  send  me  presently  a  thousand  pound  :  — 

Hold,  take  my  ring. 

Serv.   My  lord,  1  had  forgot  to  tell  your  lordship  : 
To-day,  as  I  came  by,  I  called  there ; 
But  I  shall  grieve  you  to  report  the  rest. 

York.   What  is  it,  knave  ? 

Serv.    An  hour  before  I  came,  the  duchess  died. 

York.    God  for  his  mercy  !  what  a  tide  of  woes 
Comes  rushing  on  this  woeful  land  at  once  ! 
I  know  not  what  to  do :  —  I  would  to  heaven, 
(So  my  untruth^  had  not  provok'd  him  to  it,) 
The  kittg  had  cut  off'  my  head  witli  my  brotlier's. — 
"  DUIoyalty. 


What,  are  there  posts  despatch'd  for  Ireland  ?  — 
How  shall  we  do  for  money  for  these  wars  ? 
Come,  sister,  —  cousin,  I  would  say,  pray,  pardon 

me.  — 
Go,  fellow,  [To  the  Servant.]  get  thee  home,  pro- 
vide some  carts. 
And  bring  away  the  armour  that  is  there.  — 

\^Exit  Servant. 
Gentlemen,  will  you  go  muster  men  ?  if  I  know 
How,  or  which  way,  to  order  these  affairs. 
Thus  thrust  disorderly  into  my  hands, 
Never  believe  me.      Both  are  my  kinsmen  ; 
The  one's  my  sovereign,  whom  both  my  oath 
And  duty  bids  defend ;  the  other  again, 
Is  my  kinsman,  whom  the  king  hath  wrong'd ; 
Whom  conscience  and  my  kindred  bids  to  riglit. 
Well,  somewhat  we  must  do.  —  Come,  cousin,  I'll 
Dispose  of  you :  —  Go,  muster  up  your  men. 
And  meet  me  presently  at  Berkley-castle. 
I  should  to  Flashy  too ,  — 
But  time  will  not  permit :  .—  All  is  uneven, 
And  every  thing  is  left  at  six  and  seven. 

[Exeunt  York  and  Queew. 

Btishy.  The  wind  sits  fair  for  news  to  go  to  Ireland, 
But  none  returns.     For  us  to  levy  power. 
Proportionable  to  the  enemy, 
Is  all  impossible. 

Green.   Besides,  our  nearness  to  the  king  in  love. 
Is  near  the  hate  of  those  love  not  the  king. 

Bagot.   And  that's  the  wavering  commons:  for 
their  love 
Lies  in  their  purses ;  and  whoso  empties  them, 
By  so  much  fills  their  hearts  with  deadly  hate. 

Bushy.   Wherein  tlie  king  stands  generally  con- 
demn'd. 

Bagot.   If  judgment  lie  in  them,  then  so  do  we. 
Because  we  ever  have  been  near  the  king. 

Green.   Well,  I'll  for  refuge  straight  to  Bristol 
castle  ; 
The  earl  of  Wiltshire  is  already  there. 

Bushy.   Thither  will  I  with  you  :  for  little  oflSce 
The  hatefu^  commons  will  perform  for  us  ; 

Except  like  curs  to  tear  us  all  to  pieces. 

Will  you  go  along  with  us  ? 

Bagot.   No  ;   I'll  to  Ireland  to  his  majesty. 
Farewell :  if  heart's  presages  be  not  vain. 
We  three  here  part,  that  ne'er  shall  meet  again. 

Bushy.  That's  as  York  thrives  to  beat  back  Boling- 
broke. 

Green.   Alas,  poor  duke  !  the  task  he  undertakes 
Is  —  numb'ring  sands,  and  drinking  oceans  dry  ; 
Where  one  on  his  side  fights,  thousands  will  fly. 

Bushy.    Farewell  at  once ;  for  once,  for  all,  and 
ever. 

Green.  Well,  we  may  meet  again. 

I  fear  me,  never. 
[Ereunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Jrtlds  in  Gloucestershire. 

Enter  Bolingbroke  and  Northumbxrlano,  wUh 
Forces. 

Boling.   How  far  is  it,  my  lord,  to  Berkley  now  ? 

North.   Believe  me,  noble  lord, 
I  am  a  stranger  here  in  Glostersliire. 
These  high  wild  hills,  and  rough  uneven  ways, 
Draw  out  our  miles  and  make  tliem  wearisome  : 
And  yet  your  fair  discourse  hath  been  as  sugar. 
Making  the  hard  way  sweet  and  d^'lectablc. 
But,  I  bethink  mc,  what  a  weary  way 


362 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  IK  Scene  III. 


From  Ravenspurg  to  Cotswold  will  be  found 
In  Ross  and  Willoughby,  wanting  your  company  ; 
Which,  1  protest,  hath  very  much  beguil'd 
The  tediousness  and  process  of  my  travel : 
Rut  theirs  is  sweeten'd  with  the  hope  to  have 
The  present  benefit  which  I  possess : 
And  ho])e  to  joy,  is  little  less  in  joy, 
Than  hope  enjoy'd  :   by  this  the  weary  lords 
Shall  make  their  way  seem  short ;  as  mine  hath  done 
Ry  sight  of  what  I  have,  your  noble  company. 
Holing.   Of  much  less  value  is  my  company. 
Than  your  good  words.     Rut  who  comes  here? 

'  Enter  Harky  Percy. 

North.   It  is  my  son,  young  Harry  Percy, 
Sent  from  my  brother  Worcester,  whencesoever.  — 
Harry,  how  fares  your  uncle  ? 

Fercy.   I  had  thought,  my  lord,  to  have  learn'd 
his  health  of  you. 

North.  Why,  is  he  not  with  the  queen  ? 

Percy.   No,  my  good  lord ;  he  hath  forsook  the 
court, 
Rroken  his  staff  of  office,  and  dispers'd 
The  household  of  the  king. 

North.  What  was  his  reason  ? 

He  was  not  so  resolv'd,  when  last  we  spake  together. 

Percy.    Recause  your   lordship  was  proclaimed 
traitor. 
Rut  he,  my  lord,  is  gone  to  Ravenspurg, 
To  offer  service  to  the  duke  of  Hereford ; 
And  sent  me  o'er  by  Rerkley,  to  discover 
What  power  the  duke  of  York  had  levied  there ; 
Then  with  direction  to  repair  to  Ravenspurg. 

North.   Have  you  forgot  the  duke  of  Hereford, 
boy  ? 

Percy.   No,  my  good  lord  ;  for  that  is  not  forgot. 
Which  ne'er  I  did  remember  ;   to  my  knowledge, 
I  never  in  my  life  did  look  on  him. 

North.   Then  learn  to  know  him  now  j  this  is  the 
duke. 

Percy.  My  gracious  lord,  I  tender  you  my  service, 
Such  as  it  is,  being  tender,  raw,  and  youug ; 
Which  elder  days  shall  ripen  and  confirm 
To  more  approved  service  and  desert. 

Poling.   I  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy  ;  and  be  sure, 
T  count  myself  in  nothing  else  so  happy. 
As  in  a  soul  rememb'ring  my  good  friends  ; 
And,  as  my  fortune  ripens  with  thir.love. 
It  shall  be  still  thy  true  love's  recompense  : 
My  heart  this  covenant  makes,  my  hand  thus  seals  it. 

North.   How  far  is  it  to  Berkley  ?  And  what  stir 
Keeps  good  old  York  there,  with  his  men  of  war  ? 

Percy.  There  stands  the  castle,  by  yon  tuft  of  trees, 
Mann'd  with  three  hundred  men,  as  I  have  heard : 
And  in  it  are  the  lords  of  York,  Rerkley,  and  Sey- 
mour; 
None  else  of  name,  and  noble  estimate. 

Enter  Ross  and  Willoughby. 

North.   Here  come  the  lords  of  Ross  and  Wil- 
loughby, 
Bloody  with  spurring,  fiery-red  with  haste. 

Baling.   Welcome,  my  lords  :   I  wot ',  your  love 
pursues 
A  banish'd  traitor ;  all  my  treasury 
Is  yet  but  unfelt  thanks,  which  more  enrich'd, 
Shall  be  your  love  and  labour's  recompense. 

Ross.    Your  presence  makes  us  rich,  most  noble 
lord. 

'   Know. 


WUlo.    And  far  surmounts  our  labour  to  attain  it. 

Baling.  Evermore  thanks,   the  exchequer  of  the 
poor; 
Which  till  my  infant  fortune  comes  to  years. 
Stands  for  my  bounty.     Rut  who  comes  here  ? 

^  Enter  Berki.ky. 

North.   It  is  my  lord  of  Rerkley,  as  I  guess. 

Berk.  My  lord  of  Hereford,  my  message  is  to  you. 

Baling.  My  lord,  my  answer  is  —  to  Lancaster ; 
And  I  am  come  to  seek  that  name  in  England  : 
And  I  must  find  that  title  in  your  tongue, 
Refore  I  make  reply  to  aught  you  say. 

Berk.  Mistake  me  not,  my  lord ;  'tis  not  my  mean- 
ing, 
To  raze  one  title  of  your  honour  out :  — 
To  you,  my  lord,  I  come,  (what  lord  you  will,) 
From  the  most  glorious  regent  of  this  land, 
The  duke  of  York ;  to  know,  what  pricks  you  on 
To  take  advantage  of  the  absent  time  % 
And  fright  our  native  peace  with  self-born  arms. 

Enter  York,  attended^ 

Baling.  I  shaUnotneedstransportmy  words  by  you. 
Here  comes  his  grace  in  person.  —  My  noble  uncle ! 

{^ITneels. 

York.   Show  me  thy  humble  heart,  and  not  thy 
knee. 
Whose  duty  is  deceivable  and  false. 

Baling.   My  gracious  uncle  ! 

York.   Tut,  tut ! 
Grace  me  no  grace,  nor  uncle  me  no  uncle : 
I  am  no  traitor's  uncle ;  and  that  word  —  grace, 
In  an  ungracious  mouth,  is  but  profane. 
Why  have  those  banish'd  and  forbidden  legs 
Dar'd  once  to  touch  a  dust  of  England's  ground? 
Rut  then  more  why ; — Why  have  they  dar'd  to  march 
So  many  miles  upon  her  peaceful  bosom ; 
Frighting  her  pale-fac'd  villages  with  war,         \ 
And  ostentation  of  despised  arms?  ■* 

Com'st  thou  because  the  anointed  king  is  hence? 
Why,  foolish  boy,  the  king  is  left  behind. 
And  in  my  loyal  bosom  lies  his  power. 
Were  I  but  now  the  lord  ^f  such  hot  youth. 
As  when  brave  Gaunt,  thy4ather,  and  myself, 
Rescued  the  black  prince,  that  young  Mars  of  men, 
From  forth  the  ranks  of  many  thousand  French ; 
O,  then,  how  quickly  should  this  arm  of  mine, 
Now  prisoner  to  the  palsy,  chastise  thee, 
And  minister  correction  to  thy  fault ! 

Baling.  My  gracious  uncle,  let  me  know  my  fault; 
On  what  condition  stands  it,  and  wherein  ? 

York.   Even  in  condition  of  the  worst  degree,  — 
In  gross  rebellioi^,  and  detested  treason  : 
Thou  art  a  banisH'^'d  man,  and  here  art  come, 
Refore  the  expiration  of  thy  time. 
In  braving  arms  against  thy  sovereign. 

Baling.   As  I  was  banish'd,  I  was  banish'd  Here- 
ford; 
Rut  as  I  come,  I  come  for  Lancaster. 
And,  noble  uncle,  I  beseech  your  grace. 
Look  on  my  wrongs  with  an  indifferent  3  eye  : 
You  are  my  father,  for,  methinks,  in  you 
I  see  old  Gaunt  alive ;   O,  then,  my  father  ! 
Will  you  permit  that  I  shall  stand  condemn'd 
A  wandering  vagabond  ;  my  rights  and  royalties 
Pluck'd  from  my  arms  perforce,  and  given  away 
To  upstart  unthrifts  ?     Wherefore  was  I  born  ? 
If  that  my  cousin  king  be  king  of  England,;, 


2  Time  of  the  king's  absence. 


Impartial 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


363 


It  must  be  granted,  I  ain  duke  of  Lancaster. 
You  have  a  son,  Aumerle,  my  noble  kinsman ; 
Had  you  first  died,  and  he  had  been  thus  trod  down, 
He  should  have  found  his  uncle  Gaunt  a  father. 
To  rouse  his  wrongs  ■♦,  and  chase  them  to  the  bay. 
I  am  denied  to  sue  my  livery  *  here, 
And  yet  my  letters-patent  give  me  leave  : 
My  father's  goods  are  all  distrain'd  and  sold  ; 
And  these,  and  all,  are  all  amiss  employ'd. 
What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  I  am  a  subject, 
And  challenge  law  :   Attomies  are  denied  me ; 
And  therefore  personally  I  lay  my  claim 
To  my  inheritance  of  free  descent. 

North-  The  noble  duke  hath  been  too  much  abus'd. 

Boss.  It  stands  your  grace  upon  6,  to  do  him  right. 

IFUlo.    Base  men  by  his  endowments  are  made 

great 
York.  My  lords  of  England,  let  me  tell  you  this, — 
I  have  had  feeling  of  my  cousin's  wrongs. 
And  labour'd  all  I  could  to  do  him  right : 
But  in  tliis  kind  to  come,  in  braving  arms, 
Be  his  own  carver,  and  cut  out  his  way. 
To  find  out  right  with  wrong,  —  it  may  not  be  j 
And  you,  that  do  abet  him  in  this  kind, 
Cherish  rebellion,  and  are  rebels  all. 

North.  The  noble  duke  hath  sworn,  his  coming  is 
But  for  his  own  :   and,  for  the  right  of  that. 
We  all  have  strongly  sworn  to  give  him  aid ; 
And  let  liim  ne'er  see  joy,  that  breaks  that  oath. 

York.   Well,  well,  I  see  the  issue  of  these  arms  ; 
I  cannot  mend  it,  I  must  needs  confess. 
Because  my  power  is  weak,  and  all  ill  left: 
But,  if  I  could,  by  him  that  gave  me  life, 
I  would  attach  you  all,  and  make  you  stoop 
Unto  the  sovereign  mercy  of  the  king ; 
But,  since  I  cannot,  be  it  known  to  you, 
I  do  remain  as  neuter.      So  fare  you  well ;  — 
Unless  you  please  to  enter  in  the  castle. 
And  tliere  repose  you  for  this  night. 

Baling.   An  offer,  uncle,  that  we  will  accept. 


But  we  must  win  your  grace,  to  go  with  us     - 
To  Bristol  castle ;  which,  they  say,  is  held 
By  Bushy,  Bagot,  and  their  complices, 
The  caterpillars  of  the  commonwealth. 
Which  I  have  sworn  to  weed,  and  pluck  away. 
York.    It  may  be,  I  will  go  witli  you :  —  but  yet 
I'll  pause ; 
For  I  am  loath  to  break  our  country's  laws. 
Nor  friends,  nor  foes,  to  me  welcome  you  are  : 
Things  past  redress,  are  now  with  me  past  care. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV.  —A  Camp  in  Wales. 
Eater  Salisburt,  and  a  Captain. 

Capt.  My  lord  of  Salisbury,  we  have  staid  ten  days, 
And  hardly  kept  our  countrymen  together, 
And  yet  we  hear  no  tidings  from  the  king : 
Therefore  we  will  disperse  ourselves  :  farewell. 

Sal.  Stay  yet  another  day,  thou  trusty  Welshman  ; 
The  king  reposeth  all  his  confidence 
In  thee. 

Capt.  'Tis  thought  the  king  is  dead ;  we  will  not 

.  stay- 

Tlie  bay-trees  in  our  country  are  all  wither'd, 
And  meteors  fright  the  fixed  stars  of  heaven ; 
The  pale-fac'd  moon  looks  bloody  on  the  earth, 
And  lean-look'd  prophets  whisper  fearful  change  ; 
Rich  men  look  sad,  and  ruffians  dance  and  leap,  — 
The  one,  in  fear  to  lose  what  they  enjoy. 
The  other,  to  enjoy  by  rage  and  war : 
These  signs  forerun  the  death  or  fall  of  kings.  — 
Farewell :  our  countrymen  are  gone  and  fled. 
As  well  assur'd,  Richard  their  king  is  dead.   [Exit. 
Sal.   Ah,  Richard  !  with  the  eyes  of  heavy  mind, 
I  see  thy  glory,  like  a  shooting  star. 
Fall  to  the  base  earth  from  the  firmament ! 
Thy  sun  sets  weeping  in  tlie  lowly  west. 
Witnessing  storms  to  come,  woe,  and  unrest : 
Thy  friends  are  fled,  to  wait  upon  thy  foes ; 
And  crossly  to  thy  good  all  fortune  goes.        [Exit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  Bolingbroke'5  Camp  ot  Bristol. 

Enter    Bolingbroke,    York,     Northumberland, 
Percy,  Willoughby,  Ross  :  Officers  behind  with 
Bushy  and  Green,  prisoners. 
Boling.   Bring  forth  these  men.  — 
Bushy,  and  Green,  I  will  not  vex  your  souls 
(  Since  presently  your  souls  must  part  your  bodies,) 
With  too  much  urging  your  pernicious  lives. 
For  'twere  no  charity  :  yet,  to  wash  your  blood 
From  off  my  hands,  here  in  the  view  of  men, 
I  will  unfold  some  causes  of  your  death. 
You  have  misled  a  prince,  a  royal  king, 
A  happy  gentleman  in  blood  and  lineaments. 
By  you  unhappied  and  disfigur'd  clean.' 
You  have,  in  manner,  with  your  sinful  hours, 
*  Made  a  divorce  betwixt  his  queen  and  him ; 
i*roke  the  possession  of  a  royal  bed. 
And  stain'd  tlio  beauty  of  a  fair  queen's  checks 
Willi  tears  drawn  from  her  eyes  by  your  foul  wrongs. 
Myself —  a  prince,  by  fortune  of  my  birth ; 


*  The  persons  who  wrong  him. 
>  Po«8eMion  of  my  land.  Sec. 
^  Completely. 


<  It  U  your  interest. 


Near  to  the  king  in  blood ;  and  near  in  love, 
Till  you  did  make  him  misinterpret  me,  — 
Have  stoop'd  my  neck  under  your  injuries, 
And  sigh'd  my  English  breath  in  foreign  clouds. 
Eating  the  bitter  bread  of  banishment : 
Whilst  you  have  fed  upon  my  seignories, 
Dispark'd  my  parks,  and  fell'd  my  forest  woods ; 
From  my  own  windows  torn  my  household  coat, 
Raz'd  out  my  impress,  leaving  me  no  sign,  — 
Save  men's  opinions,  and  my  living  blood,  — 
To  show  the  world  I  am  a  gentleman. 
This,  and  much  more,  much  more  than  twice  all  this. 
Condemns  you  to  the  death: — See  them  deli  ver'd  over 
To  execution  and  the  hand  of  death. 

Bushy.  More  welcome  is  the  stroke  of  death  to  me, 
Than  Bolingbroke  to  England. 

Green.  My  comfort  is,  —  that  heaven  will  take 
our  souls. 
And  plague  injustice. 

Boling.  My  lord  Northumberland,  see  them  de- 
spatch'd. 

[Exeunt  Northumbbrlans  and  others, 
with  Prisoners. 
Uncle,  you  say,  the  queen  is  at  your  house ; 


364 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  III. 


For  heaven's  sake,  fairly  let  her  be  entreated  : 
Tell  her,  I  send  to  her  my  kind  commends ; 
Take  special  care  my  greetings  be  deliver'd. 

York.    A  gentleman  of  mine  I  have  despatch'd 
With  letters  of  your  love  to  her  at  large. 

Holing.  Thanks,  gentle  uncle — Come,  lords  away; 
To  fight  with  Glendower  and  his  complices; 
Awhile  to  work,  and,  after,  holiday.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  Coast  of  Wales.  A  Castle  in  view. 

Flo%irish :    Drums    and    Trumpets.      Enter   King 

Richard,  Bishop  of  Carlisle,   Aumerle,  and 

Soldiers. 

IT.  Rich.  Barkloughly  castle  call  you  this  at  hand? 

Aum.  Yea,  my  lord :  How  brooks  your  grace  theair. 
After  late  tossing  on  the  breaking  seas  ? 

JT.  Rich.  Needs  must  I  like  it  well;  I  weep  for  joy, 

To  stand  upon  my  kingdom  once  again. 

Dear  earth,  I  do  salute  thee  with  my  hand. 
Though  rebels  wound  thee  with  their  horses'  hoofs : 
As  a  long  parted  mother  with  her  child 
Plays  fondly  with  her  tears,  and  smiles  in  meeting ; 
So,  weeping,  smiling,  greet  I  thee,  my  earth, 
And  do  thee  favour  with  my  royal  hands. 
Feed  not  thy  sovereign's  foe,  my  gentle  earth. 
Nor  with  thy  sweets  comfort  his  rav'nous  sense. 
But  let  thy  spiders,  that  suck  up  thy  venom. 
And  heavy  gaited  toads,  lie  in  their  way; 
Doing  annoyance  to  the  treacherous  feet, 
Which  with  usurping  steps  do  trample  thee. 
Yield  stinging  nettles  to  mine  enemies  : 
And  when  they  from  thy  bosom  pluck  a.  flower. 
Guard  it,  I  pray  thee,  with  a  lurking  adder ; 
Whose  double  tongue  may  with  a  mortal  touch 

Throw  death  upon  thy  sovereign's  enemies. 

Mock  not,  my  senseless  conjuration,  lords ; 
This  earth  shall  have  a  feeling,  and  these  stones 
Prove  armed  soldiers,  ere  her  native  king 
Shall  falter  under  foul  rebellious  arms. 

Car.   Fear  not,  my  lord ;  that  Power,  that  made 
you  king. 
Hath  power  to  keep  you  king,  in  spite  of  all. 
The  means  that  heaven  yields  must  be  embrac'd, 
And  not  neglected ;  else,  if  heaven  would. 
And  we  will  not,  heaven's  offer  we  refuse ; 
The  proffer'd  means  of  succour  and  redress.  ;^ 

Aum.  He  means,  my  lord,  that  we  are  too  remiss; 
Whilst  Bolingbroke,  through  our  security. 
Grows  strong  and  great,  in  substance,  and  in  friends. 

IT.  Rich.  Discomfortable  cousin !  know'st  thou  not. 
That  when  the  searching  eye  of  heaven  is  hid 
Behind  the  globe,  and  lights  the  lower  world. 
Then  thieves  and  robbers  range  abroad  unseen. 
In  murders,  and  in  outrage,  bloody  here ; 
But  when,  from  under  this  terrestrial  ball. 
He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines. 
And  darts  his  light  through  every  guilty  hole. 
Then  murders,  treasons,  and  detested  sins. 
The  cloak  of  night  being  pluck'd  from  off  their  backs. 
Stand  bare  and  naked,  trembling  at  themselves? 
So  when  this  thief,  this  traitor,  Bolingbroke,  — 
Who  all  this  while  hath  revell'd  in  the  night. 
Whilst  we  were  wandering  with  the  antipodes,  — 
Shall  see  us  rising  in  our  throne  the  east. 
His  treasons  will  sit  blushing  in  his  face. 
Not  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  day. 
But,  self-affrighted,  tremble  at  his  sin. 
Not  all  the  water  in  the  rough  rude  sea 
Can  wash  the  balm  from  an  anointed  king : 


The  breatli  of  worldly  men  cannot  depose 

The  deputy  elected  by  the  Lord  : 

For  every  man  that  Bolingbroke  hath  press'd, 

To  lift  shrewd  steel  against  our  golden  crowa 

God  for  his  Richard  hath  in  heavenly  pay 

A  glorious  angel :   then,  if  angels  fight, ; 

Weak  men  must  fall ;  for  heaven  still  guards  the  right. 

Enter  Salisbury. 
Welcome,  my  lord ;   How  far  off  lies  your  power  ? 

Sal.   Nor  near,  nor  further  off,  my  gracious  lord. 
Than  this  weak  arm  :  Discomfort  guides  my  tongue, 
And  bids  me  speak  of  nothing  but  despair. 
One  day  too  late,  I  fear,  my  noble  lord. 
Hath  clouded  all  thy  happy  days  on  earth : 
O,  call  back  yesterday,  bid  time  return. 
And  thou  shalt  have  twelve  thousand  fighting  men ! 
To-day,  to-day,  unhappy  day  too  late, 
O'erthrows  thy  joys,  friends,  fortune,  and  thy  state; 
For  all  the  Welshmen,  hearing  thou  wert  dead. 
Are  gone  to  Bolingbroke,  dispers'd,  and  fled. 

Aum.    Comfort,  my  liege  :  why  looks  your  grace 
so  pale  ? 

jr.  Rich.  But  nowthe  bloodof  twenty  thousand  men 

Did  triumph  in  my  face,  and  they  are  fled ; 
And  till  so  much  blood  thither  come  again. 

Have  I  not  reason  to  look  pale  and  dead  ? 
All  souls  that  will  be  safe  fly  from  my  side ; 
For  time  hath  set  a  blot  upon  my  pride. 

Au7n.  Comfort,  my  liege ;  remember  who  you  are. 

A".  Rich.   I  had  forgot  myself:   am  I  not  king? 
Awake  thou  sluggard  majesty !  thou  sleep'st. 
Is  not  the  king's  name  forty  thousand  names  ? 
Arm,  arm,  my  name,  a  puny  subject  strikes 
At  thy  great  gloiy.  —  Look  not  to  the  ground. 
Ye  favourites  of  a  king ;   Are  we  not  high  ?     . 
High  be  our  thoughts ;   I  know  my  uncle  Yoi-k 
Hath  power  enough  to  serve  our  turn.      But  who 
Comes  here  ? 

Enter  Scroop. 

Scroop.  More  health  and  happiness  betide  my  liege, 
Than  can  my  care-tun'd  tongue  deliver  him. 

IT.  Rich.  Mine  ear  is  open  and  my  heart  prepar'd ; 
The  worst  is  worldly  loss,  thou  canst  unfold. 
Say,  is  my  kingdom  lost  ?  why,  'twas  my  care ; 
And  what  loss  is  it,  to  be  rid  of  care  ? 
Strives  Bolingbroke  to  be  as  great  as  we  ? 
Greater  he  shall  not  be  ;  if  he  serve  God, 
We'll  serve  him  too,  and  be  his  fellow  so : 
Revolt  our  subjects  ?  that  we  cannot  mend ; 
They  break  their  faith  to  God,  as  well  as  us : 
Cry,  woe,  destruction,  ruin,  loss,  decay ; 
The  worst  is  —  death,  and  death  will  have  his  day. 

Scroop.  Glad  am  I,  that  your  highness  is  so  arm'd 
To  bear  the  tidings  of  calamity. 
Like  an  unseasonable  stormy  day. 
Which  makes  the  silver  rivers  drown  their  shores. 
As  if  the  world  were  all  dissolv'd  to  tears ; 
So  high  above  his  limits  swells  the  rage 
Of  Bolingbroke,  covering  your  fearful  land 
With  hard  bright  steel,  and  hearts  harder  than  steel. 
White  beards  have  arm'd  their  thin  and  hairless  scalps 
Against  thy  majesty  ;  boys,  with  women's  voices. 
Strive  to  speak  big,  and  clap  their  female  joints 
In  stiff  unwieldy  arms  against  thy  crown  : 
Thy  very  beadsmen  learn  to  bend  their  bows 
Of  double-fatal  yew  against  thy  state ; 
Yea,  distaff-women  manage  rusty  bills 
Against  thy  seat :   both  young  and  old  rebel. 
And  all  goes  worse  than  I  have  power  to  tell. 


Scene  II. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


36^ 


K.  Rich.  Too  well,  too  well,  thou  tell'st  a  tale  so  ill. 
Where  is  the  earl  of  Wiltshire  ?  where  is  Bagot  ? 
What  is  become  of  Bushy  ?  where  is  Green  ? 
That  they  have  let  the  dangerous  enemy 
Measure  our  confines  with  such  peaceful  steps? 
If  we  prevail,  their  heads  shall  pay  for  it. 
I  warrant,  they  have  made  peace  with  Bolingbroke. 

Scroap.    Peace  have  they  made  with  him,  indeed, 
my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  O  villains,  vipers,  lost  without  redemption ! 
Dogs,  easily  won  to  fawn  on  any  man  ! 
Snakes,  in  my  lieart-blood  warm'd,  that  sting  my 
heart ! 

Scroop.  Sweet  love,  I  see  changing  his  property, 
Turns  to  the  sourest  and  most  deadly  hate :  — 
yVgain  uncurse  their  souls;  their  peace  is  made 
With  heads,  and  not  with  hands ;   those  whom  you 

curse 
Have  felt  tJie  worst  of  deatli's  destroying  wound. 
And  lie  full  low,  grav'd  in  the  hollow  ground. 

Aum.  Is  Bushy,  Green,  and  the  earl  of  Wiltshire 
dead? 

Scroop.  Yea,  all  of  them  at  Bristol  lost  their  heads. 

jitim.Where  is  the  duke  my  father  with  his  power? 

JC.  Rich.   No  matter  where ;  of  comfort  no  man 
speak  : 
Lot's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs  ; 
IVIake  dust  our  paper,  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Let's  choose  executors,  and  talk  of  wills  : 
And  yet  not  so,  —  for  what  can  we  bequeath, 
Save  our  deposed  bodies  to  the  ground  ? 
Our  lands,  our  lives,  and  all  are  Bolingbroke's, 
And  nothing  can  we  call  our  own,  but  death ; 
And  that  small  model  of  the  barren  earth, 
AVhich  serves  as  paste  and  cover  to  our  bones. 
For  heaven's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground, 
A  lul  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings  :  — 
How  some  have  been  depos'd,  some  slain  in  war; 
Some  haunted  by  the  ghosts  they  have  depos'd  ; 
Some  poison 'd  by  their  wives,  some  sleeping  kill'd ; 
All  murder'd :  —  For  within  the  hollow  crown, 
That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  king. 
Keeps  death  his  court ;  and  there  the  antick  sits, 
Scoffing  his  state,  and  grinning  at  his  pomp ; 
Allowing  hi.n  a  breath,  a  little  scene 
To  monarchize,  be  fear'd,  and  kill  with  looks ; 
Infusing  him  with  self  and  vain  conceit,  — 
As  if  this  flesh,  which  walls  about  our  life. 
Were  brass  impregnable  ;  and  humour'd  thus. 
Comes  at  the  last,  and  with  a  little  pin 
Bores  through  his  castle  wall,  and  —  farewell  king! 
Cover  your  heads,  and  mock  not  flesh  and  blood 
With  solemn  reverence ;  throw  away  respect. 
Tradition,  form,  and  ceremonious  duty, 
For  you  have  but  mistook  me  all  this  while : 
I  live  with  bread  like  you,  feel  want,  taste  grief. 
Need  friends  :  —  Subjected  thus. 
How  can  you  say  to  me  —  I  am  a  king? 

Car.   My  lord,  wise  men  ne'er  wail  thtir  present 
woes. 
But  presently  prevent  the  ways  to  wail. 
To  fear  the  foe,  since  fear  oppresseth  strength, 
Gives,  in  your  weakness,  strength  unto  your  foe, 
And  so  your  follies  fight  against  yourself. 
Fear,  and  be  slain ;  no  worse  can  come,  to  fight : 
And  fight  and  die,  is  death  destroying  death  ; 
Where  fearing  dying,  pays  death  servile  breath. 

yf  u;;i.   My  father  hath  a  power,  enquire  of  liim  ; 
And  learn  to  make  a  bo<ly  of  a  limb. 


IT.  Rich.  Thou  chid'st  me  well :  —  Proud  Boling- 
broke, I  come 
To  change  blows  with  thee  for  our  day  of  doom. 
This  ague-fit  of  fear  is  overblown  ; 

An  easy  task  it  is  to  win  our  own. 

Say,  Scroop,  where  lies  our  uncle  with  his  power? 
Speak  sweetly,  man,  although  thy  looks  be  sour. 

Scroop.  Men  judge  by  the  complexion  of  the  sky 

The  state  and  inclination  of  the  day  : 
So  may  you  by  my  dull  and  heavy  eye, 

My  tongue  hath  but  a  heavier  tale  to  say. 
I  play  the  torturer,  by  small  and  small. 
To  lengthen  out  the  worst  that  must  be  spoken  :  — 
Your  uncle  York  hath  join'd  with  Bolingbroke  ; 
And  all  your  northern  castles  yielded  up, 
And  all  your  southern  gentlemen  in  arms 
Upon  his  party. 

A".  Rich.  Thou  hast  said  enough.  ■ 

Beshrew  thee,  cousin,  which  did  lead  me  forth. 

[To  AUMERLE. 

Of  that  sweet  way  I  was  in  to  despair  ! 

What  say  you  now  ?  what  comfort  have  we  now  ? 

By  heaven,  I'll  hate  him  everlastingly. 

That  bids  me  be  of  comfort  any  more. 

Go,  to  Flint  castle;  there  I'll  pine  away  ; 

A  king,  woe's  slave,  shall  kingly  woe  obey. 

That  power  I  have,  discharge ;  and  let  them  go 

To  ear  8  the  land  that  hath  some  hope  to  grow, 

For  I  have  none :  —  Let  no  man  speak  again 

To  alter  this,  for  counsel  is  but  vain. 

j4uni.   My  liege,  one  word. 

IT.  Rich.  He  does  me  double  wrong 

That  wounds  me  with  the  flatteries  of  his  tongue. 
Discharge  my  followers,  let  them  hence  ;  —  Away, 
From  Richard's  night,  to  Bolingbroke's  fair  day. 

lEreunt. 

SCENE  IIL  —  Wales.     Before  FUnt  Castle. 

Enter,  with  Brum  and  Colours,  Bolingbroke  and 
Forces;  York,  Northumberland,  and  others. 

Holing.   So  that  by  this  intelligence  we  learn, 
The  Welshmen  are  dispers'd  ;  and  Salisbury 
Is  gone  to  meet  the  king,  who  lately  landed, 
With  some  few  private  friends  upon  this  coast. 

North.   The  news  is  very  fair  and  good,  my  lord  : 
Richard,  not  far  from  hence,  hath  hid  his  head. 

York.   It  would  beseem  the  lord  Northumberland, 
To  say  —  king  Richard :  —  Alack  the  heavy  day. 
When  such  a  sacred  king  should  hide  his  head  ! 

North.   Your  grace  mistakes  me  ;  only  to  be  brief, 
Left  I  his  title  out. 

York.  The  time  hath  been, 

Would  you  have  been  so  brief  with  him  he  would 
Have  been  so  brief  witli  you,  to  shorten  you, 
For  taking  so  the  head,  your  whole  head's  length. 

Boling.    Mistake  not,  uncle,    farther  than    you 
slibuld. 

York.   Take  not,  good  cousin,  furtlier  than  you 
should. 
Lest  you  mistake  :   The  heavens  are  o'er  your  head. 

Doling.   I  know  it,  uncle  ;  and  oppose  not 
Myself  against  their  will.  —  But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Pbrct. 
Well,  Harry  ;  what,  will  not  tJiis  castle  yield? 

Percy.   The  castle  royally  is  mann'd,  my  lord, 
Against  thy  entrance. 

Bding.  Royally ! 

Why,  it  contains  no  king  ? 

•  Plough. 


366 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  III. 


Percy.  Yes,  my  good  lord, 

It  doth  contain  a  king  :  king  Richard  lies 
Within  the  limits  of  yon  lime  and  stone ; 
And  with  him  are  the  lord  Aumerle,  lord  Salisbury, 
Sir  Stephen  Scroop  ;  besides  a  clergyman 
Of  holy  reverence,  who,  I  cannot  learn. 

North.   Belike  it  is  the  bishop  of  Carlisle. 

Baling.   Noble  lord,  [  To  North. 

Go  to  the  rude  ribs  of  that  ancient  castle ; 
Through  brazen  trumpet  send  the  breath  of  parle 
Into  his  ruin'd  ears,  and  thus  deliver. 
Harry  Bolingbroke 

On  both  his  knees  doth  kiss  king  Richard's  hand  ; 
And  sends  allegiance,  and  true  faith  of  heart, 
To  his  most  royal  person :   hither  come 
Even  at  his  feet  to  lay  ray  arms  and  power ; 
Provided  that,  my  banishment  repeal'd, 
And  lands  restor'd  again,  be  freely  granted  : 
If  not,  I'll  use  the  advantage  of  my  power, 
And  lay  the  summer's  dust  with  showers  of  blood, 
Rain'd  from  the  wounds  of  slaughter'd  Englishmen : 
The  which,  how  far  off' from  the  mind  of  Bolingbroke 
It  is,  such  crimson  tempest  should  bedrench 
The  fresh  green  lap  of  fair  king  Richard's  land, 
My  stooping  duty  tenderly  shall  show. 
Go,  signify  as  much  ;  while  here  we  march 
Upon  the  grassy  carpet  of  this  plain.  — 

[Northumberland  advances  to  the 
Castle  with  a  Trumpet. 
Let's  march  without  the  noise  of  threat'ning  drum. 
That  from  the  castle's  totter' d  battlements 
Our  fair  appointments  may  be  well  perus'd. 
Methinks,  king  Richard  and  myself  should  meet 
With  no  less  terror  than  the  elements 
Of  fire  and  water,  when  their  thund'ring  shock 
At  meeting  tears  the  cloudy  cheeks  of  heaven. 
Be  he  the  fire,  I'll  be  the  yielding  water  : 
The  rage  be  his,  while  on  the  earth  I  rain 
My  waters ;  on  the  earth,  and  not  on  him. 
March  on,  and  mark  king  Richard  how  he  looks. 

A  Parle  sounded,  and  answered  hy  another  Trumpet 
within.  Flourish.  Enter  on  the  Walls  King 
Richard,  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  Aumerle, 
Scroop,  and  Salisbury. 

York.  See,  see,  king  Richard  doth  himself  appear, 
As  doth  the  blushing  discontented  sun 
From  out  the  fiery  portal  of  the  east ; 
When  he  perceives  the  envious  clouds  are  bent 
To  dim  his  glory,  and  to  stain  the  track 
Of  his  bright  passage  to  the  Occident. 
Yet  looks  he  like  a  king ;  behold,  his  eye. 
As  bright  as  is  the  eagle's,  lightens  forth. 
Controlling  majesty  ;  Alack,  alack,  for  woe, 
That  any  harm  should  stain  so  fair  a  show  ! 

K.  Rich.   We  are  amaz'd  ;  and  thus  long  have  we 
stood 
To  watch  the  fearful  bending  of  thy  knee, 

[To  Northumberland. 
Because  we  thought  ourself  thy  lawful  king  : 
And  if  we  be,  how  dare  thy  joints  forget 
To  pay  their  awful  duty  to  our  presence  ? 
If  we  be  not,  show  us  the  hand  of  God 
That  hath  dismiss'd  us  from  our  stewardship  ; 
For  well  we  know,  no  hand  of  blood  and  bone 
Can  gripe  the  sacred  handle  of  our  scepter. 
Unless  he  do  profane,  steal,  or  usurp. 
And  though  you  think,  that  all,  as  you  have  done, 
Have  torn  their  souls,  by  turning  them  from  us, 
And  we  are  barren,  and  bereft  of  friends  : 


Yet  know,  —  my  master,  God  omnipotent, 
Is  must'ring  in  his  clouds,  on  our  behalf, 
Armies  of  pestilence;  and  they  shall  strike 
Your  children  yet  unborn,  and  unbegot, 
That  lift  your  vassal  hands  against  my  head, 
And  threat  the  glory  of  my  precious  crown. 
Tell  Bolingbroke,  (for  yond',  methinks,  he  is,) 
That  every  stride  he  makes  upon  my  land, 
Is  dangerous  treason :    He  is  come  to  ope 
The  purple  testament  of  bleeding  war ; 
But  ere  the  crown  he  looks  for  live  in  peace. 
Ten  thousand  bloody  crowns  of  mothers'  sons 
Shall  ill  become  the  flower  of  England's  face ; 
Change  the  complexion  of  her  maid-pale  peace 
To  scarlet  indignation,  and  bedew 
Her  pasture's  grass  with  faithful  English  blood. 

North.  The  king  of  heaven  forbid,  our  lord  the  king 
Sliould  so  with  civil  and  uncivil  arms 
Be  rush'd  upon  ;  Thy  thrice-noble  cousin, 
Harry  Bolingbroke,  doth  humbly  kiss  thy  hand ; 
And  by  the  honourable  tomb  he  swears, 
That  stands  upon  thy  royal  grandsire's  bones  j 
And  by  the  royalties  of  both  your  bloods. 
Currents  that  spring  from  one  most  gracious  head ; 
And  by  the  buried  hand  of  warlike  Gaunt ; 
And  by  the  worth  and  honour  of  himself, 
Comprising  all  that  may  be  sworn  or  said,  — 
His  coming  hither  hath  no  further  seope, 
Than  for  his  lineal  royalties,  and  to  beg 
Enfranchisement  immediate  on  his  knees  : 
Which  on  thy  royal  party  granted  once, 
His  glittering  arms  he  will  commend  to  rust, 
His  barbed  steeds  to  stables,  and  his  heart 
To  faithful  service  of  your  majesty. 
This  swears  he,  as  he  is  a  prince,  is  just; 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  credit  him. 

K.  Rich.   Northumberland,  say,  —  thus  the  king 

returns 

His  noble  cousin  is  right  welcome  hither ; 
And  all  the  number  of  his  fair  demands 
Shall  be  accomplish'd  without  contradiction  ; 
With  all  the  gracious  utterance  thou  hast. 
Speak  to  his  gentle  hearing  kind  commends.  — 
We  do  debase  ourself,  cousin,  do  we  not, 

[To  Aumerle. 
To  look  so  poorly,  and  to  speak  so  fair  ? 
Shall  we  call  back  Northumberland,  and  send 
Defiance  to  the  traitor,  and  so  die  ? 

Aum.   No,  my  good  lord ;  let's  fight  with  gentle 

words, 
Till  time   lend  friends,  and  friends  their   helpful 

swords. 
K.  Rich.  Merciful  heaven,  that  e'er  this  tongue  of 

mine. 
That  laid  the  sentence  of  dread  banishment 
On  yon  proud  man,  should  take  it  off  again 
With  words  of  sooth  !  9  O,  that  I  were  as  great 
As  is  my  grief,  or  lesser  than  my  name  ! 
Or  that  I  could  forget  what  I  have  been ! 
Or  not  remember  what  I  must  be  now ! 
Swell'st  thou,  proud  heart  ?     I'll  give  thee  scope  to 

beat. 
Since  foes  have  scope  to  beat  both  thee  and  me. 
Aum,  Northumberland  comes  back  from  Boling- 
broke. 
K.  Rich.   What  must  the  king  do  now  ?  Must  he 

submit? 
The  king  shall  do  it.     Must  he  be  depos'd  ? 
I'he  king  shall  be  contented :   must  he  lose 
9  Softness. 


I 


Scene  III. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


367 


I 


The  name  of  king?  o' God's  name,  let  it  go  : 

I'll  give  my  jewels  for  a  set  of  beads  ; 

My  gorgeous  palace,  for  a  hermitage ; 

My  gay  apparel,  for  an  alms-man's  gown ; 

My  figur'd  goblets  for  a  dish  of  wood  ; 

My  scepter,  for  a  palmer's  walking-staff; 

My  subjects,  for  a  pair  of  carved  saints ; 

And  my  large  kingdom,  for  a  little  grave, 

A  little,  little  grave,  an  obscure  grave :  — 

Or  I'll  be  buried  in  the  king's  highway. 

Some  way  of  common  trade  where  subjects'  feet 

May  hourly  trample  on  their  sovereign's  head  : 

For  on  my  heart  they  tread,  now  whilst  I  live  ; 

And,  buried  once,  why  not  upon  my  head  '  — — 

Aumerle,  thouweep'st;Mytender-heaitedcousm  !— 

We'll  make  foul  weather  with  despised  tear  ^ ; 

Our  sighs,  and  they,  shall  lodge  the  summer  corn, 

And  make  a  dearth  in  this  revolting  land. 

Or  shall  we  play  the  wantons  with  our  woes. 

And  make  some  pretty  match  with  shedding  tears ; 

As  thus  ;  —  To  drop  them  still  upon  one  place, 

Till  they  have  fretted  us  a  pair  of  graves 

Within  the  earth  ;  and  therein  laid,  —  There  lies 

Two  kinsmeih  digged  their  graves  with  weeping  eyes  ? 
Would  not  this  ill  do  well?—  Well,  well,  I  see 
I  talk  but  idly,  and  you  mock  at  me.  — 
Most  mighty  prince,  my  lord  Northumberland, 
What  says  king  Bolingbroke  ?  will  his  majesty 

Give  Richard  leave  to  live  till  Richard  die  ? 

You  make  a  leg  ',  and  Bolingbroke  says — ay. 
North.  My  lord,  in  the  base -'  court  he  doth  attend, 

To  speak  with  you ;  may't  please  you  to  come  down  ? 
A'.  Rich.    Down,  down,  I  come ;  like  glistering 
Phaeton, 

Wanting  the  manage  of  unruly  jades. 

[North,  retires  to  Boling. 

In  the  base  court?  Base  court,  where  kings  grow  base^ 

To  come  at  traitors'  calls,  and  do  them  grace. 

In  the  base  court?  Come  down?  Down,  court! 
down,  king ! 

For  night-owls  shriek,  where  mounting  larks  should 
sing.  {Exeunt,  from  above. 

Boling.     What  says  his  majesty  ? 
North.  Sorrow  and  grief  of  heart 

Mtdtes  him  speak  fondly,  like  a  frantick  man  : 

Yet  he  is  come. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  his  Attendants,  below. 

Boling,   Stand  all  apart. 

And  show  fair  duty  to  his  majesty. 

My  gracious  lord,  —  [Kjieeling. 

K.  Rich.    Fair  cousin,  you  debase  your  princely 
knee. 
To  make  the  base  earth  proud  with  kissing  it : 
Me  rather  had,  my  heart  might  feel  your  love. 
Than  my  unpleas'd  eye  see  your  courtesy. 
Up,  cousin,  up :  yovu"  heart  is  up,  I  know, 
ITius  high  at  least,  [Touching  his  own  head.]  al- 
though your  knee  be  low. 
Boling.  My  gracious  lord,  I  come  but  for  mine  own. 
X.  Rich.  Your  own  is  yours,  and  I  am  yours,  and  all. 
Boling.   So  far  be  mine,  my  most  redoubted  lord, 
As  my  true  service  shall  deserve  your  love. 

X.  Rich.  Well  you  deserve  :  —  They  well  deserve 
to  have. 
That  know  the  strong'st  and  surest  way  to  get,  — 
Uncle,  give  me  your  hand  :   nay,  dry  your  eyes; 
Tears  show  their  love,  but  want  tlieir  remedies.  — 
Cousin,  I  am  too  young  to  be  your  father, 
I   A  tw«.  *  Lower, 


Though  you  are  old  enough  to  be  my  heir. 
What  you  will  have,  I'll  give,  and  willing  too ; 
For  do  we  must,  wliat  force  will  have  us  do.  — 
Set  on  towards  London  :    Cousin,  is  it  so? 

Boling.   Yea,  my  good  lord. 

JST.   Rich.  Then  I  must  not  say,  no. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Langley.     The  Duke  of  York's 
Garden. 

Enter  the  Queen,  and  two  Ladies. 
Queen.   What  sport  shall  we  devise  here  in  this 
garden, 
To  drive  away  the  heavy  thought  of  care  ? 
1  Lady.  Madam,  well  play  at  bowls. 
Queen.  'Twill  make  me  think, 

Tlie  world  is  full  of  rubs,  and  that  my  fortune 
Runs  'gainst  the  bias. 

I  Lady.  Madam,  we  will  dance. 

Queen.   My  legs  can  keep  no  measure  in  delight. 
When  my  poor  heart  no  measure  keeps  in  grief: 
Therefore,  no  dancing,  girl ;  some  other  sport. 
1  Lady.  Madam,  we'll  tell  tales. 
Queen.  Of  sorrow,  or  of  joy  ? 

1  Lady.   Of  either,  madam. 
Queen.  Of  neither,  girl : 

For  if  of  joy,  being  altogether  wanting. 
It  doth  remember  me  the  more  of  sorrow  ; 
Or  if  of  grief,  being  altogether  had, 
It  adds  more  sorrow  to  my  want  of  joy : 
For  what  I  have,  I  need  not  to  repeat ; 
And  what  I  want,  it  boots  not  to  complain. 
1  Lady.   Madam,  I'll  sing. 

Queen,.  'Tis  well  that  thou  hast  cause ; 

But  thou  shouldst  please  me  better,  wouldst  thou 
weep. 
1  Lady.  I  could  weep,  madam,  would  it  do  you 

good. 
Qxieen.   And  I  could  weep,  would  weeping  do  me 
good, 
And  never  borrow  any  tear  of  thee. 
But  stay,  here  come  the  gardeners  : 
Let's  step  into  the  shadow  of  these  trees.  — 

Enter  a  Gardener,  and  two  Servants. 
My  wretchedness  unto  a  row  of  pins. 
They'll  talk  of  state  ;  for  every  one  doth  so 
Against  a  change :   Woe  is  forerun  with  woe. 

[Queen  and  Ladies  retire. 

Gard.   Go,  bind  thou  up  yon'  dangling  apricocks, 
Which,  like  unruly  children,  make  their  sire 
Stoop  with  oppression  of  their  prodigal  weight : 
Give  some  supportance  to  the  bending  twigs.  — 
Go  thou,  and  like  an  executioner. 
Cut  off  the  heads  of  too-fast-growing  sprays. 
That  look  too  lofty  in  our  commonwealth  : 

All  must  be  even  in  our  government, 

You  thus  employ 'd,  I  will  go  root  away 
The  noisome  weeds,  tliat  without  profit  suck 
The  soil's  fertility  from  wholesome  flowers. 

1  Serv.   Why  should  we,  in  the  compass  of  a  pale, 
Keep  law,  and  form,  and  due  proportion, 
Showing,  as  in  a  model,  our  firm  estate  ? 
When  our  sea-walled  garden,  the  whole  land. 
Is  full  of  weeds  ;  her  fairest  flowers  chok'd  up, 
Her  fruit-trees  all  unprun'd,  her  hedges  ruin'd. 
Her  knots  3  disorder'd,  and  her  wholesome  herbs 
Swarming  with  caterpillars  ? 

3  Figuret  planted  in  a  box. 


S68 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  IV 


Card.  Hold  thy  peace  :  — 

He  that  hath  suffer'd  this  disorder'd  spring, 
Hath  now  himself  met  with  the  fall  of  leaf : 
The  weeds,    that    his    broad-spreading  leaves  did 

shelter. 
That  seem'd  in  eating  him  to  hold  him  up. 
Are  pluck'd  up,  root  and  all,  by  Bolingbroke ; 
I  mean  tlie  earl  of  Wiltshire,  Bushy,  Green. 

1  Serv.   What,  are  they  dead? 

Gard.  They  are  ;  and  Bolingbroke 

Hath  seiz'd  the  wasteful  king.  —  Oh  !   What  pity 

is  it. 
That  he  had  not  so  trimm'd  and  dress'd  his  land. 
As  we  this  garden  !   We  at  time  of  year 
Do  wound  the  bark,  the  skin  of  our  fruit-trees  ; 
Lest,  being  over-proud  with  sap  and  blood. 
With  too  much  riches  it  confound  itself: 
Had  he  done  so  to  great  and  growing  men, 
They  might  have  liv'd  to  bear,  and  he  to  taste 
Their  fruits  of  duty.      All  superfluous  branches 
We  lop  away,  that  bearing  boughs  may  live  : 
Had  he  done  so,  himself  had  borne  the  crown, 
Which  waste  of  idle  hours  hath  quite  thrown  down. 

1  Serv.   What,  think  you  then,  the  king  shall  be 
depos'd  ? 

Gard.   Depress'd  he  is  already ;  and  depos'd, 
'Tis  doubt,  he  will  be :   Letters  came  last  night 
To  a  dear  friend  of  the  good  duke  of  York's, 
That  tell  black  tidings. 

Queen.  O,  I  am  press'd  to  death, 

Through  want  of  speaking  !  —  Thou,  old  Adam's 

likeness,      [Coming  fy-om  her  concealment. 

Set  to  dress  tWs  garden,  how  dares 

Tliy  harsh-rude  tongue  sound  this  unpleasing  news  ? 


Why  dost  thou  say,  king  Richard  is  depos'd  ? 
Dar'st  thou,  thou  little  better  thing  than  earth, 
Divine  his  downfal  ?  Say,  where,  when  and  how, 
Cam'st  thou  by  these  ill  tidings  ?  speak,  thou  wretch. 

Gard.   Pardon  me,  madam  :   little  joy  have  I, 
To  breathe  this  news ;  yet,  what  I  say,  is  true. 
King  Richard,  he  is  in  the  mighty  hold 
Of  Bolingbroke ;  their  fortunes  both  are  weigh'd  : 
In  your  lord's  scale  is  nothing  but  himself. 
And  some  few  vanities  that  make  him  light ; 
I^ut  in  the  balance  of  great  Bolingbroke, 
Besides  himself,  are  all  the  English  peers. 
And  with  that  odds  he  weighs  king  Richard  down. 
Post  you  to  London,  and  you'll  find  it  so ; 
1  speak  no  more  than  every  man  doth  know. 

Queen.  Nimble  mischance,  that  art  so  light  of  foot, 
Doth  not  thy  embassage  belong  to  me, 
And  am  I  last  that  knows  it?   O,  thou  think'st 
To  serve  me  last,  that  I  may  longest  keep 
Thy  sorrow  in  my  breast.  —  Come,  ladies,  go. 
To  meet  at  London  London's  king  in  woe.  — 
What,  was  I  born  to  this  !  that  my  sad  look 
Should  grace  the  triumph  of  great  Bolingbroke  ? 
Gardener,  for  telling  me  this  news  of  woe, 
I  would  the  plants  thou  graft'st  may  never  grow. 

[Exeunt  Queen  and  Ladies. 

Gard.   Poor  queen  !  so  that  thy  state  might  be  no 
worse, 
I  would,  my  skill  were  subject  to  thy  curse.  — 
Here  did  she  drop  a  tear ;  here,  in  this  place, 
I'll  set  a  bank  of  rue,  sour  herb  of  grace : 
Rue,  even  for  ruth,  here  shortly  shall  be  seen, 
In  the  remembrance  of  a  weeping  queen. 

[Exeunt, 


I 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. —London.     Westminster- Hall. 

The  Lords  Spintual  on  the  right  side  of  the  Throne ; 
the  Lords  Temporal  on  the  left;  the  Commons  he- 
low.  Enter  Bolingbroke,  Aumerle,  Surrey, 
Northumberland,  Percy,  Fitzwater,  another 
Lord,  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  Abbot  of  West- 
minster, and  Attendants.  Officers  behind,  with 
Bagot. 

Baling.   Call  forth  Bagot : 

Now,  Bagot,  freely  speak  thy  mind  ; 
What  thou  dost  know  of  noble  Gloster's  death  ; 
Who  wrought  it  with  the  king,  and  who  perform'd 
The  bloody  office  of  his  timeless  end  ? 

Bagot.   Then  set  before  my  face  the  lord  Aumerle. 

Baling.   Cousin,  stand  forth,  and  look  upon  that 
man. 

Bagot.   My  lord  Aumerle,  I  know  your  daring 
tongue 
Scorns  to  unsay  what  once  it  hath  deliver'd. 
In  that  dead  time  when  Gloster's  death  was  plotted, 
I  heard  you  say,  —  Is  not  my  arm  of  length, 
That  reachethfrom  the  restful  English  court 
As  far  as  Calais,  to  my  uncles  head  ? 
Amongst  much  other  talk,  that  very  time, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  had  rather  refuse 
The  offer  of  an  hundred  thousand  crowns. 
Than  Bolingbroke's  return  to  England  ; 
Adding  withal,  how  blest  this  land  would  be, 
In  this  your  cousin's  death. 


Aum.  Princes,  and  noble  lords. 

What  answer  shall  I  make  to  this  base  man  ? 
Shall  I  so  much  dishonour  my  fair  stars, 
On  equal  terms  to  give  him  chastisement  ? 
Either  I  must,  or  have  mine  honour  soil'd 

With  tlie  attainder  of  his  sland'rous  lips. 

There  is  my  gage,  the  manual  seal  of  death. 
That  marks  thee  out  for  hell :    I  say,  thou  liest. 
And  will  maintain,  what  thou  hast  said,  is  false. 
In  thy  heart-blood,  though  being  all  too  base 
To  stain  the  temper  of  my  knightly  sword. 

Baling.    Bagot,  forbear,  thou  shalt  not  take  it  up. 

Aum.    Excepting  one,  I  would  he  were  the  best 
In  all  this  presence,  that  hath  mov'd  me  so. 

Fitz.    If  that  thy  valour  stand  on  sympathies, 
There  is  my  gage,  Aumerle,  in  gage  to  tliine  : 
By  that  fair  sun  that  shows  me  where  thou  stand'st, 
I  heard  thee  say,  and  vauntingly  thou  spak'st  it, 
That  thou  wert  cause  of  noble  Gloster's  death. 
If  thou  deny'st  it,  twenty  times  thou  liest ; 
And  I  will  turn  thy  falsehood  to  thy  heart. 
Where  it  was  forged,  with  my  rapier's  point. 

Aum.  Thou  dar'st  not,  coward,  live  to  see  that  day. 

Fitz.   Now,  by  my  soul,  I  would  it  were  this  hour. 

Aum..    Fitzwater,  thou  art  doom'd  to  hell  for  this. 

Percy.  Aumerle,  thou  liest ;  his  honour  is  as  true, 
In  this  appeal,  as  tliou  art  all  unjust : 
And,  that  thou  art  so,  there  I  throw  my  gage, 
To  prove  it  on  thee  to  the  extremest  point 
Of  mortal  breathing  ;  seize  it,  if  thou  dar'st. 


Scene  I. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


369 


Aum.   And  if  I  do  not,  may  my  hands  rot  off, 
And  never  brandish  more  revengeful  steel 
Over  the  glittering  helmet  of  my  foe  ! 

Lord.    I  take  the  earth  to  the  like,  forsworn  Au- 
merle ; 
And  spur  thee  on  with  full  as  many  lies 
As  may  be  hoUa'd  in  thy  treacherous  ear 
From  sun  to  sun  :   there  is  my  honour's  pawn  ; 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Aum.   Who  sets  me  else?  by  heaven,  I'll  throw 
at  all : 
I  have  a  thousand  spirits  in  one  breast, 
To  answer  twenty  thousand  such  as  you. 

Surrey.   My  lord  Fitzwater,  I  do  remember  well 
The  very  time  Aumerle  and  you  did  talk. 

Fitx.  My  lord, 'tis  true:  you  were  in  presence  then; 
And  you  can  witness  with  me,  this  is  true. 

Surrey.  As  false,  by  heaven,  as  heaven  itself  is  true. 

Fitz.  Surrey,  thou  liest. 

Surrey.  Dishonourable  boy  ! 

That  lie  shall  lie  so  heavy  on  my  sword. 
That  it  shall  render  vengeance  and  revenge, 
Till  thou  the  lie-giver,  and  that  lie,  do  lie 
In  earth  as  quiet  as  thy  father's  skull. 
J  n  proof  whereof,  there  is  my  honour's  pawn  ; 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Fitz.   How  fondly  dost  thou  spur  a  forward  horse ! 
If  I  dare  eat,  or  drink,  or  breathe,  or  live, 
I  dare  meet  Surrey  in  a  wilderness. 
And  spit  upon  him,  whilst  I  say,  belies. 
And  lies,  and  lies :   there  is  my  bond  of  faith. 
To  tie  thee  to  my  strong  correction.  — 
As  I  intend  to  tlirive  in  this  new  world, 
Aumerle  is  guilty  of  my  true  appeal : 
Besides,  I  heard  the  banish'd  Norfolk  say, 
Tiiat  tliou,  Aumerle,  didst  send  two  of  thy  men 
To  execute  the  noble  duke  at  Calais. 

Auvi.  Some  lionest  Christian  trust  me  with  a  gage. 
That  Noi-folk  lies :   here  do  I  throw  down  this. 
If  he  may  be  repeal'd  to  try  his  honour. 

Holing.  These  differences  shall  all  rest  under  gage. 
Till  Norfolk  be  repeal'd  :   repeal'd  he  shall  be, 
And,  though  mine  enemy,  restor'd  again 
To  all  his  land  and  signories  ;  when  he's  return'd. 
Against  Aumerle  we  will  enforce  his  trial. 

Car.   That  honourable  day  shall  ne'er  be  seen.  — 
Many  a  time  hath  banish'd  Norfolk  fought 
For  Jesu  Christ ;  in  glorious  Christian  field 
Streaming  the  ensign  of  the  Christian  cross. 
Against  black  Pagans,  Turks,  and  Saracens  : 
And,  toil'd  with  works  of  war,  retir'd  himself 
To  Italy  ;  and  there  at  Venice,  gave 
His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth. 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  his  captain  Christ, 
Under  whose  colours  he  had  fought  so  long. 

Baling.   Why,  bishop,  is  Norfolk  dead  ? 

Car.    As  sure  as  I  live,  my  lord. 

Holing.   Sweet  peace  conduct  his  s'weet  soul  to 
the  bosom 
Of  good  old  Abraham  !  —  Lords  appellants. 
Your  differences  shall  all  rest  under  gage, 
Till  we  assign  you  to  your  days  of  trial. 

Enter  York,  attended. 
York.   Great  duke  of  Lancaster,  I  come  to  tliee 
Fromplume-piuck'd  Richard  ;  who  with  willing  soul 
Adopts  thee  heir,  and  his  Iiigh  scepter  yields 
To  the  possession  of  thy  royal  hand  : 
Ascend  his  throne,  descending  now  from  him,  — 
And  long  live  Henry,  of  that  name  the  fourth  ! 


Boling.  In  God's  name,  I'll  ascend  the  regal  throne. 

Car.   Marry,  God  forbid  !  — 
Worst  in  this  royal  presence  may  I  speak, 
Yet  best  beseeming  me  to  speak  the  truth. 
Would  God,  tliat  any  in  tliis  noble  presence 
Were  enough  noble  to  be  upright  judge 
Of  noble  Richard  ;  then  true  nobless  would 
Learn  him  forbearance  from  so  foul  a  wrong. 
What  subject  can  give  sentence  on  his  king  ? 
And  who  sits  here,  that  is  not  Richard's  subject? 
Thieves  are  not  judg'd,  but  they  are  by  to  hear. 
Although  apparent  guilt  be  seen  in  them; 
And  shall  the  figure  of  God's  majesty. 
His  captain,  steward,  deputy  elect. 
Anointed,  crowned,  planted  many  years. 
Be  judg'd  by  subject  and  inferior  breath. 
And  he  himself  not  present  ?  O,  forbid  it,  God, 
That,  in  a  Christian  climate,  souls  refin'd 
Should  show  so  heinous,  black,  obscene  a  deed  ! 
I  speak  to  subjects,  and  a  subject  speaks, 
Stirr'd  up  by  heaven  thus  boldly  for  his  king. 
My  lord  of  Hereford  here,  whom  you  call  king, 
Is  a  foul  traitor  to  proud  Hereford's  king  : 
And  if  you  crown  him,  let  me  prophesy, — 
The  blood  of  English  shall  manure  the  ground. 
And  future  ages  groan  for  this  foul  act ; 
Peace  shall  go  sleep  with  Turks  and  Infidels, 
And,  in  this  seat  of  peace,  tumultuous  wars 
Shall  kin  with  kin,  and  kind  with  kind  confound ; 
Disorder,  horror,  fear,  and  mutiny. 
Shall  here  inhabit,  and  this  land  be  call'd 
The  field  of  Golgotha,  and  dead  men's  skulls. 
O,  if  thou  rear  this  house  against  this  house, 
It  will  the  woefuUest  division  prove. 
That  ever  fell  upon  this  cursed  earth  : 
Prevent,  resist  it,  let  it  not  be  so. 
Lest  child,  child's  children,  cry,  against  you — woe  1 

North.   Well  have  you  argu'd,  sir  ;  and,  for  your 
pains. 
Of  capital  treason  we  arrest  you  here  : 
My  lord  of  Westminster,  be  it  your  charge 
To  keep  him  safely  till  his  day  of  trial.  — 
May't  please  you,  lords,  to  grant  the  commons'  suit. 

Boling.  Fetch  hither Richard,that  in  common  view 
He  may  surrender  ;  so  we  shall  proceed 
Without  suspicion. 

York.  I  will  be  his  conduct.      [Extt. 

Boling.   Lords,  you  that  are  here  under  our  arrest. 
Procure  your  sureties  for  your  days  of  answer  :  — 
Little  are  we  beholden  to  your  love,   [  To  Carlisle. 
And  little  look'd  for  at  your  helping  hands. 

Re-enter  York,  with  King  Richard,  and  Officers 
bearing  the  Crown,  ^c. 
jr.  Rich.   Alack,  why  am  I  sent  for  to  a  king. 
Before  I  have  shook  off  the  regal  thoughts 
Wherewith  I  reign'd  ?   I  hardly  yet  have  leam'd 
To  insinuate,  flatter,  bow,  and  bend  my  knee :  — 
Give  sorrow  leave  a  while  to  tutor  me 
To  this  submission.      Yet  I  well  remember 
The  favours  *  of  tliese  men  :   Were  tliey  not  mine  ? 
Did  they  not  sometime  cry,  all  hail !  to  me  ?  — 
To  do  what  service  am  I  sent  for  hitlier  ? 

York.   To  do  that  office,  of  thine  own  good  will, 

Which  tired  majesty  did  make  thee  offer, 

The  resignation  of  thy  state  and  crown 
To  Henry  Bolingbroke. 

AT.  Rich.   Give  me  the  crown :  —  Here,  cousin, 
seize  the  crown ; 

<  Countenances. 
B  b 


370 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  IV.     Scene  I. 


Here,  on  this  side,  my  hand  ;  on  that  side,  thine. 
Now  is  this  golden  crown  like  a  deep  well, 
That  owes  *  two  buckets  filling  one  another; 
The  emptier  ever  dancing  in  the  air, 
The  other  down,  unseen,  and  full  of  water  : 
That  bucket  down,  and  full  of  tears,  am  1, 
Drinking  my  griefs,  whilst  you  mount  up  on  liigh. 

JBoling.  I  thought  you  had  been  willing  to  resign. 

A".  Bich.   My  crown,  I  am ;  but  still  my  griefs 
are  mine : 
You  may  my  glories  and  my  state  depose, 
But  not  my  grief;  still  am  I  king  of  those. 

Holing.   Part  of  your  cares  you  give  me  with  your 
crown. 

K.  Rich*   Your  cares  set  up    do  not  pluck  my 
cares  down. 
My  care  is  —  loss  of  care,  by  old  care  done ; 
Your  care  is  —  gain  of  care,  by  new  care  won  : 
The  cares  I  give,  I  have,  though  given  away ; 
They  tend  the  crown,  yet  still  with  me  they  stay 

Baling.  Are  you  contented  to  resign  the  crown  ? 

IT.  Rich.  Ay,  no; — no,  ay;  —  For  I  must  nothing 
be; 
Therefore  no  no,  for  I  resign  to  thee. 
Now  mark  me  how  I  will  undo  myself:  — 
I  give  this  heavy  weight  from  off  my  head, 
And  this  unwieldy  scepter  from  my  hand. 
The  pride  of  kingly  sway  from  out  my  heart ; 
With  mine  own  tears  1  wash  away  my  balm". 
With  mine  own  hands  I  give  away  my  crown. 
With  mine  own  tongue  deny  my  sacred  state, 
With  mine  own  breath  release  all  duteous- oaths  : 
All  pomp  and  majesty  I  do  forswear ; 
My  manors,  rents,  revenues,  I  forego ; 
My  acts,  decrees,  and  statutes,  I  deny : 
God  pardon  all  oaths,  that  are  broke  to  me  ! 
God  keep  all  vows  unbroke,  are  made  to  thee  ! 
Make  me,  that  nothing  have,  with  nothing  griev'd ; 
And  thou  with  all  pleas'd,  that  hast  all  achiev'd  ! 
Long  mayst  thou  live  in  Richard's  seat  to  sit, 
And  soon  lie  Richard  in  an  earthy  pit !  — 
God  save  king  Henry,  unking'd  Richard  says, 
And  send  him  many  years  of  sunshine  days  !  — 
What  more  remains  ? 

North.  No  more,  but  that  you  read 

[Ofering  a  Paper. 
These  accusations,  and  these  grievous  crimes, 
Committed  by  your  person,  and  your  followers. 
Against  the  state  and  profit  of  this  land  ; 
That,  by  confessing  them,  the  souls  of  men 
May  deem  that  you  are  worthily  depos'd. 

JT.  Rich.   Must  I  do  so?  and  must  I  ravel  out 
My  weav'd  up  follies  ?   Gentle  Northumberland, 
If  thy  offences  were  upon  record. 
Would  it  not  shame  thee  in  so  fair  a  troop, 
To  read  a  lecture  of  them  ?  If  thou  wouldst, 
There  shouldst  thou  find  one  heinous  article,  — 
Containing  the  deposing  of  a  king. 
And  cracking  the  strong  warrant  of  an  oath,  — 
Mark'd  with  a  blot,  mark'd  in  the  book  of  heaven  ;  — 
Nay,  all  of  you,  that  stand  and  look  upon  me, 
Whilst  that  my  wretchedness  doth  bait  myself,  — 
Though  some  of  you  are  showing  outward  pity. 
Have  here  deliver'd  me  to  my  sour  cross. 
And  water  cannot  wash  away  your  sin. 

North.  My  lord,  despatch  :   read  o'er  these  ar- 
ticles. 

K.  Rich.  Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  I  cannot  see  : 
And  yet  salt  water  blinds  them  not  so  much, 
*  Owns.  6  Oil  of  consecration. 


But  they  can  see  a  sort  7  of  traitors  here. 
Nay,  if  I  turn  mine  eyes  upon  myself, 
I  find  myself  a  traitor  with  the  rest ; 
For  I  have  given  here  my  soul's  consent, 
To  undeck  the  pompous  body  of  a  king ; 
Make  glory  base ;  and  sovereignty,  a  slave  ; 
Proud  majesty,  a  subject ;  state,  a  peasant. 

North.   My  lord, 

iT.  Rich.   No  lord  of  thine,  thou  haught,  insult- 
ing  man. 
Nor  no  man's  lord ;   I  have  no  name,  no  title,  — 
No,  not  that  name  was  given  me  at  the  font,  — 
But  'tis  usurp'd  :  —  Alack  the  heavy  day, 
That  I  have  worn  so  many  winters  out. 
And  know  not  now  what  name  to  call  myself ! 
O,  that  I  were  a  mockery  king  of  snow. 
Standing  before  the  sun  of  Bolingbroke, 
To  melt  myself  away  in  water-drops  !  — 
Good  king,  —  great  king,  —  (and  yet  not  greatly 

good,) 
An  if  my  word  be  sterling  yet  in  England 
Let  it  command  a  mirror  hither  straight ; 
That  it  may  show  me  what  a  face  I  have. 
Since  it  is  bankrupt  of  hi^  majesty. 

Baling.   Go,  some  of  you,  and  fetch  a  looking- 
glass.  [Exit  an  Attendant. 

North.  Read  o'er  this  paper,  while  the  glass  doth 
come. 

JT.  Rich.    Fiend  !  thou  torment'st  me. 

Baling.  Urge  it  no  more,  my  lord  Northumberland, 

North.   The  commons  will  not  then  be  satisfied. 

A".  Rich.  They  shall  be  satisfied:  I'll  read  enough, 
When  I  do  see  the  very  book  indeed 
Where  all  my  sins  are  writ,  and  that's  myself.  — 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  a  Glass. 
Give  me  that  glass,  and  therein  will  I  read.  — 
No  deeper  wrinkles  yet  ?  Hath  sorrow  struck 
So  many  blows  upon  this  face  of  mine. 
And  made  no  deeper  wounds?  —  O,  flattering  glass, 
Like  to  my  followers  in  prosperity. 
Thou  dost  beguile  me  !   Was  this  face  the  face. 
That  every  day  under  his  household  roof 
Did  keep  ten  thousand  men  ?  Was  this  the  face. 
That,  like  the  sun,  did  make  beholders  wink  ? 
Was  this  the  face,  that  fac'd  so  many  follies. 
And  was  at  last  out-fac'd  by  Bolingbroke  ? 
A  brittle  glory  shineth  in  this  face : 
As  brittle  as  the  glory  is  the  face ; 

[Basheth  the  Glass  against  the  ground. 
For  there  it  is,  crack'd  in  a  hundred  shivers.  — 
Mark,  silent  king,  the  moral  of  this  sport,  — 
How  soon  my  sorrow  hath  destroy'd  my  face. 

Baling.  The  shadow  of  your  sorrow  hath  destroy'd 
The  shadow  of  your  face. 

IT.  Rich.  Say  that  again. 

The  shadow  of  my  sorrow  ?  Ha  !  let's  see  :  — 
'Tis  very  true,  my  grief  lies  all  within ; 
And  these  external  manners  of  lament 
Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief. 
That  swells  with  silence  in  the  tortur'd  soul ; 
There  lies  the  substance  :   and  I  thank  thee,  king, 
For  thy  great  bounty,  that  not  only  giv'st 
Me  cause  to  wail,  but  teachest  me  the  way 
How  to  lament  the  cause.      I'll  beg  one  boon. 
And  then  be  gone,  and  trouble  you  no  more. 
Shall  I  obtain  it  ? 

Boling.  Name  it,  fair  cousin. 

K.  Rich.    Fair  cousin  ?  Why,  I  am  greater  than 
a  king : 

^  Pack. 


I 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


I 


For,  when  I  was  a  king,  my  flatterers 
Were  then  but  subjects  ;  being  now  a  subject, 
I  have  a  king  here  to  my  flatterer. 
Being  so  great,  I  have  no  need  to  beg. 
Boling.    Yet  ask. 
K.  Rich.   And  shall  I  have  ? 
Boling.   You  shall. 
K.  Rich.   Then  give  me  leave  to  go. 
Boling.   Whither? 
K.  Rich.   Wliither  you  will,  so  I  were  from  your 

sights. 
Boling,  Go,  some  of  you,  convey  him  to  the  Tower. 
K.  Rich.  O,  good  !   Convey  ?  —  Conveyers  8  are 
you  all, 
That  rise  tlius  nimbly  by  a  true  king's  fall. 

[Exeunt  Kino  Richard,  some  Lords,  and 
a  Guard. 


371 

Doling.  On  Wednesday  next,  we  solemnly  set  down 
Our  coronation  :   lords,  prepare  yourselves. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  Abbot,  Bishop  ok 
Carlisle,  and  Aosierlk. 

j4bbot.    A  woeful  pageant  have  we  here  beheld. 

Car.  The  woe's  to  come  ;  the  children  yet  unborn 
Shall  feel  this  day  as  sharp  to  them  as  thorn. 

Aitm.   You  holy  clergymen,  is  there  no  plot 
To  rid  the  realm  of  this  pernicious  blot  ? 

Abbot.    Before  I  freely  speak  my  mind  herein, 
You  shall  not  only  take  the  sacrament 
To  bury  mine  intents,  but  to  effect 

Whatever  I  shall  happen  to  devise  : 

I  see  your  brows  are  full  of  discontent, 
Your  hearts  of  sorrow,  and  your  eyes  of  tears  ; 
Come  home  with  me  to  supper ;  I  will  lay 
A  plot,  shall  show  us  all  a  merry  day.       ^  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— London.  A  Street  leading  to  the  Tower. 
Enter  Queen,  and  Ladies. 

Queen.  This  way  the  king  will  come;  this  is  the  way 
To  Julius  Caesar's  ill-erected  tower  9, 
To  whose  flint  bosom  my  condemned  lord 
Is  doom'd  a  prisoner,  by  proud  Bolingbroke  : 
Here  let  us  rest,  if  this  rebellious  earth 
Have  any  resting  for  her  true  king's  queen. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  Guards. 
But  soft,  but  see,  or  rather  do  not  see. 
My  fair  rose  wither :   Yet  look  up  ;  behold ; 
That  you  in  pity  may  dissolve  to  dew. 

And  wash  him  fresh  again  with  true-love  tears. 

Ah,  thou,  the  model  where  old  Troy  did  stand ; 
Thou  map  of  honour;  thou  king  Richard's  tomb. 
And  not  king  Richard  ;  thou  most  beauteous  inn. 
Why  should  hard-favour'd  grief  be  lodg'd  in  thee, 
When  triumph  is  become  an  ale-house  guest  ? 

K.  Rich.  Join  not  with  grief,  fair  woman,  do  not  so. 
To  make  my  end  too  sudden  :   learn,  good  soul, 
To  think  our  former  state  a  happy  dream  ; 
From  which  awak'd,  the  truth  of  what  we  are 
Shows  us  but  this  :   I  am  sworn  brother,  sweet, 
To  grim  necessity  ;  and  he  and  I 
Will  keep  a  league  till  death.     Hie  tliee  to  France, 
And  cloister  thee  in  some  religious  house : 
Our  holy  lives  must  win  a  new  worid's  crown. 
Which  our  profane  hours  here  have  stricken  down. 

Queen.  What,  is  my  Richard  both  in  shape  and 
mind 
Transform'd,  and  weaken'd?   Hath  Bolingbroke 
Depos'd  thine  intellect?  hath  he  been  in  thy  heart  ? 
Tlie  lion,  dying,  thrusteth  forth  his  paw, 
And  wounds  the  earth,  if  nothing  else,  with  rage^ 
To  be  o'en)ower'd  ;  and  wilt  thou,  pupil-like, 
TaKe  thy  correction  mildly  ?  kiss  the  rod. 
And  fawn  on  rage  with  base  humility, 
Which  art  a  lion,  and  a  king  of  beasts? 

K.  Rich.   A  king  of  beasts,  indeed  !  if  aught  but 
beasts, 
I  had  been  still  a  happy  king  of  men. 
Good    sometime    queen,    prepare    thee   hence    for 
France  : 


Jugglers,  also  robbers. 


•  Tower  of  London. 


Think,  I  am  dead ;  and  that  even  here  thou  tak'st, 

As  from  my  death-bed,  my  last  living  leave. 

In  winter's  tedious  nights,  sit  by  the  fire. 

With  good  old  folks ;  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 

Of  woeful  ages,  long  ago  betid : 

And,  ere  thou  bid  good  night,  to  quit '  their  grief. 

Tell  thou  the  lamentable  fall  of  me. 

And  send  the  hearers  weeping  to  their  beds. 

For  why,  the  senseless  brands  will  sympathize 

The  heavy  accent  of  thy  moving  tongue. 

And,  in  compassion,  weep  tlie  fire  out: 

And  some  will  mourn  in  ashes,  some  coal-black. 

For  the  deposing  of  a  rightful  king. 

Enter  Northumberland,  attended. 

North.   My  lord,  the   mind  of  Bolingbroke   is 
chang'd  ; 

You  must  to  Pomfret,  not  unto  the  Tower 

And,  madam,  there  is  order  ta'en  for  you  ; 
With  all  swift  speed  you  must  away  to  France. 

K.  Rich.   Northumberland,   thou  ladder   where- 
witlial 
The  mounting  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne,  — 
The  time  shall  not  be  many  hours  of  age 
More  than  it  is,  ere  foul  sin,  gathering  head. 
Shall  break  into  corruption  :   thou  shalt  think. 
Though  he  divide  the  realm,  and  give  thee  half. 
It  is  too  little,  helping  him  to  all ; 
And  he  shall  think,  that  thou,  which  know'st  the  way 
To  plant  unrightful  kings,  wilt  know  again. 
Being  ne'er  so  little  urg'd,  auotiier  way 
To  pluck  him  headlong  from  tlie  usurped  throne. 
The  love  of  wicked  friends  converts  to  fear ; 
That  fear,  to  hate ;  and  hate  turns  one,  or  both, 
To  worthy  danger,  and  deserved  death. 

North.  My  guilt  be  on  my  head,  and  there  an  end. 
Take  leave,  and  part ;  for  you  must  part  forthwith. 
K.  Rich.  Doubly  divorc'd  ?  —  Bad  men,  ye  violatt^ 
A  two-fold  marriage  ;   'twixt  my  crow  n  and  me  ; 
And  then,  betwixt  me  and  my  marrieil  wife.  — 
Let  me  unkiss  tlie  oath  'twixt  thee  and  me  ; 
And  yet  not  so,  for  with  a  kiss  'twas  made.  — 
Part  us,  Northumberland  ;   I  towards  the  north, 
Where  shivering  cold  and  sickness  pines  the  clime ; 
My  wife  to  France ;  from  whence,  set  forth  in  pomp, 

'  Requite,  repay. 
Bb   2 


S72 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  V. 


She  came  adorned  hither  like  sweet  May, 
Sent  back  like  Hallowmas  *,  or  short'st  of  day. 
Queen.  And  must  we  be  divided  ?  must  we  part  ? 
K.  Rich.  Ay,  hand  from  hand,  my  love,  and  heart 

from  heart. 
Queen.  Banish  us  both, and  send  the  king  with  me. 
-    North.   That  were  some  love,  but  little  policy. 
Queen.  Then  whither  he  goes,  thither  let  me  go. 
IT.  Rich.  So  two,  together  weeping,  make  one  woe. 
Weep  thou  for  me  in  France,  1  for  thee  here  ; 
Better  far  off,  than  —  near,  be  ne'er  the  near'. 
Go,  count  thy  way  with  sighs ;   I,  mine  with  groans. 
Queen.    So  longest  way  shall  have  the  longest 

moans. 
jr.  Rick.   Twice  for  one  step  I'll  groan,  the  way 
being  short. 
And  piece  the  way  out  with  a  heavy  heart. 
Come,  come,  in  wooing  sorrow,  let's  be  brief. 
Since,  wedding  it,  there  is  such  length  in  grief. 
One  kiss  shall  stop  our  mouths,  and  dumbly  part ; 
Thus  give  I  mine,  and  thus  I  take  thy  heart. 

[Thei/  kiss. 
Queen.  Give  me  mine  own  again  ;  'twere  no  good 
part, 
To  take  on  me  to  keep  and  kill  thy  heart. 

[ITiss  again. 
So,  now  I  have  mine  own  again,  begone, 
That  I  may  strive  to  kill  it  with  a  groan. 

IT.  Rich.   We  make  woe  wanton  with  this  fond 
delay : 
Once  more  adQeu ;  the  rest  let  sorrow  say. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE   II.  —  The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Duke 
of  York's  Palace. 
Enter  York,  and  his  Duchess. 
Duch.   My  lord,  you  told  me,  you  would  tell  the 
rest, 
When  weeping  made  you  break  the  story  off. 
Of  our  two  cousins  coming  into  London. 
York.   Where  did  I  leave  ? 

Duch.  At  that  sad  stop,  my  lord. 

Where  rude  misgovern'd  hands,  from  windows'  tops. 
Threw  dust  and  rubbish  on  king  Richard's  head. 
York.   Then,  as  I  said,  the  duke,  great  Boling- 
broke,  — 
Mounted  upon  a-  hot  and  fiery  steed. 
Which  his  aspiring  rider  seem'd  to  know^  — 
With  slow,  but  stately  pace,  kept  on  his  course, 
While  all  tongues  cried  —  God  save  tliee,  Boling- 

broke  ! 
You  would  have  thought  the  very  windows  spake. 
So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and  old 
Through  casements  darted  their  desiring  eyes 
Upon  his  visage ;  and  that  all  the  walls. 
With  painted  imag'ry,  had  said  at  once,  — 
Jesu  preserve  thee  !  welcome,  Bolingbroke  : 
Whilst  he,  from  one  side  to  the  other  turning, 
Bareheaded,  lower  than  his  proud  steed's  neck, 
Bespake  them  thus,  —  I  thank  you,  countrjrmen  ; 
And  thus  still  doing,  thus  he  pass'd  along. 

Duch.   Alas,  poor  Richard !  where  rides  he  the 

while? 
York.   As,  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes  of  men. 
After  a  well-grac'd  actor  leaves  the  stage, 
Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next. 
Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious  : 
Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's  eyes 
Did  scowl  on  Richard ;  no  man  cried,  God  save  him ! 
No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  welcome  home  : 
2  Allhallows,  i.  e.  All-saints,  Nov.  1. 


But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sacred  head  ; 

Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  he  shook  off,  — 

His  face  still  combating  with  tears  and  smiles, 

The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience,  — 

That,  had  not  God,  for  some  strong  purpose,  steel'd 

The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have  melted, 

And  barbarism  itself  have  pitied  him. 

But  heaven  hath  a  hand  in  these  events  ; 

To  whose  high  will  we  bound  our  calm  contents. 

To  Bolingbroke  are  we  sworn  subjects  now, 

Whose  state  and  honour  I  for  aye  allow. 

Enter  Aumerle. 

Duch.   Here  comes  my  son  Aumerle. 

York.  Aumerle  that  was  ; 

But  that  is  lost,  for  being  Richard's  friend. 
And,  madam,  you  must  call  him  Rutland  now  : 
I  am  in  parliament  pledge  for  his  truth. 
And  lasting  fealty  to  the  new-made  king. 

Duch.  Welcome,  my  son :  Who  are  the  violets  now, 
That  strew  the  green  lap  of  the  new-come  spring  ? 

Aum.  Madam,  I  know  not,  nor  I  greatly  care  not: 
Heaven  knows,  I  had  as  lief  be  none,  as  one. 

York.   Well,  bear  you  well  in  this  new  spring  of 
time. 
Lest  you  be  cropp'd  before  you  come  to  prime. 
What  news  from  Oxford  ?   hold  those  justs  3  and 
triumphs  ? 

Aum.   For  aught  I  know,  my  lord,  they  do. 

York.   You  wUl  be  there,  I  know. 

Aum.    I  purpose  so. 

York.   What  seal  is  that,  that  hangs  without  thy 
bosom  ? 
Yea,  look'st  thou  pale?  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.   My  lord,  'tis  nothing. 

York.  No  matter  then  who  sees  it : 

I  will  be  satisfied,  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.    I  do  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me ; 
It  is  a  matter  of  small  consequence. 
Which  for  some  reasons  I  would  not  have  seen. 

York.  Which  for  some  reasons,  sir,  I  mean  to  see. 
I  fear,  I  fear, 

Duch.  What  should  you  fear  ? 

'Tis  nothing  but  some  bond  that  he  is  enter'd  into 
For  gay  apparel,  'gainst  the  triumph  day. 

York.  Bound  to  himself?  what  doth  he  with  a  bond 
That  he  is  bound  to  ?  Wife,  thou  art  a  fool.  — 
Boy,  let  mie  see  the  writing. 

Aum.   I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me  ;  I  may  not 
show  it. 

York.   I  will  be  satisfied;  let  me  see  it,  I  say. 

[Snatches  it,  and  reads. 
Treason  !  foul  treason  !  villain  !  traitor  !  slave  ! 

Duch.   What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 

York.  Ho  !  who  is  within  there  ?  [  Enter  a  Servant. 
Saddle  my  horse. 
Heaven  for  his  mercy  !  what  treachery  is  here ! 

Duch.   Why,  what  is  it,  my  lord  ? 

York.     Give   me  my  boots,   I  say ;    saddle   my 

horse : 

Now  by  mine  honour,  by  my  life,  my  troth, 

I  will  appeach  the  villain.  [Exit  Servant. 

Duch.  What's  the  matter? 

York.    Peace,  foolish  woman. 

Duch.   I  will  not  peace :  —  What  is  the  matter, 
son? 

Aum.   Good  mother,  be  content ;  it  is  no  more 
Than  my  poor  life  must  answer. 

Duch.  Thy  life  answer  ? 

3  Tilts  and  tournaments. 


Scene  III. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


373 


Jte-enlcr  Servant,  with  Boots. 
York.   Bring  me  my  boots,  I  will  unto  the  king. 
Duch.    Strike  him,  Aumcrle.  —  Poor  boy,  thou 
art  amaz'd : 
Hence,  villain  ;  never  more  come  in  my  sight.  — 

[  To  the  Sei-varU. 
York.    Give  me  my  boots,  I  say. 
Duch.   Why,  York,  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hide  the  trespass  of  thine  own  ? 
Have  we  more  sons  ?  or  are  we  like  to  have  ? 
And  wilt  thou  pluck  my  fair  son  from  mine  age, 
And  rob  me  of  a  happy  mother's  name? 
Is  he  not  like  thee  ?  is  he  not  tliine  own  ? 

York.   Thou  fond  mad  woman, 
Wilt  thou  conceal  this  dark  conspiracy  ? 
A  dozen  of  them  here  have  ta'en  the  sacrament, 
And  interchangeably  set  down  their  hands. 
To  kill  the  king  at  Oxford. 

I^uch.  He  shall  be  none  ; 

We'll  keep  him  here  :   Then  what  is  that  to  him  ? 

York.    Away, 
Fond  woman !  were  he  twenty  times  my  son, 
I  would  appeach  him. 

Duch.  Hadst  thou  groan'd  for  him. 

As  I  have  done,  thou'dst  be  more  pitiful. 

York.   Make  way,  unruly  woman.  \^Exit. 

Duch.  After,  Aumerle ;  mount  thee  uponhishorse; 
Spur,  post ;  and  get  before  him  to  tlje  king. 
And  beg  thy  pardon  ere  he  do  accuse  thee. 
I'll  not  belong  behind;  though  I  be  old, 
I  doubt  not  but  to  ride  as  fast  as  York  : 
And  never  will  I  rise  up  from  the  ground. 
Till  Bolingbroke  have  pardon'd  tliee  :    Away  : 
I^egone.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — Windsor.     A  Roo7n  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Bolingbroke,  as  ITing ;  PERcy,  and  other 
Lords. 

Holing.    Can  no  man  tell  of  my  unthrifty  son  ? 

'Tis  full  three  months  since  I  did  see  him  last :  

If  any  plague  hang  over  us,  'tis  he. 

T  would  to  heaven,  my  lords,  he  might  be  found  : 

Inquire  at  London,  'mongst  the  taverns  there, 

For  there,  they  say,  he  daily  doth  frequent, 

With  unrestrained  loose  companions ; 

Even  such,  they  say,  as  stand  in  narrow  lanes. 

And  beat  our  watch,  and  rob  our  passengers  ; 

While  he,  young,  wanton,  and  effeminate  boy. 

Takes  on  the  point  of  honour,  to  support 

So  dissolute  a  crew. 

Percy.   My  lord,  some  two  days  since  I  saw  the 
prince ; 
And  told  him  of  these  triumphs  held  at  Oxford. 

Baling.    And  what  said  the  gallant  ? 

Percy.    His  answer  was,  —  he  would  unto  the 
stews ; 
And  from  the  common'st  creature  pluck  a  glove, 
And  wear  it  as  a  favour ;  and  with  that 
He  would  unhorse  the  lustiest  challenger. 

Boling.   As  dissolute,  as  desperate  !    yet  through 
both 
I  see  some  sparkles  of  a  better  hope. 
Which  elder  days  may  happily  bring  forth. 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Aumerlk  hastily. 
Aum.  Where  is  the  king  ? 

Boling.  What  means 

Our  cousin,  tliat  he  stares  and  looks  so  wildly  ? 


^uni.    God  save  your  grace.      I  do  beseech  your 
majesty, 
To  have  some  conference  with  your  grace  alone. 
Baling.    Witlidraw  yourselves,  and  leave  us  here 

alone [Exeunt  Percy  and  Lards. 

What  is  the  matter  with  our  cousin  now  ? 

Aum.   For  ever  may  my  knees  grow  to  the  earth, 

[A^?ieels. 
My  tongue  cleave  to  my  roof  within  my  mouth. 
Unless  a  pardon,  ere  I  rise,  or  speak. 

Boling.   Intended,  or  committed,  was  this  fault? 
If  but  the  first,  how  heinous  e'er  it  be. 
To  win  thy  after-love,  I  pardon  thee. 

Aum.  Then  give  me  leave  that  I  may  turn  the  key. 
That  no  man  enter  till  my  tale  be  done. 
Boling.   Have  thy  desire. 

[Aumerle  locks  the  door. 
York.  [IFi/hin.]   My  liege,  beware;  look  to  thy- 
self; 
Thou  hast  a  traitor  in  thy  presence  there. 

Boling.   Villain,  I'll  make  thee  safe.      [Drawing. 
Aum.   Stay  thy  revengeful  hand  ; 
Thou  hast  no  cause  to  fear. 

York.    [Within.]    Open  the  door,   secure,  fool- 
hardy king  : 
Shall  I,  for  love,  speak  treason  in  thy  face  ? 
Open  the  door,  or  I  will  break  it  open. 

[Bolingbroke  opens  the  door. 
Enter  York. 
Boling.   What  is  the  matter,  uncle  ?  speak  ? 
Recover  breath ;  tell  us  how  near  is  danger, 
That  we  may  arm  us  to  encounter  it. 

York.    Peruse  this  writing  here,  and  thou  sbalt 
know 
The  treason  that  my  haste  forbids  me  show. 

Aum.  Remember,  as  thou  rcad'st,  thy  promise  past: 
I  do  repent  me ;  read  not  my  name  Uiere, 
My  heart  is  not  confederate  with  my  hand. 

York.   'Twas,   villain,    ere   thy  hand  did    set    it 
down.  — 
I  tore  it  from  the  traitor's  bosom,  king : 
Fear,  and  not  love,  begets  his  penitence : 
Forget  to  pity  him,  lest  thy  pity  prove 
A  serpent  that  will  sting  thee  to  the  heart. 

Boling.  O  heinous,  strong,  and  bold  conspiracy !  — 
O  loyal  father  of  a  treacherous  son  ! 
Thou  sheer  ^  immaculate,  and  silver  fountain, 
From  whence  this  stream  through  muddy  passages, 
Hath  held  his  current,  and  defil'd  himself ! 
Thy  overflow  of  good  converts  to  bad  ; 
And  thy  abundant  goodness  shall  excuse 
This  deadly  plot  in  thy  digressing  son. 

York.   So  shall  he  spend  mine  honour  with  his 
shame. 
As  thriftless  sons  their  scraping  fathers'  gold. 
Mine  honour  lives  when  his  dishonour  dies, 
Or  my  sham'd  life  in  his  dishonour  lies  ; 
Thou  kill'st  me  in  his  life ;  giving  him  breatli, 
The  traitor  lives,  tlie  true  man's  put  to  death. 
Duch.  [mthiTi.]   What  ho,  my  liege !  for  Hea- 
ven's sake  let  me  in. 
Boling.  What  shrill-voic'd  suppliant  makes  this 

eager  cry  ? 
Duch.  A  M'oman,and  lliine  aunt,  great  king ;  tis  I. 
Speak  with  me,  pity  me,  open  the  door ; 
A  beggar  begs,  tliat  never  begg'd  before^ 

Boling.  My  dangerous  cousin,  let  your  mother  in ; 
I  know  she's  come  to  pray  for  your  foul  sin. 

*  Transparent 
Bb  3 


374. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  V. 


York.   If  thou  do  pardon,  whosoever  pray. 
More  sins,  for  this  forgiveness,  prosper  may. 
This  fester'd  joint  cut  off,  the  rest  rests  sound  ; 
This,  let  alone,  will  all  the  rest  confound. 

Enter  Duchess. 

Duch'   O  king,  believe  not  this  hard-hearted  man. 

York.  Thou  frantick  woman,  what  dost  thou  make 
here? 

Duch.   Sweet  York,  be  patient :   Hear  me,  gentle 
liege.  [A'heels. 

Baling.    Rise  up,  good  aunt. 

Duch.  Not  yet,  I  thee  beseech  : 

For  ever  will  I  kneel  upon  my  knees, 
And  never  see  day  that  the  happy  sees, 
Till  thou  give  joy ;  until  thou  bid  me  joy. 
By  pardoning  Rutland,  my  transgressing  boy. 

Aum-  Unto  my  mother's  prayers,  I  bend  my  knee. 

l^Kneels. 

York.   Against  them  both,  my  true  joints  bended 
be.  \_Kneels. 

Ill  mayst  thou  thrive,  if  thou  grant  any  grace  ! 

Duch.   Pleads  he  in  earnest  ?  look  upon  his  face  ; 
His  eyes  do  drop  no  tears,  his  prayers  are  in  jest ; 
His  words  come  from  his  mouth,  ours  from  our 

breast : 
He  prays  but  faintly,  and  would  be  denied ; 
We  pray  with  heart,  and  soul,  and  all  beside : 
His  weary  joints  would  gladly  rise,  I  know  ; 
Our  knees  shall  kneel  till  to  the  ground  they  grow: 
His  prayers  are  full  of  false  hypocrisy ; 
Ours,  of  true  zeal  and  deep  integrity. 
Our  prayers  do  out-pray  his  ;  then  let  them  have 
That  mercy  which  true  prayers  ought  to  have. 

Baling.    Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Duch.  Nay,  do  not  say  —  stand  up  ; 

But,  pardon,  first ;  and  afterwards  stand  up. 
And  if  I  were  thy  nurse,  thy  tongue  to  teach. 
Pardon  —  should  be  the  first  word  of  thy  speech. 
I  never  long'd  to  hear  a  word  till  now  ; 
Say  —  pardon,  king  ;  let  pity  teach  thee  how  : 
The  word  is  short,  but  not  so  short  as  sweet ; 
No  word  like,  pardon,  for  kings'  mouths  so  meet.  — 
Thine  eye  begins  to  speak,  set  thy  tongue  there  : 
Or,  in  thy  piteous  heart  plant  thou  thine  ear  ; 
That,  hearing  how  our  plaints  and  prayers  do  pierce, 
Pity  may  move  thee,  pardon  to  rehearse. 

Baling.    Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Dnch.  I  do  not  sue  to  stand. 

Pardon  is  all  the  suit  I  have  in  hand. 

Boling.    I  pardon  him,  as  God  shall  pardon  me. 

Duch.   O  happy  vantage  of  a  kneeling  knee  ! 
Yet  am  I  sick  for  fear  :   speak  it  again  ; 
Twice  saying  pardon,  doth  not  pardon  twain, 
But  makes  one  pardon  strong. 

Boling.  With  all  my  heart 

I  pardon  him. 

Duch.  A  god  on  earth  thou  art. 

Boling.   But  for  our  trusty  brother-in-law, — and 
the  abbot. 
With  all  the  rest  of  that  consorted  crew,  — 
Destruction  straight  shall  dog  them  at  the  heels.  — 
Good  uncle  help  to  order  several  powers 
To  Oxford,  or  where'er  these  traitors  are  : 
They  shall  not  live  within  this  world,  I  swear. 
But  I  will  have  them,  if  I  once  know  where. 
Uncle,  farewell,  —  and  cousin,  too,  adieu  : 
Your  mother  well  hath  pray'd,  and  prove  you  true. 

Duch.  Come,  my  old  son ;  —  I  pray  heaven  make 
thee  new.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 

Enter  Exton  a7id  a  Servant. 

Exton.    Didst  thou  not  mark  the  king,  what  words 
he  spake  ? 
Have  I  no  friend  will  rid  me  of  this  living  fear  9 
Was  it  not  so  ? 

Sew.  Those  were  his  very  words. 

Exton.  Have  I  no  friend?  quoth  he:  he  spake  ■ 
it  twice,  Jl 

And  urg'd  it  twice  together ;  did  he  not  ? 

Serv.    He  did. 

Exton.  And,  speaking  it,  he  wistfully  look'd on  me; 
As  who  should  say,  —  I  would,  thou  wert  the  man 
That  would  divorce  this  terror  from  my  heart ; 
Meaning,  the  king  at  Pomfret.      Come,  let's  go  ; 
I  am  the  king's  friend,  and  will  rid  his  foe.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Pomfret.      The  Castle. 
Enter  King  Richard. 
JC.  Rich.  I  have  been  studying  how  I  may  compare 
This  prison,  where  I  live,  unto  the  world : 
And,  for  because  the  world  is  populous. 
And  here  is  not  a  creature  but  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it ;  —  Yet  I'll  hammer  it  out. 
My  brain  I'll  prove  the  female  to  my  soul ; 
My  soul,  the  father  :   and  these  two  beget 
A  generation  of  still-breeding  thoughts. 
And  these  same  thoughts  people  this  little  world  ; 
In  humours,  like  the  people  of  this  world  ; 
For  no  thought  is  contented.      The  better  sort,  — 
As  thoughts  of  things  divine,  —  are  intermix'd 
With  scruples,  and  do  set  the  word  itself 
Against  the  word : 

Thoughts  tending  to  ambition,  they  do  plot 
Unlikely  wonders  :  how  these  vain  weak  nails 
May  tear  a  passage  through  the  flinty  ribs 
Of  this  hard  world,  my  ragged  prison  walls  j 
And,  for  they  cannot,  die  in  their  own  pride. 
Thoughts  tending  to  content,  flatter  themselves,  — 
That  they  are  not  the  first  of  fortune's  slaves. 
Nor  shall  not  be  the  last ;  like  silly  beggars, 
Who,  sitting  in  the  stocks,  refuge  their  shame, 
That  many  have,  and  others  must  sit  there  : 
And  in  this  thought  they  find  a  kind  of  ease, 
Bearing  their  own  misfortune  on  the  back 
Of  such  as  have  before  endur'd  the  like. 
Thus  play  I,  in  one  person,  many  people, 
And  none  contented  :    Sometimes  am  I  king  ; 
Then  treason  makes  me  wish  myself  a  beggar  ; 
And  so  I  am  :   Then  crushing  penury 
Persuades  me  I  was  better  when  a  king ; 
Then  am  I  king'd  again  :   and,  by-and-by. 
Think  that  I  am  unking'd  by  Bolingbroke, 
And  straight  am  nothing:  — but  whate'er  I  am, 
Nor  I,  nor  any  man,  but  that  but  man  is. 
With  nothing  shall  be  pleas'd  till  he  be  eas'd 
With  being  nothing.  —  Musick  do  I  hear  ?   [Musick. 
Ha,  ha  !  keep  time  :  —  How  sour  sweet  musick  isy 
When  time  is  broke,  and  no  proportion  kept ! 
So  is  it  in  the  musick  of  men's  lives. 
And  here  have  I  the  daintiness  of  ear. 
To  check  time  broke  in  a  disorder'd  string ; 
But,  for  the  concord  of  my  state  and  time, 
Had  not  an  ear  to  hear  my  true  time  broke. 
I  wasted  time,  and  now  doth  time  waste  me. 
For  now  hath  time  made  me  his  numb'ring  clock  : 
My  thoughts  are  minutes  ;  and,  with  sighs,  they  jar 
Their  watches  on  unto  mine  eyes,    the   outward 
watch, 


I 


Scene  V. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


375 


) 


Wliereto  my  finger,  like  a  dial's  point, 
Is  pointing  still,  in  cleansing  them  from  tears. 
Now,  sir,  the  sounds  that  tell  what  hour  it  is, 
Are  clamorous  groans,  tliat  strike  upon  my  heart, 
Which  is  the  bell :    So  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans, 
Show  minutes,  times,  and  hours :  —  but  my  time 
Runs  posting  on  in  Bolingbroke's  proud  joy. 
This  musick  mads  me,  let  it  sound  no  more ; 
For,  though  it  have  holpe  madmen  to  their  wits. 
In  me,  it  seems  it  will  make  wise  men  mad. 
Yet  blessing  on  his  heart  that  gives  it  me  ! 
For  'tis  a  sign  of  love  ;  and  love  to  Richard 
Is  a  strange  brooch  in  this  all-hating  world. 

Enter  Groom. 

Groom.    Hail,  royal  prince  ! 

K.  Rich.   Wlmt  art  thou  ?  and  how  comest  thou 
hither, 
Where  no  man  never  comes,  but  that  sad  dog 
That  brings  me  food,  to  make  misfortune  live  ? 

Groom.    I  was  a  poor  groom  of  thy  stable,  king, 
When  thou  wert  king  ;  who,  travelling  towards  York, 
With  much  ado,  at  length  have  gotten  leave 
To  look  upon  my  sometime  master's  face. 
O,  how  it  yeam'd  my  heart,  when  I  beheld. 
In  London  streets,  that  coronation  day, 
When  liolingbroke  rode  on  roan  Barbary  ! 
Tliat  horse,  that  thou  so  often  hast  bestrid  ; 
That  horse,  that  I  so  carefully  have  dress'd ! 

A".  Bich.    Rode  he  on  Barbary  ?  Tell  me,  gentle 
friend, 
How  went  he  under  him  ? 

Groom .    So  proudly,  as  if  he  disdain'd  the  ground. 

K.  Rich.   So  proud  that  Bolingbroke  was  on  his 
back  ! 
That  jade  hath  cat  bread  from  my  royal  hand  ; 
This  hand  hath  made  him  proud  with  clapping  him. 
Would  he  not  stumble  ?  Would  he  not  fall  down, 
(Since  pride  must  have  a  fall,)  and  break  the  neck 
Of  that  proud  man  that  did  usurp  his  back  ? 
Forgiveness,  horse  !   why  do  I  rail  on  thee, 
Since  thou,  created  to  be  aw'd  by  man, 
Wast  bom  to  bear  ?  I  was  not  made  a  horse  ; 
And  yet  I  bear  a  burden  like  an  ass, 
Spur-gall'd,  and  tir'd,  by  jauncing  Bolingbroke. 

Enter  Keeper,  with  a  Dish. 
Keep.   Fellow,  give  place ;  here  is  no  longer  stay. 
[To  the  Groom. 
K.  Rich.   If  thou  love  me,  'tis  time  thou  wert 

away. 
Groom.   What  my  tongue  dares  not,  that  my  heart 
shall  say.  [^Exit. 

Keep.   My  lord,  will't  please  you  to  fall  to  ? 
K.  Rich.   Taste  of  it  first,  as  thou  art  wont  to  do. 
Keep.   My  lord,  I  dare  not ;  sir  Pierce  of  Exton, 
who  -. 

Lately  came  from  the  king,  commands  the  contrary. 
K.  Rich.   The  devil  take  Henry  of  Lancaster,  and 
thee! 
Patience  is  stale,  and  I  am  weary  of  it. 

[Beats  the  Keeper. 
Keep.   Help,  help,  help  ! 

Enter  Exton,  and  Servants  armed. 
K.  Rich.   How  now  ?  what  means  death  in  this 
rude  assault? 
Villain,  thy  own   hand  yields  thy  deatli's  instru- 
ment. [Snatching  a  weapon,  and  killing  <me. 
Go  thou,  and  fill  anoUier  room  in  hell. 

[He  kills  anothevt  then  Exton  strikes  him  down. 


That  hand  shall  burn  in  never-quenching  fire, 
Tiiat  staggers  thus  my  person.  —  Exton,  thy  fierce 

hand 
Hath  with  the  king's  blood  stain'd  the  king's  own 

land. 
Mount,  mount,  my  soul !  thy  seat  is  up  on  high  ; 
Whilst  my  gross  flesh  sinks  downwaid,  here  to  die. 

[Dies. 
Exton.    As  fidl  of  valour,  as  of  royal  blood  : 
Both  have  I  spilt ;   O,  would  the  deed  were  good ! 
For  now  the  devil,  that  told  me  —  I  did  well, 
Says  that  this  deed  is  chronicled  in  hell. 
Tills  dead  king  to  the  living  king  I'll  bear ;  — 
Take  hence  the  rest,  and  give  them  burial  here. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  Windsor.      A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Flourish.      Enter  Bolingbroke,    and  York,    mth 
Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Holing.   Kind  uncle  York,  the  latest  news  we  hear 
Is  —  that  the  rebels  have  consum'd  with  fire 
Our  town  of  Cicester  in  Glostershire ; 
But  whether  they  be  ta'en,  or  slain,  we  hear  not. 

Enter  Northumberland. 

Welcome,  my  lord  :   What  is  the  news  ? 

North.   First,  to  thy  sacred  state  wish  I  all  hap- 
piness. 
The  next  news  is,  —  I  have  to  London  sent 
The  heads  of  Salisliury,  Spencer,  Blunt,  and  Kent : 
Tlie  manner  of  their  taking  may  appear 
At  large  discoursed  in  tliis  paper  here. 

[Presenting  a  paper. 
Boling.   We  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy,  for  thy 
pains ; 
And  to  thy  worth  will  add  right  worthy  gains. 

Enter  Fitzwater. 

Fitz.  My  lord,  I  have  from  Oxford  sent  to  London 
The  heads  of  Brocas,  and  sir  Bennet  Seely  j 
Two  of  the  dangerous  consorted  traitors, 
ITiat  sought  at  Oxford  thy  dire  overthrow. 

Boling.  Thy  pains,  Fitzwater,  shall  not  be  forgot ; 
Right  noble  is  thy  merit,  well  I  wot. 

Enter  Percy,  with  the  Bishop  op  Carlisle. 

Percy.  'ITie  grand  conspirator,   abbot  of  West- 
minster, 
With  clog  of  conscience,  and  sour  melancholy. 
Hath  yielded  up  his  body  to  the  grave  ; 
But  here  is  Carlisle  living  to  abide 
Thy  kingly  doom,  and  sentence  of  his  pride. 

Boling.    Carlisle,  this  is  your  doom  :  — 
Choose  out  some  secret  place,  some  reverend  room, 
More  than  thou  hast,  and  with  it  joy  tliy  life; 
So,  as  thou  liv'st  in  peace,  die  free  from  strife  : 
For  though  mine  enemy  tliou  hast  ever  been, 
High  sparks  of  honour  in  thee  have  I  seen. 

Enter  Exton,  with  Attendants  bearing  a  Cqffin. 

Exton.   Great  king,  within  this  coflSn  I  present 
Thy  buried  fear  :   herein  all  breathless  lies 
The  mightiest  of  thy  greatest  enemies, 
Richard  of  Bourdeaux,  by  me  hither  brought. 

Boling.   Exton,  I  thank  tliee  not ;  for  tliou  hast 
wrought 
A  deed  of  slander,  with  thy  fatal  hand, 
Upon  my  head,  and  all  tliis  famous  land. 
Bb  4 


;76 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


Act  V. 


Exlon.   From  your  own  mouth,  my  lord,  did  I 
this  deed. 

Holing.   They  love  not  poison  tliat  do  poison  need, 
Nor  do  I  thee ;  though  I  did  wish  him  dead, 
I  hate  the  murderer,  love  him  murdered. 
TJie  guilt  of  conscience  take  thou  for  thy  labour, 
But  neither  my  good  word,  nor  princely  favour  : 
With  Cain  go  wander  through  the  shade  of  night. 
And  never  show  thy  head  by  day  nor  light. 


Lords,  I  protest  my  soul  is  full  of  woe, 

That  blood  should  sprinkle  me,  to  make  me  grow  : 

Come,  mourn  with  me  for  what  I  do  lament. 

And  put  on  sullen  black  incontinent  ^  ; 

I'll  make  a  voyage  to  the  Holy  Land, 

To  wash  this  blood  otF  ft-om  my  guilty  hand :  — 

March  sadly  after  ;  grace  my  mournings  here, 

In  weeping  after  this  untimely  bier.  [Exeuiit. 

»  Immediately. 


1^ 


FIRST  PART  OF 

KING   HENRY   IV. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Friends  to  the  Kins. 


King  Henry  the  Fourth. 

Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,      "1  „       t    ft     IT 

Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  J    ^^*   ^    *       "'"' 

Earl  op  Westmoreland,     "1 

Sir  Walter  Blunt,  J 

Thomas  Percy,  Earl  of  Worcester. 

Henry  Percv,  Earl  of  Northumberland. 

Henry  Percy,  sumamed  Hotspur,  his  Son> 

Edward  Mortimer,  Earl  o/*  March. 

Scroop,  Archbishop  of  Y«»rk. 

Archibald,  Earl  of  Pjuglas. 

Owen  Glendower. 

Sir  Richard  Vernon. 


Sir  John  Falstaff 

Poins. 

Gadshill. 

Peto.      Bardolph. 

Lady  Percy,  Wife  to  Hotspur,  and  Sister  to  Mor- 
timer. 

Lady  Mortimer,  Daughter  to  Glendower,  and 
Wife  to  Mortimer. 

Mrs.  Quickly,  Hostess  of  a  Tavern  in  Eastcheap. 


Lords,     Officers,     Sheriff",      Vintner,     Chamberlain, 
Drawers,  two  Carriers,  Travellers,  and  Attendants, 
SCENE,  England. 


n 


DOWN   WITH   'JHITM  ;   lI/EtCB     iUiM. 

FIRST   PART  OP 

KING    HENRY    IV. 


PREFACE  OF  THE  EDITOR  TO  THE  TWO  PARTS  OF  HENRY   IV. 


My  late  excellent  friend,  Mrs.  Montagu,  in  her 
Essay  on  the  Writings  and  Genius  of  Shakspeare, 
has  paid  particular  attention  to  Henry  the  I  Vth.  In 
this,  as  in  every  part  of  her  work,  good  principles, 
judicious  argument,  and  refined  taste,  appear  in  all 
her  observations  ;  but  I  confine  myself  to  the  more 
immediate  objects  of  the  present  publication,  — 
purity,  and  decency  of  expression. 

Every  person  must  be  sensible,  that  of  all  the 
historical  plays,  the  Two  Parts  of  Henry  the  I  Vth 
are  the  most  difficult  to  render  fit  for  family  reading. 
To  clear  them  of  all  indecent,  and  indelicate  expres- 
sions, without  destroying  the  wit  and  spirit  of  Fal- 
stafF,  and  without  injuring  the  narrative,  is  indeed 
an  arduous  undertaking ;  but  I  hope  I  may  remove 
many  objectionable  passages,  though  I  may  not  be 
able  to  render  the  work  perfect.  "  Est  quadam  pro- 
dire  tenus,  St  non  datur  ultra. "  Feeling  the  difficulty 
of  the  task,  I  take  as  a  guide  the  following  extract 
from  the  just  observations  of  my  deceased  friend  :  — 
"  There  are  delicacies  of  decorum  in  one  j^e  un- 
known to  another  age  :  but  whatever  is  immoral,  is 
equally  blameable  in  all  ages  ;  and  every  approach 
to  obscenity,  is  an  olFence,  for  which  wit  cannot 
atone,  nor  the  barbarism  or  the  corruption  of  the 
times  afford  an  excuse.  Mine  hostess  Quickly  is  of 
a  species  not  extinct.  It  may  be  said,  the  author 
there  sinks  from  comedy  to  farce  ;  but  she  helps  to 
complete  the  character  of  FalstafT,  and  some  of  the 
dialogues  in  which  she  is  engaged  are  diverting. 
Every  scene  in  which  Doll  Tearsheet  appears,  is 
indecent ;  and  therefore  not  only  indefensible,  but 
inexcusable." 

After  the  foregoing  quotation,  my  readers  will 
not  be  surprised,  if  the  name  of  the  last-mentioned 
person  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  following  plays. 


j  I  hope  that  all  obscenity  is  equally  banished  from 
!  them.  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  in  like  manner 
to  exclude  every  expression  which  approaches  to 
vulgarity  or  indelicacy  ;  but  this  I  fear,  cannot  be 
done,  unless  the  whole  of  those  scenes  are  oinitted 
in  which  any  of  the  comic  characters  appear.  The 
present  publication  may  possibly  be  censured  by 
two  classes  of  readers,  of  very  different  sentiments. 
Those  persons  who  are  unwilling  to  be  deprived  of 
any  part  of  the  wit  of  Falstaff  (whatever  may  be  the 
expense  of  retaining  it)  will  perhaps  be  displeased 
at  the  omission  of  the  evening  scene  between  him 
and  Doll  Tearsheet,  a^d  their  followers.  To  them 
I  reply,  that  consistently  with  the  design  of  the 
present  edition  of  Shakspeare,  the  omission  was 
unavoidable  ;  but  I  regret  it  the  less,  because,  as  was 
suggested  in  my  preface,  those  readers  can  gratify 
their  taste  by  having  recourse  to  former  editions  of 
the  Second  Part  of  Henry  the  I  Vth. 

Other  persons  may  possibly  complain  that  there 
still  remain  in  this  work  some  expressions  which 
are  not  consistent  with  that  perfect  delicacy  of 
sentiment,  with  which  it  were  desirable  that  every 
publication  should  be  conducted.  To  this  objec- 
tion I  fear  that  I  can  give  no  answer  that  will  be 
quite  satisfactory.  I  can  only  say,  that  I  have 
endeavoured  to  render  tlie  speeches  of  Falstaff  and 
his  companions  a?  correct  as  they  could  be  ren- 
dered, without  losing  sight  of  their  characters  and 
dispositions.  Those  persons  who  still  object  to 
their  language,  cannot  I  Ixjlieve  do  better,  than 
confine  their  reading  to  tlie  serious  parts  of  the 
three  following  plays,  which  possess  such  merit,  as 
can  hardly  be  equalled  in  any  other  dramatic  poi't, 
and  is  seldom  exceeded  by  our  own  inunortal  bard. 


378 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  — Londc 


.4  Room  in  the  Palace. 


Enter  King  Henry,  Westm^kkland,  Siii  Walter 
Blunt,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.    So  shaken  as  we  are,  so  wan  with  care, 
Find  we  a  time  for  frighted  peace  to  pant, 
And  breathe  short-winded  accents  of  new  broils 
To  be  commenc'd  in  stronds'  afar  remote. 
No  more  the  thirsty  Erinnys'  of  this  soil 
Shall  daub  her  lips  with  her  own  children's  blood  ; 
No  more  shall  trenching  war  channel  her  fields. 
Nor  bruise  her  flowrets  with  the  armed  hoofs 
Of  hostile  paces ;  those  opposed  eyes, 
Which, — like  the  meteors  of  a  troubled  heaven, 

All  of  one  nature,  of  one  substance  bred, 

Did  lately  meet  in  the  intestine  shock 

And  furious  close  of  civil  butchery, 

Shall  now,  in  mutual,  well-beseeming  ranks, 

March  all  one  way ;  and  be  no  more  oppos'd 

Against  acquaintance,  kindred,  and  allies : 

The  edge  of  war,  like  an  ill-sheathed  knife. 

No  more  shall  cut  his  master.      Therefore,  friends, 

As  far  as  to  the  sepulchre  of  Christ, 

( Whose  soldier  now,  under  whose  blessed  cross 

We  are  impressed  and  engag'd  to  fight,) 

Forthwith  a  power  of  English  shall  we  levy  ; 

Whose  arms  were  moulded  in  their  mothers'  womb 

To  chase  these  pagans,  in  those  holy  fields. 

Over  whose  acres  walk'd  those  blessed  feet, 

"Which,  fourteen  hundred  years  ago,  were  nail'd 

For  our  advantage,  on  the  bitter  cross. 

But  this  our  purpose  is  a, twelvemonth  old. 

And  bootless  'tis  to  tell  you  —  we  will  go  ; 

Therefore  we  meet  not  now  :  —  Then  let  me  hear 

Of  you,  my  gentle  cousin  Westmoreland, 

"What  yesternight  our  council  did  decree 

In  forwarding  this  dear  expedience. 3 

West.   My  liege,  this  haste  was  hot  in  question, 
And  many  limits  ^  of  the  charge  set  down 
But  yesternight :   when,  all  athwart,  there  came 
A  post  from  Wales,  loaden  with  heavy  news  ; 
Whose  worst  was,  —  that  the  noble  Mortimer, 
Leading  the  men  of  Herefordshire  to  fight 
Against  the  irregular  and  wild  Glendower, 
Was  by  the  rude  hands  of  that  Welshman  taken. 
And  a  thousand  of  his  people  butchered. 

iT.  Hen.    It  seems,  then,  that  the  tidings  of  this 
broil 
Brake  off  our  business  for  the  Holy  Land. 

West.  This,  match'd  with  other,  did,  my  gracious 
lord; 
For  more  uneven  and  unwelcome  news 
Came  from  the  north,  and  thus  it  did  import. 
On  Holy-rood  day  ^,  the  gallant  Hotspur  there. 
Young  Harry  Percy,  and  brave  Archibald, 
That  ever-valiant  and  approved  Scot, 
At  Holmedon  met. 

Where  they  did  spend  a  sad  and  bloody  hour ; 
As  by  discharge  of  their  artillery, 
And  shape  of  likelihood,  the  news  was  told  ; 
For  he  that  brought  them,  in  the  very  heat 
And  pride  of  their  contention  did  take  horse. 
Uncertain  of  the  issue  any  way. 

'  Strands,  banks  of  the  sea.  2  The  furv  of  discord. 

»  Expedition.  •♦  Estimates.  •"*  September  U. 


K.  Hen.  Here  is  a  dear  and  true  industrious  friend, 
Sir  Walter  Blunt,  new  lighted  from  his  horse, 
Stain'd  with  the  variation  of  each  soil 
Betwixt  that  Holmedon  and  this  seat  of  ours  ; 
And  he  hath  brought  us  smooth  and  welcome  news. 
The  earl  of  Douglas  is  discomfited  ; 
Ten  thousand  bold  Scots,  two-and-twenty  knights, 
Balk'd  6  in  their  own  blood,  did  sir  Walter  see 
On  Holmedon's  plains  :  Of  prisoners,  Hotspur  took 
Mordake  the  earl  of  Fife,  and  eldest  son 
To  beaten  Douglas  ;  and  the  earls  of  Athol, 
Of  Murray,  Angus,  and  Menteith. 
And  is  not  this  an  honourable  spoil  ? 
A  gallant  prize?  ha,  cousin,  is  it  not? 

West.    It  is  a  conquest  for  a  prince  to  boast  of. 

K.  Hen.   Yea,    there  thou    mak'st  me  sad,  and 
mak'st  me  sin 
In  envy  that  my  lord  Northumberland 
Should  be  the  father  of  so  blest  a  son  ; 
A  son,  who  is  the  theme  of  honour's  tongue ; 
Amongst  a  grove,  the  very  straightest  plant ; 
Who  is  sweet  fortune's  minion,  and  her  pride : 
Whilst  I,  by  looking  on  the  praise  of  him. 
See  riot  and  dishonour  stain  the  brow 
Of  my  young  Harry.      O,  that  it  could  be  prov'd, 
That  some  night-tripping  fairy  had  exchang'd 
In  cradle-clothes  our  children  where  they  lay. 
And  call'd  mine  —  Percy,  his  —  Plantagenet ! 
Then  would  I  have  his  Harry,  and  he  mine. 
But  let  him  from  my  thoughts  :  —  What  think  you, 

coz'. 
Of  this  young  Percy's  pride  ?  the  prisoners. 
Which  he  in  this  adventure  hath  surpriz'd, 
To  his  own  use  he  keeps  :   and  sends  me  word, 
I  shall  have  none  but  Mordake  earl  of  Fife. 

West.   This  is  his  uncle's  teaching,  this  is  Wor- 
cester, ( 
Malevolent  to  you  in  all  aspects  ;                                1 
Which  makes  him  prune  7  himself,  and  bristle  up     i 
The  crest  of  youth  against  your  dignity. 

JC.  Hen.   But  I  have  sent  for  him  to  answer  this ; 
And,  for  this  cause,  a  while  we  must  neglect 
Our  holy  purpose  to  Jerusalem. 
Cousin,  on  Wednesday  next  our  council  we 
Will  hold  at  Windsor,  so  inform  the  lords  : 
But  come  yourself  with  speed  to  us  again  ; 
For  more  is  to  be  said,  and  to  be  done. 
Than  out  of  anger  can  be  utter'd. 

West.   I  will,  my  liege.  {Exeunt,^ 

SCENE   II Another  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Henrt  Prince  o/"  Wales,  and  Falstaff. 

F(d.   Now,  Hal,  what  time  of  day  is  it,  lad  ? 

P.  Hen.  Thou  art  so  fat-witted,  with  drinking  of 
old  sack,  and  sleeping  upon  benches  after  noon, 
that  thou  hast  forgotten  to  demand  that  truly  which 
thou  wouldst  truly  know.  What  hast  thou  to  do 
with  the  time  of  the  day  ?  unless  hours  were  cups 
of  sack,  and  minutes  capons,  I  see  no  reason,  why 
thou  shouldst  be  so  superfluous  to  demand  the  time 
of  the  day. 

Fal.   Indeed,  you  come  near  me,  now,  Hal :   for 

6  Piled  up  in  a  heap. 

'  Trim,  as  birds  clean  their  feathers. 


fl 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


379 


we  that  take  purses,  go  by  the  moon  and  seven 
stars ;  and  not  by  Phoebus,  —  he,  that  wandering 
knight  so  fair*  And,  I  pray  thee,  sweet  wag,  when 
thou  art  king,  —  as,  save  thy  grace,  (majesty,  I 
should  say  j  for  grace  thou  wilt  have  none,) 

P.  Hen.  What,  none  ? 

Fal.  No,  by  my  troth  ;  not  so  much  as  will  serve 
to  be  prologue  to  an  egg  and  butter. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  how  tlien  ?  come,  roundly, 
roundly. 

Fal.  Marry,  then,  sweet  wag,  when  tliou  art 
king,  let  not  us,  that  are  squires  of  the  night's  body, 
be  called  thieves  of  tlie  day's  beauty ;  let  us  be  — 
Diana's  foresters,  gentlemen  of  the  shade,  minions 
of  the  moon :  And  let  men  say,  we  be  men  of  good 
government :  being  governed  as  the  sea  is,  by  our 
noble  and  chaste  mistress  the  moon,  under  whose 
countenance  we  —  steal. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  say'st  well ;  and  it  holds  well  too : 
for  the  fortune  of  us,  that  are  the  moon's  men, 
doth  ebb  and  flow  like  the  sea ;  being  governed  as 
the  sea  is,  by  the  moon.  As,  for  proof,  now  :  A 
purse  of  gold  most  resolutely  snatched  on  Monday 
night,  and  most  dissolutely  spent  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing ;  got  with  swearing  —  lay  by  8  ;  and  spent  with 
crying  —  bring  in  9  :  now,  in  as  low  an  ebb  as  the 
foot  of  the  ladder ;  and,  by  and  by,  in  as  high  a 
flow  as  the  ridge  of  the  gallows. 

Fal'  Thou  say'st  true,  lad.  And  is  not  my 
hostess  of  the  tavern  a  most  sweet  girl  ? 

P.  Hen.  As  the  honey  of  Hybla,  my  old  lad  of 
the  castle.  And  is  not  a  buff  jerkin  a  most  sweet 
robe  of  durance  ?  ' 

Fal.  How  now,  how  now,  mad  wag  ?  what,  in 
thy  quips,  and  thy  quiddities?  what  have  I  to  do 
with  a  buff  jerkin? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  what  have  I  to  do  with  my  hostess 
of  the  tavern  ? 

Fal.  Well,  thou  hast  called  her  to  a  reckoning, 
many  a  time  and  oft. 

P.  Hen.   Did  I  ever  call  for  thee  to  pay  thy  part? 

Fal.  No ;  I'll  give  thee  thy  due,  thou  hast  paid 
all  there. 

P.  Hen.  Yea,  and  elsewhere,  so  far  as  my  coin 
would  stretch  ;  and,  where  it  would  not,  I  have  used 
my  credit. 

Fal.  Yea,  and  so  used  it,  that  were  it  not  here 
apparent  that  thou  art  heir  apparent, —  But,  I  pr'y- 
thee,  sweet  wag,  shall  there  be  gallows  standing  in 
England  when  thou  art  king  ?  and  resolution  thus 
fobbed  as  it  is,  with  the  rusty  curb  of  old  father 
antick  the  law  ?  Do  not  thou,  when  thou  art  king, 
hang  a  thief. 

p.  Hen.   No  ;  thou  shalt. 

Fed.   Shall  I  ?  O  rare  !   I'll  be  a  brave  judge, 

P.  Hen.  Thou  judgest  false  already ;  I  mean, 
thou  shalt  have  the  hanging  of  the  thieves,  and  so 
become  a  rare  hangman. 

Fal.  Well,  Hal,  well  ;  and  in  some  sort  it  jumps 
with  my  humour,  as  well  as  waiting  in  the  court,  I 
can  tell  you. 

P.  Hen.   For  obtaining  of  suits  ? 

Fal.  Yea,  for  obtaining  of  suits:  whereof  the 
hangman  hath  no  lean  wardrobe.  I  am  as  melan- 
choly as  a  lujTged  bear. 

P.  Hen.   Or  an  old  lion  ;  or  a  lover's  lute. 

Fal.  Yea,  or  the  drone  of  a  Lincolnsliire  bag- 
pipe.' 


•  SUnd  «un. 

»  I1ie  dress  of  sheri  A' officer*. 


»  More  wine. 
*  Croak  of  a  frog. 


P.  Hen.  What  say  est  thou  to  a  hare,  or  the 
melancholy  of  Moor-ditch  ? 

Fal.  Thou  hast  the  most  unsavoury  similes  ;  and 
art,  indeed,  the  most  comparative,  rascalliest,  — 
sweet  young  prince, —  But,  Hal,  I  pr'ythee,  trouble 
me  no  more  with  vanity.  I  wish  thou  and  I  knew 
where  a  commodity  of  good  names  were  to  be 
bought :  An  old  lord  of  the  council  rated  me  the 
other  day  in  the  street  about  you,  sir ;  but  I  marked 
him  not :  and  yet  he  talked  very  wisely ;  but  1  re- 
garded him  not :  and  yet  he  talked  wisely,  and  in 
the  street  too. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  didst  well ;  for  wisdom  cries  out 
in  the  streets,  and  no  man  regards  it. 

Fal.  O  thou  art,  indeed,  able  to  corrupt  a  saint. 
Thou  hast  do.ne  much  harm  upon  me,  Hal,  — 
Heaven  forgive  thee  for  it!  Before  I  knew  thee, 
Hal,  I  knew  nothing ;  and  now  am  I,  if  a  man 
should  speak  truly,  little  better  than  one  of  the 
wicked.  I  must  give  over  this  life,  and  I  will  give 
it  over ;  an  I  do  not,  I  am  a  villain. 

P.  He7i.  Where  shall  we  take  a  purse  to-morrow. 
Jack? 

Fal.  Where  thou  wilt,  lad,  I'll  make  one ;  an  I 
do  not,  call  me  villain,  and  baffle  ^''  me. 

P.  Hen.  I  see  a  good  amendment  of  life  in  thee  ; 
from  praying,  to  purse-taking. 

Enter  Poins,  at  a  distance.. 

Fal.  Why,  Hal,  'tis  my  vocation,  Hal ;  'tis  no 
sin  for  a  man  to  labour  in  his  vocation.  Poins  !  — 
Now  shall  we  know  if  Gadshill  have  set  a  match.  * 
This  is  the  most  omnipotent  villain,  that  ever  cried. 
Stand,  to  a  true  man. 

P.  Hen.    Good  morrow,  Ned. 

Poins.  Good  morrow,  sweet  Hal.  —  What  says 
monsieur  Remorse  ?  What  says  sir  John  Sack-and- 
Sugar  ?  —  My  lads,  my  lads,  to-morrow  morning,  by 
four  o'clock,  early  at  Gadshill :  There  are  pilgrims 
going  to  Canterbury  with  rich  offerings,  and  traders 
riding  to  London  with  fat  purses:  I  have  visors 
for  you  all,  you  have  horses  for  yourselves  :  Gads- 
hill lies  to-night  in  Rochester :  I  have  bespoke  supper 
to-morrow  night  in  Eastcheap ;  we  may  do  it  as 
secure  as  sleep  :  If  you  will  go,  I  will  stuff  your 
purses  full  of  crowns :  if  you  will  not,  tarry  at 
home,  and  be  hanged. 

Fal.  Hear  me,  Yedward ;  if  I  tarry  at  home,  and 
go  not,  I'll  hang  you  for  going. 

Poins.   You  will,  chops? 

Fal.   Hal,  wilt  thou  make  one  ? 

P.  Hen.  Who,  I  rob  ?  I  a  thief?  not  I,  by  my  faith. 

Fal.  There's  neither  honesty,  manhood,  nor  good 
fellowship  in  thee,  nor  thou  camest  not  of  the  blood 
royal,  if  thou  darest  not  stand  for  ten  shillings.  * 

P.  Hen.  Well,  then,  once  in  my  days  I'll  be  a 
madcap. 

Fal.   Why,  that's  well  said. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  come  what  will,  I'll  tarry  at  home. 

Fal.   I'll  be  a  traitor  then,  when  thou  art  king. 

P.  Hen.   I  care  not. 

Poins.  Sir  John,  I  pr'ythee,  leave  the  prince  and 
me  alone  ;  I  will  lay  him  down  such  reasons  for  tliis 
adventure,  that  he  shall  go. 

Fal.  Well,  mayst  thou  have  the  spirit  of  persua- 
sion, and  he  the  ears  of  profiting,  that  what  thou 
speakest  may  move,  and  what  he  hears  may  be 
believed,  that  the  true  prince  may  (for  recreation 

'  Treat  me  with  ignominy.  <  Made  an  apiwintment. 

*  The  value  of  a  coin  called  real  or  royal. 


380 


HRST  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


sake)  prove  a  false  thief;  for  the  poor  abuses  of 
the  time  want  countenance.  Farewell :  You  shall 
find  me  in  Eastcheap. 

P.  Hen.  Farewell,  thou  latter  spring  !  Farewell 
All-hallown  summer  !  6  {Exit  Falstafp. 

Poins.  Now,  my  good  sweet  honey  lord,  ride  with 
us  to-morrow  ;  I  have  a  jest  to  execute,  that  I  can- 
not manage  alone.  Falstaff,  Bardolph,  Peto,  and 
Gadshill,  shall  rob  those  men  that  we  have  already 
waylaid ;  yourself,  and  I,  wall  not  be  there :  and 
when  they  have  the  booty,  if  you  and  I  do  not  rob 
them,  cut  this  head  from  ray  shoulders. 

P.  Hen>  But  how  shall  we  part  with  them  in 
setting  forth. 

Poins-  Why,  we  will  set  forth  before  or  after 
them,  and  appoint  them  a  place  of  meeting,  where- 
in it  is  at  our  pleasure  to  fail ;  and  then  will  they 
adventure  upon  the  exploit  tliemselves  ;  which  they 
shall  have  no  sooner  achieved,  but  we'll  set  upon 
them. 

P.  Hen,  Ay,  but,  'tis  like,  that  they  will  know  us, 
by  our  horses,  by  our  habits,  and  by  every  other 
appointment,  to  be  ourselves. 

Poins.  Tut !  our  horses  they  shall  not  see,  I'll  tie 
them  in  the  wood ;  our  visors  we  will  change,  after 
we  leave  them ;  and,  sirrah,  I  have  cases  of  buck- 
ram for  the  nonce  7,  to  immask  our  noted  outward 
garments. 

P.  Hen.  But,  I  doubt,  they  will  be  too  hard  for 
us. 

Poins.  Well,  for  two  of  them,  I  know  them  to  be 
as  true-bred  cowards  as  ever  turned  back ;  and  for 
the  third,  if  he  fight  longer  than  he  sees  reason,  I'll 
forswear  arms.  The  virtue  of  this  jest  will  be,  the 
incomprehensible  lies  that  this  same  fat  rogue  will 
tell  us,  when  we  meet  at  supper:  how  thirty,  at  least, 
he  fought  with  ;  what  wards,  what  blows,  what  ex- 
tremities he  endur'd ;  and,  in  the  reproof  of  this, 
lies  the  jest. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  I'll  go  with  thee ;  provide  us  all 
things  necessary,  and  meet  me  to-morrow  night  in 
Eastcheap  ;  there  I'll  sup.      Farewell. 

Poins.   Farewell,  my  lord.  [Exit  PoiNs. 

p.  Hen.   I  know  you  all,  and  will  a  while  uphold 
The  unyok'd  humour  of  your  idleness : 
Yet  herein  will  I  imitate  the  sun  ; 
Who  doth  permit  the  base  contagious  clouds 
To  smother  up  his  beauty  from  the  world. 
That,  when  he  please  again  to  be  himself. 
Being  wanted,  he  may  be  more  wonder'd  at, 
By  breaking  through  the  foul  and  ugly  mists 
Of  vapours,  that  did  seem  to  strangle  him. 
If  all  the  year  were  playing  holidays. 
To  sport  would  be  as  tedious  as  to  work ; 
But,  when  they  seldom  come,  they  wish'd-for  come. 
And  nothing  pleaseth  but  rare  accidents, 
So,  when  this  loose  behaviour  I  throw  off, 
And  pay  the  debt  I  never  promised, 
By  how  much  better  than  my  word  I  am. 
By  so  much  shall  I  falsify  men's  hopes  ; 
And,  like  bright  metal  on  a  sullen  ground. 
My  reformation,  glittering  o'er  my  fault. 
Shall  show  more  goodly,  and  attract  more  eyes, 
Than  that  which  hath  no  foil  to  set  it  off. 
I'll  so  offend,  to  make  offence  a  skill ; 
Redeeming  time,  when  men  think  least  I  will. 

\_Exit. 

<»  Fine  weather  at  All-hallown -tide,  («.  e.  All-Saints,  Nov. 
1st,)  is  called  an  All-hallown  summer. 
'  Occasion. 


SCENE   III.  —  Another  Room  in  the  Palace. 

£7tfer  King  Henry,Northumberland,  Worcester, 
Hotspur,  Sir  Walter  Blunt,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.   My  blood  hath  been  too  cold  and  tem- 
perate. 
Unapt  to  stir  at  these  indignities, 
And  you  have  found  me  ;  for,  accordingly. 
You  tread  upon  my  patience  ;  but,  be  sure, 
I  will  from  henceforth  rather  be  myself, 
Mighty,  and  to  be  fear'd,  than  my  condition  s  ; 
Which  hath  been  smooth  as  oil,  soft  as  young  down. 
And  therefore  lost  that  title  of  respect, 
Which  the  proud  soul  ne'er  pays  but  to  the  proud. 

Wor.   Our  house,  my  sovereign  liege,  little  de- 


The  scourge  of  greatness  to  be  us'd  on  it ; 

And  that  same  greatness  to  which  our  own  hands 

Have  holp  to  make  so  portly. 

North.   My  lord, 

K.  Hen.  Worcester,  get  thee  gone,  for  I  see  danger 
And  disobedience  in  thine  eye ;   O,  sir, 
Your  presence  is  too  bold  and  peremptory 
And  majesty  might  never  yet  endure 
The  moody  frontier  of  a  servant  brow. 
You  have  good  leave  to  leave  us ;  when  we  need 
Your  use  and  counsel,  we  shall  send  for  you.  — 

l^Exit  Worcester. 
You  were  about  to  speak.  [  To  North. 

North.  Yea,  my  good  lord. 

Those  prisoners  in  your  highness'  name  demanded. 
Which  Harry  Percy  here  at  Holmedon  took. 
Were,  as  he  says,  not  with  such  strength  denied 
As  is  deliver'd  to  your  majesty  : 
Either  envy,  therefore,  or  misprision, 
Is  guilty  of  this  fault,  and  not  my  son. 

Hot.   My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners. 
But,  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done. 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage,  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword. 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom ;  and  his  chin,  new  reap'd, 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home  ; 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner  j 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box  9,  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  his  nose,  and  took't  away  again  ;  — 
Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there. 
Took  it  in  snuff:  — and  still  he  smil'd  and  talk'd; 
And,  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by. 
He  call'd  them  —  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly. 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
He  question'd  me ;  among  the  rest  demanded 
My  prisoners,  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 
I  then,  all  smarting,  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 
To  be  so  pester 'd  with  a  popinjay. 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 
Answer'd  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what; 
He  should,  or  he  should  not ;  — for  he  made  me  mad. 
To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet. 
And  talk  so  like  a  waiting-gentlewoman, 
Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds,  (God  save  the 

mark!) 
And  telling  me,  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 
Was  parmaceti,  for  an  inward  bruise  ; 
And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 

8  Disposition.        '  A  small  box  for  musk  or  other  perfumet. 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


381 


I 


That  villainous  saltpetre  should  be  digg'd 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 
Which  many  a  good  tall  '  fellow  had  destroy 'd 
So  cowardly  ;  and,  but  for  these  vile  guns. 
He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 
This  bald  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 
I  answer'd  indirectly,  as  I  said ; 
And,  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 
Come  current  for  an  accusation, 
Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty. 

Blunt.  The  circumstance  consider'd,  good  my  lord. 
Whatever  Harry  Percy  then  had  said. 
To  such  a  person,  and  in  such  a  place. 
At  such  a  time,  with  all  the  rest  re-told, 
May  reasonably  die,  and  never  rise 
To  do  him  wrong,  or  any  way  impeach 
What  then  he  said,  so  he  unsay  it  now. 

K.  Hen.   Why,  yet  he  doth  deny  his  prisoners ; 
But  with  proviso,  and  exception,  — 
That  we,  at  our  own  charge,  shall  ransome  straight 
His  brother-in-law,  the  foolish  Mortimer  ; 
Who,  on  my  soul,  hath  wilfully  betray'd 
The  lives  of  those  that  he  did  lead  to  fight 
Against  the  great  magician,  vile  Glendower  ; 
Whose  daughter,  as  we  hear,  the  earl  of  March 
Hath  lately  married.      Shall  our  coffers  then 
Be  emptied,  to  redeem  a  traitor  home  ? 
Shall  we  buy  treason  ?  and  indent  2  with  fears. 
When  they  have  lost  and  forfeited  themselves  ? 
No,  on  the  barren  mountains  let  him  starve  ; 
For  I  shall  never  hold  that  man  my  friend. 
Whose  tongue  shall  ask  me  for  one  penny  cost 
To  ransome  home  revolted  Mortimer. 

Hot.    Revolted  Mortimer! 
He  never  did  fall  off,  my  sovereign  liege, 
liut  by  the  chance  of  war  :  —  To  prove  that  true, 
Needs  no  more  but  one  tongue  for  all  those  wounds. 
Those  mouthed  wounds,  which  valiantly  he  took. 
When  on  tlie  gentle  Severn's  sedgy  bank, 
In  single  opposition,  hand  to  hand. 
He  did  confound  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
In  changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendower : 
Three  times  they  breath'd,  and  three  times  did  they 

drink. 
Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn's  flood  ; 
Who  then,  affrighted  with  their  bloody  looks. 
Ran  fearfully  among  the  trembling  reeds. 
And  hid  his  crisp  '  head  in  the  hollow  bank 
Blood-stained  with  these  valiant  combatants. 
Never  did  bare  and  rotten  policy 
Colour  her  working  with  such  deadly  wounds ; 
Nor  never  could  the  noble  Mortimer 
Receive  so  many,  and  all  wilhngly: 
Tlien  let  him  not  be  slander'd  with  revolt. 

K.  Hen.   Thou  dost  behe  him,  Percy,  thou  dost 
belie  him ; 
He  never  did  encounter  with  Glendower ; 
I  tell  thee. 

He  durst  as  well  have  met  the  devil  alone. 
As  Owen  Glendower  for  an  enemy. 
Art  not  ashamed  ?  But,  sirrah,  henceforth 
Let  me  not  hear  you  speak  of  Mortimer  : 
Send  me  your  prisoners  with  the  speediest  moans. 
Or  you  shall  hear  in  such  a  kind  from  me 
As  will  displease  you.  — My  lord  Northumberland, 
We  license  your  departure  with  your  son  :  — 
Send  us  your  prisoners,  or  you'll  hear  of  it. 

[Exeunt  Kino  Henry,  Blunt,  and  Train. 


'  Brave, 
s  Curled. 


>  Sign  an  indenture. 


Hot.   And  if  the  devil  come  and  roar  for  them, 
I  will  not  send  them  :  —  I  will  after  straight. 
And  tell  him  so  :   for  I  will  ease  my  heart. 
Although  it  be  with  hazard  of  my  head. 

North.  What,  drunk  with  choler  ?  stay,  and  pause 
awhile ; 
Here  comes  your  uncle. 

Re-enter  Worcester. 

Hot.  Speak  of  Mortimer? 

Yes,  I  will  speak  of  him  ;  and  let  my  soul 
Want  mercy,  if  I  do  not  join  with  him  : 
Yea,  on  his  part,  I'll  empty  all  these  veins. 
And  shed  my  dear  blood  drop  by  drop  i'  the  dust, 
But  I  will  lift  the  down-trod  Mortimer 
As  high  i'  the  air  as  this  unthankful  king. 
As  this  ingrate  and  canker'd  Bolingbroke. 

North.   Brother,  the  king  hath  made  your  nephew 
mad.  [  To  Worcester. 

Wot.  Who  struck  this  heat  up,  after  I  was  gone  ? 

Hot.   He  will,  forsooth,  have  all  my  prisoners ; 
And  when  I  urg'd  the  ransome  once  again 
Of  my  wife's  brother,  then  his  cheek  look'd  pale ; 
And  on  my  face  he  tum'd  an  eye  of  death. 
Trembling  even  at  the  name  of  Mortimer. 

IVor.  I  cannot  blame  him  :  Was  he  not  proclaim'd. 
By  Richard  that  dead  is,  the  next  of  blood  ? 

North.   He  was ;  I  heard  the  proclamation  : 
And  then  it  was,  when  the  unhappy  king 
(Whose  wrongs  in  us  God  pardon  !)  did  set  forth 
Upon  his  Irish  expedition ; 
From  whence  he,  intercepted,  did  return 
To  be  depos'd,  and  shortly,  murdered. 

IVor.  And  for  whose  death,  we  in  the  world's  wide 
mouth 
Live  scandaliz'd,  and  foully  spoken  of. 

Hot.   But,  soft,  I  pray  you  ;  Did  king  Richard 
then 
Proclaim  my  brother  Edmund  Mortimer 
Heir  to  the  crown  ? 

North.  He  did ;  myself  did  hear  it. 

Hot.    Nay,    then    I   cannot    blame  his   cousin 
king, 
That  wish'd  him  on  the  barren  mountains  starv'd. 
But  shall  it  be,  that  you,  —  that  set  the  crown 
Upon  the  head  of  this  forgetful  man  ; 
And,  for  his  sake,  wear  the  detested  blot 
Of  murd'rous  subornation,  —  shall  it  be, 
TTiat  you  a  world  of  curses  undergo  ; 
Being  the  agents,  or  base  second  means. 
The  cords,  the  ladder,  or  the  hangman  rather? — 
O,  pardon  me,  that  I  descend  so  low. 
To  show  the  line,  and  the  predicament. 
Wherein  you  range  under  this  subtle  king.  — 
Shall  it,  for  shame,  be  spoken  in  these  days, 
Or  fill  up  chronicles  in  time  to  come. 
That  men  of  your  nobility  and  power. 
Did  gage  them  botli  in  an  unjust  behalf,  — 
As  both  of  you,  God  pardon  it !  have  done,  — 
To  put  down  Richard,  that  sweet  lovely  rose. 
And  plant  this  thorn,  this  canker,  Bolingbroke? 
And  shall  it  in  more  shame,  be  further  spoken. 
That  you  are  fool'd,  discarded,  and  shook  off 
By  him,  for  whom  these  shames  ye  underwent  ? 
No  ;  yet  time  serves,  wherein  you  may  redi'em 
Your  banish'd  honours,  and  restore  yourselves 
Into  tlie  good  thoughts  of  the  world  again  : 
Revenge  the  jeering,  and  disdain'd  contempt. 
Of  this  proud  king  ;  who  studies  day  and  nigbt, 
To  answer  all  the  debt  he  owes  to  you, 


382 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  I.  Scene  III. 


Even  with  the  bloody  payment  of  your  deaths. 
Therefore,  I  say, 

JVor.  Peace,  cousin,  say  no  more : 

And  now  I  will  unclasp  a  secret  book, 
And  to  your  quick-conceiving  discontents 
I'll  read  you  matter  deep  and  dangerous ; 
As  full  of  peril,  and  advent'rous  spirit, 
As  to  o'er-walk  a  current,  roaring  loud. 
On  the  unstcadfast  footing  of  a  spear. 

Hot.  If  he  fall  in,  good  night :  —  or  sink  or  swim: 
Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the  west, 
So  honour  cross  it  from  the  north  to  souths 
And  let  them  grapple  ;  —  O  !  the  blood  more  stirs, 
To  rouse  a  lion,  than  to  start  a  hare. 

North.   Imagination  of  some  great  exploit 
Drives  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience. 

Hot.   By  heaven,  methinks,  it  were  an  easy  leap, 
To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-fac'd  moon  ; 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep. 
Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 
And  pluck  up  drowned  honour  by  the  locks  ; 
So  he,  that  doth  redeem  her  thence,  might  wear, 
Without  corrival,  all  her  dignities  : 
'But  out  upon  this  half-fac'd  fellowship  ! 

JFor.   He  apprehends  a  world  of  figures  here. 

But  not  the  form  of  what  he  should  attend 

Good  cousin,  give  me  audience  for  a  while. 

Hot.   I  cry  you  mercy. 

Jfor.                                  Those  same  noble  Scots, 
That  are  your  prisoners, • 

Hot.  I'll  keep  them  all ; 

By  heaven,  he  shall  not  have  a  Scot  of  them : 
No,  if  a  Scot  would  save  his  soul,  he  shall  not : 
I'll  keep  them,  by  this  hand. 

IVor.  You  start  away. 

And  lend  no  ear  unto  my  purposes  — 
These  prisoners  you  shall  keep. 

Hot.  Nay,  I  will ;  that's  flat :  — 

He  said,  he  would  not  ransome  Mortimer  j 
Forbad  my  tongue  to  speak  of  Mortimer  ; 
But  I  will  find  him  when  he  lies  asleep. 
And  in  his  ear  I'll  holla  —  Mortimer ! 
Nay, 

I'll  have  a  starling  shall  be  taught  to  speak 
Nothing  but  Mortimer,  and  give  it  him. 
To  keep  his  anger  still  in  motion. 

JVor.  Hear  you, 

Cousin  ;  a  word. 

Hot.   All  studies  here  I  solemnly  defy, 
Save  how  to  gall  and  pinch  this  Bolingbroke : 
And  that  same  sword-and-buckler  prince  of  Wales,— 
But  that  I  think  his  father  loves  him  not. 
And  would  be  glad  he  met  with  some  mischance, 
I'd  have  him  poison'd  with  a  pot  of  ale. 

War.    Farewell,  kinsman  !   I  will  talk  to  you. 
When  you  are  better  temper'd  to  attend. 

North   Why,  what  a  wasp-stung  and  impatient  fool 
Art  thou  to  break  into  this  woman's  mood ; 
Tying  thine  ear  to  no  tongue  but  thine  own  ! 

Hot.   Why,  look  you,  I  am  whipp'd  and  scourg'd 
with  rods. 
Nettled,  and  stung  with  pismires,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  vile  politician,  Bolingbroke. 
In  Richard's  time,  —  What  do  you  call  the  place  V — 
A  plague  upon't !  —  it  is  in  Glostershire  ;  — 


'Twas  where  the  mad-cap  duke  his  uncle  kept ; 
His  uncle  York  ;  —  where  I  first  bow'd  my  knee 
Unto  this  king  of  smiles,  this  Bolingbroke, 
When  you  and  he  came  back  from  Ravenspurg. 

North.   At  Berkley  castle. 

Hot.  You  say  true :  — — 

Why,  what  a  candy  deal  of  courtesy 
This  fawning  greyhound  then  did  proffer  me  ! 
Look,  —  when  his  infant  fortune  came  to  age. 
And,  — gentle  Harry  Percy,  — and,  hind  cousin,  — 

The  devil  take  such  cozeners ! Heaven  forgive 

me  ! 

Good  uncle,  tell  your  tale,  for  I  have  done. 

IVor.   Nay,  if  you  have  not,  to't  again  ; 
We'll  stay  your  leisure.  ' 

Hot.  I  have  done,  i'faith. 

Wor.  Then  once  more  to  your  Scottish  prisoners. 
Deliver  them  up  without  their  ransome  straight, 
And  make  the  Douglas'  son  your  only  mean 
For  powers  in  Scotland  ;  which, —  for  divers  reasons, 
Which  I  shall  send  you  written,  —  be  assur'd. 
Will  easily  be  granted.  —  You  my  lord,  — 

[To  Northumberland. 
Your  son  in  Scotland  being  thus  employ'd,  — 
Shall  secretly  into  the  bosom  creep 
Of  that  same  noble  prelate,  well  belov'd 
The  archbishop. 

Hot.   Of  York,  is't  not  ? 

Wor.   True  ;  who  bears  hard 
His  brother's  death  at  Bristol,  the  lord  Scroop. 
I  speak  not  this  in  estimation. 
As  what  I  think  might  be,  but  what  I  know 
Is  ruminated,  plotted,  and  set  down  ; 
And  only  stays  but  to  behold  the  face 
Of  that  occasion  that  shall  bring  it  on. 

Hot.   I  smell  it ;  upon  my  life,  it  will  do  well. 

North.  Before  the  game's  afoot,  thou  still  let'st  slip. 

Hot.  Why,  it  cannot  choose  but  be  a  noble  plot: — • 
And  then  the  power  of  Scotland,  and  of  York,  — 
To  join  with  Mortimer,  ha  ? 

Wor.  And  so  they  shall. 

Hot.   In  faith,  it  is  exceedingly  well  aim'd. 

Wor.   And  'tis  no  little  reason  bids  us  speed. 
To  save  our  heads  by  raising  of  a  head  * : 
For,  bear  ourselves  as  even  as  we  can. 
The  king  will  always  think  him  in  our  debt ; 
And  think  we  think  ourselves  unsatisfied. 
Till  he  hath  found  a  time  to  pay  us  home. 
And  see  already,  how  he  doth  begin 
To  make  us  strangers  to  his  looks  of  love. 

Hot.  He  does,  he  does  :  we'll  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Wor.  Cousin,  farewell :  —  No  further  go  in  this. 
Than  I  by  letters  shall  direct  your  course. 
When  time  is  ripe,  (which  will  be  suddenly,) 
I'll  steal  to  Glendower  and  lord  Mortimer  ; 
Where  you  and  Douglas,  and  our  powers  at  once, 
(As  I  will  fashion  it,)  shall  happily  meet. 
To  bear  our  fortunes  in  our  own  strong  arms. 
Which  now  we  hold  at  much  uncertainty. 

North.  Farewell,  good  brother  :  we  shall  thrive,  1 
trust. 

Hot.   Uncle,  adieu  :  —  O,  let  the  hours  be  short. 
Till  fields,  and  blows,  and  groans  applaud  our  sport ! 

[Exeunt. 
*  A  body  of  forces. 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


383 


ACT  11, 


SCENE  I.  —  Rochester.     An  Inn  Yard. 
Enter  a  Carrier,  with  a  Lantern  in  his  hand. 
1  Car.    Heigh  ho  !    A  n't  be  not  four  by  the  day, 
ril  be  hanged  :    Charles'  wain  is  over  the  new  chim- 
ney, and  yet  our  horse  not  packed.     What,  ostler ! 
Ost.    [ffithin.}    Anon,  anon. 

1  Car.  I  pr'ythee,  Tom,  beat  Cut's  *  saddle,  put 
a  few  flocks  in  tlie  point ;  the  poor  jade  is  wrung  in 
the  withers  out  of  all  cess.  6 

Enter  another  Carrier. 

2  Car.  Pease  and  beans  are  as  dank  here  as  a  dog,  and 
that  is  the  next  way  to  give  poor  jades  the  bots  :  this 
house  is  turned  upside  down,  since  Robin  ostler  died. 

1  Car.  Poor  fellow  !  never  joyed  since  the  price  of 
oats  rose ;  it  was  the  death  of  him. 

2  Car.  I  think  this  be  the  most  villainous  house  in 
all  London  road  for  fleas  :  I  am  stung  like  a  tench. 7 

1  Car.  Like  a  tench  ?  by  the  mass,  there  is  ne'er 
a  king  in  Christendom  could  be  better  bit  tlian  1 
have  been  since  the  first  cock. 

2  Car.  What,  ostler  !  come  away  and  be  hanged, 
come  away.  I  have  a  gammon  of  bacon,  and  two 
razes  of  ginger,  to  be  delivered  as  far  as  Charing- 
cross. 

1  Car.  The  turkeys  in  my  pannier  are  quite  starved. 

—  What,  ostler  !  —  A  plague  on  thee  !  hast  thou 
never  an  eye  in  thy  head  ?  canst  not  hear?  An 
'twere  not  as  good  a  deed  as  drink,  to  break  the  pate 
of  thee,  I  am  a  very  villain. — Come,  and  be  hanged: 

—  Hast  no  faith  in  thee  ? 

Enter  Gadshill. 
Gads.   Good  morrow,  carriers.     What's  o'clock  ? 
1  Car.   I  think  it  be  two  o'clock. 
Gads.   I  pr'ythee,  lend  me  thy  lantern,  to  see  my 
gelding  in  the  stable. 

1  Car.  Nay,  soft,  I  pray  ye ;  I  know  a  trick  worth 
two  of  that. 

Gads.   I  pr'ythee  lend  me  thine. 

2  Car.  Ay,  when  ?  canst  tell  ?  —  Lend  me  thy 
lantern,  quoth  a  ?  —  marry,  I'll  see  thee  hanged  first. 

Gads.  Sirrah  carrier,  what  time  do  you  mean  to 
come  to  London  ? 

2  Car.  Time  enough  to  go  to  bed  with  a  candle, 
I  warrant  thee.  —  Come,  neighbour  Mugs,  we'll 
call  up  the  gentlemen ;  they  will  along  with  com- 
pany, for  they  have  great  charge.    [Exeunt  Carriers. 

Gads.    What,  ho  !  chamberlain  ! 

Cham,    [irithiti.]    At  hand,  quoth  pick-purse  ^ 

Gads.  That's  even  as  fair  as  —  at  hand,  quoth  the 
chamberlain  :  for  thou  variest  no  more  from  picking 
of  purses,  than  giving  direction  doth  from  labouring ; 
thou  lay'st  the  plot  how. 

Enter  Chamberlain. 
Cham.  Goodmorrow,  master  Gadshill.  It  holds 
current,  that  I  told  you  yesternight :  There's  a 
franklin  9  in  the  wild  of  Kent,  hatli  brought  three 
hundred  marks  with  him  in  gold :  1  heard  Jiim  tell 
it  to  one  of  his  company,  last  night  at  supper  ;  a 
kind  of  auditor  ;  one  that  hath  abundance  of  charge 

*  Name  of  his  horse.  •  Measure. 
"  SjKJttoil  like  a  tench. 

"  A  proverb,  from  Uie  pick-purse  being  always  ready. 

*  Freeholder. 


too,  heaven  knows  what.  Tliey  are  up  already,  and 
call  for  eggs  and  butter  :    They  will  away  presently. 

Gads.  Sirrah,  if  they  meet  not  with  saint  Nicho- 
las' clerks  ',  I'll  give  thee  this  neck. 

Cham.  No,  I'll  none  of  it :  I  pr'ythee  keep  that 
for  the  hangman  ;  for  I  know  thou  worship'st  saint 
Nicholas  as  truly  as  a  man  of  falsehood  may. 

Gads.  What  talkest  thou  to  me  of  the  hangman  ? 
if  I  hang,  I  11  make  a  fat  pair  of  gallows  :  for,  if  I 
hang, old  sir  Jolm  hangs  with  me;  and,  thou  knowest, 
he's  no  starveling.  Tut :  there  are  other  Trojans 
that  thou  dreamest  not  of,  the  which,  for  sport  sake, 
are  content  to  do  the  profession  some  grace ;  that 
would,  if  niattcrs  should  be  looked  into,  for  their 
own  credit  sake,  make  all  whole.  I  am  joined  with 
no  foot  land-rakers'^,  no  long-staff,  sixpenny  strikers ; 
none  of  these  mad,  mustachio,  purple-hued  malt- 
worms  ;  but  witli  nobility,  and  tranquillity ;  burgo- 
masters, and  great  oneyers  •'* ;  such  as  can  hold  in  ; 
such  as  will  strike  sooner  than  speak,  and  speak 
sooner  than  drink,  and  drink  sooner  than  pray  : 
And  yet  I  lie ;  for  they  pray  continually  to  their 
saint,  the  commonwealth ;  or,  rather,  not  pray  to 
her,  but  prey  on  her ;  for  they  ride  up  and  down  on 
her,  and  make  her  tlieir  boots. "^ 

Cham.  What,  the  commonwealth  their  boots  ?  will 
she  hold  out  water  in  wet  weather  ? 

Gads.  Slie  will,  she  will ;  justice  hath  liquored 
her.^  We  steal  as  in  a  castle,  cock-sure;  we  have 
the  receipt  of  fern-seed,  we  walk  invisible. 

Cha?n  Nay,  by  my  faith!  I  think  you  are  more 
beholden  to  the  night  than  to  fern-seed,  for  your 
walking  invisible. 

Gads.  Give  me  tliy  hand  :  thou  shalt  have  a  share 
in  our  purchase,  as  1  am  a  true  man. 

Cham.  Nay,  rather  let  me  have  it  as  you  are  a 
false  thief. 

Gads.  Go  to ;  Homo  is  a  common  name  to  all 
men.  Bid  the  ostler  bring  my  gelding  out  of  the 
stable.      Farewell,  you  muddy  knave.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL  —  The  Road  by  Gadshill. 

Enter  Pkince  Henry  and  Poins;   Bardolph  and 

Peto,  at  some  distance. 

Poins.  Come,  shelter,  shelter;  I  have  removed 
Falstaff's  horse,  and  he  frets  like  a  gummed  velvet. 

P.  Hen.   Stand  close. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.   Poins  !   Poins  !  and  be  hanged  !    Poins  ! 

P.  Hen.  Peace,  ye  fat-kidney'd  rascal ;  what  a 
brawling  dost  thou  keep  ! 

Fal.    Where's  Poins,  Hal? 

P.  Hen.  He  is  walked  up  to  the  top  of  tJie  hill ; 
I'll  go  seek  him.  [Pretends  to  seek  PoiNs. 

Fal.  I  am  accursed  to  rob  in  that  tliief  's  company : 
the  rascal  hath  removed  my  horse,  and  tied  him  I 
know  not  where.  If  I  travel  but  four  foot  by  the 
squire  ^  further  afoot,  I  shall  break  my  wind.  Well, 
1  doubt  not  but  to  die  a  fair  death  for  all  this,  if  I 
'scape  hanging  for  killing  that  rogue.  I  have  for- 
sworn his  company  hourly  any  time  these  two-and- 
twenty    years,   and  yet  I  am   bewitched  with   tlie 

'  Caiit  term  for  a  highwayman.  «  Footpads. 

'  Tublic  accomitanls.  *  Booty. 

*  Uiled,  smoothed  her  over.  «  Square,  rule. 


384 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


rogue's  company.  If  the  rascal  liave  not  given  me 
medicines  to  make  me  love  him,  I'll  be  hanged;  it 
could  not  be  else  ;  I  have  drunk  medicines. —  Poins! 
—  Hal !  —  a  plague  upon  you  both  !  — Bardolph !  — 
Peto !  — 1*11  starve  ere  I'll  rob  a  foot  further.  An 
'twere  not  as  good  a  deed  as  drink,  to  turn  true  man, 
and  leave  these  rogues,  I  am  the  veriest  varlet  that 
ever  chewed  with  a  tooth.  Eight  yards  of  uneven 
ground  is  threescore  and  ten  miles  afoot  with  me ; 
and  tJie  stony-hearted  villains  know  it  well  enough : 
A  plague  upon't,  when  thieves  cannot  be  true  to  one 
another !  [  They  whistle.  ]  Whew  !  —  A  plague  upon 
you  all !  Give  me  my  horse,  you  rogues ;  give  me 
my  horse,  and  be  hanged. 

P.  Hen.  Peace,  lie  down  ;  lay  thine  ear  close  to 
the  ground,  and  list  if  thou  canst  hear  the  tread  of 
travellers. 

Fal.  Have  you  any  levers  to  lift  me  up  again, 
being  down  ?  I'll  not  bear  mine  own  flesh  so  far  afoot 
again,  for  all  the  coin  in  thy  father's  exchequer. 
What  a  plague  mean  ye  to  colt  7  me  thus  ? 

P.  Hen.  Thou  liest,  thou  art  not  colted,  thou  art 
uncolted. 

Fal.  I  pr'ythee,  good  prince  Hal,  help  me  to  my 
horse  :   good  king's  son. 

P.  Hen.    Out,  you  rogue  !  shall  I  be  your  ostler  ! 

FaL  Go,  hang  thyself  in  thy  own  heir-apparent 
garters !  If  I  be  ta'en,  I'll  peach  for  this.  An  I  have 
not  ballads  made  on  you  all,  let  a  cup  of  sack  be  my 
poison  :  When  a  jest  is  so  forward,  and  afoot  too  — 
I  hate  it. 

Enter  Gadshill. 

Gads.    Stand. 

Fal.   So  I  do,  against  my  will. 

Poins.   O,  'tis  our  setter  :    I  know  his  voice. 
Enter  Bardolph. 

Bard.  What  news  ? 

Gads.  Case  ye,  case  ye :  on  with  your  visors  : 
there's  money  of  the  king's  coming  down  the  hill  j 
'tis  going  to  the  king's  exchequer. 

Fal.  You  lie,  you  rogue  ;  'tis  going  to  the  king's 
tavern. 

Gads.   There's  enough  to  make  us  all  — 

Fal.   To  be  hanged. 

P.  Hen.  Sirs,  you  four  shall  front  them  in  the  nar- 
row lane ;  Ned  Poins,  and  I  will  walk  lower  :  if  they 
'scape  from  your  encounter,  then  they  light  on  us. 

Peto.   How  many  be  there  of  them  ? 

Gads.   Some  eight,  or  ten. 

Fal.   Will  they  not  rob  us  ? 

P.  Hen.   What,  a  coward.  Sir  John  Paunch  ? 

Fal.  Indeed,  I  am  not  John  of  Gaunt,  your 
grandfather  ;  but  yet  no  coward,  Hal. 

p.  Hen.    Well,  we  leave  that  to  the  proof. 

Poins.  Sirrah  Jack,  thy  horse  stands  behind  the 
hedge  ;  when  thou  needest  him,  there  thou  shall  find 
him.      Farewell,  and  stand  fast. 

Fal.  Now  cannot  I  strike  him,  if  I  should  be 
hanged. 

P.  Hen.   Ned,  where  are  our  disguises  ? 

Poins.   Here,  hard  by  ;  stand  close. 

[Exeunt  P.  Henry  and  Poins. 

Fal.  Now,  my  masters,  happy  man  be  his  dole, 
say  I ;  every  man  to  his  business. 

Enter  Travellers. 
1  Trav.   Come,  neighbour;  tlie  boy  shall  lead  our 
horses  down  the  hill :   we'll  walk  afoot  awhile,  and 
ease  our  legs. 

7  Make  a  youngster  of  me. 


Thieves.   Stand. 

Trav.   Heaven  bless  us  ! 

Fal.  Strike ;  down  with  them ;  cut  the  villains* 
throats  :  Ah  !  caterpillars  !  bacon-fed  knaves  !  they 
hate  us  youth  :  down  with  them ;  fleece  them. 

1  Trav.  O,  we  are  undone,  both  we  and  ours, 
for  ever. 

Fal.   Hang  ye,  knaves ;  Are  ye  undone  ?  No,  ye 
fat  chufis  8 ;   1  would,  your  store  were  here  !   On,       ^^ 
bacons,  on  !  What,   ye  knaves  ?  young  men  must      ^H 
live  ;   You  are  grand-jurors  are  ye  ?  We'll  jure  ye,       ^^| 
i'faith.    [Exeunt  Fals.  ^c.  driving  the  Travellers  out. 
Re-enter  Prince;  Henry  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.  The  thieves  have  bound  the  true  men : 
Now,  could  thou  and  I  rob  the  thieves,  and  go  mer- 
rily to  London,  it  would  be  argument  for  a  week, 
laughter  for  a  month,  and  a  good  jest  for  ever. 

Poins.   Stand  close,  I  hear  them  coming. 

Re-enter  Thieves. 
Fal.  Come,  my  masters,  let  us  share,  and  then 
to  horse  before  day.  An  the  prince  and  Poins  be 
not  two  arrant  cowards,  there's  no  equity  stirring  : 
there's  no  more  valour  in  that  Poins,  than  in  a  wild 
duck. 

P.  Hen.   Your  money.    [Rushing  out  upon  them. 
Poins.   Villains. 

[As  they  are  sharing,  the  Prince  and  Poins 
set  upon  them.      Falstaff,  after  a  blow  or 
two,  and  the  rest,  run  away,  leaving  their 
booty  behind  them. 
P.  Hen.    Got  with  much  ease.      Now  merrily  to 
horse  : 
The  thieves  are  scatter'd,  and  possess'd  with  fear 
So  strongly,  that  they  dare  not  meet  each  other ; 
Each  takes  his  fellow  for  an  officer. 
Away,  good  Ned.      Falstaff  sweats  to  death. 
And  lards  the  lean  earth  as  he  walks  along : 
Wer't  not  for  laughing,  I  should  pity  him. 

Poins.   How  the  rogue  roar'd  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — Warkworth.   A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Hotspur,  readiyig  a  Letter. 

But,  for  mine  own  part,  my  lord,  I  could 

be  well  contented  to  be  there,  in  respect  of  the  love  I 
bear  your  house.  —  He  could  be  contented,  —  Why 
is  he  not  then  ?  In  respect  of  the  love  he  bears  our 
house  —  he  shows  in  this,  he  loves  his  own  barn 
better  than  he  loves  our  house.  Let  me  see  some 
more.  The  purpose  you  undertake  is  dangerous ;  — 
Why,  that's  certain  ;  'tis  dangerous  to  take  a  cold, 
to  sleep,  to  drink :  but  I  tell  you,  my  lord  fool,  out 
of  this  nettle,  danger,  we  pluck  this  flower,  safety. 
The  purpose  you  undertake  is  dangerous  ;  the  friends 
you  have  named,  uncertain  s  the  time  itself  nnsorted  ; 
and  your  whole  plot  too  Ught,  for  the  counterpoise  of 
so  great  an  opposition.  —  Say  you  so,  say  you  so  ?  I 
say  unto  you  again,  you  are  a  shallow,  cowardly 
hind,  and  you  lie.  What  a  lack-brain  is  this? 
Our  plot  is  a  good  plot  as  ever  was  laid;  our 
friends  true  and  constant :  a  good  plot,  good  friends, 
and  full  of  expectation  :  an  excellent  plot,  very  good 
friends.  What  a  frosty-spirited  rogue  is  this? 
Why,  my  lord  of  York  commends  the  plot,  and  the 
general  course  of  the  action.  By  this  hand,  an  I 
were  now  by  this  rascal,  I  could  brain  him  with  his 
lady's  fan.  Is  there  not  my  father,  my  uncle,  and 
myself?  lord  Edmund  Mortimer,  my  lord  of  York, 

8  Clowns. 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


S85 


and  Owen  Glendower  ?  Is  there  not,  besides,  the 
Douglas  ?  Have  I  not  all  their  letters,  to  meet  me 
in  arms  by  the  ninth  of  the  next  month  ?  and  are 
they  not,  some  of  them,  set  forward  already  ? 
What  a  pagan  rascal  is  tliis?  an  infidel?  Ha  !  you 
shall  see  now,  in  very  sincerity  of  fear  and  cold 
heart,  will  he  to  the  king,  and  lay  open  all  our  pro- 
ceedings. O,  I  could  divide  myself,  and  go  to 
buifets,  for  moving  such  a  dish  of  skimmed  milk 
with  so  honourable  an  action  !  Hang  him  !  let  him 
tell  the  king :  We  are  prepared  :  I  will  set  forward 
to-night 

Enter  Lady  Percy. 
How  now,  Kate  ?  I  must  leave  you  within  these 
two  hours. 

Lady.   O  my  good  lord,  why  are  you  thus  alone  ? 
For  what  offence  have  I,  this  fortnight,  been 
A  banish'd  woman  from  my  Harry's  bed  ? 
Tell  me,  sweet  lord,  what  is't  that  takes  from  thee 
Thy  stomach,  pleasure,  and  thy  golden  sleep  ? 
Why  dost  thou  bend  thine  eyes  upon  the  earth  ; 
And  start  so  often  when  thou  sitt'st  alone  ? 
Why  hast  thou  lost  the  fresh  blood  in  thy  cheeks ; 
And  given  my  treasures,  and  my  rights  of  thee. 
To  thick-ey'd  musing,  and  curs'd  melancholy  ? 
In  thy  faint  slumbers,  I  by  thee  have  watch'd. 
And  heard  thee  murmur  tales  of  iron  wars  : 
Speak  terms  of  manage  to  thy  bounduig  steed  ; 
Cry,  Courage  !  —  to  tlie  field  !  And  thou  hast  talk'd 
Of  sallies,  and  retires  ;  of  trenches,  tents. 
Of  palisadoes,  frontiers,  parapets ; 
Of  basilisks,  of  cannon,  culverin  ; 
Of  prisoners'  ransome,  and  of  soldiers  slain. 
And  all  the  'currents  of  a  heady  fight. 
Thy  spirit  within  thee  hath  been  so  at  war. 
And  thus  hath  so  bestirr'd  thee  in  thy  sleep, 
That  beads  of  sweat  have  stood  upon  thy  brow. 
Like  bubbles  in  a  late  disturbed  stream : 
And  in  thy  face  strange  motions  have  appear'd, 
Such  as  we  see  when  men  restrain  their  breath 
On  some  great  sudden  haste.      O,  what  portents  are 

these? 
Some  heavy  business  hath  my  lord  in  hand. 
And  I  must  know  it,  else  he  loves  me  not. 

Hot.  What,  ho  ?  is  Gilliams  with  the  packet  gone  ? 
Enter  Servant. 

Serv.   He  is,  my  lord,  an  hour  ago. 

Hot.   Hath  Butler  brought  those  horses  from  the 
sheriff'? 

Serv.   One  horse,  my  lord,  he  brought  even  now. 

Hot.   What  horse  ?  a  roan,  a  crop-ear,  is  it  not  ? 

Serv.   It  is,  my  lord. 

Hoti  That  roan  shall  be  my  throne. 

Well,  I  will  back  him  straight :   O  esperance  !  9 — 
Bid  Butler  lead  him  forth  into  the  park. 

{Exit  Servant. 

Lady.   But  hear  you,  my  lord. 

HiA.  What  say'st,  my  lady  ? 

iMdy.  What  is  it  carries  you  away  ? 

Hot.  My  horse. 

My  love,  my  horse. 

Lady.  Out,  you  mad-headed  ape  ! 

A  weasel  hath  not  such  a  deal  of  spleen. 
As  you  are  toss'd  with.     In  faith, 
I'll  know  your  business,  Harry,  that  I  will. 
I  fear,  my  brother  Mortimer  doth  stir 
Alwut  his  title  ;  and  hath  sent  for  you. 

To  line  '  his  enterprize  :    But  if  you  go 

»  Motto  of  the  Percy  family.  >  Strengthen 


Hot.   So  far  afoot,  I  shall  be  weary,  love. 

Lady.   Come,  come,  you  paraquito,  answer  me 
Directly  to  this  question  that  I  ask. 
In  faith,  I'll  break  thy  little  finger,  Harry, 
An  if  thou  wilt  not  tell  me  all  things  true. 

Hot,    Away, 
Away,  you  trifler  !  —  Love !  —  I  love  thee  not, 
I  care  not  for  thee,  Kate  :   this  is  no  world 
To  play  with  mammets  %  and  to  tilt  with  lips : 
We  must  have  bloody  noses,  and  crack'd  crowns, 
And  pass  them  current  too. — My  horse,  my  horse  ! — 
What  say'st  thou,  Kate  ?  what  wouldst  thou  have 
with  me? 

Lady.   Do  you  not  love  me  ?  do  you  not,  indeed  ? 
Well,  do  not  then;  for,  since  you  love  me  not, 
I  will  not  love  myself.      Do  you  not  love  me? 
Nay,  tell  me,  if  you  speak  in  jest  or  no. 

Hot.   Come,  wilt  thou  see  me  ride  ? 
And  when  I  am  o'horseback,  I  will  swear 
I  love  thee  infinitely.      But  hark  you,  Kate  ; 
I  must  not  have  you  henceforth  question  me 
Whither  I  go,  nor  reason  whereabout : 
Whither  I  must,  I  must ;  and,  to  conclude. 
This  evening  must  I  leave  you,  gentle  Kate. 
I  know  you  wise  ;  but  yet  no  farther  wise. 
Than  Harry  Percy's  wife :  constant  you  are"; 
But  yet  a  woman  :  and  for  secrecy. 
No  lady  closer ;  for  I  well  believe, 
Thou  wilt  not  utter  what  thou  dost  not  know ; 
And  so  far  will  I  trust  thee,  gentle  Kate  ! 

Lady.   How  !  so  far  ? 

Hot.  Not  an  inch  farther.  But  hark  you,  Kate ! 
Whither  I  go,  thither  shall  you  go  too  ; 

To-day  will  I  set  forth,  to-morrow  you 

Will  this  content  you,  Kate  ? 

Lady.  It  must,  of  force.      [Exeunt. 

SCENEIV.  —  Eastcheap.     J  Room  in  the  Boar's 
Head  Tavern. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.  Ned,  pr'ythee  come  out  of  that  fat  room, 
and  lend  me  thy  hand  to  laugh  a  little. 

Poins.   Where  hast  been,  Hal  ? 

P.  Hen.  With  three  or  four  loggerheads,  amongst 
three  or  four  score  hogsheads.  I  have  sounded  the 
very  base  string  of  humility.  Sirrah,  I  am  sworn 
brother  to  a  leash  of  drawers  ;  and  can  call  them  all 
by  their  Christian  names,  as  —  Tom,  Dick,  and 
Francis.  They  take  it  already  upon  their  salvation, 
that,  though  I  be  but  prince  of  Wales,  yet  I  am 
the  king  of  courtesy  ;  and  tell  me  flatly  1  am  no 
proud  Jack,  like  Falstaff";  but  a  lad  cf  mettle,  a 
good  boy,  so  they  call  me ;  and  when  I  am  king  of 
England,  I  shall  command  all  the  good  lads  in 
Eastcheap.  —  To  conclude,  I  am  so  good  a  pro- 
ficient in  one  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  I  can  drink 
with  any  tinker  in  his  own  language  during  my 
life.  I  tell  thee,  Ned,  thou  hast  lost  much  honour, 
that  thou  wert  not  with  me  in  this  action.  But, 
sweet  Ned,  —  to  sweeten  which  name  of  Ned,  I 
give  thee  this  pennyworth  of  sugar,  clapped  even 
now  in  my  hand  by  an  under-skinker  3 ;  one  that 
never  spake  other  English  in  his  life,  than  —  Ei^ht 
shillings  and  sixjtence,  and  —  You  are  welcome ;  with 
this  shrill  addition,  —  Anon,  anon.,  sir  !  Score  a  pint 
of  bastard  in  the  Half-moon,  or  so.  But,  Ned,  to 
drive  away  the  time  till  Falstaff*  come,  I  pr'ythee, 
do  thou  stand  in  some  by- room,  while  I  question  my 

>  Puppets.  3  Taptter. 

Cc 


386 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


puny  drawer,  to  what  end  he  gave  me  the  sugar ; 
and  do  thou  never  leave  calling  —  Francis,  that  his 
tale  to  me  may  be  nothing  but  —  anon.  Step  aside, 
and  I'll  show  thee  a  precedent. 

Poms.   Francis ! 

P.  Hen.   Thou  art  perfect. 

Pains.   Francis  !  [Exit  Poins. 

Enter  Francis. 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir.  —  Look  down  into  the 
Pomegranate,  Ralph. 

P.  Hen.    Come  hither,  Francis. 

Fran.   My  lord. 

P.  He7i.    How  long  hast  thou  to  serve,  Francis  ? 

Fran.   Forsooth,  five  year,  and  as  much  as  to  — 

Poins.    llVithin.]    Francis! 

Fran.    Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Five  years !  by'r  lady,  a  long  lease  for 
the  clinking  of  pewter.  But,  Francis,  darest  thou  be 
so  valiant,  as  to  play  the  coward  with  thy  indenture, 
and  to  show  it  a  fair  pair  of  heels,  and  run  from  it? 

Fran.  O,  sir  !  I'll  be  sworn  upon  all  the  books 
in  England,  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  — 

Poins.    [IVithiii.]   Francis! 

Fran.   Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.    How  old  art  thou,  Francis  ? 

Fran.  Let  me  see,  —  About  Michaelmas  next  I 
sliall  be  — 

Poins.    [JFithin.l    Francis! 

Fran.  Anon,  sir. — Pray  you,  stay  a  little,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Nay,  but  hark  you,  Francis :  For  the  su- 
gar thou  gavest  me, — 'twas  a  pennyworth,  was't  not  ? 

Fran.    O,  sir  !   I  would  it  had  been  two. 

P.  Hen.  I  will  give  thee  for  it  a  thousand  pound: 
ask  me  when  thou  wilt,  and  thou  shalt  have  it. 

Poins.    [JVit/ii7i.]   Francis! 

Fran.    Anon,  anon. 

P.  Hen.  Anon,  Francis  ?  No,  Francis :  but  to- 
morrow, Francis ;  or  Francis,  on  Thursday ;  or, 
indeed,  Francis,  when  thou  wilt.      But,  Francis, — 

Fran.   My  lord  ? 

P.  Hen.  Wilt  thou  rob  this  leathern-jerkin, 
crystal-button,  nott-pated,  agate-ring,  caddis-garter, 
smooth-tongue,  Spanish-pouch,  — 

Fran.    O  sir,  who  do  you  mean  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why  then,  your  brown  bastard  *  is  your 
only  drink  :  for,  look  you,  Francis,  your  white  can- 
vass doublet  will  sully :  in  Barbary,  sir,  it  cannot 
come  to  so  much. 

Fran.   What,  sir  ? 

Poins.    [Within.'\   Francis! 

P.  Hen.  Away,  you  rogue  ;  Dost  thou  not  hear 
them  call  ? 

[Here  they  hath  call  him ;  the  Drawer  stands 
amazed,  not  knowing  which  way  to  go. 
Enter  Vintner. 

Vint.  What !  stand'st  thou  still,  and  hear'st  such 
a  calling  ?  Look  to  the  guests  within.  [Eodt  Fran.] 
My  lord,  old  Sir  John,  with  half  a  dozen  more,  are 
at  the  door ;   Shall  I  let  them  in  ? 

P.  Hen.   Let  them  alone  awhile,  and  then  open 
the  door.   [Exit  Vintner.]   Poins  ! 
Re-enter  Poins. 

Poins.   Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah,  Falstaff  and  the  rest  of  the  thieves 
are  at  the  door ;   Shall  we  be  merry  ? 

Poins.    As  merry  as  crickets,  my  lad.      But  hark 
ye  ;  What  cunning  match  have  you  made  with  this 
jest  of  the  drawer  ?  come,  what's  the  issue  ? 
*  A  sweet  wine. 


P.  Hen.  I  am  now  of  all  humours,  that  have 
show'd  themselves  humours,  since  the  old  days  of 
goodman  Adam,  to  the  pupil  age  of  this  present 
twelve  o'clock  at  midnight.  [Re-enter  Francis, 
ivith  ivine.]     What's  o'clock,  Francis? 

Fra7i.    Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  That  ever  this  fellow  should  have  fewer 
words  than  a  parrot,  and  yet  the  son  of  a  woman  !  — 
His  industry  is  —  up  stairs,  and  down  stairs;  his 
eloquence,  the  parcel  of  a  reckoning.  I  am  not  yet 
of  Percy's  mind,  the  Hotspur  of  the  north  ;  he  that 
kills  me  some  six  or  seven  dozen  of  Scots  at  a 
breakfast,  washes  his  hands,  and  says  to  his  wife,  — 
Fye  upon  this  quiet  life  !  I  want  tvork.  0  my  sweet 
Harry,  says  she,  how  many  hast  thou  killed  to-day  ? 
Give  my  roan  horse  a  drench,  says  he  ;  and  answers. 
Some  fourteen,  an  hour  after  ;  a  trifle,  a  trifle.  I 
pr'ythee,  call  in  Falstaflf;  I'll  play  Percy,  and  he 
shall  play  dame  Mortimer  his  wife.  Call  in  ribs, 
call  in  tallow. 

Entar  Falstaff,  Gadshill,  Bardolph,  and  Peto. 

Poins.  Welcome,  Jack.     Where  hast  thou  been  ? 

Fal.  A  plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say,  and  a  ven- 
geance too !  marry,  and  amen  !  —  Give  me  a  cup 
of  sack,  boy.  — Ere  I  lead  this  life  long,  I'll  sew 
nether-stocks  ^,  and  mend  them,  and  foot  them  too. 
A  plague  of  all  cowards  !  —  Give  me  a  cup  of  sack, 
rogue.  —  Is  there  no  virtue  extant  ?         [He  drinJcs. 

P.  Hen.  Didst  thou  never  see  Titan  kiss  a  dish 
of  butter  ?  pitiful-hearted  Titan,  that  melted  at  the 
sweet  tale  of  the  son !  if  thou  didst,  then  behold 
that  compound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  here's  lime  in  this  sack  too : 
There  is  nothing  but  roguery  to  be  found  in  villain- 
ous man  :  Yet  a  coward  is  worse  than  a  cup  of  sack 

with  lime  in  it;  a  villainous  coward Go  thy  ways, 

old  Jack  ;  die  when  thou  wilt,  if  manhood,  good 
manhood,  be  not  forgotten  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth,  then  am  I  a  shotten  herring.  There  live  not 
three  good  men  unhanged  in  England  ;  and  one  of 
them  is  fat,  and  grows  old :  Heaven  help  the  while ! 
a  bad  world,  I  say !  I  would,  I  were  a  weaver ;  I 
could  sing  psalms  or  any  thing :  A  plague  of  all 
cowards,  I  say  still. 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  wool-sack?  what  mutter  you? 

Fal.  A  king's  son  !  If  I  do  not  beat  thee  out  of 
thy  kingdom  with  a  dagger  of  lath,  and  drive  all 
thy  subjects  afore  thee  like  a  flock  of  wild  geese, 
I'll  never  wear  hair  on  my  face  more.  You  prince 
of  Wales ! 

P.  Hen.  Why,  you  round  man !  what's  the  matter? 

Fal.  Are  you  not  a  coward  ?  answer  me  to  that ; 
and  Poins  there  ? 

Pobis.  Ye  fat  paunch,  an  ye  call  me  coward,  I'll 
stab  thee. 

Fal.  I  call  thee  coward  !  I'll  see  thee  hang'd  ere 
I  call  thee  coward :  but  I  would  give  a  thousand 
pound  I  could  run  as  fast  as  thou  canst.  You  are 
straight  enough  in  the  shoulders,  you  care  not  who 
sees  your  back  :  Call  you  that  backing  of  your 
friends  ?  A  plague  upon  such  backing  !  give  me 
them  that  will  face  me.  —  Give  me  a  cup  of  sack : 
—  I  am  a  rogue,  if  I  drunk  to-day. 

P.  Hen.  O  villain !  thy  lips  are  scarce  wiped 
since  thou  drunk'st  last. 

Fal.  All's  one  for  that.  A  plague  of  all  cowards, 
still  say  I.  [He  drinki. 

P.  Hen.   What's  the  matter? 
^  Stockings. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


387 


Fal.  What's  the  matter  ?  there  be  four  of  us  here 
have  ta'en  a  thousand  pound  this  morning. 

P.  Hen.   Where  is  it,  Jack  ?  where  is  it  ? 

Fal.  Where  is  it  ?  taken  from  us  it  is :  a  hundred 
upon  poor  four  of  us. 

P.  Hen.   What,  a  hundred,  man  ? 

Fed.  I  am  a  rogue,  if  I  were  not  at  half-sword 
with  a  dozen  of  them  two  hours  together.  I  have 
'scap'd  by  miracle.  I  am  eight  times  thrust  through 
the  doublet ;  four  through  the  hose ;  my  buckler 
cut  through  and  through ;  my  sword  hacked  like  a 
hand-saw,  ecce  signum.  I  never  dealt  better  since  I 
was  a  man ;  all  would  not  do.  A  plague  of  all  cow- 
ards !  —  Let  them  speak  :  if  tliey  speak  more  or  less 
than  truth,  they  are  villains,  and  the  sons  of  darkness. 

P.  Hen.    Speak,  sirs ;  how  was  it  ? 

Gads.   We  four  set  upon  some  dozen,  — — 

Fal,    Sixteen,  at  least,  my  lord. 

Gads.    And  bound  them. 

Peto.    No,  no,  they  were  not  bound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  they  were  bound,  every  man  of 
them ;  or  I  am  a  Jew  else,  an  Ebrew  Jew. 

Gads.  As  we  were  sharing,  some  six  or  seven 
fresh  men  set  upon  us, 

Fal.  And  unbound  the  rest,  and  then  come  in 
the  other. 

P.  Hen.   What,  fought  ye  with  them  all  ? 

Fal.  All?  1  know  not  what  ye  call,  all ;  but  if  I 
fought  not  with  fifty  of  them,  I  am  a  bunch  of  ra- 
dish :  if  there  were  not  two  or  three  and  fifty  upon 
poor  old  Jack,  then  I  am  no  two-legged  creature. 

Poins.  Pray  heaven  you  have-not  murdered  some 
of  them. 

Fal.  Nay,  that's  past  praying  for :  for  I  have 
peppered  two  of  them  :  two,  1  am  sure,  I  have 
paid ;  two  rogues  in  buckram  suits.  I  tell  thee 
what,  Hal,  —  if  I  tell  thee  a  lie,  spit  in  my  face, 
call  me  horse.  Thou  knowest  my  old  ward ;  — 
here  I  lay,  and  thus  I  bore  my  point.  Four  rogues 
in  buckram  let  drive  at  me, 

P.  /fe«.  What,  four?  thou  saidst  but  two,  even  now. 

Fal.    Four,  Hal ;   I  told  thee  four. 

Poins.   Ay,  ay,  he  said  four. 

Fal.  These  four  came  all  a-front,  and  mainly 
thrust  at  me.  I  made  me  no  more  ado,  but  took 
all  their  seven  points  in  my  target,  thus. 

P.  He7i.  Seven?  why,  there  were  but  four,  even  now. 

Fal.    In  buckram. 

Poins.   Ay,  four,  in  buckram  suits. 

Fal.   Seven  by  these  hilts,  or  I  am  a  villain  else. 

P.  Hen.  Pr'ythee,  let  him  alone ;  we  shall  have 
more  anon. 

Fal.    Dost  thou  hear  me,  Hal  ? 

P.  Hetu   Ay,  and  mark  thee  too.  Jack. 

Fal.  Do  so,  for  it  is  worth  the  listening  to. 
These  nine  in  buckram,  that  I  told  thee  of, 

P.  Hen.    So,  two  more  already. 

Fal.   Their  points  being  broken,  ■ 

Poins.    Down  fell  their  hose. 

Fal.  Began  to  give  me  ground :  But  I  followed 
me  close,  came  in  foot  and  hand  ;  and  with  a 
thought,  seven  of  the  eleven  I  paid. 

P.  Hen.  O  monstrous !  eleven  buckram  men 
grown  out  of  two ! 

Fal.  But,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  three  mis- 
begotten knaves,  in  Kendal  ^  green,  came  at  my 
back,  and  let  drive  at  me ;  —  for  it  was  so  dark, 
Hal,  that  thdu  couldst  not  see  thy  hand. 

P.  Hen.  These  lies  are  like  the  father  that  begets 
<  A  town  in  WettmoreUnd  famous  for  making  cloth. 


them ;  gross  as  a  mountain,  open,  palpable.  Why 
thou  knotty-pated  fool. 

Fal.  Wha^  art  thou  mad?  art  thou  mad?  is  not 
the  truth,  the  truth  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  how  couldst  thou  know  these  men 
in  Kendal  green,  when  it  was  so  dark  thou  couldst 
not  see  thy  hand  ?  come  tell  us  your  reason  ;  Wliat 
sayest  thou  to  this? 

Poins.   Come,  your  reason.  Jack,  your  reason. 

Fal.  What,  upon  compulsion  ?  No ;  were  I  at 
the  strappado,  or  all  the  racks  in  the  world,  I  would 
not  tell  you  on  compulsion.  Give  you  a  reason  on 
compulsion  !  if  reasons  were  as  plenty  as  black- 
berries, I  would  give  no  man  a  reason  upon  com- 
pulsion, I. 

P.  Hen.  I'll  be  no  longer  guilty  of  this  sin ;  this 
sanguine  coward,  this  horse-back-breaker,  this  huge 
hill  of  flesh  ; 

Fal.  Away,  you  starveling,  you  elf- skin,  you 
dried  neat's  tongue,  you  stock-fish,  —  O,  for  brealli 
to  utter  what  is  like  thee  ?  —  you  tailor's  yard,  you 
sheath,  you  bow-case ! 

P.  Hen.  Well,  breathe  awhile,  and  then  to  it 
again  :  and  when  thou  hast  tired  thyself  in  base 
comparisons,  hear  me  speak  but  this. 

Poins.  Mark,  Jack. 

P.  Hen.   We  two  saw  you  four  set  on  four ;  you 

bound  them,  and  were  masters  of  tlieir  wealth. 

Mark  now,  how  a  plain  tale  shall  put  you  down.  — 
Then  did  we  two  set  on  you  four :  and,  with  a 
word,  out-faced  you  from  your  prize,  and  have  it ; 
yesL,  and  can  show  it  you  here  in  the  house :  —  and 
FalstafF,  you  ran  away  as  nimbly,  with  as  quick 
dexterity,  and  roared  for  mercy,  and  still  ran  and 
roared,  as  ever  I  heard  a  bull-calf.  What  a  slave 
art  thou,  to  hack  thy  sword  as  thou  hast  done ;  and 
then  say,  it  was  in  fight?  What  trick,  what  device, 
what  starting-hole,  canst  thou  now  find  out,  to  hide 
thee  from  this  open  and  apparent  sliame  ? 

Poins.  Come,  let's  hear,  Jack ;  What  trick  hast 
thou  now? 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  I  knew  ye,  as  well  as  he  that 
made  ye.  Why,  hear  ye,  my  masters  :  Was  it  for 
me  to  kill  the  heir  apparent?  Should  I  turn  upon 
the  true  prince  ?  Why,  thou  knowest,  I  am  as 
valiant  as  Hercules  :  but  beware  instinct ;  tlie  lion 
will  not  touch  the  true  prince.  Instinct  is  a  great 
matter  ;  I  was  a  coward  on  instinct  I  shall  tliink 
the  better  of  myself  and  thee,  during  my  life.  I 
for  a  valiant  lion,  and  thou  for  a  true  prince.      But, 

lads,  I  am  glad  you  have  the  money. Hostess, 

clap  to  the  doors ;  watch  to-night,  pray  to-morrow. 
—  Gallants,  lads,  boys,  hearts  of  gold,  all  the  titles 
of  good  fellowship  come  to  you !  What,  shall  we 
be  merry  ?  shall  we  have  a  play  extempore  ? 

P.  Hen.  Content;  —  and  the  argument  shall  be 
thy  running  away. 

Fal.  Ah  !  no  more  of  that,  Hal,  an  thou  lovest  me. 

Enter  Hostess. 

Host.   My  lord,  the  prince, 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lady  the  hostess  ?  what 
sayst  thou  to  me  ? 

Host.  Marry,  my  lord,  there  is  a  nobleman  of 
the  court  at  door,  would  speak  with  you  :  he  says, 
he  comes  from  your  father. 

P.  Hen.  Give  him  as  much  as  will  make  him  a 
royal  man,  and  send  him  back  again  to  my  mother. 

Fal.   What  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Ho^.   An  old  man. 

C  c  2 


388 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


Fal.  What  doth  gravity  out  of  his  bed  at  mid- 
night ?  —  Shall  I  give  him  his  answer. 

P.  Hen.   Pr'ythee,  do,  Jack. 

Fal.   'Faith,  and  I'll  send  him  packing.       [Exit. 

P.  Hen.  Now,  sirs ;  by'r  lady,  you  fought  fair ; 
—  so  did  you,  Peto ;  so  did  you,  Bardolph  :  you  are 
lions  too,  you  ran  away  upon  instinct,  you  will  not 
touch  the  true  prince  ;  no,  —  fye  ! 

Bard.   '  Faith,  I  ran  when  I  saw  others  run. 

p.  Hen.  Tell  me  now  in  earnest,  how  came  Fal- 
stafF's  sword  so  hacked  ? 

Peto.  Why,  he  hacked  it  with  his  dagger ;  and 
said,  he  would  swear  truth  out  of  England,  but  he 
would  make  you  believe  it  was  done  in  fight ;  and 
persuaded  us  to  do  the  like. 

Bard.  Yea,  and  to  tickle  our  noses  with  spear- 
grass  to  make  them  bleed  :  and  then  to  beslubber 
our  garments  with  it,  and  to  swear  it  was  the  blood 
of  true  men.  I  did  that  I  did  not  this  seven  year 
before,  I  blushed  to  hear  his  monstrous  devices. 

P.  Hen.  O  villain,  thou  stolest  a  cup  of  sack 
eighteen  years  ago,  and  wert  taken  with  the  man- 
ner 7,  and  ever  since  thou  hast  blushed  extempore  : 
Thou  hadst  fire  and  sword  on  thy  side,  and  yet  thou 
ran'st  away ;  What  instinct  hast  thou  for  it? 

Bard.  My  lord,  do  you  see  these  meteors?  do 
you  behold  these  exhalations  ? 

P.  Hen.  I  do. 

Bard.   What  think  you  they  portend  ? 

P.  Hen.   Hot  livers  and  cold  purses.  8 

Bard.    Choler,  my  lord,  if  rightly  taken. 

P.  Hen.   No,  if  rightly  taken,  halter. 

Re-enter  Falstaff. 
Here  comes  lean  Jack,  here  comes  bare-bone.   How 
now,  my  sweet  creature  of  bombast  ?  9  How  long 
is't  ago.  Jack,  since  thou  sawest  thine  own  knee  ? 

Fal.  My  own  knee?  when  I  was  about  thy 
years,  Hal,  I  was  not  an  eagle's  talon  in  the  waist ; 
I  could  have  crept  into  any  alderman's  thumb-ring  : 
A  plague  of  sighing  and  grief !  it  blows  a  man  up 
like  a  bladder.  There's  villainous  news  abroad  : 
here  was  sir  John  Bracy  from  your  father ;  you 
must  to  the  court  in  the  morning.  That  same  mad 
fellow  of  the  north,  Percy ;  and  he  of  Wales,  that 
gave  Amaimon  '  the  bastinado,  —  What,  a  plague, 
call  you  him  ? 

Poins.    O,  Glen  dower. 

Fal.  Owen,  Owen ;  the  same ;  —  and  his  son-in- 
law,  Mortimer  ;  and  old  Northumberland ;  and  that 
sprightly  Scot  of  Scots,  Douglas,  that  runs  o'horse- 
back  up  a  hill  perpendicular. 

P.  Hen.  He  that  rides  at  high  speed,  and  with 
his  pistol  kills  a  sparrow  flying. 

Fal.   You  have  hit  it. 

P.  Hen.   So  did  he  never  the  sparrow. 

Fal.  Well,  that  rascal  hath  good  mettle  in  him  ; 
he  will  not  run. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  what  a  rascal  art  thou  then,  to 
praise  him  so  for  running  ? 

Fal.  O'horseback,  ye  cuckoo  ?  but  afoot,  he  will 
not  budge  a  foot. 

P.  Hen.    Yes,  Jack,  upon  instinct. 

Fal.  I  grant  ye,  upon  instinct.  Well,  he  is  there 
too,  and  one  Mordake,  and  a  thousand  blue-caps  2 
more :   Worcester  is  stolen  away  to-night ;  thy  fa- 

"  In  the  fact.  8  Drunkenness  and  poverty. 

9  Bombast  is  the  stuffing  of  clothes. 

'  A  daemon  ;  who  is  described  as  one  of  the  four  kings,  who 
rule  over  all  the  daemons  in  the  world. 
2  Scotsmen  in  blue  bonnets. 


ther's  beard  is  turned  white  with  tlie  news ;  you 
may  buy  land  now  as  cheap  as  stinking  mackarel.  — 
But  tell  me,  Hal,  art  thou  not  horribly  afeard?  thou 
being  heir-apparent,  could  the  world  pick  thee  out 
three  such  enemies  again,  as  that  fiend  Douglas, 
that  spirit  Percy,  and  that  devil  Glendower?  Art 
thou  not  horribly  afraid  ?  doth  not  thy  blood  thrill 
at  it  ? 

P.  Hen.  Not  a  whit,  i'faith  ;  I  lack  some  of  thy 
instinct. 

Fal.  Well,  thou  wilt  be  horribly  chid  to-morrow, 
when  thou  comest  to  thy  father :  if  thou  love  me, 
practise  an  answer. 

P.  Hen.  Do  thou  stand  for  my  father,  and  ex- 
amine me  upon  the  particulars  of  my  life. 

Fal.  Shall  I  ?  content :  —  This  chair  shall  be 
my  state,  this  dagger  my  scepter,  and  this  cushion 
my  crown. 

P.  Hen.  Thy  state  is  taken  for  a  joint-stool,  thy 
golden  scepter  for  a  leaden  dagger,  and  thy  precious 
rich  crown,  for  a  pitiful  bald  crown. 

Fal.  Well,  an  the  fire  of  grace  be  not  quite  out 
of  thee,  now  shalt  thou  be  moved.  — Give  me  a  cup 
of  sack,  to  make  mine  eyes  look  red,  that  it  may  be 
thought  I  have  wept ;  for  I  must  speak  in  passion, 
and  I  will  do  it  in  king  Cambyses'  3  vein. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  here  is  my  leg.  ^ 

Fal.  And  here  is  my  speech :  —  Stand  aside,  nobility. 

Host.   This  is  excellent  sport,  i'faith. 

Fal.   Weep  not,  sweet  queen,  for  trickling  tears 
are  vain. 

Host.  O,  the  father,  how  he  holds  his  countenance  ! 

Fal.   For  heaven's  sake,  lords,  convey  my  tristful 
queen. 
For  tears  do  stop  the  flood-gates  of  her  eyes. 

Host.  O  rare  !  he  doth  it  as  like  one  of  these  har- 
lotry players,  as  I  ever  see. 

Fal.  Peace,  good  pint-pot;  peace,  good  tickle- 
brain.  5  —  Harry,  I  do  not  only  marvel  where  thou 
spendest  thy  time,  but  also  how  thou  art  accom- 
panied :  for  though  the  camomile,  the  more  it  is 
trodden  on,  the  faster  it  grows,  yet  youth,  the  more 
it  is  wasted,  the  sooner  it  wears.  That  thou  art  my 
son,  I  have  partly  thy  mother's  word,  partly  my  own 
opinion  ;  but  chiefly,  a  villainous  trick  of  thine  eye, 
and  a  foolish  hanging  of  thy  nether  lip,  that  doth 
warrant  me.  If  then  thou  be  son  to  me,  here  lies 
the  point ;  —  Why,  being  son  to  me,  art  thou  so 
pointed  at  ?  Shall  the  blessed  sun  of  heaven  prove 
a  micher  6,  and  eat  blackberries  ?  a  question  not  to 
be  asked.  Shall  the  son  of  England  prove  a  thief, 
and  take  purses?  a  question  to  be  asked.  There 
is  a  thing,  Harry,  which  thou  hast  often  heard  of, 
and  it  is  known  to  many  in  our  land  by  the  name 
of  pitch :  this  pitch,  as  ancient  writers  do  report, 
doth  defile  ;  so  doth  the  company  thou  keep'st :  Ml  ^ 
for,  Harry,  now,  I  do  not  speak  to  thee  in  drink,  ^B 
but  in  tears  ;  not  in  pleasure,  but  in  passion  ;  not  ^ 
in  words  only,  but  in  woes  also  :  —  And  yet  there 
is  a  virtuous  man,  whom  I  have  often  noted  in  thy 
company,  but  I  know  not  his  name. 

P.  Hen.  What  manner  of  man,  an  it  like  your 
majesty  ? 

Fal.  A  good  portly  man,  and  a  corpulent ;  of 
a  cheerful  look,  a  pleasing  eye,  and  a  most  noble 
carriage ;  and,  as  I  think,  his  age  some  fifty,  or, 
by'r-lady,  inclining  to  threescore ;  and  now  I  re- 
member me,   his  name    is   FalstafF:    if  that  man 

3  A  character  in  a  Tragedy  by  T.  Preston,  1570. 

^  Obeisance.    *  Name  of  a  strong  liquor.     *>  A  truant  bov. 


^1 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


389 


should  be  wantonly  given,  he  deceiveth  me ;  for, 
Harry,  I  see  virtue  in  his  looks.  If  then  the  tree 
may  be  known  by  the  fruit,  as  the  fruit  by  the  tree, 
then,  peremptorily  I  speak  it,  there  is  virtue  in  that 
Falstaff :  him  keep  with,  the  rest  banish.  And  tell 
me  now,  thou  naughty  varlet,  tell  me,  where  hast 
thou  been  this  month  ? 

P.  Hen.  Dost  thou  speak  like  a  king :  Do  thou 
stand  for  me,  and  I'll  play  my  father. 

Fill.  Depose  me?  if  thou  dost  it  half  so  gravely,  so 
majestically,  both  in  word  and  matter,  hang  me  up 
by  the  heels  for  a  rabbet-sucker,  or  a  poulter's  hare. 

P.  Hen.   Well,  here  I  am  set. 

Fal,   And  here  I  stand  :  — judge,  my  masters. 

P.  Hen.    Now,  Harry?  whence  come  you? 

FcU.   My  noble  lord,  from  Eastcheap. 

P.  Hen.  The  complaints  I  hear  of  thee  are  grievous. 

Fed.  'Sblood,  my  lord,  they  are  false  :  — nay,  I'll 
tickle  ye  for  a  young  prince,  i'faith. 

P.  Hen.  Swearest  tliou,  imgracious  boy  ?  hence- 
forth ne'er  look  on  me.  Tliou  art  violently  carried 
away  from  giace :  there  is  a  devil  haunts  thee,  in 
the  likeness  of  a  fat  old  man  :  a  tun  of  man  is  thy 
companion.  Why  dost  thou  converse  with  that 
trunk  of  humours,  that  huge  bombard?  of  sack, 
tliat  roasted  Manningtree  8  ox,  that  reverend  vice, 
that  grey  iniquity,  tliat  father  ruffian,  that  vanity  in 
years  ?  Wherein  is  he  good,  but  to  taste  sack  and 
drink  it?  wherein  neat  and  cleanly,  but  to  carve  a 
capon  and  eat  it  ?  wherein  cunning,  but  in  craft  ? 
wherein  crafty,  but  in  villainy  ?  wherein  villainous, 
but  in  all  things?  wherein  worthy,  but  in  nothing? 

Fal.  I  would,  your  grace  would  take  me  with 
you  ;  whom  means  your  grace  ? 

P.  Hen.  That  villainous  abominable  misleader  of 
youth,  Falstaff,  that  old  white-bearded  Satan. 

Fal.   My  lord,  the  man  I  know. 

P.  Hen.   I  know,  thou  dost. 

Fal.  But  to  say,  I  know  more  harm  in  him  than 
in  myself,  were  to  say  more  than  I  know.  That  he 
is  old,  (tlie  more  the  pity,)  his  white  hairs  do  wit- 
ness it:  but  that  he  is  villainous,  that  I  utterly 
deny.  If  sack  and  sugar  be  a  fault,  God  help  the 
wicked  !  If  to  be  old  and  meiry  be  a  sin,  then 
many  an  old  host  that  I  know,  is  lost :  if  to  be  fat 
be  to  be  hated,  then  Pharaoh's  lean  kine  are  to  be 
loved.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  banish  Peto,  banish 
Bardolph,  banish  Poins :  but  for  sweet  Jack  Fal- 
staff, kind  Jack  Falstaff,  true  Jack  Falstaff,  valiant 
Jack  Falstaff,  and  therefore  more  valiant,  being  as 
he  is,  old  Jack  Falstaff,  banish  not  him  thy  Harry's 
company  ;  banish  plump  Jack,  and  banish  all  the 
world. 

P.  Hen.   I  do,  I  will.  [A  knocking  heard. 

{Exeunt  Hostess,  Francis,  and  Bardolph. 

Re-enter  Bardolph,  running. 

Bard.  O,  my  lord,  my  lord ;  the  sheriff,  with  a 
most  monstrous  watch,  is  at  the  door. 

Fal.  Out,  you  rogue  !  play  out  the  play  :  I  have 
much  to  say  in  the  behalf  of  that  FalstaffT 

Re-enter  Hostess,  hastily. 

Host.   O,  my  lord,  my  lord  ! 

Fal.  Heigh  !  heigh !  the  devil  rides  upon  a  fiddle- 
stick :   What's  the  matter  ? 

Hoa.   The  sheriff  and  all  the  watch  are  at  tlie 


7  A  leather  black-jack  to  hold  beer. 

*  In  EMex,  where  a  Urge  ox  waa  roasted  whoI& 


door  :   they  are  come  to  search  the  house  ?  Shall  I 
let  them  in  ? 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal  ?  never  call  a  true 
piece  of  gold,  a  counterfeit :  thou  art  essentially 
mad,  without  seeming  so. 

P.  Hen.  And  thou  a  natural  coward,  without 
instinct. 

Fal.  I  deny  your  major  :  if  you  will  deny  the 
sheriff,  so ;  if  not,  let  him  enter :  if  I  become  not  a 
cart  as  well  as  another  man,  a  plague  on  my  bring, 
ing  up  !  I  hope,  I  shall  as  soon  be  strangled  with  a 
halter,  as  another. 

P.  Hen.  Go,  hide  thee  behind  the  arras  ;  —  the 
rest  walk  up  above.  Now,  my  masters,  for  a  true 
face,  and  good  conscience. 

Fal.  Both  which  I  have  had :  but  their  date  is 
out,  and  therefore  I'll  hide  me. 

{Exeunt  all  but  the  Prince  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.   Call  in  the  Sheriff. 

Enter  Sheriff  and  Carrier. 
Now,  master  sheriff;  what's  your  will  with  me  ? 

Sher.  First,  pardon  me,  my  lord.  A  hue  and  cry 
Hath  follow'd  certain  men  unto  tliis  house. 

P.  He7i.   What  men  ? 

Sher.  One  of  them  is  well  known,  my  gracious  lord, 
A  gross  fat  man. 

Car.  As  fat  as  butter. 

P.  Hen.   The  man,  I  do  assure  you,  is  not  here ; 
For  I  myself  at  this  time  have  employ'd  him. 
And,  sheriff,  I  will  engage  my  word  to  thee, 
That  I  will,  by  to-morrow  dinner-time, 
Send  him  to  answer  thee,  or  any  man, 
For  any  thing  he  shall  be  charg'd  withal : 
And  so  let  me  entreat  you  leave  the  house. 

Sher.  I  will,  my  lord :  There  are  two  gentlemen 
Have  in  this  robbery  lost  three  hundred  marks. 

P.  Hen.  It  may  be  so :  if  he  have  robb'd  these  men, 
He  shall  be  answerable  ;  and  so,  farewell. 

Sher.    Good  night,  my  noble  lord. 

P.  Hen.   I  think  it  is  good  morrow ;  Is  it  not  ? 

Sher.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  think  it  be  two  o'clock. 
{Exeunt  Sheriff  on^i  Carrier. 

P.  Hen.  This  oily  rascal  is  known  as  well  as 
Paul's.      Go,  call  him  forth. 

Poins.  Falstaff !  —  fast  asleep  behind  the  arras, 
and  snorting  like  a  horse. 

P.  Hen.  Hark,  how  hard  he  fetches  breath  : 
Search  his  pockets.  [Poins  searches.'^  What  hast 
thou  found  ? 

Poins.   Nothing  but  papers,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.   Let's  see  what  tliey  be  :  read  them. 

Poins.   Item,  A  capon,  2s.  2d. 
Item,  Sauce,  4d. 
Item,  Sack,  two  gallons,  5s.  8d. 
Item,  Anchovies,  and  sack  after"  supper,  2s.  6d. 
Item,  Bread,  a  half-penny. 

P.  Hen.  O  monstrous  !  but  one  half-pennyworth 
of  bread  to  this  intolerable  deal  of  sack  !  —  What 
there  is  else,  keep  close  ;  we'll  read  it  at  more 
advantage  :  there  let  him  sleep  till  day.  I'll  to  tlie 
court  in  the  morning :  we  must  all  to  the  wars,  and 
thy  place  shall  be  honourable.  I'll  procure  tliis 
fat  rogue  a  charge  of  foot ;  and,  I  know,  his  death 
will  be  a  march  of  twelve-score.  The  money 
shall  t>e  paid  back  again  with  advantage.  Be 
with  me  betimes  in  the  morning ;  and  so  good 
morrow,  Poins. 

Poins.   Good  morrow,  good  my  lord.     [ExeuiU. 

C  c  3 


390 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  Bangor.     A  Room  in  the  Archdea- 
con's House. 

Enter    Hotspur,    Worcester,     Mortimer,     and 
Glendowkr. 
M(yrt.   These  promises  are  fair,  the  parties  sure, 
And  our  induction  full  of  prosperous  hope. 

Hot.  Lord  Mortimer — and  cousin  Glendower — 

Will  you  sit  down  ? 

And,  uncle  Worcester :  —  A  plague  upon  it ! 
I  have  forgot  the  map. 

Glend.  No,  here  it  is. 

Sit,  cousin  Percy  ;  sit,  good  cousin  Hotspur  : 
For  by  that  name  as  oft  as  Lancaster 
Doth  speak  of  you,  his  cheek  looks  pale ;  and,  with 
A  rising  sigh,  he  wisheth  you  in  heaven. 

Hot.   And  you  in  hell,  as  often  as  he  hears 
Owen  Glendower  spoke  of. 

Glend.   I  cannot  blame  him  :   at  my  nativity 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes, 
Of  burning  cressets  8  :   and  at  my  birth, 
The  frame  and  huge  foundation  of  the  earth 
Shak'd  like  a  coward. 

Hot.  Why,  so  it  would  have  done 

At  the  same  season,  if  your  mother's  cat  had 
But  kitten'd,  though  yourself  had  ne'er  been  born. 
Glend.  I  say,  the  earth  did  shake  when  I  was  born. 
Hot.   And  I  say,  the  earth  was  not  of  my  mind, 
If  you  suppose,  as  fearing  you  it  shook. 

Glend.   The  heavens  were  all  on  fire,  the  earth 

did  tremble. 
Hot.   O,  then  the  earth  shook  to  see  the  heavens 
on  fire, 
And  not  in  fear  of  your  nativity. 
Diseased  nature  oftentimes  breaks  forth 
In  strange  eruptions  :   oft  the  teeming  earth 
Is  with  a  kind  of  colick  pinch'd  and  vex'd 
By  the  imprisoning  of  unruly  wind 
Within  her  womb  ;  which,  for  enlargement  striving, 
Shakes  the  old  beldame  earth,  and  topples  9  down 
Steeples,  and  moss-grown  towers.      At  your  birth, 
Our  grandam  earth,  having  this  distemperature, 
In  passion  shook. 

Glend.  Cousin,  of  many  men 

I  do  not  bear  these  crossings.     Give  me  leave 
To  tell  you  once  again,  —  that  at  my  birth, 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes  ; 
The  goats  ran  from  the  mountains,  and  the  herds 
Were  strangely  clamorous  to  the  frighted  fields. 
These  signs  have  mark'd  me  extraordinary ; 
And  all  the  courses  of  my  life  do  show, 
I  am  not  in  the  roll  of  common  men. 
Where  is  he  living,  —  clipp'd  in  with  the  sea 
That  chides  the  banks  of  England,  Scotland,  Wales,— 
Which  calls  me  pupil,  or  hath  read  to  me  ? 
And  bring  him  out,  that  is  but  woman's  son, 
Can  trace  me  in  the  tedious  ways  of  art, 
And  hold  me  pace  in  deep  experiments. 

Hot.    I  think   there   is  no   man  speaks  better 

Welsh : 

I  will  to  dinner. 

Mort.   Peace,  cousin  Percy ;  you  will  make  him 

mad. 
Glend.   I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep. 
8  Lights  set  cross-ways  upon  beacons,  and  also  upon  poles, 
which  were  used  in  processions,  &c.  ^  Tumbles. 


Hot.   Why,  so  can  I ;  or  so  can  any  man  : 
But  will  they  come,  when  you  do  call  for  them  ? 

Glend.  Why,  I  can  teach  you,  cousin,  to  command 
The  devil. 

Hot.   And  I  can  teach  thee,  coz,  to  sliame  the 
devil. 
By  telling  truth ;  Tell  truth,  and  shame  the  devil.  — 
If  thou  have  power  to  raise  him,  bring  him  hither, 
And  I'll  be  sworn,  I  have  power  to  shame  him  hence. 
O,  while  you  live,  tell  truth,  and  shame  the  devil. 

Mort.   Come,  come. 
No  more  of  this  unprofitable  chat. 

Glend.    Three  times  hath    Henry    Bolingbroke 
made  head 
Against  my  power  :   thrice  from  the  banks  of  Wye, 
And  sandy-bottom'd  Severn,  have  I  sent  him. 
Bootless  home,  and  weather-beaten  back. 

Hot.  Home  without  boots,  and  in  foul  weather  too  ! 
How  'scapes  he  agues,  in  the  devil's  name  ? 

Glend.   Come,  here's  the  map  ;   Shall  we  divide 
our  right. 
According  to  our  three-fold  order  ta'en  ? 
Mort.   The  archdeacon  hath  divided  it 
Into  three  limits,  very  equally  : 
England,  from  Trent  and  Severn  hitherto. 
By  south  and  east,  is  to  my  part  assign'd : 
All  westward,  Wales  beyond  the  Severn  shore, 
And  all  the  fertile  land  within  that  bound. 
To  Owen  'Glendower  :  —  and,  dear  coz,  to  you 
The  remnant  northward,  lying  off  from  Trent. 
And  our  indentures  tripartite  are  drawn  : 
Which  being  sealed  interchangeably, 
(A  business  that  this  night  may  execute,) 
To-morrow,  cousin  Percy,  you,  and  I, 
And  my  good  lord  of  Worcester,  will  set  forth, 
To  meet  your  father,  and  the  Scottish  power, 
As  is  appointed  us,  at  Shrewsbury. 
My  father  Glendower  is  not  ready  yet, 
Nor  shall  we  need  his  help  these  fourteen  days  :  — 
Within   that  space,   [To  Glend.]   you  may  have 

drawn  together 
Your  tenants,  friends,  and  neighbouring  gentlemen. 
Glend.    A   shorter    time  shall  send  me  to   you, 
lords, 
And  in  my  conduct  shall  your  ladies  come  : 
From  whom  you  now  must  steal,  and  take  no  leave ; 
For  there  will  be  a  world  of  water  shed, 
Upon  the  parting  of  your  wives  and  you. 

Hot.   Methinks,  my  moiety,  north  from  Burton 
here, 
In  quantity  equals  not  one  of  yours  : 
See,  how  this  river  comes  me  cranking  in. 
And  cuts  me,  from  the  best  of  all  my  land, 
A  huge  half  moon,  a  monstrous  cantle  i  out. 
I'll  have  the  current  in  this  place  damm'd  up  ; 
And  here  .the  smug  and  silver  Trent  shall  run, 
In  a  new  channel,  fair  and  evenly  : 
It  shall  not  wind  with  such  a  deep  indent, 
To  rob  me  of  so  rich  a  bottom  here. 

Glend.   Not  wind  ?  it  shall,  it  must ;  you  see,  it 

doth. 
Mart.   Yea, 
But  mark,  how  he  bears  his  course,  and  runs  me  up 
With  like  advantage  on  the  other  side  ; 

1  Comer 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


S91 


Robbing  the  opposed  continent  as  much, 
As  on  the  other  side  it  takes  from  you. 

fVor.   Yea,  but  a  little   charge  will   trench   him 
here. 
And  on  this  north  side  win  this  cape  of  land  ; 
And  then  he  runs  straight  and  even. 

Hot.   I'll  have  it  so ;  a  little  charge  will  do  it. 

Glend.   I  will  not  have  it  alter'd. 

Hot.  Will  not  you  ? 

Glend.    No,  nor  you  shall  not. 

Hot.  Who  shall  say  me  nay  ? 

Glend.   Why  that  will  I. 

Hot.  Let  me  not  understand  you  then, 

Speak  it  in  Welsh. 

Glend.  I  can  speak  English,  lord,  as  well  as  you; 
For  I  was  train'd  up  in  the  English  court : 
Where,  being  but  young,  I  framed  to  the  harp 
Many  an  English  ditty,  lovely  well. 
And  gave  the  tongue  a  helpful  ornament ; 
A  virtue  that  was  never  seen  in  you. 

Hot.  Marry,  and  I'm  glad  of  it  with  all  my  heart : 
I  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry  —  mew, 
Tlian  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers : 
I  had  rather  hear  a  brazen  canstick'-  tum'd, 
Or  a  dry  wheel  grate  on  an  axle-tree  ; 
And  that  would  set  my  teeth  nothing  on  edge, 
Nothing  so  much  as  mincing  poetry  ; 
'Tis  like  the  forc'd  gait  of  a  shuffling  nag. 

Glend.  Come,  you  shall  have  Trent  tum'd. 

Hot.  I  do  not  care  :  I'll  give  thrice  so  much  land 
To  any  well-deserving  friend  ; 
But,  in  the  way  of  bargain,  mark  ye  me, 
I'll  cavil  on  the  ninth  part  of  a  hair. 
Are  the  indentures  drawn  ?  shall  we  be  gone  ? 

Glend.   The  moon  shines  fair,  you  may  away  by 
night: 
I'll  haste  tlie  writer,  and,  withal. 
Break  3  with  your  wives  of  your  departure  hence  : 
I  am  afraid,  my  daughter  will  run  mad. 
So  much  she  doteth  on  her  Mortimer.  [Exit. 

Mart.   Fye,  cousin  Percy  !    how  you  cross  my 
father ! 

Hot.   I  cannot  choose  :  sometimes  he  angers  me, 
With  telling  me  of  the  moldwarp  ^  and  the  ant, 
Of  the  dreamer  Merlin  and  his  prophecies ; 
And  of  a  dragon  and  a  finless  fish, 
A  clip-wing'd  griffin,  and  a  moulten  raven, 
A  couching  lion,  and  a  ramping  cat. 
And  such  a  deal  of  skimble-skamble  stuff 
As  puts  me  from  my  faith.      I  tell  you  what,  — 
He  held  me,  but  last  night,  at  least  nine  hours. 
In  reckoning  up  the  severtd  devils'  names. 
That  were  his  lacqueys:  I  cried,  humph, — and  well, 

—  go  to,  ■— 
But  mark'd  him  not  a  word.      O,  he's  as  tedious 
As  is  a  tired  horse,  a  railing  wife  ; 
Worse  than  a  smoky  house  :  —  I  had  rather  live 
With  cheese  and  garlick,  in  a  windmill,  far, 
Than  feed  on  cates,  and  have  liim  talk  to  me. 
In  any  summer-house  in  Christendom. 

Mori.    In  faith,  he  is  a  worthy  gentleman  ; 
Exceedingly  well  read,  and  profited 
In  strange  concealments  ;  valiant  as  a  lion. 
And  wondrous  affable  :  and  as  bountiful 
As  mines  of  India.      Sliall  I  tell  you,  cousin  ? 
He  holds  your  temper  in  a  high  respect. 
And  curbs  himself  even  of  his  natural  scope, 
When  you  do  cross  his  humour ;  faith,  he  does : 
I  warrant  you,  that  man  is  not  alive, 

3  CuMUcsUck.  3  Break  the  matter.  *  Mole. 


Might  so  have  tempted  him  as  you  have  done. 
Without  the  taste  of  danger  and  reproof; 
But  do  not  use  it  oft,  let  me  entreat  you. 

Wor.  In  faith,  my  lord,  you  are  too  wilful-blame  ; 
And  since  your  coming  hither  have  done  enough 
To  put  him  quite  beside  his  patience. 
You  must  needs  learn,  lord,  to  amend  this  fault  : 
Though  sometimes  it  show  greatness,  courage,  blood, 
(And  that's  the  dearest  grace  it  renders  you,) 
Yet  oftentimes  it  doth  present  harsh  rage, 
Defect  of  manners,  want  of  government. 
Pride,  haughtiness,  opinion,  and  disdain  : 
The  least  of  which,  haunting  a  nobleman, 
Loseth  men's  hearts  ;  and  leaves  behind  a  stain 
Upon  the  beauty  of  all  parts  besides. 
Beguiling  them  of  commendation. 

Hot.  Well,  I  am  schooVd  ;  good  manners  be  your 
speed ! 
Here  come  our  wives,  and  let  us  take  our  leave. 

Re-enter  Glendower,  rdlh  the  I^adies. 
Mart.  Tliis  is  the  deadly  spite  that  angers  me,  — 
My  wife  can  speak  no  English,  I  no  Welsh. 

Glend.   My  daughter  weeps;    she  will  not  part 
with  you. 
She'll  be  a  soldier  too,  she'll  to  the  wars. 

Mort.  Good  father,  tell  her,  —  that  she,  and  my 
aunt  Percy, 
Shall  follow  in  your  conduct  speedily. 

[Glendower  s])eaks  to  his  daughter  in  Welsli, 
and  she  ansivers  him  in  the  same. 
Glend.  She's  desperate  here;  a  peevish  self-will'd 
harlotry, 
One  no  persuasion  can  do  good  upon. 

[Lady  M.  speaks  to  Mortimer  in  Welsh. 

Mort.   I  understand  thy  looks ;  that  pretty  Wel.sh 

Which   thou    pourest    down    from  these  swelling 

heavens, 
I  am  too  perfect  in  ;  and,  but  for  shame. 
In  such  a  parley  would  I  answer  thee. 

[Lady  Mortimer  speaks 
I  understand  thy  kisses,  and  thou  mine. 
And  that's  a  feeling  disputation  : 
But  I  will  never  be  a  truant,  love. 
Till  I  have  learn'd  thy  language ;  for  thy  tongue 
Makes  Welsh  as  sweet  as  ditties  highly  penn'd. 
Sung  by  a  fair  queen  in  a  summer's  bower. 
With  ravishing  division,  to  her  lute.* 

Glend.   Nay,  if  you  melt,  then  will  she  run  mad. 
[Lady  Mortimer  speaks  again. 
Mort.   O,  I  am  ignorance  itself  in  this. 
Glend.   She  bids  you 
Upon  the  wanton  rushes  lay  you  down, 
And  rest  your  gentle  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  she  will  sing  the  song  that  pleasetli  you. 
And  on  your  eye-lids  crown  the  god  of  sleep. 
Charming  your  blood  with  pleasing  heaviness  j 
Making  such  difference  'twixt  wake  and  sleep. 
As  is  the  difference  betwixt  day  and  night. 
The  hour  before  the  heavenly  hamess'd  team 
Begins  his  golden  progress  in  the  east. 
Mort.  With  all  my  heart  I'll  sit,  and  hear  her 
sing: 
By  that  time  will  our  book,  I  think,  be  drawn. 

Glend.    Do  so ; 
And  those  musicians  that  shall  play  to  you, 
Hsmg  in  the  air  a  thousand  leagues  from  hence ; 
Yet  straight  they  shall  be  here  :  sit,  and  attend. 

■  A  compliment  to  queen  Elixabeth. 
Cc  4 


392 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


Glendowkr  speaks  some  Welsh  words,  and  then  the 
Mustek  plays. 

Hot.  Now  I  perceive  the  devil  understands  Welsh; 
And  'tis  no  marvel,  he's  so  humorous. 
By'r  lady,  he's  a  good  musician. 

Lady  P.  Then  should  you  be  nothing  but  mu- 
sical ;  for  you  are  altogether  governed  by  humours. 
Lie  still,  ye  thief,  and  hear  tlie  lady  sing  in  Welsh. 

Hot.  I  had  rather  hear  Lady,  my  brach  %  howl 
in  Irish. 

Lady  P.   Wouldst  thou  have  thy  head  broken? 

Hot.   No. 

Lady  P.   Then  l)e  still. 

Hot.   Peace  !  she  sings. 

u4  Welsh  SONG,  sung  by  Lady  Mortimer. 

Hot.   Come,  Kate,  I'll  have  your  song  too. 

Lady  P.   Not  mine,  in  good  sooth. 

Hot.  Not  yours,  in  good  sooth!  'Heart,  you  swear 
Like  a  comfit-maker's  wife !  Not  you,  in  good  sooth ; 
And,  As  true  as  I  live ;  and.  As  sure  as  day  : 
And  giv'st  such  sarcenet  surety  for  thy  oaths. 
As  if  thou  never  walk'dst  further  than  Finsbury.7 
Swear  me,  Kate,  like  a  lady,  as  thou  art, 
A  good  mouth-filling  oath  ;  and  leave  in  sooth, 
And  such  protest  of  pepper-gingerbread. 
To  velvet  guards  8,  and  Sunday  citizens. 
Come,  sing. 

Lady  P.   I  will  not  sing. 

Hot.  'Tis  the  next  way  to  turn  tailor,  or  be  red- 
breast teacher.  An  the  indentures  be  drawn,  I'll 
away  within  these  two  hours ;  and  so  come  in  when 
ye  will.  [£:xit. 

Glend.   Come,  come,  lord  Mortimer ;  you  are  as 
slow. 
As  hot  lord  Percy  is  on  fire  to  go 
By  this  our  book's  drawn ;  we'll  but  seal,  and  then 
To  horse  immediately. 

Mort.  With  all  my  heart.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  London.    A  Room  in  the  Palace, 

Enter  King  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  and  Lords. 

K.  Hen.   Lords,  give    us    leave ;   the   prince  of 
Wales,  and  I, 
Must  have  some  conference  :   But  be  near  at  hand. 
For  we  shall  presently  liave  need  of  you.  — 

[Exeunt  Lords. 
I  know  not  whether  heaven  will  have  it  so, 
For  some  displeasing  service  I  have  done, 
That  in  his  secret  doom  out  of  my  blood 
He'll  breed  revengement  and  a  scourge  for  me ; 
But  thou  dost,  in  thy  passages  of  life. 
Make  me  believe,  —  that  thou  art  only  mark'd 
For  the  hot  vengeance  and  the  rod  of  heaven, 
To  punish  my  mis-treadings.      Tell  me  else. 
Could  such  inordinate,  and  low  desires. 
Such  poor,  such  bare,  such  lewd,  such  mean  attempts, 
Such  barren  pleasures,  rude  society, 
As  thou  art  match'd  withal,  and  grafted  to. 
Accompany  the  greatness  of  thy  blood. 
And  hold  their  level  with  thy  princely  heart  ? 

P.  Hen.  So  please  your  majesty,  I  would,  I  could 
Quit  all  offences  with  such  clear  excuse. 
As  well  as,  I  am  doubtless,  I  can  purge 
Myself  of  many  I  am  charg'd  withal  : 
Yet  such  extenuation  let  me  beg. 
As,  in  reproof  of  many  tales  devis'd,  — 

6  Hound.  7  In  Moorfields. 

8  Laced  velvet,  the  finery  of  cockneys. 


Which  oft  the  ear  of  greatness  needs  must  hear. 
By  smiling  pick-thanks  9  and  base  newsmongers, 
I  may,  for  some  things  true,  wherein  my  youth 
Hath  faulty  wander'd  and  irregular. 
Find  pardon  on  my  true  submission 
JC-  Hen.    God  pardon  thee !  —  yet  let  me  wonder, 
Harry, 
At  thy  affections,  which  do  hold  a  wing 
Quite  from  the  flight  of  all  thy  ancestors. 
Thy  place  in  council  thou  hast  rudely  lost, 
Which  by  thy  younger  brother  is  supplied ; 
And  art  almost  an  alien  to  the  hearts 
Of  all  the  court  and  princes  of  my  blood : 
The  hope  and  expectation  of  thy  time 
Is  ruin'd;  and  the  soul  of « very  man 
Prophetically  does  fore-think  thy  fall. 
Had  I  so  lavish  of  my  presence  been. 
So  common-hackney'd  in  the  eyes  of  men. 
So  stale  and  cheap  to  vulgar  company  ; 
Opinion,  that  did  help  me  to  the  crown. 
Had  still  kept  loyal  to  possession  j 
And  left  me  in  reputeless  banishment, 
A  fellow  of  no  mark,  nor  likelihood. 
By  being  seldom  seen,  I  could  not  stir, 
But,  like  a  comet,  I  was  wondered  at : 
That  men  would  tell  their  children.  This  is  he  : 
Others  would  say, —  Where?  which  is  Bolingbrokef 
And  then  I  stole  all  courtesy  from  heaven. 
And  dress'd  myself  in  such  humility. 
That  I  did  pluck  allegiance  from  men's  hearts. 
Loud  shouts  and  salutations  from  their  mouths. 
Even  in  the  presence  of  the  crowned  king. 
Thus  did  I  keep  my  person  fresh  and  new ; 
My  presence,  like  a  robe  pontifical. 
Ne'er  seen,  but  wonder'd  at :   and  so  my  state. 
Seldom,  but  sumptuous,  showed  like  a  feast ; 
And  won,  by  rareness,  such  solemnity. 
The  skipping  king,  he  ambled  up  and  down 
With  shallow  jesters,  and  rash  bavin  '  wits. 
Soon  kindled,  and  soon  burn'd  :   carded  his  state  j 
Mingled  his  royalty  with  capering  fools  ; 
Had  his  great  name  profaned  with  their  scorns ; 
And  gave  his  countenance,  against  his  name, 
To  laugh  at  gibing  boys,  and  stand  the  push 
Of  every  beardless  vain  comparative :  — 
Grew  a  companion  to  the  common  streets, 
Enfeoff''d  himself  to  popularity  : 
That  being  daily  swallow'd  by  men's  eyes. 
They  surfeited  with  honey ;  and  began 
To  loathe  the  taste  of  sweetness,  whereof  a  little 
More  than  a  little  is  by  much  too  much. 
So,  when  he  had  occasion  to  be  seen, 
He  was  but  as  the  cuckoo  is  in  June, 
Heard,  not  regarded ;  seen,  but  with  such  eyes. 
As,  sick  and  blunted  with  community. 
Afford  no  extraordinaiy  gaze. 
Such  as  is  bent  on  sun-like  majesty 
When  it  shines  seldom  in  admiring  eyes  : 
But  rather  drowz'd,  and  hung  their  eyelids  down. 
Slept  in  his  face,  and  rendered  such  aspect 
As  cloudy  men  use  to  their  adversaries ; 
Being  with  his  presence  glutted,  gorg'd,  and  full. 
And  in  that  very  line,  Harry,  stand'st  thou  : 
For  thou  hast  lost  thy  princely  privilege. 
With  vile  participation  ;  not  an  eye 
But  is  a-Aveary  of  thy  common  sight. 
Save  mine,  which  hath  desir'd  to  see  thee  more; 
Which  now  doth  that  I  would  not  have  it  do. 
Make  blind  itself  with  foolish  tenderness. 

s  Officious  parasites.      •  '  Brushwood. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


393 


P.  Hen.  I  shall  hereafter,  my  thrice-gracious  lord. 
Be  more  myself. 

JiT.  Hen.  For  all  the  world, 

As  thou  art  to  this  hour,  was  Richard  then 
When  I  from  France  set  foot  at  Ravenspurg  ; 
And  even  as  I  was  then,  is  Percy  now. 
Now  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  soul  to  boot. 
He  liath  more  worthy  interest  to  the  state. 
Than  thou,  the  shadow  of  succession  : 
For,  of  no  right,  nor  colour  like  to  right. 
He  doth  fill  fields  with  harness*  in  the  realm  ; 
Turns  head  against  the  lion's  armed  jaws ; 
And,  being  no  more  in  debt  to  years  than  thou, 
Leads  ancient  lords  and  reverend  bishops  on, 
To  bloody  battles,  and  to  bruising  arms. 
What  never-dying  honour  hatli  he  got 
Against  renowned  Douglas  ;  whose  high  deeds, 
Whose  hot  incursions,  and  great  name  in  arms, 
Holds,  from  all  soldiers  chief  majority. 
And  mihtary  title  capital. 

Through  all  the  kingdoms  that  acknowledge  Christ? 
Thrice  hath  this  Hotspur  Mars  in  swathing  clothes. 
This  infant  warrior  in  his  enterprizes 
Discomfited  great  Douglas :   ta'en  him  once, 
Enlarged  him,  and  made  a  friend  of  him. 
To  fill  the  mouth  of  deep  defiance  up. 
And  sliake  the  peace  and  safety  of  our  throne. 
And  what  say  you  to  this?  Percy,  Northumberland, 
The  archbishop's  grace  of  York,  Douglas,  Mortimer, 
Capitulate  3  against  us,  and  are  up. 
But  wherefore  do  I  tell  these  news  to  thee  ? 
Why,  Harry,  do  I  tell  thee  of  my  foes. 
Which  art  my  near'st  and  dearesf*  enemy  ? 
Thou  that  art  like  enough,  —  tlu-ough  vassal  fear, 
Base  inclination,  and  the  start  of  spleen,  — 
To  fight  against  me  under  Percy's  pay. 
To  dog  his  heels,  and  court'sy  at  his  frowns, 
To  show  how  much  thou  art  degenerate. 

P.  Hen.  Do  not  think  so,  you  shall  not  find  it  so ; 
And  heaven  forgive  them,  that  have  so  much  sway'd 
Your  majesty's  good  thoughts  away  from  me ! 
I  will  redeem  all  this  on  Percy's  head. 
And  in  the  closing  of  some  glorious  day, 
Be  bold  to  tell  you  that  I  am  you  son ; 
When  I  will  wear  a  garment  all  of  blood, 
And  stain  my  favours  in  a  bloody  mask. 
Which  wash'd  away,  shall  scour  my  shame  with  it 
And  that  shall  be  the  day,  whene'er  it  lights. 
That  this  same  child  of  honour  and  renown. 
This  gallant  Hotspur,  this  all-praised  knight. 
And  your  unthought-of  Harry,  chance  to  meet : 
For  every  honour  sitting  on  his  helm, 
*  Would  they  were  multitudes ;  and  on  my  head 
My  shames  redoubled !  for  the  time  will  come. 
That  I  shall  make  this  northern  youth  exchange 
His  glorious  deeds  for  my  indignities. 
Percy  is  but  my  factor,  good  my  lord. 
To  engross  up  glorious  deeds  on  my  behalf; 
And  I  will  call  him  to  so  strict  account, 
Tliat  he  shall  render  every  glory  up. 
Yea,  even  tlie  slightest  worship  of  his  time. 
Or  I  will  tear  the  reckoning  from  his  heart. 
This,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  promise  here : 
The  which  if  he  be  pleas'd  I  shall  perform, 
I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  may  salve 
Tlie  long-grown  wounds  of  my  intemperance': 
If  not  the  end  of  life  cancels  a\\  bands  ; 
And  I  will  die  a  hundred  thousand  deaths, 
Ere  break  the  smallest  parcel  of  this  vow. 

"  Armour,  3  Combine,  ♦  Most  fatal 


K.  Hen.  A  hundred  thousand  rebels  die  in  this :  — 
Thou  shalt  have  charge,  and  sovereign  trust,  herein. 

Enter  Blunt. 
How  now,  good  Blunt  ?  thy  looks  are  full  of  speed. 

Blunt.  So  hath  the  business  that  I  come  to  speak  of. 

Lord  Mortimer  of  Scotland  hath  sent  word, 

That  Douglas,  and  tlie  English  rebels,  met 
The  eleventh  of  this  month  at  Shrewsbury  : 
A  mighty  and  a  fearful  head  they  are. 
If  promises  be  kept  on  every  hand. 
As  ever  ofl[er'd  foul  play  in  a  state. 

K.  Hen.  Theearlof  Westmorelandsetforthto-day; 
With  him  my  son,  lord  John  of  Lancaster ; 
For  this  advertisement  is  five  days  old  :  — 
On  Wednesday  next,  Harry,  you  shall  set 
Forward  \  on  Thursday,  we  ourselves  will  march  : 
Our  meeting  is  Bridgnorth  :   and,  Harry,  you. 
Shall  march  through  Glostershire;  by  which  account. 
Our  business  valued,  some  twelve  days  hence 
Our  general  forces  at  Bridgnorth  shall  meet. 
Our  hands  are  full  of  business :   let's  away  ; 
Advantage  feeds  him  fat,  while  men  delay. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III Eastcheap.    A  room  in  the  Boot's 

Head  Tavern. 

Enter  Falstaff  and  Bakdolph. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  am  I  not  fallen  away  vilely  since 
this  last  action  ?  do  I  not  bate  ?  do  I  not  dwindle  ? 
Why,  my  skin  hangs  about  me  like  an  old  lady's 
loose  gown  ;  I  am  witlier'd  like  an  old  apple-John. 
WeH,  I'll  repent,  and  that  suddenly,  while  I  am  in 
some  liking  ^ ;  J  shall  be  out  of  heart  shortly,  and 
then  I  shall  have  no  strength  to  repent.  An  I  have 
not  forgotten  what  the  inside  of  a  church  is  made 
of,  I  am  a  pepper-corn,  a  brewer's  horse  :  the  inside 
of  a  church !  Company,  villainous  company,  hath 
been  the  spoil  of  me. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  you  are  so  fretful,  you  cannot 
live  long. 

Fal.  Why,  there  is  it :  —  come,  sing  me  a  song ; 
make  me  merry.  I  was  as  virtuously  given,  as  a 
gentleman  need  to  be ;  virtuous  enough  ;  swore 
little ;  diced,  not  above  seven  times  a  week ;  paid 
money  that  I  borrowed,  three  or  four  times ;  lived 
well,  and  in  good  compass  :  and  now  I  live  out  of 
all  order,  out  of  all  compass. 

Bard.  Why,  you  are  so  fat,  sir  John,  that  you 
must  needs  be  out  of  all  compass ;  out  of  all  reason- 
able compass,  sir  John. 

Fal.  Do  thou  amend  thy  face,  and  I'll  amend  my 
life :  Thou  art  our  admiral  <>,  thou  bearest  the  lantern 
in  the  poop,  —  but  'tis  in  the  nose  of  thee ;  thou  art 
the  knight  of  the  burning  lamp. 

Bard.  Why,  sir  John,  my  face  does  you  no  harm. 

Fal.  No,  I'll  be  sworn ;  I  make  good  use  of  it. 
W^hen  thou  ran'st  up  Gads-hill  in  the  night  to  catch 
my  horse,  if  I  did  not  tliink  thou  hadst  been  an 
ignis fatuiis,  or  a  ball  of  wildfire,  there's  no  pur- 
chase in  money.  O,  thou  art  ^  perpetual  triumph, 
an  everlasting  bonfire-light !  Thou  hast  saved  me 
a  thousand  mai'ks  in  links  and  torches,  walking  with 
thee  in  tlie  night  betwixt  tavern  and  tavern  :  but  the 
sack  that  thou  hastdnmk  me,  would  have  bought  me 
lights  as  good  cheap,  at  the  dearest  chandler's  in 
Europe.  I  have  maintained  that  salamander  of 
yours  with  fire,  any  time  this  two-and-thirty  years  j 
Heaven  reward  me  for  it ! 


Have  tome  flesh. 


*  Admiral'!  ship. 


894 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  III.  Scene  III. 


Enter  Hostess. 
How  now  dame  Partlet  the  hen?  7  have  you  inquired 
yet,  wh<f  picked  my  pocket  ? 

Host.  Wljy,  sir  John  !  what  do  you  think,  sir 
John  ?  do  you  think  I  keep  thieves  in  my  house? 
I  have  searclied,  I  have  inquired,  so  has  my  hus- 
band, man  by  man,  boy  by  boy,  servant  by  servant : 
the  tithe  of  a  hair  was  never  lost  in  my  house  before. 

/a/.  You  lie,  hostess ;  Bardolph  was  shaved  and 
lost  many  a  hair  :  and  I'll  be  sworn,  my  pocket  was 
picked :    Go  to,  you  are  a  woman,  go. 

Hoit.  Who  I  ?  I  defy  thee  :  I  was  never  called 
so  in  mine  own  house  before. 

Fal.   Go  to,  I  know  you  well  enough. 

Host.  No,  sir  John  ;  you  do  not  know  me,  sir 
John  :  I  know  you,  sir  John  :  you  owe  me  money, 
sir  John,  and  now  you  pick  a  quarrel  to  beguile  me 
of  it ;   I  bought  you  a  dozen  of  shirts  to  your  back. 

Fal.  Dowlas,  dowlas  :  I  have  given  them  away  to 
bakers'  wives,  and  they  have  made  bolters  of  them. 

Host.  Now,  as  I  am  a  true  woman,  holland  of 
eight  sliillings  an  ell.  You  owe  money  here  besides, 
sir  John,  for  your  diet,  and  by-drinkings,  and  money 
lent  you,  four-and-twenty  pound. 

Fal.   He  had  his  part  of  it ;  let  him  pay. 

Host.   He  ?  alas,  he  is  poor ;  he  hath  nothing. 

Fal.  How!  poor?  look  upon  his  face ;  What  call 
you  rich  ?  let  them  coin  his  nose,  let  them  coin  his 
cheeks ;  I'll  not  pay  a  denier.  What  will  you 
make  a  younker  of  me  ?  shall  I  not  take  mine  ease 
in  mine  inn,  but  I  shall  have  my  pocket  picked  ? 
I  have  lost  a  seal-ring  of  my  grandfather's  worth 
forty  mark. 

Host.  O  !  I  have  heard  the  prince  tell  him,  I 
know  not  liow  oft,  that  that  ring  was  copper. 

Fal.  How  !  the  prince  is  a  Jacks,  a  sneak-cup  ; 
and,  if  he  were  here,  I  would  cudgel  liim  like  a  dog 
if  he  would  say  so. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Poins,  marching.  Fal- 
STAFF  meets  the  Prince,  playing  on  his  truncheon 
like  ajife. 

Fal.  How  now,  lad  ?  is  the  wind  in  that  door, 
must  we  all  march  ? 

Bard.   Yea,  two  and  two,  Newgate-fashion. 

Host.   My  lord,  I  pray  you,  hear  me. 

P.  Hen.  What  sayest  thou,  mistress  Quickly? 
How  does  thy  husband  ?  I  love  him  well,  he  is  an 
honest  man. 

Host.   Good  my  lord  hear  me. 

Fal,   Pr'ythee,  let  her  alone,  and  list  to  me. 

P.  Hen.   What  say'st  thou,  Jack  ? 

Fal.  The  other  night  I  fell  asleep  here  behind  the 
arras,  and  had  my  pocket  picked. 

P.  Hen.    What  did'st  thou  lose,  Jack  ? 

Fal.  Wilt  thou  believe  me,  Hal  ?  three  or  four 
bjonds  of  forty  pound  a-piece,  and  a  seal-ring  of 
my  grandfather's. 

P.  Hen.   A  trifle,  some  eight-penny  matter. 

Host.  So  I  told  him,  my  lord  ;  and  I  said,  I  heard 
your  grace  say  so  :  And  my  lord,  he  speaks  most 
vilely  of  you,  like  a  foul-mouthed  man  as  he  is  j  and 
said,  he  would  cudgel  you. 

P.  Hen.  What !  he  did  not. 

Host.  There's  neither  faith,  truth,  nor  woman- 
hood in  me  else. 

Fal.  There's  no  more  faith  in  thee  than  in  a  stewed 
prime  ;  nor  no  more  truth  in  thee,  than  in  a  drawn 

7  In  the  story-book  of  Reynard  the  Fox. 

*  A  term  of  contempt  frequently  nsed  by  Shakspcare. 


fox ;  and  for  womanhood,  maid  Marian  9  may  be 
the  deputy's  wife  of  the  ward  to  thee.  Go,  you 
thing,  go. 

Host.  Say,  what  thing?  what  thing?  I  am  an 
honest  man's  wife :  and,  setting  thy  knighthood  aside, 
thou  art  a  knave  to  call  me  so. 

Fal.  Setting  thy  womanhood  aside,  thou  art  a 
beast  to  say  otherwise. 

Host.   Say,  wliat  beast,  thou  knave,  thou  ? 

Fal.   What  beast  ?  why  an  otter. 

P.  Hen.   An  otter,  sir  John  !  why  an  otter  ? 

Fal.   Why  ?  she's  neither  fish,  nor  flesh. 

Host.   Thou  art  an  unjust  man  in  saying  so. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  sayest  true,  hostess;  and  he 
slanders  thee  most  grossly. 

Host.  So  he  doth  you,  my  lord ;  and  said  this 
other  day,  you  ought  him  a  thousand  pound. 

P.  Hen.    Sirrah,  do  I  owe  you  a  thousand  pound? 

Fal.  A  thousand  pound,  Hal  ?  a  million :  thy 
love  is  worth  a  million ;  thou  owest  me  thy  love. 

Host.  Nay,  my  lord,  he  called  you  Jack,  and 
said,  he  would  cudgel  you. 

Fol.   Did  I,  Bardolph  ? 

Bard.   Indeed,  sir  John,  you  said  so. 

Fal.   Yea ;  if  he  said,  my  ring  was  copper. 

P.  Hen.  I  say,  'tis  copper :  Darest  thou  be  as 
good  as  thy  word  now  ? 

Fal.  Why,  Hal,  thou  knowest,  as  thou  art  but 
man,  I  dare :  but,  as  thou  art  prince,  I  fear  thee, 
as  I  fear  the  roaring  of  the  lion's  whelp. 

P.  Hen.    And  why  not,  as  the  lion  ? 

Fal.  The  king  himself  is  to  be  feared  as  the  lion  : 
Dost  thou  think,  I'll  fear  thee  as  I  fear  thy  fatlier  ? 

P.  Hen.  O,  sirrah,  there's  no  room  for  faith, 
truth,  nor  honesty,  in  this  bosom  of  thine.  Charge 
an  honest  woman  with  picking  thy  pocket !  Why, 
thou  impudent  rascal,  if  there  were  any  thing  in 
thy  pocket  but  tavern-reckonings,  and  one  poor 
penny-worth  of  sugar-candy  to  make  thee  long 
winded  ;  if  thy  pocket  were  enriched  with  any  othei 
injuries  but  these,  I  am  a  villain.  And  yet  you 
will  stand  to  it ;  you  will  not  pocket  up  wrong : 
Art  thou  not  ashamed  ? 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal  ?  thou  knowest,  in  the 
state  of  innocency,  Adam  fell ;  and  what  should 
poor  Jack  Falstaff  do,  in  the  days  of  villainy? 
Thou  seest,   I  have  more  flesh  than  another  man ; 

and  therefore  more  frailty. You  confess  then, 

you  picked  my  pocket  ? 

P.  Hen.   It  appears  so  by  the  story. 

Fal.  Hostess,  I  forgive  thee :  Go,  make  ready 
breakfast ;  love  thy  husband,  look  to  thy  servants, 
cherish  thy  guests  :  thou  shalt  flnd  me  tractable  to 
any  honest  reason  :  thou  seest,  I  am  pacified.  — 
Still  ?  —  Nay,  pr'ythee,  be  gone.  [Exit  Hostess.] 
Now,  Hal,  to  the  news  at  court :  for  the  robbery, 
lad,  —  How  is  that  answered  ? 

P.  Hen.  O,  my  sweet  beef,  I  must  still  be  good 
angel  to  thee :  —  The  money  is  paid  back  again. 

Fal.  O,  I  do  not  like  that  paying  back,  'tis  a 
double  labour. 

P.  Hen.  I  am  good  friends  with  my  father,  and 
may  do  any  thing. 

Fal.  Rob  me  the  exchequer  the  first  thing  thou 
doest,  and  do  it  with  unwashed  hands  too. 

Bard.    Do,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  procured  thee,  Jack,  a  charge  of 
foot. 

9  A  female  character,  who  attends  morris-dancers ;  gene- 
rally a  man  dressed  like  a  woman. 


I 


Act  IV.    Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


395 


Fal.  I  would,  it  had  been  of  horse.  Where  shall 
I  find  one  that  can  ste^  well  ?  O  for  a  fine  thief, 
of  the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  or  thereabouts !  I  am 
heinously  unprovided.  Well,  Heaven  be  tlianked 
for  these  rebels,  tliey  offend  none  but  the  virtuous ; 
I  laud  them,  I  praise  them. 

P.  Hen.   Bardolph 

Bard.   My  lord. 

P.  Hen.   Go  bear  this  letter  to  lord  John  of  Lan- 
caster, 
My  brother  John  ;  this  to  my  lord  of  Westmore- 
land, — 
Go,  Poins,  to  horse,  to  horse  ;  for  thou,  and  I, 


Have  thirty  miles  to  ride  yet  ere  dinner  time. 

Jack, 

Meet  me  to-morrow  i'  the  Temple-hall 

At  two  o'clock  i'the  afternoon  : 

There  shalt  thou  know  thy  charge;  and  there  receive 

Money,  and  order  for  their  furniture. 

The  land  is  burning  ;   Percy  stands  on  high  ; 

And  either  they,  or  we,  must  lower  lie. 

[Exeunt  Prince,  Poins,  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.   Rare  words !  brave  world ! Hostess,  my 

breakfast ;  come  :  — 
O,  1  could  wish,  this  tavern  were  my  drum. 

[Exit. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  Rebel  Camp  near  Shrewsbury. 

Enter  Hotspur,  Worcester,  and  Douglas. 

Hot.  Well  said,    my  noble   Scot:   If  speaking 
truth. 
In  this  fine  age,  were  not  thought  flattery. 
Such  attribution  should  the  Douglas  >  have, 
As  not  a  soldier  of  this  season's  stamp 
Should  go  so  general  current  through  the  world. 
By  heaven,  I  cannot  flatter ;   I  defy 
The  tongues  of  soothers  ;  but  a  braver  place 
In  my  heart's  love,  hath  no  man  than  yourself: 
Nay,  task  me  to  the  word ;  approve  me,  lord. 

Doug.   Thou  art  the  king  of  honour  : 
No  man  so  potent  breathes  upon  the  ground, 
But  I  will  beard  him. 

Hot.  Do  so,  and  'tis  well :  — 

Enter  a  Messenger,  with  Letters. 
What  letters  hast  thou  there  ?  —  I  can  but  thank 
you. 

Mess.   These  letters  come  from  your  father,  — 

Hot.  Letters  from  him !  why  comes  he  not  himself  ? 

Mess.   He  cannot  come,  my  lord  j  he's  grievous 
sick. 

Hot.   O  how  has  he  the  leisure  to  be  sick, 
In  such  a  jostling  time?  Who  leads  his  power? 
Under  whose  government  come  they  along  ? 

Mess.   His  letters  bear  his  mind,  not  I,  my  lord. 

Wor.   I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  doth  he  keep  his  bed  ? 

Mess.   He  did,  my  lord,  four  days  ere  I  set  forth ; 
And  at  the  time  of  my  departure  thence. 
He  was  much  fear'd  by  his  physicians. 

Wor.   I  would,  the  state  of  time  had  first  been 
whole, 
Ere  he  by  sickness  had  been  visited  ; 
His  health  was  never  better  worth  than  now. 

Hot.   Sick  now !  droop  now  !  this  sickness  doth 
infect 
The  very  life-blood  of  our  enterprize  ; 
*Tis  catching  hither,  even  to  our  camp.  — 
He  writes  me  here,  —  that  inward  sickness  — 
And  that  his  friends  by  deputation  could  not 
So  soon  be  drawn  ;  nor  did  he  think  it  meet, 
To  lay  so  dangerous  and  dear  a  trust 
On  any  soul  remov'd,  but  on  his  own. 
Yet  doth  he  give  us  bold  advertisement,  — 
That  with  our  small  conjunction,  we  should  on. 
To  see  how  fortune  is  dispos'd  to  us : 

'  This  expression  is  applied  by  way  of  pre-eminence  to  the 
head  of  the  Douglas  family- 


For,  as  he  writes,  there  is  no  quailing  ^  now  y 
Because  the  king  is  certainly  possess'd 
Of  all  our  purposes.      What  say  you  to  it  ? 

Wor.   Your  father's  sickness  is  a  maim  to  us. 

Hot.   A  perilous  gash,  a  very  limb  lopp'd  off:  —r 
And  yet,  in  faith,  'tis  not :   his  present  want 
Seems  more  than  we  shall  find  it :  — Were  it  good. 
To  set  the  exact  wealth  of  all  our  states 
All  at  one  cast  ?  to  set  so  rich  a  main  ^ 
On  the  nice  hazard  of  one  doubtful  hour  ? 
It  were  not  good :  for  therein  should  we  read 
The  very  bottom  and  the  soul  of  hope ; 
The  very  list  3,  the  very  utmost  bound 
Of  all  our  fortunes. 

Doug.  Faith,  and  so  we  should ; 

Where  now  remains  a  sweet  reversion : 
We  may  boldly  spend  upon  the  hope  of  what ' 
Is  to  come  in  : 
A  comfort  of  retirement  lives  in  this. 

Hot.   A  rendezvous,  a  home  to  fly  unto., 

Wor.   But  yet,  I  would  your  father  had  been  here. 
The  quality  and  hair  *  of  our  attempt 
Brooks  no  division  :    It  will  be  thought 
By  some,  that  know  not  why  he  is  away 
That  wisdom,  loyalty,  and  mere  dislike 
Of  our  proceedings,  kept  the  earl  from  hence ; 
And  think,  how  such  an  apprehension 
May  turn  the  tide  of  fearful  faction. 
And  breed  a  kind  of  question  in  our  cause : 
For  well  you  know,  we  of  the  offering  side 
Must  keep  aloof  from  strict  arbitrement 
And  stop  all  sight-holes,  every  loop,  from  whence 
The  eye  of  reason  may  pry  in  upon  us  : 
This  absence  of  your  father's  draws  a  curtain. 
That  shows  the  ignorant  a  kind  of  fear 
Before  not  dreamt  of. 

Hot.  You  strain  too  far. 

I,  rather,  of  his  absence  make  tliis  use  ;  — 
It  lends  a  lustre,  and  more  great  opinion, 
A  larger  dare  to  our  great  enterprize. 
Than  if  the  earl  were  here  :  for  men  must  think,  , 
If  we,  without  his  help,  can  make  a  head 
To  push  against  tlie  kingdom ;  with  his  help. 
We  shall  o'erturn  it,  topsy-turvy  down.  — 
Yet  all  goes  well,  yet  all  our  joints  are  whole. 

Doug.   As  heart  can  think :  there  is  not  such  a 
word 
Spoke  of  in  Scotland,  as  this  term  of  fear. 


*  Languishing. 

*  The  comi^exion,  the  character. 


Limit,  boundary. 


396 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


Enter  Sir  Richard  Vernon. 

Hot.   My  cousin  Vernon  !  welcome,  by  my  soul. 

Ver.   Pray  Heaven,  my  news  be  worth  a  welcome, 
lord. 
The  carl  of  Westmoreland,  seven  thousand  strong. 
Is  marching  hithcrwards  ;  with  him,  prince  John. 

Hot.   No  harm  :    What  more  ? 

Ver.  And  further,  I  have  learn 'd  — 

The  king  himself  in  person  is  set  forth, 
Or  hitherwards  intended  speedily. 
With  strong  and  mighty  preparation. 

Hot.   He  shall  be  welcome,  too.   Where  is  his  son, 
The  nimble-footed  madcap  prince  of  Wales, 
And  his  comrades  that  daff'd  *  the  world  aside. 
And  bid  it  pass? 

Ver.  All  furnish'd,  all  in  arms, 

All  plum'd  like  estridges  ^  that  wing  the  wind ; 
Bated  7  like  eagles  having  lately  bath'd  ; 
Gh'ttering  in  golden  coats,  like  images ; 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May, 
And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer ; 
Wanton  as  youthful  goats,  wild  as  young  bulls. 
I  saw  young  Harry,  —  with  his  beaver  on. 
His  cuisses  ^  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arm'd,  — 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  feather'd  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat. 
As  if  an  angel  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds. 
To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 

Hot.   No  more,  no  more ;  worse  than  the  sun  in 
March, 
This  praise  doth  nourish  agues.      Let  them  come  ; 
They  come  like  sacrifices  in  their  trim, 
And  to  the  fire-eyed  maid  of  smoky  war. 
All  hot,  and  bleeding,  will  we  offer  them : 
The  mailed  Mars  shall  on  his  altar  sit. 
Up  to  the  ears  in  blood.      I  am  on  fire, 
To  hear  this  rich  reprisal  is  so  nigh. 
And  yet  not  ours  :  —  Come,  let  me  take  my  horse. 
Who  is  to  bear  me  like  a  thunderbolt. 
Against  the  bosom  of  the  prince  of  Wales  : 
Harry  to  Harry  shall,  hot  horse  to  horse, 
Meet,  and  ne'er  part,  till  one  drop  down  a  corse.  — 
O,  that  Glendower  were  come  ! 

Ver.  There  is  more  news  : 

I  learn'd  in  Worcester  as  I  rode  along. 
He  cannot  draw  his  power  this  fourteen  days. 

Dong.   That's  the  worst  tidings  that  I  hear  of  yet. 

Wor.   Ay,  by  my  faith,  that  bears  a  frosty  sound. 

Hot.   What  may  the  king's  whole  battle  reach 
unto? 

Ver.   To  thirty  thousand. 

Hot.  Forty  let  it  be  ; 

My  father  and  Glendower  being  both  away, 
Tlie  powers  of  us  may  serve  so  great  a  day. 
Come,  let  us  make  a  muster  speedily ; 
Doomsday  is  near  ;  die  all,  die  merrily. 

Doug.   Talk  not  of  dying ;   1  am  out  of  fear 
Of  death,  or  death's  hand,  for  this  one  half  year. 

lExeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  ^public  Road  near  Coventry. 

Enter  Falstaff  and  Bardolph. 

Fal-  Bardolph,  get  thee  before  to  Coventry ;  fill 
me  a  bottle  of  sack :  our  soldiers  shall  march 
through  ;  we'll  to  Sutton- Colfield  to-night. 

JSard.    Will  you  give  me  money,  captain  ? 

'  Threw  contemptuously.  ^  Ostriches. 

'  Fresh.  8  Armour  for  the  thighs. 


Fal.   Lay  out,  lay  out. 

Bard.   This  bottle  makes  an  angel. 

Fal.  An  if  it  do,  take  it  for  thy  labour ;  and  if  it 
make  twenty,  take  them  all,  I'll  answer  the  coinage. 
Bid  my  lieutenant  Peto  meet  me  at  the  town's  end. 

Bard.   I  will,  captain  :   farewell.  [Exit. 

Fal.  If  I  be  not  ashamed  of  my  soldiers,  I  am 
a  souced  gurnet.  I  have  misused  the  king's  press 
vilely.  I  have  got  in  exchange  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  soldiers,  three  hundred  and  odd  pounds.  I  press 
me  none  but  good  householders,  yeoman's  sons : 
inquire  me  out  contracted  bachelors,  such  as  had 
been  asked  twice  on  the  bans ;  such  a  commodity 
of  warm  slaves,  as  had  as  lief  hear  the  devil  as  a 
drum ;  such  as  fear  the  report  of  a  caliver  ^  worse 
than  a  struck  fowl,  or  a  hurt  wild-duck.  I  pressed 
me  none  but  such  toasts  and  butter,  with  hearts  no 
bigger  than  pins'  heads,  and  they  have  bought  out 
their  services ;  and  now  my  whole  charge  consists 
of  ancients,  corporals,  lieutenants,  gentlemen  of 
companies,  slaves  as  ragged  as  Lazarus  in  the 
painted  cloth,  and  such  as,  indeed,  were  never 
soldiers,  but  discarded,  unjust  serving-men,  younger 
sons  to  younger  brothers,  revolted  tapsters,  and 
ostlers  trade-fallen  ;  the  cankers  of  a  calm  world, 
and  a  long  peace ;  ten  times  more  dishonourably 
ragged  than  an  old  faced  ancient  • :  and  such  have  I 
to  fill  up  the  rooms  of  them  that  have  bought  out 
their  services.  A  mad  fellow  met  me  on  the  way, 
and  told  me  I  had  unloaded  all  the  gibbets,  and 
pressed  the  dead  bodies.  No  eye  hath  seen  such 
scare-crows.  I'll  not  march  through  Coventry  with 
them,  that's  flat :  —  Nay,  and  the  villains  march 
wide  betwixt  the  legs,  as  if  they  had  gyves '2  on; 
for,  indeed,  I  had  the  most  of  them  out  of  prison. 
There's  but  a  shirt  and  a  half  in  all  my  company  : 
and  the  half  shirt  is  two  napkins  tacked  together, 
and  thrown  over  the  shoulders  like  a  herald's  coat 
without  sleeves;  and  the  shirt,  to  say  the  truth, 
stolen  from  my  host  at  Saint  Alban's,  or  the  red- 
nose  inn-keeper  of  Daintry.  3  But  that's  all  one ; 
they'll  find  linen  enough  on  every  hedge. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Westmoreland 

P.  He7i.   How  now,  blown  Jack?  how  now,  quilt? 

Fal.  What,  Hal  ?  How  now,  mad  wag  ?  what  a 
devil  dost  thou  in  Warwickshire? —  My  good  lord 
of  Westmoreland,  I  cry  you  mercy ;  I  thought  your 
honour  had  already  been  at  Shrewsbury. 

fFest.  'Faith,  sir  John,  'tis  more  than  time  that 
I  were  there,  and  you  too ;  but  my  powers  are  there 
already :  The  king,  I  can  tell  you,  looks  for  us  all ; 
we  must  away  all  night. 

Fal.  Tut,  never  fear  me ;  I  am  as  vigilant  as  a 
cat  to  steal  cream. 

p.  Hen.  I  think  to  steal  cream,  indeed ;  for  thy 
theft  hath  already  made  thee  butter.  But,  tell  me, 
Jack  ;  Whose  fellows  are  these  that  come  after  ? 

Fal.   Mine,  Hal,  mine. 

p.  Hen.   I  did  never  see  such  pitiful  rascals. 

Fal.  Tut,  tut ;  good  enough  to  toss ;  food  for 
powder,  food  for  powder  ;  they'll  fill  a  pit,  as  well 
as  better  :   tu^h,  man,  mortal  men,  mortal  men. 

West.  Ay,  but  sir  John,  methinks.they  are  ex- 
ceeding poor  and  bare  ;  too  beggarly. 

Fal.  'Faith,  for  their  poverty,  —  I  know  not 
where  they  had  that :  and  for  their  bareness,  —  I 
am  sure  they  never  learned  that  of  me. 

9  Musket  '  Standard. 

2  Fetters  3  Daventry,  pronounced  Daintrv. 


I 


J 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


P.  Hen.  No,  I'll  bp  sworn;  unless  you  call  three 
fingers  on  the  ribs  bare.  But,  sirrah,  make  haste  ; 
Percy  is  already  in  the  field. 

Ful.   What,  is  the  king  encamped  ? 

West.  He  is,  sir  John ;  I  fear  we  shall  stay  too 
long. 

Fal.   Well, 
To  the  latter  end  of  a  fray,  and  the  beginning  of  a 

feast, 
Fits  a  dull  fighter,  and  a  keen  guest.  \^Exeunt. 


397 


SCENE  III.  —The  Rebel  Camp  near  Shrewsbury. 

Enter  Hotspur,   Worcester,   Douglas,  and 
Vernon. 

ITot.   We'll  fight  with  him  to-night. 

^^^^-  It  may  not  be. 

J)(nig.   You  give  him  then  advantage. 

^"-'r-  Not  a  whit. 

Hor.   Why  say  you  so?  looks  he  not  for  supply  ? 

Ver.   So  do  we. 

^^ot.  His  is  certain,  ours  is  doubtful. 

Wor.   Good  cousin,  be  advis'd ;  stir  not  to-night. 

Ver.   Do  not,  my  lord. 

Doug.  You  do  not  counsel  well ; 

X  ou  speak  it  out  of  fear  and  cold  heart. 

Fer.   Do  me  no  slander,  Douglas  :   by  my  life, 
(And  I  dare  well  maintain  it  with  my  life,) 
If  well  respected  honour  bid  me  on, 
I  hold  as  little  counsel  with  weak  fear, 

As  you,  my  lord,  or  any  Scot  that  lives  : 

Let  it  be  seen  to-morrow  in  the  battle. 
Which  of  us  fears. 
Dong.  Yea,  or  to  night. 

^'^'  Content. 

Hot.  To-night  say  I. 

^'^'  Come,  come,  it  may  not  be. 

I  wonder  much,  being  men  of  such  great  leading  4, 
That  you  foresee  not  what  impediments 
Drag  back  our  expedition  :    Certain  horse 
Of  my  cousin  Vernon's  are  not  yet  come  up  : 
Your  uncle  Worcester's  horse  came  but  to-day ; 
And  now  their  pride  and  mettle  is  asleep. 
Their  courage  with  hard  labour  tame  and  dull, 
That  not  a  horse  is  half  the  half  himself. 
Hot.   So  are  the  horses  of  the  enemy. 
In  general  journey-bated  and  brought  low  j 
The  better  part  of  ours  is  full  of  rest. 

U'or.    The  number  of  the  king  exceedeth  ours  : 
For  heaven's  sake,  cousin,  stay  till  all  come  in. 

[  The  Trumj)et  sounds  a  parley. 
Enter  Sir  Walter  Blunt. 
Blunt.   I  come  with  gracious  oflTers  from  the  king. 
If  you  vouchsafe  me  hearing,  and  respect. 

Hot.   Welcome,  sir  Walter  Blunt ;   And  'would 
to  heaven. 
You  were  of  our  determination  ! 
Some  of  us  love  you  well :  and  even  those  some 
l^nvy  your  great  deserving,  and  good  name  ; 
Because  you  are  not  of  our  quality  % 
But  stand  against  us  like  an  enemy. 

Blunt.  And  God  defend,  butstill  I  shouldstandso, 
So  long  as,  out  of  limit,  and  true  rule. 
You  stand  against  anointed  majesty  ! 

But  to  my  charge The  king  hath  sent  to  know 

1  he  nature  of  your  griefs  <5 ;  and  whereupon 
You  conjure  from  the  breast  of  civil  peace 

*  Conduct,  experience.         »  Fellowship.  «  Grievances. 


Such  bold  hostility,  teaching  this  duteous  land 
A  udacious  cruelty  :    If  that  the  king     ' 
Have  any  way  your  good  deserts  forgot,  — 
Which  he  confesseth  to  be  manifold,  — 
He  bids  you  name  your  griefs  ;  and,  with  all  speed. 
You  shall  have  your  desires,  witli  interest ; 
And  pardon  absolute  for  yourself,  and  these. 
Herein  misled  by  your  suggestion. 

Hot.   The  king  is  kind  ;  and,  well  we  know,  the 
king 
Knows  at  wliat  time  to  promise,  when  to  pay. 
My  father,  and  my  uncle,  and  myself, 
Did  give  him  that  same  royalty  he  wears  : 
And,  —  when  he  was  not  six  and  twenty  strong. 
Sick  in  the  world's  regard,  wretched  and  low, 

A  poor  unminded  outlaw  sneaking  home, 

My  father  gave  him  welcome  to  the  shore : 
And,  — when  he  heard  him  swear,  and  vow  to  God, 
He  came  but  to  be  duke  of  Lancaster, 
To  sue  liis  livery  7,  and  beg  his  peace  ; 

With  tears  of  innocency,  and  terms  of  zeal, 

My  father,  in  kind  heart  and  pity  mov'd. 
Swore  him  assistance,  and  perform'd  it  too. 
Now,  when  the  lords  and  barons  of  the  realm 
Perceiv'd  Northumberland  did  lean  to  him. 
The  more  and  less  8  came  in  with  cap  and  knee ; 
Met  him  in  boroughs,  cities,  villages ; 
Attended  him  on  bridges,  stood  in  lanes. 
Laid  gifts  before  him,  proffer'd  him  their  oaths. 
Gave  him  their  heirs ;  as  pages  followed  him. 
Even  at  the  heels,  in  golden  multitudes. 
He  presently,  —  as  greatness  knows  itself,  — 
Steps  me  a  little  higher  than  his  vow 
Made  to  my  father,  while  his  blood  was  poor, 
Upon  the  naked  shore  at  Ravenspurg ; 
And  now,  forsooth,  takes  on  him  to  reform 
Some  certain  edicts,  and  some  strait  decrees. 
That  lie  too  heavy  on  the  commonwealth  : 
Cries  out  upon  aljuses,  seems  to  weep 
Over  his  country's  wrongs ;  and,  by  this  face. 
This  seeming  brow  of  justice,  did  he  win 
The  hearts  of  all  that  he  did  angle  for. 
Proceeded  further;  cut  me  oflT  the  heads 
Of  all  the  favourites,  that  the  absent  king 
In  deputation  left  behind  him  here. 
When  be  was  personal  in  the  Irish  war. 
BluiU.   I  came  not  to  hear  this. 

^'*^'  Then,  to  the  point. 

In  short  time  after,  he  depos'd  the  king  ; 
Soon  after  that,  depriv'd  him  of  his  life  ; 
And,  in  the  neck  of  that,  task'd  the  whole  state  : 
To  make  that  worse,  suflTer'd  his  kinsman  March 
(Who  is,  if  every  owner  were  well  plac'd. 
Indeed  his  king,)  to  be  incag'd  in  Wales, 
There  without  ransome  to  lie  forfeited  : 
Disgrac'd  me  in  my  happy  victories  ; 
Sought  to  entrap  me  by*intelligence  ; 
Rated  my  uncle  from  the  council-board; 
In  rage  dismiss'd  my  father  from  the  court; 
Broke  oath  on  oath,  committed  wrong  on  wrong : 
And,  in  conclusion,  drove  us  to  seek  out 
This  head  of  safety  ;  and,  withal,  to  pry 
Into  his  title,  the  which  we  find 
Too  indirect  for  long  continuance. 

Blunt*   Shall  I  return  this  answer  to  the  king  ? 
Hot.   Not  so,  sir  Walter ;  we'll  withdraw  awhile. 
Go  to  the  king ;  and  let  there  be  impawn'd 
Some  surety  for  a  safe  return  again, 

'  The  deUvery  of  hit  Und*.        «  The  greater  and  the  le« 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  V, 


And  in  the  morning  early  shall  mine  uncle 
Bring  him  our  purposes  :   and  so  farewell. 

Blunt.   I  would,  you  would  accept  of  grace  and 

love. 
Hot,   And,  may  be,  so  we  shall. 
Blunt.  'Pray  heaven,  you  do  ! 

\^Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV.  — York.    A  Room  in  the  Archbishop's 
House. 

Enter  llie  Archbishop  of  York,  and  a  Gentleman. 

Arch.   Hie,  good  sir  Michael  ?  bear  this  sealed 
briefs, 
With  winged  haste,  to  the  lord  mareshal ; 
This  to  my  cousin  Scroop  ;  and  all  the  rest 
To  whom  they  are  directed  r  if  you  knew 
How  much  they  do  import,  you  would  make  haste. 

Geni.   My  good  lord, 
I  guess  their  tenor. 

Arch.  Like  enough  you  do. 

To-morrow,  good  sir  Michael,  is  a  day. 
Wherein  the  fortune  of  ten  thousand  men 
Must  'bide  the  touch :    P^or,  sir,  at  Shrewsbury, 
As  I  am  truly  given  to  understand, 
The  king,  with  mighty  and  quick-raised  power. 
Meets  with  lord  Harry:  and  I  fear,  sire  Michael, — 
What  with  the  sickness  of  Northumberland, 
(Whose  power  was  in  the  first  proportion,) 
And  what  with  Owen  Glendower's  absence  thence, 
(Who  with  them  was  a  rated  sinew  too  ', 


And  comes  not  in,  o'er-rul'd  by  prophecies,) 
I  fear  the  power  of  Percy  is  too  weak 
To  wage  an  instant  trial  with  the  king. 

Gent.   Why,  good  my  lord,  you  need  not  fear ; 
there's  Douglas, 
And  Mortimer. 

Arch.  No,  Mortimer's  not  there. 

Gent,   But  there  is  Mordake,  Vernon,  lord  Harry 
Percy, 
And  there's  my  lord  of  Worcester;  and  a  head 
Of  gallant  warriors,  noble  gentlemen. 

Arch.   And  so  there  is:  but  yet  the  king 
drawn 
The  special  head  of  all  the  land  together  :  — 
The  prince  of  Wales,  lord  John  of  Lancaster, 
The  noble  Westmoreland,  and  warlike  Blunt ; 
And  many  more  corrivals,  and  dear  men 
Of  estimation  and  command  in  arms. 

Gent.   Doubt  not,  my  lord,  they  shall  be  well  op- 
pos'd. 

Arch.   I  hope  no  less,  yet  needful  'tis  to  fear ; 
And,  to  prevent  the  worst,  sir  Michael,  speed  : 
For,  if  lord  Percy  thrive  not,  ere  the  king 
Dismiss  his  power,  he  means  to  visit  us,  — 

For  he  hath  heard  of  our  confederacy. 

And  'tis  but  wisdom  to  make  strong  against  him  ; 
Therefore,  make  haste  :    I  must  go  write  again 
To  other  friends  ;  and  so  farewell,  sir  Michael. 

[^Exeunt  severally. 


hatlkJH 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  King's  Camp  near  Shi-ewsbury. 

Enter  Kino  Henry,  Prince  Henry,  Prince 
John  of  Lancaster,  Sir  Walter  Blunt,  and  Sir 
John  Falstaff. 

IT.  Hen.   How  bloodily  the  sun  begins  to  peer 
Above  yon  busky  ^  hill !  the  day  looks  pale 
At  his  distemperature. 

p.  Hen.  The  southern  wind 

Doth  play  the  trumpet  to  his  purposes  ; 
And,  by  his  hollow  whistling  in  the  leaves, 
Foretells  a  tempest,  and  a  blustering  day. 

JT.  Hen.   Then  with  the  losers  let  it  sympathize  ; 
For  nothing  can  seem  foul  to  those  that  win.  — 

Trumpet.     Enter  Worcester  and  Vernon. 

How  now,  my  lord  of  Worcester  ?  'tis  not  well, 

That  you  and  I  should  meet  upon  such  terms 

As  now  we  meet :    You  have  deceiv'd  our  trust ; 

And  made  us  doff  3  our  easy  robes  of  peace. 

To  crush  our  old  limbs  in  ungentle  steel : 

This  is  not  well,  my  lord,  this  is  not  well. 

What  say  you  to't  ?  will  you  again  unknit 

This  churlish  knot  of  all-abhorred  war  ? 

And  move  in  that  obedient  orb  again, 

Where  you  did  give  a  fair  and  natural  light , 

And  be  no  more  an  exhal'd  meteor, 

A  prodigy  of  fear,  and  a  portent 

Of  broached  mischief  to  the  unborn  times  ? 

fVor.  Hear  me,  my  liege  : 

For  mine  own  part,  I  could  be  well  content 

To  entertain  the  lag-end  of  my  life 

8  Letter.  i  A  strength  on  which  they  reckoned. 

»  Woody.  3  Put  off: 


With  quiet  hours ;  for,  I  do  protest, 

I  have  not  sought  the  day  of  this  dislike. 

jr.  Hen.   You  have  not  sought  for  it !  how  comes 
it  then  ? 

Eal.  Rebellion  lay  in  his  way,  and  he  found  it. 

P.  Hen.   Peace,  chewet  \  peace. 

Wor.  It  pleas'd  your  majesty,  to  turn  your  looks 
Of  favour,  from  myself,  and  all  our  house  ; 
And  yet  I  must  remember  you,  my  lord. 
We  were  the  first  and  dearest  of  your  friends. 
For  you,  my  staff  of  office  did  I  break 
In  Richard's  time  ;  and  posted  day  and  night 
To  meet  you  on  the  way,  and  kiss  your  hand. 
When  yet  you  were  in  place  and  in  account 
Nothing  so  strong  and  fortunate  as  I. 
It  was  myself,  my  brother,  and  his  son, 
That  brought  you  home,  and  boldly  did  outdare 
The  dangers  of  the  time  :   You  swore  to  us,  — 
And  you  did  swear  that  oath  at  Doncaster,  — 
That  you  did  nothing  purpose  'gainst  the  state  ; 
Nor  claim  no  further  than  your  new-fall'n  right, 
The  seat  of  Gaunt,  dukedom  of  Lancaster : 
To  this  we  swore  our  aid.      But,  in  short  space. 
It  rain'd  down  fortune  showering  on  your  head  ; 
And  such  a  flood  of  greatness  fell  on  you,  — 
What  with  our  help  ;  what  with  the  absent  king ; 
What  with  the  injuries  of  a  wanton  time  ; 
The  seeming  sufferances  that  you  had  borne ; 
And  the  contrarious  winds,  that  held  the  king 
So  long  in  his  unlucky  Irish  wars. 
That  all  in  England  did  repute  him  dead,  — 
And,  from  this  swarm  of  fair  advantages, 
You  took  occasion  to  be  quickly  woo'd 
*  A  chattering  bird,  a  pie. 


I 


SCKNE  I. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


399 


To  gripe  the  general  sway  into  your  hand  ; 

Forgot  your  oath  to  us  at  Doncaster  ; 

And,  being  fed  by  us,  you  us'd  us  so 

As  that  ungentle  gull,  the  cuckoo's  bird, 

Useth  the  sparrow  ;  did  oppress  our  nest ; 

Grew  by  our  feeding  to  so  great  a  bulk, 

That  even  our  love  durst  not  come  near  your  sight, 

For  fear  of  swallowing  ;  but  with  nimble  wing 

We  were  enforc'd  for  safety  sake,  to  fly 

Out  of  your  sight,  and  raise  this  present  head  : 

Whereby  we  stand  opposed  by  such  means 

As  you  yourself  have  forg'd  against  yourself  ; 

By  unkind  usage,  dangerous  countenance, 

And  violation  of  all  faitli  and  troth 

Sworn  to  us  in  your  younger  enterprise. 

K.  Hen.   These  things,  indeed,  you  have  articu- 
lated 5, 
Proclaim'd  at  market-crosses,  read  in  churches ; 
To  face  the  garment  of  rebellion 
With  some  fine  colour,  that  may  please  the  eye 
Of  fickle  changelings,  and  poor  discontents. 
Which  gape,  and  rub  the  elbow,  at  the  news 
Of  hurlyburly  innovation : 
And  never  yet  did  insurrection  want 
Such  water-colours,  to  impaint  his  cause ; 
Nor  moody  beggars,  starving  for  a  time 
Of  pellmell  havock  and  confusion. 

P.  Hen.  In  both  our  armies,  there  is  many  a  soul. 
Shall  pay  full  dearly  for  this  encounter. 
If  once  they  join  in  trial.      Tell  your  nephew, 
The  prince  of  Wales  doth  join  with  all  the  world 
In  praise  of  Henry  Percy  ;   By  my  hopes,  — 
lliis  present  enterprize  set  off  his  head,  — 
I  do  not  think,  a  braver  gentleman, 
More  active-valiant,  or  more  valiant-young, 
More  daring,  or  more  bold,  is  now  alive, 
To  grace  his  latter  age  with  noble  deeds. 
For  my  part,  I  may  speak  it  to  my  shame, 
I  have  a  truant  been  to  chivalry  ; 
And  so,  I  hear,  he  doth  account  me  too : 
Yet  this  btfore  my  father's  majesty,  — 
I  am  content,  that  he  shall  take  the  odds 
Of  his  great  name  and  estimation  ; 
And  will,  to  save  the  blood  on  either  side. 
Try  fortune  with  him  in  a  single  fighl. 

K.  Hen.  And,  prince  of  Wales,  so  dare  we  venture 
thee. 
Albeit,  considerations  infinite 
Do  make  against  it :  —  No,  good  Worcester,  no, 
We  love  our  people  well ;  even  those  we  love. 
That  are  misled  upon  your  cousin's  part : 
And,  will  they  take  the  offer  of  our  grace, 
Both  he,  and  they,  and  you,  yea,  every  man 
Shall  be  my  friend  again,  and  I'll  be  his  : 
So  tell  your  cousin,  and  bring  me  word 
What  he  will  do  :  —  But  if  he  will  not  yield. 
Rebuke  and  dread  correction  wait  on  us, 
And  they  shall  do  their  office.      So,  be  gone  ; 
We  will  not  now  be  troubled  with  reply : 
We  offer  fair,  take  it  advisedly. 

{Exeunt  Worcester  and  Vernon. 

P.  Hen.    It  will  not  be  accepted  on  my  life : 
rhe  Douglas  and  the  Hotspur  both  together 
Are  confident  against  the  world  in  arms. 

JC.  Hen.    Hence,  therefore,  every  leader  to  his 
charge ; 
For,  on  their  answer,  will  we  set  on  them : 
And  God  befriend  us,  as  our  cause  is  just ! 

[Exeunt  Kino,  Blunt,  and  Paiyci  John. 

*  Exhibited  in  articles. 


F(il.  Hal,  if  thou  see  me  down  in  the  battle,  and 
bestride  me,  so  ;  'tis  a  point  of  friendship. 

P.  Hen.  Nothing  but  a  colossus  can  do  thee  that 
friendship.      Say  thy  prayers,  and  farewell. 

Fal.    I  would  it  were  bed-time,  Hal,  and  all  well. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  thou  owest  heaven  a  death. 

[ExU. 

Fal.  'Tis  not  due  yet ;  I  would  be  loath  to  pay 
before  the  day.  What  need  I  be  so  forward  with 
him  that  calls  not  on  me  ?  Well,  'tis  no  matter ; 
Honour  pricks  me  on.  Yea,  but  how  if  honour 
prick  me  off  when  I  come  on  ?  how  then  ?  Can 
honour  set  to  a  leg?  No.  Or  an  arm?  No. 
Or  take  away  the  grief  of  a  wound  ?  No.  Honour 
hath  no  skill  in  surgery  then  ?  No.  What  is  honour? 
A  word.  What  is  in  that  word,  honour  ?  What  is 
that  honour?  Air.  A  trim  reckoning!  —  Who 
hath  it  ?  He  that  died  o'  Wednesday.  Doth  he 
feel  it  ?  No.  Doth  he  hear  it  ?  No.  Is  it  insen- 
sible then  ?  Yea,  to  the  dead.  But  will  it  not  live 
with  the  living ?  No.  Why?  Detraction  will  not 
suffer  it :  —  therefore  I'll  none  of  it :  Honour  is  a 
mere  scutcheon,  and  so  ends  my  catechism.      [Ei-U. 

SCENE  II.  —  Tlie  Rebel  Camp. 

Enter  Worcester  and  Vernon. 

Wor.    O,  no,  my  nephew  must  not  know,  sir 
Richard, 
The  liberal  kind  offer  of  the  king. 

Fer.  'Twere  best  he  did. 

Jf'or.  Then  are  we  all  undone. 

It  is  not  possible,  it  cannot  be. 
The  king  should  keep  his  word  in  loving  us ; 
He  will  suspect  us  still,  and  find  a  time 
To  punish  this  offence  in  other  faults  : 
Suspicion  shall  be  all  stuck  full  of  eyes  : 
For  treason  is  but  trusted  like  the  fox  ; 
Who,  ne'er  so  tame,  so  cherish'd,  and  lock'd  up, 
Will  have  a  wild  trick  of  his  ancestors. 
Look  how  we  can,  or  sad,  or  merrily. 
Interpretation  will  misquote  our  looks ; 
And  we  shall  feed  like  oxen  at  a  stall, 
The  better  cherish'd,  still  the  nearer  death 
My  nephew's  trespass  may  be  well  forgot. 
It  hath  the  excuse  of  youth,  and  heat  of  blood  ; 
And  an  adopted  name  of  privilege,  — 
A  hare-brain'd  Hotspur,  govern'd  by  a  spleen : 
All  his  offences  live  upon  my  head. 
And  on  his  father's  ;  —  we  did  train  him  on  ; 
And,  his  corruption  being  ta'en  from  us. 
We,  as  the  spring  of  all,  shall  pay  for  all. 
Therefore,  good  cousin,  let  not  Harry  know. 
In  any  case,  the  offer  of  the  king. 

Ver.   Deliver  what  you  will,  I'll  say,  'tis  so. 
Here  comes  your  cousin. 

Enter  Hotspur  and   Douglas;    and  Officers  and 
Soldiers,  behind. 

Hot.   My  uncle  is  return 'd  :  —  Deliver  up 
My  lord  of  Westmoreland Uncle,  what  news? 

If^or.   The  king  will  bid  you  battle  presently. 

Doug.    Defy  him  by  the  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

Hot.   Lord  Douglas,  go  you  and  tell  him  so. 

JDoun.   Marry,  and  shall,  and  very  willingly. 
^  [ErU, 

Wor.  There  is  no  seeming  mercy  in  the  king. 

H<^.   Did  you  beg  any  ?    God  forbid ! 

Wor.   I  told  him  gently  of  our  grievances. 
Of  his  oath-breaking  ;  which  he  mended  thus,  — 


400 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  V. 


By  now  forswearing  that  he  is  forsworn  : 
He  calls  us  rebels,  traitors  ;  and  will  scourge 
With  haughty  arms  this  hateful  name  in  us. 

Re-enter  Douglas. 

Doug.    Arm,  gentlemen ;  to  arms !  for  I  have 
thrown 
A  brave  defiance  in  king  Henry's  teeth, 
And  Westmoreland,  tliat  was  engag'd,  did  bear  it ; 
Which  cannot  choose  but  bring  him  quickly  on. 

Wor.   The  prince  of  Wales  stepp'd  forth  before 
the  king, 
And,  nephew,  challeng'd  you  to  single  fight. 

Hot.  O,  'would  the  quarrel  lay  upon  our  heads  ; 
And  that  no  man  might  draw  short  breath  to-day, 
But  I,  and  Harry  Monmouth  !  Tell  me,  tell  me, 
How  show'd  his  talking  ?  seem'd  it  in  contempt  ? 

Ver.   No,  by  my  soul ;   I  never  in  my  life 
Did  hear  a  challenge  urg'd  more  modestly, 
Unless  a  brother  should  a  brother  dare 
To  gentle  exercise  and  proof  of  arms. 
He  gave  you  all  the  duties  of  a  man ; 
Trimm'd  up  your  praises  with  a  princely  tongue ; 
Spoke  your  deservings  like  a  chronicle ; 
Making  you  ever  better  than  his  praise. 
By  still  dispraising  praise,  valued  with  you : 
And,  which  became  him  like  a  prince  indeed, 
He  made  a  blushing  cital  ^  of  himself ; 
And  chid  his  truant  youth  with  such  a  grace. 
As  if  he  master'd  there  a  double  spirit, 
Of  teaching,  and  of  learning,  instantly. 
There  did  he  pause  :    But  let  me  tell  the  world,  — 
If  he  outlive  the  envy  of  this  day, 
England  did  never  owe  7  so  sweet  a  hope, 
So  much  misconstrued  in  his  wantonness. 

Hot.    Cousin,  I  think,  thou  art  enamoured 
Upon  his  follies ;  never  did  I  hear 
Of  any  prince,  so  wild,  at  liberty  :  — 
But,  be  he  as  he  will,  yet  once  ere  night 
I  will  embrace  him  with  a  soldier's  arm, 

That  he  shall  shrink  under  my  courtesy. 

Arm,  arm,  with  speed  : And,  fellows,  soldiers, 

friends. 
Better  consider  what  you  have  to  do. 
Than  I,  that  have  not  well  the  gift  of  tongue, 
Can  lift  your  blood  Up  with  persuasion. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   My  lord,  here  are  letters  for  you. 

Hot.    I  cannot  read  them  now.  — 
O  gentlemen,  the  time  of  life  is  short ; 
To  spend  that  shortness  basely,  were  too  long. 
If  life  did  ride  upon  a  dial's  point. 
Still  ending  at  the  arrival  of  an  hour. 
An  if  we  live,  we  live  to  tread  on  kings  ; 
If  die,  brave  death,  when  princes  die  with  us ! 
Now  for  our  conscience,  —  the  arms  are  fair, 
When  the  intent  of  bearing  them  is  just. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  prepare ;  the  king  comes  on  apace. 

Hot.   I  thank  him,  that  he  cuts  me  from  my  tale, 
For  I  profess  not  talking  ;   Only  this  — 
Let  each  man  do  his  best :   and  here  draw  I 
A  sword,  whose  temper  I  intend  to  stain 
With  the  best  blood  that  I  can  meet  withal 
In  the  adventure  of  this  perilous  day. 
Now,  —  Esperance  /  ^  —  Percy  !  —  and  set  on.  — 
Sound  all  the  lofty  instruments  of  war, 

6  Recital.  7  Own. 

^      8  The  motto  of  the  Percy  family. 


And  by  that  musick  let  us  all  embrace  : 
For,  heaven  to  earth,  some  of  us  never  shall 
A  second  time  do  such  a  courtesy. 

[  The  Trumpets  sound.    They  embrace,  and  exeunt. 

SCENE  III Plain  near  Shrewsbury. 

Excursions,  and  Parties  ^fighting.      Alarum  to  the 
Battle.    Then  enter  Douglas  and  Blunt,  meeting. 

Blunt.   What  is  thy  name,  that  in  the  battle  thus 
Thou  crossest  me  ?  what  honour  dost  thou  seek 
Upon  my  head  ? 

Doug.  Know  then,  my  name  is  Douglas ; 

And  I  do  haunt  thee  in  the  battle  thus. 
Because  some  tell  me  that  thou  art  a  king. 

Blunt.   They  tell  thee  true. 

Doug.    The  lord  of  Stafford  dear  to-day  hath 
bought 
Thy  likeness ;  for,  instead  of  thee  king  Harry, 
This  sword  hath  ended  him :   so  shall  it  thee. 
Unless  thou  yield  thee  as  my  prisoner. 

Blunt.  1  was  not  born  a  yielder,  thou  proud  Scot: 
And  thou  shalt  find  a  king  that  will  revenge 
Lord  Stafford's  death. 

\_TheyJtght,  and  Blunt  is  slain. 

Enter  Hotspur. 

Hot.  O  Douglas,  hadst  thou  fought  at  Holmedon 
thus, 
I  never  had  triumph'd  upon  a  Scot. 

Doug.   All's  done,  all's  won  ;  here  breathless  lies 
the  king. 

Hot.   Where? 

Doug.   Here  ? 

Hot.   This,  Douglas?  no,  I  know  this  face  full 
well : 
A  gallant  knight  he  was,  his  name  was  Blunt ; 
Semblably  furnish'd  like  the  king  himself. 

Doug.  A  fool  go  with  thy  soul,  whither  it  goes, 
A  borrow'd  title  hast  thou  bought  too  dear. 
Why  didst  thou  tell  me  that  thou  wert  a  king  ? 

Hot.  The  king  hath  many  marching  in  his  coats 

Doug.  Now,  by  my  sword,  I  will  kill  all  his  coats  j 
I'll  murder  all  his  wardrobe,  piece  by  piece. 
Until  I  meet  the  king. 

Hot.  Up,  and  away ; 

Our  soldiers  stand  full  fairly  for  the  day.    [Exeunt. 

Other  Alarums.  Enter  Falstaff. 
Fal.  Though  I  could  'scape  shot-free  at  London, 
I  fear  the  shot  here ;  here's  no  scoring,  but  upon 
the  pate.  —  Soft !  who  art  thou?  Sir  Walter  Blunt ; 
—  there's  honour  for  you  :  Here's  no  vanity  !  —  I 
am  as  hot  as  molten  lead,  and  as  heavy  too  ;  heaven 
keep  lead  out  of  me  !  I  need  no  more  weight  than 
mine  own  bowels.  —  I  have  led  my  raggamuffins 
where  they  are  peppered :  there's  but  three  of  my 
hundred  and  fifty  left  alive  ;  and  they  are  for  the 
town's  end,  to  beg  during  life.  But  who  comes 
here  ! 

Enter  Prince  Henry. 

P.  Hen.  What,  stand'st  thou  idle  here  ?  lend  me 
thy  sword : 
Many  a  nobleman  lies  stark  and  stiff 
Under  the  hoofs  of  vaunting  enemies. 
Whose  deaths  are  unreveng'd :    Pr'ythee,  lend  thy 
sword. 
Fal.  O  Hal,  I  pr'ythee,  give  me  leave  to  breathe 
a  while.  —  Turk  Gregory  never  did  such  deeds  in 


d 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


401 


arms,  as  I  have  done  this  day.     I  have  paid  Percy, 
I  have  made  him  sure. 

P.  Hen.  He  is,  indeed  ;  and  living  to  kill  thee. 
Lend  me  thy  sword,  1  pr'ythee. 

Fal.  Nay,  Hal,  if  Percy  be  alive,  thou  get'st  not 
my  sword  ;  but  take  my  pistol,  if  thou  wilt. 

P.  Hen.   Give  it  me  :   What,  is  it  in  the  case  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  Hal ;  'tis  hot,  'tis  hot !  there's  that  will 
sack  a  city.    {The  Prince  draws  out  a  bottle  of  sack. 

p.  Hen.   What,  is't  a  time  to  jest  and  dally  now? 
[Throws  it  at  him,  and  exit. 

Fal.  Well,  if  Percy  be  alive,  I'll  pierce  him.  If 
he  do  come  in  my  way,  so  :  if  he  do  not,  if  I  come 
in  his,  willingly,  let  him  make  a  carbonado  9  of  me. 
I  like  not  such  grinning  honour,  as  sir  Walter  hath: 
Give  me  life :  which  if  I  can  save,  so  ;  if  not, 
honour  comes  unlook'd  for,  and  there's  an  end. 

[Exit. 
SCENE  IV.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.     Excursions.     Enter  the  King,   Prince 
Henrt,  Prince  John,  and  Westmoreland. 

K.  Hen.   I  pr'ythee, 
Harry,  withdraw  thyself;  thou  bleed'st  too  much :  — 
Lord  John  of  Lancaster,  go  you  with  him. 

P.  John.   Not  I,  my  lord,  unless  I  did  bleed  too. 

p.  Hen.    I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  make  up. 
Lest  your  retirement  do  amaze  your  friends. 

K.  Hen.    I  will  do  so  :  — 
My  lord  of  Westmoreland,  lead  him  to  his  tent. 

IFest.  Come,  my  lord,  I  will  lead  you  to  your  tent. 

P.  Hen.  Lead  me,  my  lord  ?  I  do  not  need  your 
help : 
And  heaven  forbid,  a  shallow  scratch  should  drive 
The  prince  of  Wales  from  such  a  field  as  this ; 
W^here  stain'd  nobility  lies  trodden  on. 
And  rebels*  arms  triumph  in  massacres ! 

P.  John.  We  breathe  too  long :  —  Come,  cousin 
Westmoreland, 
Our  duty  this  way  lies ;  for  heaven's  sake,  come. 

[Exeiint  Prince  John  and  Westmoreland. 

P.  Hen.   By  heaven,  thou  hast  deceiv'd  me,  Lan- 
caster, 
I  did  not  think  thee  lord  of  such  a  spirit : 
Before,  I  lov'd  thee  as  a  brother,  John  ; 
But  now,  I  do  respect  thee  as  my  soul. 

K.  Hen.  I  saw  him  hold  lord  Percy  at  the  point. 
With  lustier  maintenance  than  I  did  look  for 
Of  such  an  ungrown  warrior. 

P.  Hen.  O,  this  boy 

Lends  mettle  to  us  all !  Exit. 

Alarums.      Enter  Douglas. 

Dong.  Anotlierking!  they  grow  like  Hydra's  heads: 
I  am  the  Douglas,  fatal  to  all  those 
That  wear  those  colours  on  them.  — What  art  thou, 
Tliat  counterfeit'st  the  person  of  a  king  ? 

K.  Hen.  The  king  himself  j  who,  Douglas,  grieves 
at  heart. 
So  many  of  his  shadows  thou  hast  met. 
And  not  the  very  king.      I  have  two  boys 
Seek  Percy  and  tliyself,  about  the  field : 
But,  seeing  thou  fall'st  on  me  so  luckily, 
I  will  assay  thee ;  so  defend  thyself. 

Doug.    I  fear,  thou  art  another  counterfeit ; 
And  yet,  in  faith,  thou  bear'st  thee  like  a  king  : 
But  mine,  I  am  sure,  thou  art,  whoe'er  tliou  be, 
And  thus  I  win  thee. 

[Thei/fght;  the  Kino  beirtg  in  danger, 
enter  Prince  Henry. 
•  A  piece  of  meat  cut  croMwUe  for  the  gridiron. 


P.  Hen.  Hold  up  thy  head,  vile  Scot,  or  thou  art 
like 
Never  to  hold  it  up  again  !  the  spirits 
or  Sliirley,  Stafford,  Blunt,  are  in  my  arms : 
It  is  the  prince  of  Wales,  that  threatens  thee ; 
Who  never  promiseth,  but  he  means  to  pay.  — 

[They fight;   Douglas fies. 
Cheerly,  my  lord  ;  how  fares  your  grace  ?  — 
Sir  Nicholas  Gawsey  hath  for  succour  sent. 
And  so  hath  Clifton ;   I'll  to  Clifton  straight. 

A".  Hen.    Stay,  and  breathe  a  while  :  — 
Tliou  hast  redeem'd  thy  lost  opinion  ; 
And  show'd  thou  mak'st  some  tender  of  my  life. 
In  this  fair  rescue  thou  hast  brought  to  me. 

P.  Hen.  O,  heaven!  they  did  me  too  much  injury, 
That  ever  said,  I  hearken'd  for  your  death. 
If  it  were  so,  I  might  have  let  alone 
The  insulting  hand  of  Douglas  over  you  ; 
Which  would  have  been  as  speedy  in  your  end. 
As  all  the  poisonous  potions  in  the  world. 
And  sav'd  the  treacherous  labour  of  your  son. 

IT.  Hen.   Make  up  to  Clifton,  I'll  to  sir  Nicholas 
Gawsey.  [Exit  King  Henry. 

E7iter  Hotspur. 

Hot.  If  I  mistake  not,  thou  art  Harry  Monmoutii. 

P.  Hen.   Thou  speak'st  as  if  I  would  deny  my 
name. 

Hot.  My  name  is  Harry  Percy. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  then  I  see 

A  very  valiant  rebel  of  the  name. 
I  am  the  prince  of  Wales  ;  and  think  not,  Percy 
To  share  with  me  in  glory  any  more  : 
Two  stars  keep  not  their  motion  in  one  sphere  ; 
Nor  can  one  England  brook  a  double  reign. 
Of  Harry  Percy,  and  the  prince  of  Wales. 

Hot.   Nor  shall  it,  Harry,  for  the  hour  is  come 
To  end  the  one  of  us  ;  And  'would  to  God, 
Thy  name  in  arms  were  now  as  great  as  mine  ! 

P.  Hen.  I'll  make  it  greater,  ere  I  part  from  thee ; 
And  all  the  budding  honours  on  thy  crest 
I'll  crop  to  make  a  garland  for  my  head. 

Hot.   I  can  no  longer  brook  thy  vanities. 

[Thei/  fght. 
Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Well  said,  Hal !  to  it,  Hal !  —  Nay,  you  shall 
find  no  boy's  play  here,  I  can  tell  you. 

Enter  Douglas  ;  he  fights  with  Falstaff,  who  falls 

down   as   if  he   were  dead,    and   exit   Douglas. 

Hotspur  is  tvounded,  and  falls. 

Hot.  O,  Hany,  thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  my  youth ; 
I  better  brook  the  loss  of  brittle  life. 
Than  those  proud  titles  thou  hast  won  of  me ; 
They  wound  my  thoughts,  worse  than  thy  sword  my 

flesh  : 

But  thought's  the  slave  of  life,  and  life  time's  fool ; 
And  time,  that  takes  survey  of  all  the  world. 
Must  have  a  stop.      O,  I  could  prophesy. 
But  that  tlie  earthy  and  cold  hand  of  death 
Lies  on  my  tongue  :  —  No,  Percy,  thou  art  dust, 
A  nd  food  for [  Dies. 

P.  Hen.  For  worms,  brave  Percy ;  Fare  thee  well, 
great  heart !  — 
Ill-weav'd  ambition,  how  much  art  thou  shrunk  ! 
W^hen  that  this  body  did  contain  a  spirit, 
A  kingdom  for  it  was  too  small  a  l)ound  i 
But  now,  two  paces  of  the  vilest  eartli 
Is  room  enough.  —  Tins  earth  that  bears  thee  dead, 
Bears  not  alive  so  stout  a  gentleman. 
Dd 


4.02 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


Act  V. 


If  thou  wert  sensible  of  courtesy, 
I  should  not  make  so  dear  a  show  of  zeal ;  — 
But  let  my  favours  >  hide  thy  mangled  face  ; 
And,  even  in  thy  behalf,  I'll  thank  myself 
For  doing  these  fair  rites  of  tenderness. 
Adieu,  and  take  thy  praise  with  thee  to  heaven  ! 
Thy  ignominy  sleep  with  thee  in  the  grave, 
But  not  remember'd  in  thy  epitaph  ! 

[He  sees  Falstaff  on  the  ground. 
What !  old  acquaintance  !  could  not  all  tliis  flesh 
Keep  in  a  little  life  ?  Poor  Jack,  farewell ! 
I  could  have  better  spar'd  a  better  man. 
O,  I  should  have  a  heavy  miss  of  thee, 
If  I  were  much  in  love  with  vanity. 
Death  hath  not  struck  so  fat  a  deer  to-day, 
Though  many  dearer,  in  this  bloody  fray :  — 
Embowell'd  will  I  see  thee  by  and  by ; 
Till  then,  in  blood  by  noble  Percy  lie.  [Exit. 

Fal.  [Rising  slowly. '\  Embowelled!  if  thou  em- 
bowel me  to-day,  I'll  give  you  leave  to  powder  ^ 
me,  and  eat  me  too,  to-morrow.  'Twas  time  to 
counterfeit,  or  that  hot  termagant  Scot  had  paid  me 
scot  and  lot  too.  Counterfeit?  I  lie,  I  am  no 
counterfeit :  To  die,  is  to  be  a  counterfeit ;  for  he 
is  but  the  counterfeit  of  a  man,  who  hath  not  the  life 
of  a  man :  but  to  counterfeit  dying,  when  a  man 
thereby  liveth,  is  to  be  no  counterfeit,  but  the  true 
and  perfect  image  of  life  indeed.  The  better  part 
of  valour  is  —  discretion;  in  the  which  better  part, 
I  have  saved  my  life.  I  am  afraid  of  this  gunpowder 
Percy,  though  he  be  dead :  How,  if  he  should 
counterfeit  too,  and  rise  ?  I  am  afraid,  he  would 
prove  the  better  counterfeit.  Therefore  I'll  make 
him  sure  :  yea,  and  I'll  swear  I  killed  him.  Why 
may  not  he  rise,  as  well  as  I  ?  Nothing  confutes  me 
but  eyes,  and  nobody  seees  me.  Therefore,  sirrah, 
[Stabbing  him.l  with  a  new  wound  in  your  thigh, 
come  you  along  with  me. 

[Takes  Hotspur  on  his  back. 
Re-enter  Prince  Henry  and  Prince  John. 

P.  Hen.    Come,  brother  John,  full  bravely  hast 
thou  flesh'd 
Thy  maiden  sword. 

P.  John.  But,  soft !  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Did  you  not  tell  me,  this  fat  man  was  dead  ? 

P.  Hen.    I  did ;  I  saw  him  dead,  breathless  and 
bleeding 

Upon  the  ground. 

Art  thou  alive?  or  is  it  phantasy 
That  plays  upon  our  eyesight  ?   I  pr'ythee,  speak  ; 
We  will  not  trust  our  eyes,  without  our  ears  :  — 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st. 

Fal.  No,  that's  certain  ;  I  am  not  a  double  man : 
but  if  I  be  not  Jack  Falstaff,  then  am  I  a  Jack. 
There  is  Percy  :  [Throwing  the  body  down.]  if  your 
father  will  do  me  any  honour,  so  ;  if  not,  let  him 
kill  the  next  Percy  himself.  I  look  to  be  either 
earl,  or  duke,  I  can  assure  you. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  Percy  I  killed  myself,  and  saw 
thee  dead. 

Fal.  Didst  thou  ?  —  Lord,  lord,  how  this  world 
is  given  to  lying  !  —  I  grant  you,  I  was  down,  and 
out  of  breath ;  and  so  was  he  :  but  we  rose  both  at 
an  instant,  and  fought  a  long  hour  by  Shrewsbury 
clock.  If  I  may  be  believed,  so  ;  if  not,  let  them, 
that  should  reward  valour,  bear  the  sin  upon  their 
own  heads.  I'll  take  it  upon  my  death,  I  gave  him 
this  wound  in  the  thigh  :  if  the  man  were  alive,  and 

'  Scarf,  with  which  he  covers  Percy's  face.  ^  Salt. 


would  deny  it,  I  would  make  him  eat  a  piece  of  my 
sword. 

P.  John.  This  is  the  strangest  tale  that  e'er  I  heard. 
P.  Hen.   This    is   the   strangest  fellow,  brother 
John.  — — 
Come,  bring  your  luggage  nobly  on  your  back  : 
For  my  part,  if  a  lie  may  do  thee  grace, 
I'll  gild  it  with  the  happiest  terms  I  have. 

[j4  Retreat  is  sounded. 
The  trumpet  sounds  retreat,  the  day  is  ours. 
Come,  brother,  let's  to  the  highest  of  the  field, 
To  see  what  friends  are  living,  who  are  dead. 

[Exeunt  Prince  Henry  and  Prince  John. 

Fal.  I'll  follow,  as  they  say,  for  reward.     He  that 

rewards  me,  heaven  reward  him  !  If  I  do  grow  great, 

I'll  grow  less ;  for  I'll  purge,  and  leave  sack,  and 

live  as  a  nobleman  should  do. 

[Eddt,  bearing  off  the  body. 

SCENE  V.  —Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

The  Trumpets  sound.    Enter  King  Henry,  Prince 

Henry,    Prince   John,    Westmoreland,   and 

others  ;  with  Worcester  and  Vernon,  Prisoners. 

K.  Hen.   Thus  ever  did  rebellion  find  rebuke.  — 
Ill-spirited  Worcester  !  did  we  not  send  grace 
Pardon,  and  terms  of  love  to  all  of  you  ? 
And  wouldst  thou  turn  our  offers  contrary? 
Misuse  the  tenor  of  thy  kinsman's  trust  ? 
Three  knights  upon  our  party  slain  to-day, 
A  noble  earl,  and  many  a  creature  else, 
Had  been  alive  this  hour. 
If,  like  a  Christian,  thou  hadst  truly  borne 
Betwixt  our  armies  true  intelligence. 

Wor.  What  I  have  done,  my  safety  urg'd  me  to ; 
And  I  embrace  this  fortune  patiently, 
Since  not  to  be  avoided  it  falls  on  me. 

K.  Hen.  Bear  Worcester  to  the  death,  and  Vernon 
too: 
Other  offenders  we  will  pause  upon.  — 

[Exeunt  Worcester  arid  Vernon,  guarded. 
How  goes  the  field  ? 

P.  Hen.  The  noble  Scot,  lord  Douglas,  when  he  saw 
The  fortune  of  the  day  quite  tum'd  from  him, 
The  noble  Percy  slain,  and  all  his  men 
Upon  the  foot  of  fear,  —  fled  with  the  rest ; 
And,  falling  from  a  lull,  he  was  so  bruis'd. 
That  the  pursuers  took  him.     At  my  tent 
The  Douglas  is  ;  and  I  beseech  your  grace, 
I  may  dispose  of  him. 

JC.  Hen.  With  all  my  heart. 

P.  Hen.  Then,  brother  John  of  Lancaster,  to  you. 
This  honourable  bounty  shall  belong  : 
Go  to  the  Douglas,  and  deliver  him 
Up  to  his  pleasure,  ransomeless  and  free : 
His  valour  shown  upon  our  crests  to-day. 
Hath  taught  us  how  to  cherish  such  high  deeds, 
Even  in  the  bosom  of  our  adversaries. 

JT.  Hen.  Then  this  remains,  —  that  we  divide  our 
power.  — 
You,  son  John,  and  my  cousin  Westmoreland, 
Towards  York  shall  bend  you,  with  your  dearest  speed. 
To  meet  Northumberland,  and  the  prelate  Scroop, 
Who,  as  we  hear,  are  busily  in  arms  : 
Myself,  — and  you,  son  Harry, — will  towards  Wales, 
To  fight  with  Glendower,  and  the  earl  of  March. 
Rebellion  in  this  land  shall  lose  his  sway. 
Meeting  the  check  of  such  another  day : 
And  since  this  business  so  fair  is  done. 
Let  us  not  leave  till  all  our  own  be  won.    [Exeunt. 


I 


J' 


V 


SECOND  PART  OF 

KING    HENRY     IV. 


1 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  Henry  the  Fourth. 

Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards' 
King  Henry  V.  ; 

Thomas,  Duke  of  Clarence  ; 

Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  afterwards 
(2  Henry  V. )  Duke  of  Bedford ; 

Prince  Humphrey  of  Gloster,  after- 
wards (2  Henry  V.)  Duke  of 
Gloster ; 

Earl  of  Warwick  ;  "] 

Earl  of  Westmoreland  ; 

GOWER  ; 

Harcourt  ;  J 

Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  Kings  Bench. 

A  Gentleman  attending  on  the  Chief  Justice. 

Earl  of  Northumberland 

Scroop,  Archbishop  of  York 

Lord  Mowbray  ; 

Lord  Hastings; 

Lord  Bardolph  ; 

Sir  John  Colevile; 


his  Sons. 


of  the  King's  Parti/. 


Enemies  to  the 
King. 


Travers  and  Morton,  Domestics  of  Northumber- 
land. 

Falstaff,  Bardolph,  Pistol,  and  Page. 

PoiNs  and  Peto,  Attendants  on  Prince  Henry. 

Shallow  and  Silence,  Country  Justices. 

Davy,  Servant  to  Shallow. 

Mouldy,  Shadow,  Wart,  Feeble,  and  Bull-calf, 
Recruits. 

Fang  and  Snare,  Sheriff's  Officers. 

Rumour. 

A  Porter. 

A  Dancer,  Speaker  of  the  Epilogue. 

Lady  Northumberland. 
Lady  Percy. 
Hostess  Quickly. 

Lords    and    other   Attendants ;    Officers,    Soldiers, 
Messengers,  Draxoers,  Grooms,  <^c. 


SCENE,  —England. 


^ 


^ 


ACT  lu    see 


THOO    HAST   OrOIAH    THAT.  WHICH,   AFTKR   80ME    FBW   HOORa. 
WKRB   THINK   WriHODT   OFKKNCF. 


SECOND  PART  OF 

KING    HENRY    IV. 


INDUCTION. 


Warkworth.      Before  Northumberland's  Castle. 
Enter  Rumour,  painPid  full  of  Tongues. 

Rum.    Open  your  ears ;    For  which  of  you  will 
stop 
Tlie  vent  of  hearing,  when  loud  Rumour  speaks  ? 
I,  from  the  orient  to  the  drooping  west, 
Making  the  wind  my  post-horse,  still  unfold 
The  acts  commenced  on  this  ball  of  earth  : 
Upon  my  tongues  continual  slanders  ride  ; 
The  which  in  every  language  I  pronounce, 
Stuffing  the  ears  of  men  with  false  reports. 
I  speak  of  peace,  while  covert  enmity. 
Under  the  smile  of  safety,  wounds  the  world  : 
And  who  hut  Rumour,  who  but  only  I, 
Make  fearful  musters,  and  prepar'd  defence ; 
Whilst  the  big  year,  swol'n  with  some  other  grief. 
Is  thought  witli  child  by  the  stern  tyrant  war. 
And  no  such  matter  ?    Rumour  is  a  pipe 
Blown  by  suniiises,  jealousies,  conjectures  ; 
And  of  so  easy  and  so  plain  a  stop. 
That  the  blunt  monster  with  uncounted  heads, 
llie  still-discordant  wavering  multitude. 


Can  play  upon  it.      But  what  need  I  thus 

My  well-known  body  to  anatomize 

Among  my  household  ?  Why  is  Rumour  here  ? 

I  run  before  King  Harry's  victory. 

Who,  in  a  bloody  field  by  Shrewsbury, 

Hath  beaten  down  young  Hotspur,  and  his  troops, 

Quenching  the  flame  of  bold  rebellion 

Even  with  the  rebel's  blood.      But  what  mean  I 

To  speak  so  true  at  first  ?  my  office  is 

To  noise  abroad,  — that  Harry  Monmouth  fell 

Under  the  wrath  of  noble  Hotspur's  sword  ; 

And  that  the  king  before  the  Douglas'  rage 

Stoop'd  his  anointed  head  as  low  as  death. 

This  have  I  rumour'd  through  the  peasant  towns 

Between  that  royal  field  of  Shrewsbury 

And  this  worm-eaten  hold  of  ragged  stone, 

Where  Hotspur's  father,  old  Northumberland, 

Lies  crafty-sick :   the  posts  come  tiring  on, 

And  not  a  man  of  them  brings  other  news 

Than  they  have  leani'd  of  me ;   From    Rumour's 

tongues 
They  bring  smooth  comforts  false,  worse  tiian  true 

wrongs.  [Exit. 


404 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  1. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.  — Warkworth.      Ihfore  Northumber- 
land's Cuslle. 

The  Vorter  before  the  Gate ;  Enter  Lord  Bardolph. 

L.  Hard.  Who  keeps  the  gate  liere,  ho  ?  —  Where 

is  the  earl  ? 
Port.   What  shall  I  say  you  are  ? 
L.  Bard.  Tell  thou  the  earl, 

That  the  lord  Bardolph  doth  attend  him  here. 
Port.   His  lordship  is  walk'd  forth  into  the  or- 
chard ; 
Please  it  your  honour,  knock  but  at  the  gate, 
And  he  himself  will  answer. 

Enter  Northumberland. 

L.  Bard.  Here  comes  the  earl. 

North.  What  news,  lord  Bardolph  ?  every  minute 
now 
Should  be  the  father  of  some  stratagem  '  : 
The  times  are  wild  ;  contention,  like  a  horse 
Full  of  high  feeding,  madly  hath  broke  loose, 
And  bears  down  all  before  him. 

L.  Bard.  Noble  earl, 

I  bring  you  certain  news  from  Shrewsbury. 

North.    Good,  an  heaven  will  ! 

L.  Bard.  As  good  as  heart  can  wish  :  — 

The  king  is  almost  wounded  to  the  death ; 
And,  in  the  fortune  of  my  lord  your  son. 
Prince  Harry  slain  outright ;  and  both  the  Blunts 
Kill'd  by  the  hand  of  Douglas :  young  prince  John, 
And  Westmoreland,  and  Stafford,  fled  the  field; 
And  Harry  Monmouth's  brawn,  the  hulk  sir  John, 
Is  prisoner  to  your  son :    O,  such  a  day. 
So  fought,  so  follow'd,  and  so  fairly  won. 
Came  not  till  now,  to  dignify  the  times. 
Since  Caesar's  fortunes  ! 

North.  How  is  this  deriv'd  ? 

Saw  you  the  field?  came  you  from  Shrewsbury? 

L.  Bard.   I  spake  with  one,  my  lord,  that  came 
from  thence ; 
A  gentleman  well  bred,  and  of  good  name. 
That  freely  render'd  me  these  news  for  true. 

North.  Here  comes  my  servant,  Travers,  whom  I 
sent 
On  Tuesday  last  to  listen  after  news. 

L.  Bard.   My  lord,  I  over-rode  him  on  the  way ; 
And  he  is  furnish'd  with  no  certainties, 
Mbre  than  he  haply  may  retail  from  me. 

Enter  Travers. 

North.    Now,  Travers,  what  good  tidings  come 
with  you  ? 

Tra.  My  lord,  sir  John  Umfrevile  turn'd  me  back 
With  joyful  tidings  ;  and,  being  better  hors'd. 
Out-rode  me.      After  him,  came,  spurring  hard, 
A  gentleman  almost  forspent  with  speed. 
That  stopp'd  by  me  to  breathe  his  bloodied  horse  : 
He  ask'd  the  way  to  Chester ;  and  of  him 
I  did  demand,  what  news  from  Shrewsbury. 
He  told  me,  that  rebellion  had  bad  luck, 
And  that  young  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold  : 
With  that  he  gave  his  able  horse  the  head. 
And,  bending  forward,  struck  his  armed  heels 
Against  the  panting  sides  of  his  poor  jade 
Up  to  the  rowel  head ;  and,  starting  so, 
'  Important  or  dreadful  event. 


He  seem'd  in  running  to  devour  the  way. 
Staying  no  longer  question. 

North.  Ha! Again. 

Said  he,  young  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold  ? 
Of  Hotspur,  coldspur  ?  that  rebellion 
Had  met  ill  luck  ! 

L.  Bard.  My  lord,  I'll  tell  you  what ;  — 

If  my  young  lord  your  son  have  not  the  day. 
Upon  mine  honour,  for  a  silken  point  '^ 
I'll  give  my  barony  :   never  talk  of  it. 

North.   Why  should  the  gentleman,  that  rode  by 
Travers, 
Give  then  such  instances  of  loss  ? 

L.  Bard.  Who,  he  ? 

He  was  some  hilding  3  fellow,  that  had  stol'n 
The  horse  he  rode  on ;  and,  upon  my  life. 
Spoke  at  a  venture.     Look,  here  comes  more  news. 

Enter  Morton. 

North.   Yea,  this  man's  brow,  like  to  a  title-leaf, 
Foretells  the  nature  of  a  tragick  volume  : 
So  looks  the  strond,  whereon  the  imperious  flood 

Hath  left  a  witness'd  usurpation. 

Say,  Morton,  didst  thou  come  from  Shrewsbury  ? 

Mor.    I  ran  from  Shrewsbury,  my  noble  lord ; 
Where  hateful  death  put  on  his  ugliest  mask. 
To  fright  our  party. 

North.  How  doth  my  son,  and  brother? 

Thou  tremblest ;  and  the  whiteness  in  thy  cheek 
Is  apter  than  thy  tongue  to  tell  thy  errand. 
Even  such  a  man,  so  faint,  so  spiritless. 
So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  woe-begone. 
Drew  Priam's  curtain  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  would  have  told  him,  half  his  Troy  was  burn'd: 
But  Priam  found  the  fire,  ere  he  his  tongue, 
And  I  my  Percy's  death,  ere  thou  report'st  it. 
This  thou  wouldst  say,  —  Your  son  did  thus,  and 

thus; 
Your  brother,  thus  ;  so  fought  the  noble  Douglas  ; 
Stopping  my  greedy  ear  with  their  bold  deeds : 
But  in  the  end,  to  stop  mine  ear  indeed, 
Thou  hast  a  sigh  to  blow  away  this  praise. 
Ending  with  —  brother,  son,  and  all  are  dead. 

Mor.   Douglas  is  living,  and  your  brother,  yet : 
But,  for  my  lord,  your  son, 

North.  Why,  he  is  dead, 

See,  what  a  ready  tongue  suspicion  hath  ! 
He,  that  but  fears  the  thing  he  would  not  know. 
Hath,  by  instinct,  knowledge  from  others'  eyes. 
That  what  he  fear'd  is  chanced.    Yet  speak,  Morton  ; 
Tell  thou  thy  earl,  his  divination  lies  ; 
And  I  will  take  it  as  a  sweet  disgrace. 
And  make  thee  rich  for  doing  me  such  wrong. 

Mor.   You  are  too  great  to  be  by  me  gainsaid 
Your  spirit  is  too  true,  your  fears  too  ceitain. 

North.  Yet,  for  all  this,  say  not  that  Percy's  deadj 
I  see  a  strange  confession  in  thine  eye : 
Thou  shak'st  thy  head,  and  hold'st  it  fear,  or  sin 
To  speak  a  truth.     If  he  be  slain,  say  so  : 
The  tongue  offends  not,  that  reports  his  death  : 
And  he  doth  sin,  that  doth  belie  the  dead  : 
Not  he,  which  says  the  dead  is  not  alive. 
Yet  the  first  bringer  of  unwelcome  news 
Hath  but  a  losing  office ;  and  his  tongue 


I 


Lace  tagged. 


Hilderling,  base,  cowardly. 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


405 


Sounds  ever  after  as  a  sullen  bell, 
Ilemember'd  knolling  a  departing  friend. 

L.Bard.  I  cannot  think,  my  lord,  your  son  is  dead. 

Mor.    I  am  sorry,  I  should  force  you  to  believe 
That  which  I  would  to  heaven  I  had  not  seen  : 
But  these  mine  eyes  saw  him  in  bloody  state, 
Rend'ring  faint  quittance  ■*,  wearied  and  outbreath'd. 
To  Harry  Monmouth :  whose  swift  wrath  beat  down 
The  never  daunted  Percy  to  the  earth. 
From  whence  with  life  he  never  more  sprung  up. 
In  few,  his  death  (whose  spirit  lent  a  fire 
Even  to  the  dullest  peasant  in  his  camp,) 
Being  bruited  ^  once,  took  fire  and  heat  away 
From  the  best-temper'd  courage  in  his  troops  : 
For  from  his  metal  was  his  party  steel'd ; 
Which  once  in  him  abated,  all  the  rest 
Turn'd  on  themselves,  like  dull  and  heavy  lead. 
And  as  tlie  thing  that's  heavy  in  itself. 
Upon  enforcement,  flies  with  greater  speed ; 
So  did  our  men,  heavy  in  Hotspur's  loss, 
Lend  to  tliis  weight  such  lightness  with  their  fear, 
That  arrows  fled  not  swifter  toward  their  aim, 
Than  did  our  soldiers,  aiming  at  their  safety. 
Fly  from  the  field  :    Then  was  that  noble  Worcester 
Too  soon  ta'en  prisoner  :  and  that  furious  Scot, 
The  bloody  Douglas,  whose  well-labouring  sword 
Had  tliree  times  slain  the  appearance  of  the  king, 
'Gan  vail  ^  his  stomach,  and  did  grace  the  shame, 
Of  those  that  turn'd  their  backs ;  and  in  his  flight, 
Stumbling  in  fear,  was  took.      The  sum  of  all 
Is,  —  that  the  king  hath  won  ;  and  hath  sent  out 
A  speedy  power,  to  encounter  you,  my  lord, 
Under  the  conduct  of  young  Lancaster, 
And  Westmoreland  :   this  is  Ihe  news  at  full. 

Xorth.  For  this  I  shall  have  time  enough  to  mourn. 
In  i)oison  there  is  physick  ;  and  these  news. 
Having  been  well,  that  would  have  made  me  sick, 
Being  sick,  have  in  some  measure  made  me  well : 
And  as  the  wretch,  whose  fever-weaken'd  joints, ■ 
Like  strengthless  hinges,  buckle  under  life, 
Impatient  of  his  fit,  breaks  like  a  fire 
Out  of  his  keepers'  arms  ;  even  so  my  limbs, 
Weaken'd  with  grief,  being  now  enrag'd  with  grief. 
Are  thrice  themselves:  hence,  therefore,  thou  nice' 

crutch  ; 
A  scaly  gauntlet  now,  with  joints  of  steel, 
Must  glove  this  hand :  and  hence,  thou  sickly  quoif  8, 
TIiou  art  a  guard  too  wanton  for  the  head. 
Which  princes,  flesh'd  with  conquest,  aim  to  hit. 
Now  bind  my  brows  with  iron  ;   And  approach 
The  ragged'st  hour  that  time  and  spite  dare  bring, 
To  frown  upon  the  enrag'd  Northumberland  ! 
Let  heaven  kiss  earth  !   Now  let  not  nature's  hand 
Keep  the  wild  flood  confin'd  !  let  order  die ! 
And  let  this  world  no  longer  be  a  stage, 
To  feed  contention  in  a  lingering  act ; 
But  let  one  spirit  of  the  first-born  Cain 
Reign  in  all  bosoms,  that,  each  heart  being  set 
On  l)loody  courses,  the  rude  scene  may  end. 
And  darkness  be  the  burier  of  the  dead ! 

Tra.   This  strained  passion  doth  you  wrong,  my 
lord. 

L.  Bard.   Sweet  earl,  divorce  not  wisdom  from 
your  honour. 

Mor.   The  lives  of  all  your  loving  complices 
Loan  on  your  health  ;  the  which  if  you  give  o'er 
To  stormy  passion,  must  perforce  decay. 
You  cast  the  event  of  war,  my  noble  lord, 


*  Return  of  blows. 
0  Let  fall 


Trifling. 


*  Reported. 

»  Cap. 


And  summ'd  the  account  of   chance,  before  you 

said,  — 
Let  us  make  head.      It  was  your  presurmise. 
That  in  the  dole  9  of  blows  your  son  might  drop  : 
You  knew,  he  walk'd  o'er  perils,  on  an  edge. 
More  likely  to  fall  in,  than  to  get  o'er : 
You  were  advis'd,  his  flesh  was  capable 
Of  wounds,  and  scars ;  and  that  his  forward  spirits 
Would  lift  him  where  most  trade  of  danger  rang'd  ; 
Yet  did  you  say,  —  Go  forth  ;  and  none  of  this, 
Though  strongly  apprehended,  could  restrain 
The  stiff-borne  action :    Wliat  hath  then  befallen, 
Or  what  hath  this  bold  enterprize  brought  forth. 
More  than  that  being  which  was  like  to  be  ? 

L.  Bard.   We  all,  that  are  engaged  to  this  loss. 
Knew  that  we  ventur'd  on  such  dangerous  seas. 
That,  if  we  wrought  out  life,  'twas  ten  to  one  : 
And  yet  we  ventur'd,  for  the  gain  propos'd 
Chok'd  the  respect  of  likely  peril  fear'd ; 
And  since  we  are  o'erset,  venture  again. 
Come,  we  will  all  put  forth  ;  body,  and  goods. 

Mor.  'Tis  more  than  time :    And,  my  most  noble 
lord, 

I  hear  for  certain  and  do  speak  the  truth, 

The  gentle  archbishop  of  York  is  up. 
With  well-appointed  powers  ;  he  is  a  man. 
Who  with  a  double  surety  binds  his  followers. 
My  lord  your  son  had  only  but  the  corps. 
But  shadows,  and  the  shows  of  men  to  fight : 
For  that  same  word,  rebellion,  did  divide 
The  action  of  their  bodies  from  their  souls  : 
And  they  did  fight  with  quea.siness  ',  constrain'd. 
As  men  drink  potions ;  that  their  weapons  only 
Seem'd  on  our  side,  but  for  their  spirits  and  souls. 
This  word,  rebellion,  it  hath  froze  them  up, 
As  fish  are  in  a  pond ;  But  now  the  bishop 
Turns  insurrection  to  religion  : 
Suppos'd  sincere  and  holy  in  his  thoughts, 
He's  follow'd  both  with  body  and  with  mind ; 
And  doth  enlarge  his  rising  with  the  blood 
Of  fair  king  Richard,  scrap'd  from  Pomfret  stones. 
Derives  from  heaven  his  quarrel,  and  his  cause  ; 
Tells  them  he  doth  bestride  a  bleeding  land. 
Gasping  for  life  under  great  Bolingbroke ; 
And  more  %  and  less,  do  flock  to  follow  him. 

A^rth.  I  knew  of  this  before ;  but,  to  speak  truth. 
This  present  grief  had  wip'd  it  from  my  mind. 
Go  in  with  me  ;  and  counsel  every  man 
The  aptest  way  for  safety,  and  revenge  : 
Get  posts,  and  letters,  and  make  friends  with  speed  ; 
Never  so  few,  and  never  yet  more  need.     [  Exeuiit. 

SCENE  I L  — London.     A  Street. 

Enter  Sir  John  Falstaff,  with  his  Page  bearing 
his  Sword  and  Buckler. 
Fal.  The  brain  of  this  foolish-compounded  clay, 
man,  is  not  able  to  invent  any  thing  that  tends  to 
laughter,  more  than  I  invent,  or  is  invented  on  me  ; 
I  am  not  only  witty  in  myself,  but  the  cause  that 
wit  is  in  other  men.  I  do  here  walk  before  thee, 
like  a  sow,  that  hath  overwhelmed  all  her  litter  but 
one.  If  the  prince  put  thee  into  my  service  for  any 
other  reason  than  to  set  me  off,  why  then  I  have  no 
judgment.  I  was  never  manned  with  an  agate  '  till 
now :  but  I  will  set  you  neither  in  gold  nor  silver, 
but  in  vile  apparel,  and  send  you  back  again  to 

9  Distribution.  *  Against  their  stom.tchs. 

'  Greater.  '  Alluding  to  little  figures  cut  in  agate. 

Dd  3 


406 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


your  master,  for  a  jewel ;  the  juvenal,  the  prince 
your  master,  whose  chin  is  not  yet  fledged.  I  will 
sooner  have  a  beard  grow  in  the  palm  of  my  hand, 
than  he  shall  get  one  on  his  cheek  ;  and  yet  he 
will  not  stick  to  say  his  face  is  a  face-royal :  nature 
may  finish  it  when  she  will,  it  is  not  a  hair  amiss 
yet :  ho  may  keep  it  still  as  a  face-royal,  for  a 
barber  shall  never  earn  sixpence  out  of  it ;  and  yet 
he  will  be  crowing  as  if  he  had  writ  man  ever  since 
his  father  was  a  bachelor.  He  may  keep  his  own 
grace,  but  he  is  almost  out  of  mine,  I  can  assure 

him.  What  said  master  Dumbleton  about  the 

satin  for  my  short  cloak,  and  slops  ? 

Page.  He  said,  sir,  you  should  procure  him  better 
assurance  than  Bardolph :  he  would  not  take  liis 
bond  and  yours  ;  he  liked  not  the  security. 

Fal.  A  rascally  yea-forsooth  knave !  to  bear  a 
gentleman  in  hand,  and  then  stand  upon  security  ! 
—  The  smooth-pates  do  now  wear  nothing  but  high 
shoes,  and  bunches  of  keys  at  their  girdles  ;  and  if 
a  man  is  thorough  ^  with  them  in  honest  taking  up, 
then  they  must  stand  upon  —  security.  I  had  as 
lief  they  would  put  ratsbane  in  my  mouth,  as  offer 
to  stop  it  with  security.  I  looked  he  should  have 
sent  me  two-and-twenty  yards  of  satin,  as  I  am  a 
true  knight,  and  he  sends  me  security.  Well,  — 
Where's  Bardolph  ? 

Page.  He's  gone  into  Smithfield,  to  buy  your 
worship  a  horse. 

Fal.  I  bought  him  in  Paul's,  and  he'll  buy  me  a 
horse  in  Smithfield :  an  I  could  get  me  but  a  wife 
in  the  stews,  I  were  manned,  horsed,  and  wived.  ^ 

Enter  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  and  an  Attendant. 

Page.  Sir,  here  comes  the  nobleman  that  com- 
mitted the  prince  for  striking  him  about  Bardolph. 

Fal.   Wait  close,  I  will  not  see  him. 

Ch.  Just.   What's  he  that  goes  there  ? 

Atten.   Falstaff,  an't  please  your  lordship. 

Ch.  Just.  He  that  was  in  question  for  the  rob- 
bery? 

Atten.  He,  my  lord  :  but  he  hath  since  done 
good  service  at  Shrewsbury ;  and,  as  I  hear,  is  now 
going  with  some  charge  to  the  lord  John  of  Lan- 
caster. 

Ch.  Just.   What,  to  York  ?    Call  him  back  again. 

Atten.    Sir  John  Falstaff ! 

Fal.   Boy,  tell  him,  I  am  deaf. 

Page.  You  must  speak  louder,  my  master  is  deaf. 

Ch.  Just.   I  am  sure,  he  is,  to  the  hearing  of  any 

thing  good Go,  pluck  him  by  the  elbow ;  I  must 

speak  with  him. 

Atten.   Sir  John, — 

Fal.  What !  a  young  knave,  and  beg  !  Is  there 
not  wars  ?  is  there  not  employment  ?  Doth  not  the 
king  lack  subjects?  do  not  the  rebels  need  soldiers? 
Though  it  be  a  shame  to  be  on  any  side  but  one,  it 
is  worse  shame  to  beg  than  to  be  on  the  worse  side, 
were  it  worse  than  the  name  of  rebellion  can  tell 
how  to  make  it. 

Atten.   You  mistake  me,  sir. 

Fal.  Why,  sir,  did  I  say  you  were  an  honest  man  ? 
setting  my  knighthood  and  my  soldiership  aside,  I 
had  lied  in  my  throat  if  I  had  said  so. 

Atten.  I  pray  you,  sir,  then  set  your  knighthood 
and  your  soldiership  aside ;  and  give  me  leave  to 
tell  you,  you  lie  in  your  throat,  if  you  say  I  am  any 
other  than  an  honest  man. 

Fal.  I  give  thee  leave  to  tell  me  so  !  I  lay  aside 
*  In  their  debt.  »  Alluding  to  an  old  proverb, 


that  which  grows  to  me  !  If  thou  get'st  any  leave  of 
me,  hang  me  ;  if  thou  takest  leave,  thou  wert  better 
be  hanged :    You  hunt-counter  6,  hence  !  avaunt ! 

Atten.   Sir,  my  lord  would  speak  with  you. 

Ch.  Just.   Sir  John  Falstaff,  a  word  with  you. 

Fal.  My  good  lord !  give  your  lordship  good 
time  of  day.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  lordship  abroad : 
I  heard  say,  your  lordship  was  sick  :  I  hope,  your 
lordship  goes  abroad  by  advice.  Your  lordship, 
though  not  clean  past  your  youth,  hath  yet  some 
smack  of  age  in  you,  some  relish  of  the  saltness  of 
time  J  and  I  most  humby  beseech  your  lordship,  to 
have  a  reverend  care  of  your  health 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  I  sent  for  you  before  your 
expedition  to  Shrewsbury. 

Fal.  An't  please  your  lordship,  I  hear  his  majesty 
is  returned  with  some  discomfort  from  Wales. 

Ch.  Just.  I  talk  not  of  his  majesty:  —  You  would 
not  come  when  I  sent  for  you. 

Fal.  And  I  hear  moreover,  his  highness  is  fallen 
into  this  same  apoplexy. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  heaven  mend  him  !  I  pray,  let 
me  speak  with  you. 

Fal.  This  apoplexy  is,  as  I  take  it,  a  kind  of 
lethargy,  an't  please  your  lordship  ;  a  kind  of  sleep- 
ing in  the  blood,  a  tingling. 

Ch.  Just.   What  tell  you  me  of  it?  be  it  as  it  is. 

Fal.  It  hath  its  original  from  much  grief;  from 
study,  and  perturbation  of  the  brain :  I  have  read 
the  cause  of  his  effects  in  Galen;  it  is  a  kind  of 
deafness. 

Ch.  Just'  I  think,  you  are  fallen  into  the  dis- 
ease ;  for  you  hear  not  what  I  say  to  you. 

Fal.  Very  well,  my  "lord,  very  well :  rather,  an't 
please  you,  it  is  the  disease  of  not  listening,  the 
malady  of  not  marking,  that  I  am  troubled  withal. 

Ch.  Just.  To  punish  you  by  the  heels,  would 
amend  the  attention  of  your  ears ;  and  I  care  not, 
if  I  do  become  your  physician. 

Fal.  I  am  as  poor  as  Job,  my  lord  ;  but  not  so 
patient ;  your  lordship  may  minister  the  potion  of 
imprisonment  to  me,  in  respect  of  poverty ;  but 
how  I  should  be  your  patient  to  follow  your  pre- 
scriptions, the  wise  may  make  some  dram  of  a  scru- 
ple, or,  indeed,  a  scruple  itself. 

Ch.  Just.  I  sent  for  you,  when  there  were  matters 
against  you  for  your  life,  to  come  speak  with  me. 

Fal.  As  I  was  then  advised  by  my  learned  counsel 
in  the  laws  of  this  land-service,  I  did  not  come. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  the  truth  is,  sir  John,  you  hve  in 
great  infamy. 

Fal.  He  that  buckles  him  in  my  belt,  cannot  live 
in  less. 

Ch.  Just.  Your  means  are  very  slender,  and  your 
waste  is  great. 

Fal.  I  would  it  were  otherwise ;  I  would  my 
means  were  greater,  and  my  waist  slenderer. 

Ch.  Just.   You  have  misled  the  youthful  prince. 

Fal.  The  young  prince  hath  misled  me:  I  am 
the  fellow  with  the  great  belly,  and  he  my  dog. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  I  am  loath  to  gall  a  new-healed 
wound :  your  day's  service  at  Shrewsbury  hath  a 
little  gilded  over  your  night's  exploit  on  Gads-hill : 
you  may  thank  the  unquiet  time  for  your  quiet  o'er- 
posting  that  action. 

Fal.    My  lord? 

Ch.  Just.  But  since  all  is  well,  keep  it  so :  wake 
not  a  sleeping  wolf. 

Fal.   To  wake  a  wolf  is  as  bad  as  to  smell  a  fox. 
6  A  catch.pole  or  bailiff 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


407 


t 


Ch.  Just.  What !  you  are  as  a  caudle,  the  better 
part  burnt  out. 

Fal.    A  wassel  candle',  my  lord  :  all  tallow  ;  if  I 
did  say  of  wax,  my  growth  would  approve  the  truth. 
Ch.  Just.  There  is  not  a  white  hair  on  your  face, 
but  should  have  his  effect  of  gravity. 
I^al.   His  effect  of  gravy,  gravy,  gravy, 
Ch.  Just.    You  follow  tlie  young  prince  up  and 
down,  like  his  ill  angel. 

Fal.  Not  so,  ray  lord ;  your  ill  angel  8  is  light ; 
but,  I  hope,  he  that  looks  upon  me,  will  take  me 
without  weighing  :  and  yet,  in  some  respects,  I 
grant,  I  cannot  go,  I  cannot  tell  9-.  Virtue  is  of  so 
little  regard  in  these  coster-monger  times,  that  true 
valour  is  turned  bear-herd  :  Pregnancy '  is  made  a 
tapster,  and  hath  his  quick  wit  wasted  in  giving 
reckonings  :  all  the  other  gifts  appertinent  to  man, 
as  the  malice  of  this  age  shapes  them,  are  not  worth 
a  gooseberry.  You,  that  are  old,  consider  not  the 
capacities  of  us  that  are  young :  you  measure  the 
heat  of  our  livers  with  the  bitterness  of  your  galls; 
and  we  that  are  in  the  vaward'^  of  our  youth,  I  must 
confess,  are  wags  too. 

Ch.  Just.  Do  you  set  down  your  name  in  the 
scroll  of  youth,  that  are  written  down  old  with  all 
the  characters  of  age  ?  Have  you  not  a  moist  eye  ? 
a  dry  hand  ?  a  yellow  cheek  ?  a  white  beard  ?  a 
decreasing  leg  ?  an  increasing  body  ?  Is  not  your 
voice  broken  ?  your  wind  short  ?  your  chin  double  ? 
your  wit  single  ?  and  every  part  about  you  blasted 
with  antiquity?  and  will  you  yet  call  yourself 
young  ?  Fye,  fye,  fye,  sir  John  ! 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  was  born  about  three  of  the  clock 
in  the  afternoon,  with  a  white  head,  and  something 
a  round  belly.  For  my  voice,  —  I  have  lost  it  with 
hollaing,  and  singing  of  anthems.  To  approve  my 
youth  further,  I  will  not :  the  truth  is,  I  am  only 
old  in  judgment  and  understanding;  and  he  that 
will  cajjer  with  me  for  a  thousand  marks,  let  him 
lend  me  the  money,  and  have  at  him.  For  the  box 
o'the  ear  that  the  prince  gave  you,  —  he  gave  it 
like  a  rude  prince,  and  you  took  it  like  a  sensible 
lord.  I  have  checked  him  for  it ;  and  the  young 
lion  repents  :  marry,  not  in  ashes,  and  sack-cloth  ; 
but  in  new  silk,  and  old  sack. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  heaven  send  the  prince  a  better 
companion  ! 

Fal.  Heaven  send  the  companion  a  better  prince ! 
I  cannot  rid  my  hands  of  him. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  the  king  hath  severed  you  and 
prince  Harry  :  I  hear  you  are  going  with  lord  John 
of  Lancaster,  against  the  archbishop,  and  the  earl  of 
Northumberland. 

Fal.  Yea ;  I  thank  your  pretty  sweet  wit  for  it. 
But  look  you  pray,  all  you  that  kiss  my  lady  peace 
at  home,  that  our  armies  join  not  in  a  hot  day  !  for, 
I  take  but  two  shirts  out  with  me,  and  I  mean  not 
to  sweat  extraordinarily :  if  it  be  a  hot  day,  an  I 
brandish  any  thing  but  my  bottle,  I  would  I  might 
never  spit  white  again.  There  is  not  a  dangerous 
action  can  peep  out  his  head,  but  I  am  thrust  upon 
it :  ^yell,  I  cannot  last  ever  ;  But  it  was  always  yet 
the  trick  of  our  English  nation,  if  they  have  a  good 
thing,  to  make  it  too  common.  If  you  will  needs 
say,  I  am  an  old  man,  you  should  give  me  rest.  I 
would  to  heaven,  my  name  were  not  so  terrible  to 
the  enemy  as  it  is.     I  were  better  to  be  eaten  to 

[  A  large  candle  for  a  fcnit.       •  The  coin  called  an  anccl. 
•  Paat  current  «  ReadineMi  «  Joreiwrt 


death  with   rust,  than  to  be  scoured  to  nothing  with 
perpetual  motion. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  be  honest,  be  honest ;  And  hea- 
ven bless  your  expedition  ! 

Fal.  Will  your  lordship  lend  me  a  thousand 
pound,  to  furnish  me  forth  ? 

Ch.  Just.  Not  a  penny,  not  a  penny  ;  you  are  too 
impatient  to  bear  crosses.  Fare  you  well :  Com- 
mend me  to  my  cousin  Westmoreland. 

[Exeunt  Chief  Justice  and  Attendant. 

Fal.  If  I  do,  fillip  me  with  a  three-man  beetle.  3 — 
Boy! 

Page.   Sir? 

Fal.   What  money  is  in  my  purse  ? 

Page-    Seven  groats  and  two-pence. 

Fal.  I  can  get  no  remedy  against  this  consump- 
tion of  the  purse  :  borrowing  only  lingers  and  lingers 
it  out,  but  the  disease  is  incurable.  —  Go  bear  this 
letter  to  my  lord  of  Lancaster ;  this  to  the  prince  ; 
this  to  the  earl  of  Westmoreland ;  and  this  to  old 
mistress  Ursula,  whom  I  have  weekly  sworn  to  marry 
since  I  perceived  the  first  white  hair  on  my  cliin : 
About  it ;  you  know  where  to  find  me.  [Erii  Page.] 
This  gout  plays  the  rogue  with  my  great  toe.  It  is 
no  matter  if  I  do  halt ;  I  have  the  wars  for  my  colour, 
and  my  pension  shall  seem  the  more  reasonable  : 
A  good  wit  will  make  use  of  any  tiling  ;  I  will  turn 
diseases  to  commodity. "1  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  —  York.    A  Room  in  the  Archbishop'* 
Palace. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  Lords  Hastings, 
Mowbray,  and  Bardolph. 

Arch.   Thus  have  you  heard  our  cause,  and  known 
our  means ; 
And,  my  most  noble  friends,  I  pray  you  all. 
Speak  plainly  your  opinions  of  our  hopes :  — 
And  first,  lord  marshal,  what  say  you  to  it? 

Mowb.   I  well  allow  the  occasion  of  oiu:  arms  ; 
But  gladly  would  be  better  satisfied. 
How,  in  our  means,  we  should  advance  ourselves 
To  look  with  forehead  bold  and  big  enough 
Upon  the  power  and  puissance  of  the  king. 

Hast.   Our  present  musters  grow  upon  the  file 
To  five-and-twenty  thousand  men  of  choice ; 
And  our  supplies  live  largely  in  the  hope 
Of  great  Nortliumberland,  whose  bosom  burns 
With  an  incensed  fire  of  injuries. 

L.  Bard.  The  question  then,  lord  Hastings,  stand- 
eth  thus ;  — 
Whether  our  present  five-and-twenty  thousand 
May  hold  up  head  without  Northumberland. 

Hast.   With  him,  we  may. 

jL.  Jiard.  Ay,  marry,  there's  the  point : 

But  if  without  him  we  be  thought  too  feeble. 
My  judgment  is,  we  should  not  step  too  far 
Till  we  had  his  assistance  by  tlie  hand ; 
For,  in  a  theme  so  bloody-fac'd  as  this, 
Conjecture,  expectation,  and  surmise 
Of  aids  uncertain,  should  not  be  admitted 

Arch.  *Tis  very  true,  lord  Bardolph  ;  for,  indeed. 
It  was  young  Hotspur's  case  at  Shrewsbury. 

L.  Bard.   It  was,  my  lord;  who  lined  Iiimsclf  with 
hope. 
Eating  the  air  on  promise  of  supply, 
Flattering  himself  with  project  of  a  power 
Much  smaller  tlian  the  smallest  of  his  thoughts : 

3  A  large  wooden  hammer,  »o  heavy  as  to  require  three  men 
to  wield  it  «  Profit 

Dd   4 


4.08 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


And  so  with  great  imagination, 

Proper  to  madmen,  led  his  powers  to  death, 

And,  winking,  leap'd  into  destruction. 

Hast.   But,  by  your  leave,  it  never  yet  did  hurt 
To  lay  down  likelihoods,  and  forms  of  hope. 

L.  Bard.   Yes,  in  this  present  quality  of  war;  — 
Indeed  the  instant  action,  (a  cause  on  foot,) 
Lives  so  in  hope,  as  in  an  early  spring 
We  see  the  appearing  buds ;  which,  to  prove  fruit, 
Hope  gives  not  so  much  warrant,  as  despair. 
That  frosts  will  bite  them.    When  we  mean  to  build. 
We  first  survey  the  plot,  then  draw  the  model. 
And  when  we  see  the  figure  of  the  house. 
Then  must  we  rate  the  cost  of  the  erection ; 
Which  if  we  find  outweighs  ability. 
What  do  we  then,  but  draw  anew  the  model 
In  fewer  offices  ;  or,  at  least,  desist 
To  build  at  all  ?  Much  more,  in  tliis  great  work, 
(Wliich  is,  almost  to  pluck  a  kingdom  down, 
And  set  another  up,)  should  we  survey 
The  plot  of  situation,  and  the  model ; 
Consent*  upon  a  sure  foundation  ; 
Question  surveyors ;  know  our  own  estate. 
How  able  such  a  work  to  undergo. 
To  weigh  against  his  opposite  ;  or  else, 
We  fortify  in  paper,  and  in  figures. 
Using  the  names  of  men,  instead  of  men  : 
Like  one,  that  draws  the  model  of  a  house 
Beyond  his  power  to  build  it ;  who,  half  through, 
Gives  o'er,  and  leaves  his  part-created  cost 
A  naked  subject  to  the  weeping  clouds. 
And  waste  for  churlish  winter's  tyranny. 

Hast.  Grant,  that  our  hopes  (yet  likely  of  fair  birth) 
Should  be  still-born,  and  that  we  now  possess'd 
The  utmost  man  of  expectation  ; 
I  think,  we  are  a  body  strong  enough. 
Even  as  we  are,  to  equal  with  the  king, 

L.  Bard.  What !  is  the  king  but  five  and  twenty 
thousand  ? 
Hast.   To  us,  no  more ;  nay,  not  so   much,   lord 
Bardolph. 


For  his  divisions,  as  the  times  do  brawl, 

Are  in  three  heads:  one  power  against  the  French, 

And  one  against  Glendower ;  perforce  a  third 

Must  take  up  us :    So  is  the  unfirm  king 

In  three  divided ;  and  his  coffers  sound 

With  hollow  poverty  and  emptiness. 

^rch.   That  he  should  draw  his  several  strengths 
together. 
And  come  against  us  in  full  puissance, 
Need  not  be  dreaded. 

Hast.  If  he  should  do  so. 

He  leaves  his  back  unarm'd,  the  French  and  Welsh 
Baying  him  at  the  heels :   never  fear  that. 

L.  Bard.   Who,  is  it  like,  should  lead  his  forces 
hither  ? 

Hast.   The  duke  of  Lancaster  and  Westmoreland : 
Against  the  Welsh,  himself,  and  Harry  Monmouth  : 
But  who  is  substituted  'gainst  the  French, 
I  have  no  certain  notice. 

Arch.  Let  us  on  ; 

And  publish  the  occasion  of  our  arms. 
The  commonwealth  is  sick  of  their  own  choice, 
Their  over-greedy  love  hath  surfeited  :  — 
An  habitation  giddy  and  unsure 
Hath  he,  that  buildeth  on  the  vulgar  heart. 
O  thou  fond  many !  ^  with  what  loud  applause 
Didst  thou  beat  heaven  with  blessing  Bolingbroke, 
Before  he  was  what  thou  wouldst  have  him  be  ? 
And  being  now  trimm'd  9  in  thine  own  desires. 
They  that,  when  Richard  Uv'd,  would  have  him  die. 
Are  now  become  enamour'd  on  his  grave : 
Thou,  that  threw'st  dust  upon  his  goodly  head. 
When  through  proud  London  he  came  sighing  en 
After  the  admired  heels  of  Bolingbroke, 
Cry'st  now,  0  earth,  yield  us  that  king  again. 
And  take  thou  this  I  O  thoughts  of  men  accurst 
Past,  and  to  come,  seem  best ;  things  present,  worst. 

Mowb.  Shall  we  go  di'aw  our  numbers,  and  set  on  ? 

Hast.   We  are  time's  subjects,  and  time  bids  be 
gone.  [Exeu7it. 


I 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.  ~-  London.     A  Street. 

Enter  Hostess ^   Fang,  and  his  Boy,  with  her;  and 
SsAREjbllowing. 

Host.  Master  Fang,  have  you  entered  the  action  ? 

Fang.   It  is  entered. 

Host.  Where  is  your  yeoman  ?6  Is  it  a  lusty  yeo- 
man ?  will  a'  stand  to't  ? 

Fa7ig.   Sirrah,  where's  Snare? 

^05^    O,  good  master  Snare. 

Snare.   Here,  here. 

JFang.   Snare,  we  must  arrest  sir  John  Falstaff". 

Host.  Yea,  good  master  Snare ;  I  have  entered 
him  and  all. 

Snare.  It  may  chance  cost  some  of  us  our  lives, 
for  he  will  stab. 

Host.  Alas  the  day  !  take  heed  of  him  ;  in  good 
faith,  a'  cares  not  what  mischief  he  doth,  if  his 
weapon  be  out :  he  will  foin  ^  like  any  devil ;  he 
will  spare  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child. 


Agree. 


6  Follower. 


JFang.  If  I  can  close  with  him,  I  care  not  for  his 
thrust. 

Host.  I'll  be  at  your  elbow. 

Fang.  An  I  but  fist  him  once ;  an  a'  come  but 
within  my  vice.  ^ 

Host.  I  am  undone  by  his  going  ;  I  warrant  you, 
he's  an  infinite  thing  upon  my  score  :  —  Good  mas- 
ter Fang,  hold  him  sure  ;  —  good  master  Snare,  let 
him  not  escape.  He  comes  continually  to  Pie- 
corner,  and  he's  indited  to  dinner  to  the  Lubbar's 
Head  in  Lumbert-street,  to  master  Smooth's  the 
silkman  :  I  pray  ye,  since  my  exion  is  entered,  and 
my  case  so  openly  known  to  the  world,  let  him  be 
brought  in  to  his  answer.  A  hundi'ed  mark  is  a  long 
loan  for  a  poor  lone  woman  to  bear :  and  I  have 
borne,  and  borne,  and  borne  ;  and  have  been  fub- 
bed  off",  and  fubbed  off",  and  fubbed  off*,  from  this 
day  to  that  day,  that  it  is  a  shame  to  be  thought  on. 
There  is  no  honesty  in  such  deahng  ;  unless  a  wo- 
man should  be  made  an  ass,  and  a  beast,  to  bear 

every  knave's  wrong. ■ 

f  Foolish  multitude.  Dress.  '  Grasp. 


I 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


409 


Enter  Sir  Joh-n  Falstaff,  Page,  and  Bahdolph. 
Yonder  he  comes ;    and  that  arrant  malmsey-nose 
knave,   Bardolph,  with  him.      Do  your  offices,  do 
your  offices,  master  Fang,  and  master  Snare;  do 
me,  do  me,  do  me  your  offices. 

Fal.  How  now  ?  whose  mare's  dead  ?  what's  tlie 
matter  ? 

Fang.  Sir  John,  I  arrest  you  at  the  suit  of  mis- 
tress Quickly. 

Fal.  Away,  varlets  !  —  Draw,  Bardolph ;  cut  me 
off  the  villain's  head;  throw  the  quean  in  thf  channel. 

Host.  Tlirow  me  in  the  channel  ?  I'll  throw  tliee 
in  the  channel.  Wilt  thou  ?  wilt  thou  ?  tliou  rogue ! 
— •  Murder,  murder  !  O  thou  honeysuckle  '^  villain! 
wilt  thou  kill  the  king's  officers  ?  O  thou  honey- 
seeds  rogue!  tliou  art  a  honey -seed  ;  a  man-queller, 
and  a  woman-queller. 

Fal.   Keep  them  off,  Bardolph. 

Fang.   A  rescue  !  a  rescue  ! 

Host.  Good  people,  bring  a  rescue  or  two.  — 
Thou  wo't,  wo't  thou  ?  thou  wo't,  wo't  thou  ?  do, 
do,  thou  rogue !  do,  thou  hemp-seed  ! 

Fal.  Away,  you  scullion  !  you  rampallian  !  you 
fustilarian ! 

Enter  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  attended. 

Ch.  Just.  What's  the  matter?  keep  the  peace 
here,  ho  ! 

Host.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me !  I  beseech  you ! 

Ch.  Just.    How   now,  sir  John?  what,  are  you 
brawling  here  ? 
Doth  this  become  your  place,  your  time,  and  business  ? 

You  should  have  been  well  on  your  way  to  York 

Stand  from  him,  fellow  ;    Wherefore  hang'st  thou 
on  him? 

Host.  O  my  most  worshipful  lord,  an't  please 
your  grace,  I  am  a  poor  widow  of  Eastcheap,  and 
he  is  arrested  at  my  suit. 

Ch.  Just.   For  what  sum  ? 

Host.  It  is  more  than  for  some,  my  lord ;  it  is 
for  all,  all  I  have :  he  hath  eaten  me  out  of  house 
and  home  :  he  hath  put  all  my  substance  into  that 
fat  belly  of  his. 

Ch.  Just.  How  comes  this,  sir  John  ?  Fye  !  what 
man  of  good  temper  would  endure  this  tempest  of 
exclamation?  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  enforce  a 
poor  widow  to  so  rough  a  course  to  come  by  her  own? 

Fal.   What  is  the  gross  sum  that  I  owe  thee  ? 

Host.  Marry,  if  thou  wert  an  honest  man,  thy- 
self, and  the  money  too.  Thou  didst  swear  to  me 
upon  a  parcel-gilt  *  goblet,  sitting  in  my  Dolphin- 
chamber,  at  tlie  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire, 
upon  Wednesday  in  Whitsun-week,  when  the  prince 
broke  thy  head  for  liking  his  father  to  a  singing- 
man  of  Windsor :  thou  didst  swear  to  me  then,  as 
I  was  washing  thy  wound,  to  marry  me,  and  make 
me  my  lady  thy  wife.  Canst  thou  deny  it  ?  ])id 
not  goodwife  Keech,  the  butcher's  wife,  come  in 
tJien,  and  call  me  gossip  Quickly  ?  coming  in  to 
borrow  a  mess  of  vinegar ;  telling  us,  she  had  a 
good  dish  of  prawns ;  whereby  thou  didst  desire  to 
eat  some ;  whereby  I  told  thee,  they  were  ill  for  a 
green  wound?  And  didst  thou  not,  when  she  was 
gone  down  stairs,  desire  me  to  be  no  more  so  fami- 
liarity with  such  poor  people ;  saying,  tliat  ere  long 
they  should  call  me  madam?  And  didst  thou  not 
kiss  mc,  and  bid  me  fetch  thee  thirty  sliillings  ?  1  put 
thee  now  to  thy  book-oath  ;  deny  it,  if  thou  canst. 

'  HomicidAl  »  Homicide.  *  Party  gilt. 


Fal.  My  lord,  this  is  a  poor  mad  soul  ;  and  she 
says,  up  and  down  the  town,  that  her  eldest  son  is 
like  you  :  she  hath  been  in  good  case,  and,  the 
truth  is,  poverty  hath  distracted  her.  But  for  these 
foolish  officers,  I  beseech  you,  I  may  have  redress 
against  them. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  sir  John,  I  am  well  acquainted 
with  your  manner  of  wrenching  the  true  cause  the 
false  way.  It  is  not  a  confident  brow,  nor  the 
throng  of  words  that  come  with  such  more  than 
impudent  sauciness  from  you,  can  thrust  me  from  a 
level  consideration  ;  you  have,  as  it  appears  to  me, 
practised  upon  the  easy-yielding  spirit  of  this  wo- 
man, and  made  her  serve  your  uses  both  in  purse 
and  person. 

Host.   Yea,  in  troth,  my  lord. 

Ch.  Just.  Pr'ythee,  peace :  —  Pay  her  the  debt 
you  owe  her,  and  unpay  the  villainy  you  have  done 
with  her ;  the  one  you  may  do  with  sterling  money, 
and  the  other  with  current  repentance. 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  will  not  undergo  this  sneap  * 
without  reply.  You  call  honourable  boldness,  im- 
pudent sauciness  :  if  a  man  will  make  court'sy,  and 
say  nothing,  he  is  virtuous  :  No,  my  lord,  my  hum- 
ble duty  remembered,  I  will  not  be  your  suitor ;  I 
say  to  you,  I  do  desire  deliverance  from  these 
oflScers,  being  upon  hasty  employment  in  the  king's 
affairs. 

Ch.  Just.  You  speak  as  having  power  to  do 
wrong:  but  answer  in  the  effect  of  your  reputa- 
tion 6,  and  satisfy  the  poor  woman. 

Fal.   Come  hither,  hostess.        [Taking  her  aside. 

Enter  Gower. 

Ch.  Just.   Now,  master  Gower  ;  What  news  ? 

Gow.   The  king,  my  lord,  and  Harry  prince  of 
Wales 
Are  near  at  hand :  the  rest  the  paper  tells. 

Fal.   As  I  am  a  gentleman  ; 

Host.   Nay,  you  said  so  before. 

Fal.   As  I  am  a  gentleman ; Come,  no  more 

words  of  it. 

Host.  By  this  heavenly  ground  I  tread  on,  I  must 
be  fain  to  pawn  both  my  plate,  and  the  tapestry  of 
my  dining-chambers. 

Fal.  Glasses,  glasses,  is  the  only  drinking  :  and 
for  thy  walls, — a  pretty  slight  drollery,  or  the  story 
of  the  prodigal,  or  the  German  hunting  in  water- 
work,  is  worth  a  thousand  of  these  bed-hangings, 
and  these  fly-bitten  tapestries.  Let  it  be  ten  pound, 
if  thou  canst.  Come,  an  it  were  not  for  thy  hu- 
mours, there  is  not  a  better  wench  in  England. 
Go,  wash  thy  face,  and  draw  7  thy  action  :  Come, 
thou  must  not  be  in  this  humour  with  me  ;  dost  no 
know  me  ?  Come,  come,  I  know  thou  wast  set  on 
to  this. 

Host.  Pray  thee,  sir  John,  let  it  be  but  twenty 
nobles ;  i'faith  I  am  loatli  to  pawn  my  plate,  in 
good  earnest,  la. 

Fal.  Let  it  alone ;  I'll  make  other  shift ;  you'll 
be  a  fool  still. 

Host.  Well,  you  shall  have  it,  though  I  pawn  my 
gown.  I  hope  you'll  come  to  supper :  you'll  pay 
me  all  together  ? 

Fal.   Will  I  live? — Go,   with  her,  with   her; 

[7*0  Bardolph.]  hook  on,  hook  on. 

[Exeunt  Hostess,  Bardolph,  Officers, 

and  Page. 

»  .Snub,  check.  «  Suitably  to  your  character. 

?  Withdraw. 


-I-IO 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


Ch.  Jvat.   I  have  heard  better  news. 

Fal.   What's  the  news,  my  good  lord  ? 

Ch.  Just.    Where  lay  the  king  last  night  ? 

Gow.   At  Basingstoke,  my  lord. 

Fed.  I  hope,  my  lord,  all's  well:  What's  the 
news,  my  lord  ? 

Ch.  Just.   Come  all  his  forces  back  ? 

Gow.   No ;    fifteen   hundred  foot,  five  hundred 
horse, 
Are  march'd  up  to  my  lord  of  Lancaster, 
Against  Northumberland,  and  the  archbishop. 

Fal.  Comes  the  king  back  from  Wales,  my  noble 
lord  ? 

Ch.  Just.  You  shall  have  letters  of  me  presently : 
Come,  go  along  with  me,  good  master  Gower. 

Fal.    My  lord! 

Ch.  Just.   What's  the  matter  ? 

Fal.  Master  Gower,  shall  I  entreat  you  with  me 
to  dinner? 

Gow.  I  must  wait  upon  my  good  lord  here :  I 
thank  you,  good  sir  John. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  you  loiter  here  too  long,  being 
you  are  to  take  soldiers  up  in  counties  as  you  go. 

Fal.  Will  you  sup  with  me,  master  Gower  ? 

Ch.  Just.  What  foolish  master  taught  you  these 
manners,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Master  Gower,  if  they  become  me  not,  he 
was  a  fool  that  taught  them  me.  —  This  is  the  right 
fencing  grace,  my  lord  ;  tap  for  tap,  and  so  part  fair. 

Ch.  Just.  Now  heaven  lighten  thee !  thou  art  a 
great  fool.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Another  Street. 

Enter  Prince  Henrt  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.   Trust  me,  I  am  exceeding  weary. 

Poins.  Is  it  come  to  that  ?  I  had  thought  weari- 
ness durst  not  have  attached  one  of  so  high  blood. 

P.  Hen.  'Faith,  it  does  me;  though  it  discolours 
the  complexion  of  my  greatness  to  acknowledge  it. 
Doth  it  not  show  vilely  in  me,  to  desire  small  beer  ? 

Poifis.  Why,  a  prince  should  not  be  so  loosely 
studied,  as  to  remember  so  weak  a  composition. 

P.  Hen.  Belike  then,  my  appetite  was  not 
princely  got ;  for,  by  my  troth,  I  do  now  remember 
the  poor  creature,  small  beer.  But,  indeed,  these 
humble  considerations  make  me  out  of  love  with  my 
greatness.  What  a  disgrace  is  it  to  me,  to  remem- 
ber thy  name  ?  or  to  know  thy  face  to-morrow  ?  or 
to  take  note  how  many  pair  of  silk  stockings  thou 
hast ;  viz.  these,  and  those  that  were  the  peach- 
coloured  ones  ? 

Pains.  How  ill  it  follows,  after  you  have  laboured 
so  hard,  you  should  talk  so  idly?  Tell  me,  how 
many  good  young  princes  would  do  so,  their  fathers 
being  so  sick  as  yours  at  this  time  is  ? 

P.  Hen.    Shall  I  tell  thee  one  thing,  Poins  ? 

Poins.  Yes ;  and  let  it  be  an  excellent  good  thing. 

P.  Hen.  It  shall  serve  among  wits  of  no  higher 
breeding  than  thine. 

Poins.  Go  to  ;  I  stand  the  pusn  of  your  one  thing 
that  you  will  tell. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  I  tell  thee,  —  it  is  not  meet  that 
I  should  be  sad,  now  my  father  is  sick :  albeit  I 
could  tell  to  thee,  (as  to  one  it  pleases  me,  for  fault 
of  a  better,  to  call  my  friend,)  I  could  be  sad,  and 
sad  indeed  too. 

Poins.   Very  hardly,  upon  such  a  subject. 

P.  Hen.  By  this  hand,  thou  think'st  me  as  far  in 
the  devil's  book,  as  thou  and  Falstaff,  for  obduracy 


and  persistency  :  Let  the  end  try  the  man.  But  I 
tell  thee,  —  my  heart  bleeds  inwardly,  that  my 
father  is  so  sick :  and  keeping  such  vile  company 
as  thou  art,  hath  in  reason  taken  from  me  all  osten- 
tation of  sorrow. 

Poins.   The  reason  ? 

P.  Hen.  What  wouldst  thou  think  of  me,  if  I 
should  weep  ? 

Poins.  I  would  think  thee  a  most  princely  hypo- 
crite. 

p.  Hen.  It  would  be  every  man's  thought :  and 
thou  art  a  blessed  fellow,  to  think  as  every  man 
thinks ;  never  a  man's  thought  in  the  world  keeps 
the  road-way  better  than  thine  :  every  man  would 
think  me  an  hypocrite  indeed.  And  what  accites 
your  most  worshipful  thought,  to  think  so  ? 

Poins.  Why,  because  you  have  been  so  much 
engrafFed  to  Falstaff. 

P.  Hen.  And  to  thee. 

Points.  By  this  light,  I  am  well  spoken  of,  I  can 
hear  it  with  my  own  ears  :  the  worst  that  they  can 
say  of  me  is,  that  I  am  a  second  brother,  and  that 
I  am  a  proper  fellow  of  my  hands ;  and  those  two 
things,  I  confess,  I  cannot  help.  By  the  mass,  here 
comes  Bardolph. 

P.  Hen.  And  the  boy  that  I  gave  Falstaff :  he 
had  him  from  me  Christian ;  and  look,  if  the  fat 
villain  have  not  transformed  him  ape. 

Enter  Bardolph  and  Page. 

Bard.  'Save  your  grace. 

P.  Hen.   And  yours,  most  noble  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Come,  you  virtuous  ass,  [To  the  Page.] 
you  bashful  fool,  must  you  be  blushing  ?  wherefore 
blush  you  now  ? 

Page.  He  called  me  even  now,  my  lord,  through 
a  red  lattice,  and  I  could  discern  no  part  of  his  face 
from  the  window  :  at  last,  I  spied  his  eyes. 

P.  Hen.   Hath  not  the  boy  profited  ? 

Pard.   Away,  you  upright  rabbit,  away  ! 

Page.   Away,  you  rascally  Althea's  dream,  away  ! 

P.  Hen.   Instruct  us,  boy  :   What  dream,  boy  ? 

Page.  Marry,  my  lord,  Althea  dreamed  she  was 
delivered  of  a  fire-brand ;  and  therefore  I  call  him 
her  dream. 

P.  Hen.  A  crown's  worth  of  good  interpretation. 
—  There  it  is,  boy.  [Gives  him  money. 

Poins.  O,  that  this  good  blossom  could  be  kept 
from  cankers  !  —  Well,  there  is  sixpence  to  pieserve 
thee. 

Bard.  An  you  do  not  make  him  be  hanged  among 
you,  the  gallows  shall  have  wrong. 

P.  Hen.    And  how  doth  thy  master,  Bardolph  ? 

Bard.  Well,  my  lord.  He  heard  of  your  grace's 
coming  to  town ;  there's  a  letter  for  you. 

Poins.  Delivered  with  good  respect.  —  And  how 
doth  the  martJemas?,  your  master? 

Bard.    In  bodily  health,  sir. 

Poins.  Marry,  the  immortal  part  needs  a  phy- 
sician ;  but  that  moves  not  him ;  though  that  be 
sick,  it  dies  not. 

P.  Hen.  I  do  allow  this  wen  to  be  as  familiar 
with  me  as  my  dog :.  and  he  holds  his  place ;  for, 
look  you,  how  he  writes. 

Poins.  [Reads-I  John  Falstaff,  knight, Every 

man  m.ust  know  that,  as  oft  as  he  has  occasion  to 
name  himself.  Even  like  those  that  are  kin  to  the 
king ;  for  they  never  prick  their  finger,  but  they 
say.  There  is  some  of  the  king's  blood  spilt :  How 
''  Martinmas  ;  St  Martin's  day  is  Nov.  11. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


411 


comes  that  f  says  he,  that  takes  upon  him  not  to 
conceive :  the  answer  is  as  ready  as  a  borrower's 
cap  ;  I  am  the  king^s  poor  covsin,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Nay,  tliey  will  be  kin  to  us,  or  they  will 
fetch  it  from  Japhet.      But  the  letter  :  — 

Poins.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  knight,  to  the  son  of  the 
king,  nearest  his  father,  Harry  prince  of  Wales, 
grcetiiig.  —  Why,  this  is  a  certificate. 

p.  Hen.   Peace ! 

Poins.  /  will  imitate  the  honourable  Roman  in 
brevity  :  —  he  sure  means  brevity  in  breath ;  short- 
winded.  —  I  commend  me  to  thee,  I  commend  thee, 
and  I  leave  thee.  Be  not  too  familiar  ivith  Poins  ; 
for  he  misuses  thy  favours  so  much,  that  he  swears, 
thou  art  to  marry  his  sister  Nell.  Repent  at  idle 
times  as  thou  mayst,  and  so  farewell. 

Thine,  by  yea  and  no,  (which  is  as  much 
as  to  say,  as  thou  usest  him,)  Jack  Fal- 
staff, with  my  familiars  ;  John,  vdth  my 
brothers  and  sisters ;  and  Sir  John  ivith 
all  Europe. 
My  lord,  I  will  steep  this  letter  in  sack,  and  make 
him  eat  it. 

P.  Hen.  That's  to  make  him  eat  twenty  of  his 
words.  But  do  you  use  me  thus,  Ned?  must  I 
marry  your  sister. 

Poins.  May  the  girl  have  no  worse  fortune  !  but 
I  never  said  so. 

P.  Hen-  Well,  thus  we  play  the  fools  with  the 
time ;  and  the  spirits  of  the  wise  sit  in  the  clouds 
and  mock  us.  —  Is  your  master  here  in  London  ? 

J3ard.    Yes,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Where  sups  he  ?  doth  the  old  boar  feed 
in  the  old  frank  ?  8 

Bard.   At  the  old  place,  my  lord ;  in  Eastcheap. 

p.  Hen.  Shall  we  steal  upon  him,  Ned,  at  supper? 

Poins.  I  am  your  shadow,  my  lord  ;  I'll  follow 
you. 

p.  Hen.  Sirrah,  you  boy,  —  and  Bardolph ;  — no 
word  to  your  master  that  I  am  yet  come  to  town  : 
There's  for  your  silence. 

Bard.   I  have  no  tongue,  sir. 

Page,   And  for  mine,  sir ;  —  I  will  govern  it. 

P.  Hen.  Fare  ye  well;  go.  {Exeunt  Bardolph 
and  Page.  ]  How  might  we  see  FalstafF bestow  him- 
self to-night  in  his  true  colours,  and  not  ourselves 
be  seen  ? 

Poins.  Put  on  two  leather  jerkins,  and  aprons, 
and  wait  upon  him  at  his  table  as  drawers. 

P.  Hen.  From  a  god  to  a  bull  ?  a  heavy  descen- 
sion  !  it  was  Jove's  case.  From  a  prince  to  a  pren- 
tice ?  a  low  transformation !  tliat  shdl  be  mine :  for, 
in  every  thing,  the  purpose  must  weigh  with  the 
folly. 

Enter  Peto. 
Peto,  how  now  ?  what  news  ? 

Peto.   The  king,  your  father,  is  at  Westminster ; 
And  there  are  twenty  weak  and  wearied  posts, 
Come  from  the  north  :  and,  as  I  came  along, 
I  met,  and  overtook,  a  dozen  captains, 
Bare-headed,  sweating,  knocking  at  the  taverns. 
And  asking  every  one  for  sir  John  Falstaff. 

P.  Hen.  By  heaven,  Poins,  Ifeelmemuchtoblame, 
So  idly  to  profane  the  precious  time  : 
When  tempest  of  commotion,  like  the  south, 
Borne  with  black  vapour,  doth  begin  to  melt. 
And  drop  upon  our  bare  unarmed  heads. 
Give  me  my  sword  and  cloak :  —  and,  Poins,  good 
night.  [ExcufU. 

«  Sty. 


SCENE  III Warkworth.     Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  Northumberlakd,  Ladv  Northumberland, 
and  Lady  Percy. 

North.     I   pray   thee,    loving  wife,   and   gentle 
daughter. 
Give  even  way  unto  my  rough  affairs : 
Put  not  you  on  the  visage  of  the  times. 
And  be,  like  them,  to  Percy  troublesome. 

Lady  N.  I  have  given  over,  I  will  speak  no  more  : 
Do  what  you  will ;  your  wisdom  be  your  guide. 

North.  Alas,  sweet  wife,  my  honour  is  at  pawn  ; 
And,  but  my  going,  nothing  can  redeem  it. 

Lady  P.    O,  yet,  for  heaven's  sake,  go  not  to 
these  wars ! 
The  time  was,  father,  that  you  broke  your  word. 
When  you  were  more  endear'd  to  it  than  now  ; 
When  your  own  Percy,  when  my  heart's  dear  Harry, 
Threw  many  a  northward  look  to  see  his  father 
Bring  up  his  powers  ;  but  he  did  long  in  vain. 
Who  then  persuaded  you  to  stay  at  home  ? 
There  were   two  honours    lost;   yours,  and  your 

son's. 
For  yours,  —  may  heavenly  glory  brighten  it ! 
For  his  —  it  stuck  upon  him,  as  the  sun 
In  the  grey  vault  of  heaven  :  and  by  his  light. 
Did  all  the  chivalry  of  England  move 
To  do  brave  acts ;  he  was,  indeed,  the  glass 
Wherein  the  noble  youth  did  dress  themselves. 
He  had  no  legs,  that  practis'd  not  his  gait : 
And  speaking  thick,  which  nature  made  his  blemish, 
Became  the  accents  of  the  valiant : 
For  those  that  could  speak  low,  and  tardily. 
Would  turn  their  own  perfection  to  abuse. 
To  seem  like  him  :   So  that,  in  speech,  in  gait, 
In  diet,  in  affections  of  delight, 
In  military  rules,  humours  of  blood. 
He  was  the  mark  and  glass,  copy  and  book, 
That  fashioned  others.     And  him,  —  O  wondrous 

him  ! 
O  miracle  of  men  !  —  him  did  you  leave, 
(Second  to  none,  unseconded  by  you,) 
To  look  upon  the  hideous  god  of  war 
In  disadvantage  ;  to  abide  a  field, 
Where  nothing  but  the  sound  of  Hotspur's  name 
Did  seem  defensible,  so  you  left  him : 
Never,  O  never,  do  his  ghost  the  wrong. 
To  hold  your  honour  more  precise  and  nice 
With  others,  than  with  him  ;  let  them  alone ; 
The  marshal,  and  the  archbishop,  are  strong  : 
Had  my  sweet  Harry  had  but  half  their  numbers. 
To-day  might  I,  hanging  on  Hotspur's  neck. 
Have  talk'd  of  Monmouth's  grave. 

North.  Beshrew  your  heart. 

Fair  daughter !  you  do  draw  my  spirits  from  me. 
With  new  lamenting  ancient  oversights. 
But  I  must  go,  and  meet  with  danger  there ; 
Or  it  will  seek  me  in  another  place. 
And  find  me  worse  provided. 

Lady  N.  O,  fly  to  Scotland, 

Till  that  the  nobles,  and  the  armed  commons. 
Have  of  their  puissance  made  a  little  taste. 

Lady  P.    If  they  get  ground  and  vantage  of  the 
king. 
Then  join  you  with  them,  like  a  rib  of  steel. 
To  make  strength  stronger ;  but  for  all  our  loves, 
First  let  them  try  tliemselves  :    So  did  your  son ; 
He  was  so  suffer'd  ;   So  came  I  a  widow  ; 
And  never  shall  have  length  of  life  enough. 
To  rain  upon  remembrance  with  mine  eyes. 


412 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


That  it  may  grow  and  sprout  as  liigh  as  heaven, 
For  recordation  to  iny  noble  husband. 

North.  Come,  come,  go  in  with  me  :   'tis  with  my 
mind, 
As  with  the  tide  swell'd  up  unto  its  height. 


Tliat  makes  a  still-stand,  running  neither  way. 

Fain  would  I  go  to  meet  the  archbishop, 

But  many  thousand  reasons  hold  me  back  :  ■ 

I  will  resolve  for  Scotland  ;  tliere  am  1 

Till  time  and  vantage  crave  my  company.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. —A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Entei'  King  Henry  in  his  Night-goum,  with  a  Page. 
K.  Hen.  Go,  call  the  earls  of  Surrey  and  of  War- 
wick ; 
But,  ere  they  come,  bid  them  o'er- read  these  letters. 
And  well  consider  of  them  :   Make  good  speed.  — 

[^Exit  Page. 
How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep  !  —  Sleep,  gentle  sleep. 
Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  thee. 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down. 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness  ? 
Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, 
And  hush'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slumber ; 
Than  in  the  perfum'd  chambers  of  the  great, 
Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state, 
And  lull'd  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody  ? 
O  thou  dull  god,  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile, 
In  loathsome  beds  ;  and  leav'st  the  kingly  couch, 
A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'larum  bell  ? 
Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge  j 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top, 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 
With  deaf 'ning  clamours  in  the  slippery  clouds. 
That,  with  the  hurly  9,  death  itself  awakes  ? 
Canst  thou,  O  partial  sleep  !  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude  ; 
And,  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night. 
With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot, 
Deny  it  to  a  king  ?     Then,  happy  low  ',  lie  down  ! 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

Enter  Warwick  and  Surret. 

War.  Many  good  morrows  to  your  majesty ! 

K.  Hen.   Is  it  good  morrow,  lords? 

War.   'Tis  one  o'clock,  and  past. 

K.  Hen.   Why  then,  good  morrow  to  you  all,  my 
lords. 
Have  you  read  o'er  the  letters  that  I  sent  you  ? 

War.   We  have,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.    Then  you  perceive  the  body  of  our 
kingdom. 
How  foul  it  is  ;  what  rank  diseases  grow, 
And  with  what  dangerj  near  the  heart  of  it. 

War.   It  is  but  as  a  body,  yet  distemper'd  ; 
Which  to  his  former  strength  may  be  restor'd, 

With  good  advice,  and  little  medicine  : 

My  lord  Northumberland  will  soon  be  cool'd. 

K.  Hen.  O  heaven  !  that  one  might  read  the  book 
of  fate ; 
And  see  the  revolution  of  the  times 
Make  mountaius  level,  and  the  continent 


9  Noise. 


Those  in  lowly  situations. 


(Weary  of  solid  firmness)  melt  itself 

Into  the  sea  !  and,  other  times,  to  see 

The  beachy  girdle  of  the  ocean 

Too  wide  for  Neptune's  hips ;  how  chances  mock, 

And  changes  fill  the  cup  of  alteration 

With  divers  liquors  !   O,  if  this  were  seen. 

The  happiest  youth,  — viewing  his  progress  through, 

What  perils  past,  what  crosses  to  ensue,  — 

Would  shut  the  book,  and  sit  him  down  and  die. 

'Tis  not  ten  years  gone. 

Since  Richard,  and  Northumberland,  great  friends. 

Did  feast  together,  and,  in  two  years  after. 

Were  they  at  wars  :    It  is  but  eight  years,  since 

This  Percy  was  the  man  nearest  my  soul ; 

Who  like  a  brother  toil'd  in  my  affairs. 

And  laid  his  love  and  life  under  my  foot : 

Yea,  for  my  sake,  even  to  the  eyes  of  Richard, 

Gave  him  defiance.      But  which  of  you  was  by, 

(You,  cousin  Nevil,  as  I  may  remember,) 

[To  Warwick. 
When  Richard,  —  with  his  eye  brimfull  of  tears. 
Then  cbeck'd  and  rated  by  Northumberland,  — 
Did  speak  these  words,  now  prov'd  a  prophecy  ? 
Northumberland,  thou  ladder,  by  the  which 
My  cousin  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne  ;  — 
Though  then,   heaven  knows,  I  had  no  such  in- 
tent : 
But  that  necessity  so  bow'd  the  state, 
That  I  and  greatness  were  compell'd  to  kiss :  ■ 

The  time  shall  come,  thus  did  he  follow  it. 
The  time  will  come,  that  foul  sin,  gathering  headt 
Shall  break  into  corruption  :  —  so  went  on, 
Foretelling  this  same  time's  condition, 
And  the  division  of  our  amity. 

War.   There  is  a  history  in  all  men's  lives. 
Figuring  the  nature  of  the  times  deceas'd  : 
The  which  observ'd,  a  man  may  prophesy. 
With  a  near  aim,  of  the  main  chance  of  things 
As  yet  not  come  to  life  ;  which  in  their  seeds. 
And  weak  beginnings,  lie  intreasured. 
Such  things  become  the  hatch  and  brood  of  time ; 
And,  by  the  necessary  form  of  this. 
King  Richard  might  create  a  perfect  guess. 
That  great  Northumberland,  then  false  to  him. 
Would  of  that  seed  grow  to  a  greater  falseness  ; 
Which  should  not  find  a  ground  to  root  upon. 
Unless  on  you. 

K.  Hen.  Are  these  things  then  necessities  ? 

Then  let  us  meet  them  like  necessities  : 
And  that  same  word  even  now  cries  out  on  us ; 
They  say,  the  bishop  and  Northumberland 
Are  fifty  thousand  strong. 

War.  It  cannot  be,  my  lord  ; 

Rumour  doth  double,  like  the  voice  and  echo. 
The  numbers  of  the  fear'd  :  —  Please  it  your  grace, 
To  go  to  bed  ;  upon  my  life,  my  lord. 
The  powers  that  you  already  have  sent  forth, 
Shall  bring  this  prize  in  very  easily. 


I 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


413 


To  comfort  you  the  more,  I  have  receiv'd 
A  certain  instance,  that  Glendower  is  dead. 
Your  majesty  hath  been  this  fortnight  ill ; 
And  these  unseason'd  hours,  perforce,  must  add 
Unto  your  sickness. 

K.  Hen.  I  will  take  your  counsel : 

And,  were  these  inward  wars  once  out  of  hand, 
We  would,  dear  lords,  unto  the  Holy  Land. 

\ExeunU 

SCENE    II.  —  Court   before    Justice    Shallow's 
House  in  Gloucestershire. 

Enter  Shallow  and  Silence,  meeting;  Mouldy, 
Shadow,  Wart,  Feeble,  Bull-calf,  and  Ser- 
vants behind. 

Shot.  Come  on,  come  on,  come  on  ;  give  me  your 
hand,  sir,  give  me  your  hand,  sir ;  an  early  stirrer, 
by  the  rood.  «  And  how  doth  my  good  cousin 
Silence  ? 

Sil.    Good  morrow,  good  cousin  Shallow. 

Shal.  And  how  doth  my  cousin,  your  bedfellow  ? 
and  your  fairest  daughter,  and  mine,  my  god-daueh- 
ter  Ellen?  ^ 

Sil.   Alas,  a  black  ouzel,  cousin  Shallow. 

Shal.  By  yea  and  nay,  sir,  I  dare  say,  my  cousin 
William  is  become  a  good  scholar :  He  is  at  Oxford, 
still,  is  he  not  ? 

,Si/.   Indeed,  sir  ;  to  my  cost. 

Shal.  He  must  then  to  the  inns  of  court,  shortly : 
I  was  once  of  Clement's  Inn ;  where,  I  think,  they 
will  talk  of  mad  Shallow  yet. 

Sil.  You  were  called  —  lusty  Shallow,  then,  cousin. 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  I  was  called  any  thing ;  and 
I  would  have  done  any  thing  indeed,  and  roundly 
too.  There  was  I,  and  little  John  Doit  of  Stafford- 
shire, and  black  George  Bare,  and  Francis  Pick- 
bone,  and  Will  Squele  a  Cotswold  man,  — you  had 
not  four  such  swinge-bucklers  in  all  the  inns  of 
court  again :  and  I  may  say  to  you,  we  knew  where 
the  bona-robas  were.  Then  was  Jack  Falstaff,  now 
sir  John,  a  boy ;  and  page  to  Thomas  Mowbray, 
duke  of  Norfolk. 

Sil.  This  sir  John,  cousin,  that  comes  hither  anon, 
about  soldiers  ? 

Shal.  The  same  sir  John,  the  very  same  ,  I  saw 
him  break  Skogan's  head  at  the  court  gate,  when 
he  was  a  crack  3,  not  thus  high  :  and  the  very  same 
day  did  I  fight  with  one  Sampson  Stockfish,  a  fruit- 
erer;  behind  Gray's  Inn.  O,  the  mad  days  that  I 
have  spent !  and  to  see  how  many  of  mine  old  ac- 
quaintance are  dead ! 

SiL   We  shall  all  follow,  cousin. 

Shal.   Certain,  'tis  certain  ;  very  sure,  very  sure; 

death  is  certain  to  all ;  all  shall  die How  a  good 

yoke  of  bullocks  at  Stamford  fair  ? 

Sil.   Truly,  cousin,  I  was  not  there. 

Shal.  Death  is  certain.  —  Is  old  Double  of  your 
town  living  yet? 

Sil.   Dead,  sir. 

Shal.  Dead !  —  See,  see  !  —  he  drew  a  good  bow  ; 
—  And  dead !  —  He  shot  a  fine  shoot :  —  John  of 
Gaunt  loved  him  well,  and  betted  much  money  on 
his  head.  Dead  !  —  he  would  have  clapp'd  i*  the 
clout  at  twelve  score  *  ;  and  carried  you  a  forehand 
shaft  at  fourteen  and  fourteen  and  a  half,  tliat  it 

would  have  done  a  man's  heart  good  to  see. 

How  a  score  of  ewes  now  ? 

'  CroM.  3  Boy. 

*  Hit  the  white  nurk  at  twelve  score  yarcU 


Sil.  Tliereafter  as  they  be ;  a  score  of  good  ewes 
may  be  worth  ten  pounds. 

Shal.    And  is  old  Double  dead  ! 

Enter  Bakdolph,  and  one  unth  him. 

Sil.  Here  come  two  of  sir  John  Falstaff's  men, 
as  I  think. 

Bard.  Good  morrow,  honest  gentlemen :  I  be- 
seech you,  which  is  justice  Shallow  ? 

Shal.  I  am  Robert  Shallow,  sir  ;  a  poor  esquire 
of  this  county,  and  one  of  the  king's  justices  of  the 
peace  :   What  is  your  good  pleasure  with  me  ? 

Bard.  My  captain,  sir,  commends  him  to  you  : 
my  captain,  sir  John  Falstaff:  a  tall*  gentleman, 
by  heaven,  and  a  most  gallant  leader. 

Shal.  He  greets  me  well,  sir ;  I  knew  him  a  good 
backsword  man  :  How  doth  the  good  knight  ?  may 
I  ask,  how  my  lady  his  wife  doth  ? 

Bard.  Sir,  pardon  ;  a  soldier  is  better  accommo> 
dated,  than  with  a  wife. 

Shal.  It  is  well  said,  in  faith,  sir ;  and  it  is  well 
said  indeed  too.  Better  accommodated  !  —  it  is  good ; 
yea,  indeed,  it  is :  good  phrases  are  surely,  and  ever 
were,  very  commendable.  Accommodated  !  —  it 
comes  from  accommodo  :  very  good ;  a  good  phrase. 

Bard.  Pardon  me,  sir  :  I  have  heard  the  word. 
Phrase,  call  you  it  ?  By  this  good  day,  I  know  not 
the  phrase  :  but  I  will  maintain  the  word  with  my 
sword,  to  be  a  soldier-like  word,  and  a  word  of  ex- 
ceeding good  command.  Accommodated ;  that  is, 
when  a  man  is,  as  they  say,  accommodated  :  or 
when  a  man  is,  —  being,  —  whereby,  —  he  may  be 
thought  to  be  accommodated  ;  which  is  an  excellent 
thing. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Slial.  It  is  very  just :  —  Look,  here  comes  good 
sir  John.  —  Give  me  your  good  hand,  give  me  your 
worship's  good  hand  :  By  my  troth,  you  look  well, 
andbearyouryears  very  well .  welcome,  good  sir  John. 

Fal.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well,  good  master 
Robert  Shallow  :  —  Master  Sure-card,  as  I  think. 

Shal.  No,  sir  John  ;  it  is  my  cousin  Silence,  in 
commission  with  me. 

Fai.  Good  master  Silence,  it  well  befits  you 
should  be  of  the  peace. 

Sil.   Your  good  worship  is  welcome. 

Fal.  Fye !  this  is  hot  weather.  —  Gentlemen,  ha^e 
you  provided  me  here  half  a  dozen  sufficient  men  ? 

Shal.   Marry,  have  we  sir.      Will  you  sit? 

Fal.   Let  me  see  them,  I  beseech  you. 

Shal.  Where's  the  roll  ?  where's  the  roll  ?  where's 
the  roll  ?  —  Let  me  see,  let  me  see.  So,  so,  so,  so : 
Yea,  marry,  sir —  Ralph  Mouldy  :  — let  them  appear 

as  I  call ;  let  them  do  so,  let  them  do  so. Let  me 

see ;  where  is  Mouldy  ? 

Monl.    Here,  an't  please  you. 

Shal.  What  think  you,  sir  John  ;  a  good  limbed 
fellow  :  young,  strong,  and  of  good  friends. 

Fal.   Is  thy  name  Mouldy  ? 

Moul.    Yea,  an't  please  you. 

Fal.   *T1s  the  more  time  thou  wert  used. 

Shal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  most  excellent,  things  that  are 
mouldy,  lack  use  :  Very  singular  good  !  —  well  said, 
sir  John  ;  very  well  said. 

Fal.   Prick  him.  {To  Shallow. 

Moid.  My  old  dame  will  be  undone  now,  for  one 
to  do  her  husbandry,  and  her  drudgery  :  you  need 
not  to  have  pricked  me  ;  there  are  other  men  fitter 
to  go  out  than  I. 

»  Brave. 


414 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  III.  Scene  II. 


Fat.  Go  to ;  peace,  Mouldy,  you  shall  go,  Mouldy. 

Shal.  Peace,  fellow,  peace  ;  stand  aside  ;  Know 
you  where  you  are  ?  —  For  the  other,  sir  John  :  — 
let  me  see ;  —  Simon  Shadow  ! 

Fal.  Ay  marry,  let  me  have  him  to  sit  under : 
he's  like  to  be  a  cold  soldier. 

Shal.  Where's  Shadow? 

Shad.   Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Shadow,  whose  son  art  thou  ? 

Shad.   My  mother's  son,  sir. 

Fal.  Thy  mother's  son !  like  enough,  and  thy 
father's  shadow. 

Shal.   Do  you  like  him,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Shadow  will  serve  for  summer,  —  prick  him  ; 
—  for  we  have  a  number  of  shadows  to  fill  up  the 
muster-book. 

Shal.  Thomas  Wart ! 

Fal.  Where's  he? 

Wart.   Here,  sir. 

Fal.   Is  thy  name  Wart  ? 

Wart.   Yea,  sir. 

Fal.   Thou  art  a  very  ragged  wart. 

Shal.   Shall  I  prick  him,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  It  were  superfluous :  for  his  apparel  is  built 
upon  his  back,  and  the  whole  frame  stands  upon 
pins  :   prick  him  no  more. 

Shal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  —  you  can  do  it,  sir  ;  you  can 
do  it :   I  commend  you  well.  —  Francis  Feeble  ! 

Fee.   Here,  sir. 

Fal.   What  trade  art  thou.  Feeble  ? 

Fee.   A  woman's  tailor,  sir. 

Shal.  Shall  I  prick  him,  sir  ? 

Fal.  You  may  :  —  Wilt  thou  make  as  many  holes 
in  an  enemy's  battle,  as  thou  hast  made  wjth  thy 
needle? 

Fee.  I  will  do  my  good  will,  sir  ;  you  can  have 
no  more. 

Fal.  Well  said,  good  woman's  tailor !  well  said, 
courageous  Feeble !  Thou  wilt  be  as  valiant  as  the 
wrathful  dove,  or  most  magnanimous  mouse.  — 
Prick  the  woman's  tailor  well,  master  Shallow  ; 
deep,  master  Shallow. 

Fee.   I  would,  Wart  might  have  gone,  sir. 

Fal.  I  would  thou  wert  a  man's  tailor  ;  that  thou 
migh'st  mend  him,  and  make  him  fit  to  go.  I  can- 
not put  him  to  a  private  soldier,  that  is  the  leader  of 
so  many  thousands :  Let  that  suffice,  most  forcible 
Feeble. 

Fee.   It  shall  suffice,  sir. 

Fal.  I  am  bound  to  thee,  reverend  Feeble.  — 
Who  is  next  ? 

Shal.    Peter  Bull-calf  of  the  green  ! 

Fal.   Yea,  marry,  let  us  see  Bull-calf. 

jBvll.   Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Trust  me,  a  likely  fellow  !  —  Come,  prick 
me  Bull-calf  till  he  roar  again. 

Bull.   O  lord  !  good  my  lord  captain,  — 

Fal.  What,  dost  thou  roar  before  thou  art  pricked? 

Bull.   O  lord,  sir !   I  am  a  diseased  man. 

Fal.   What  disease  hast  thou  ? 

Bull.  A  cold,  sir  ;  a  cough,  sir ;  which  I  caught 
with  ringing  in  the  king's  affairs,  upon  his  corona- 
tion-day, sir. 

Fal.  Come,  thou  shalt  go  to  the  wars  in  a  gown  ; 
we  will  have  away  thy  cold ;  and  I  will  take  such 
order,  that  thy  friends  shall  ring  for  thee.  —  Is  here 
all? 

Shal.  Here  is  two  more  called  than  your  number  ? 
you  must  have  but  four  here,  sir  ;  —  and  so,  I  pray 
you,  go  in  with  me  to  dinner. 


Fal.  Come,  I  will  go  drink  with  you,  but  I  cannot 
tarry  dinner.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  in  good  troth, 
master  Shallow. 

Shal.  O,  sir  John,  do  you  remember  since  we  lay 
all  night  in  the  windmill  in  Saint  George's  fields  ? 

Fal.  No  more  of  that,  good  master  Shallow,  no 
more  of  that. 

Shal.  Ha,  it  was  a  merry  night.  And  is  Jane  Night 
alive? 

Fal.  She  lives,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.   She  never  could  away  with  me. 

Fal.  Never,  never :  she  would  always  say,  she 
could  not  abide  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  I  could  anger  her  to  the  heart. 
She  was  then  a  bona-roba.  Doth  she  hold  her  own 
well? 

Fal.  Old,  old,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Nay,  she  must  be  old ;  she  cannot  choose 
but  be  old  ;  certain  she's  old ;  and  had  Robin  be- 
fore I  came  to  Clement's  Inn. 

Sil.   That's  fifty-five  year  ago. 

Shal.  Ha,  cousin  Silence,  that  thou  hadst  seen 
that  that  this  knight  and  I  have  seen  !  —  Ha,  sir 
John,  said  I  well  ? 

Fal.  We  have  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight, 
master  Shallow. 

Shal.  That  we  have,  that  we  have,  that  we  have : 
in  faith,  sir  John,  we  have ;  our  watch- word  was, 
Henii  hoys  / —  Come,  let's  to  dinner  ;  come,  let's  to 
dinner  :  —  O,  the  days  that  we  have  seen  !  —  Come, 
come.   [^Exeunt  Falstaff,  Shallow,  and  Silence. 

Bull.  Good  master  corporate  Bardolph,  stand  my 
friend;  and  here  is  four  Harry  ten  shillings  in 
French  crowns  for  you.  In  very  truth,  sir,  I  had 
as  lief  be  hanged,  sir,  as  go :  and  yet,  for  mine  own 
part,  sir,  I  do  not  care  ;  but,  rather,  because  I  am 
unwilling,  and,  for  mine  own  part,  have  a  desire  to 
stay  with  my  friends ;  else,  sir,  I  did  not  care,  for 
mine  own  part,  so  much. 

Bard.    Go  to  ;  stand  aside. 

Moul.  And  good  master  corporal  captain,  for  my 
old  dame's  sake,  stand  my  friend  :  she  has  nobody 
to  do  any  thing  about  her,  when  I  am  gone :  and 
she  is  old,  and  cannot  help  herself:  you  shall  have 
fort)',  sir. 

Bard.   Go  to  ;  stand  aside. 

Fee.  By  my  troth  I  care  not ;  —  a  man  can  die 
but  once ;  —  we  owe  God  a  death ;  —  I'll  ne'er 
bear  a  base  mind ;  —  an't  be  my  destiny,  so ;  an't 
be  not,  so  :  No  man's  too  good  to  serve  his  prince ; 
and,  let  it  go  which  way  it  will,  he  that  dies  this 
year,  is  quit  for  the  next. 

Bard.  Well  said ;  thou'rt  a  good  fellow. 

Fee.   Nay,  I'll  bear  no  base  mind. 

Re-enter  Falstaff,  and  Justices. 

Fal.   Come,  sir,  which  men  shall  I  have  ? 

Shal.   Four,  of  which  you  please. 

Bard.  Sir,  a  word  with  you :  —  I  have  three 
pound  to  free  Mouldy  and  Bull-calf. 

Fal.   Goto;  well. 

Shal.   Come,  sir  John,  which  four  will  you  have  ? 

Fal.   Do  you  choose  for  me. 

Shal.  Marry  then,  —  Mouldy,  Bull-calf,  Feeble, 
and  Shadow. 

Fal.  Mouldy,  and  Bull-calf:  —  For  you.  Mouldy, 
stay  at  home,  still ;  you  are  past  service  :  —  and,  for 
your  part.  Bull-calf,  —  grow  till  you  come  unto  it ; 
I  will  none  of  you. 

Shal.   Sir  John,  sir  John,  do  not  yourself  wrong  ; 


I 


I 


J 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


415 


they  are  your  likeliest  men,  and  I  would  have  you 
served  with  the  best. 

Fed.  Will  you  tell  me,  master  Shallow,  how  to 
choose  a  man  ?  Care  I  for  the  limb,  the  thewes,  the 
stature,  bulk,  and  big  assemblance  of  a  man  !  Give 
me  the  spirit,  master  Shallow.  —  Here's  Wart ;  — 
you  see  what  a  ragged  appearance  it  is :  he  shall 
charge  you,  and  discharge  you,  with  the  motion  of 
a  pewterer's  hammer ;  come  off,  and  on,  swifter  than 
he  that  gibbets- on  the  brewer's  bucket.  And  this 
same  half-faced  fellow,  Shadow,  —  give  me  this 
man  ;  he  presents  no  mark  to  the  enemy ;  the  foe- 
man  may  with  as  great  aim  level  at  the  edge  of  a 
penknife  :  And,  for  a  retreat,  — how  swiftly  will 
this  Feeble,  the  woman's  tailor,  run  off?  O,  give 
me  the  spare  men,  and  spare  me  the  great  ones.  — 
Put  me  a  caliver  "  into  Wart's  hand,  Bardolph. 

Hard.    Hold,  Wart,  traverse  7  ;  thus,  thus,  thus. 

Fed.  Come,  manage  me  your  caliver.  So :  — 
very  well :   go  to  :  —  very  good  :  — exceeding  good. 

—  O,  give  me  always  a  little,  lean,  old,  chapped, 
bald  shot.  —  Well  said.  Wart ;  hold,  there's  a  tester 
for  thee. 

Shal.  He  is  not  his  craft's  master,  he  doth  not  do 
it  right,  I  remember  at  Mile-end  green,  (when  1 
lay  at  Clement's  Inn,  —  I  was  then  sir  Dagonet  in 
Arthur's  show  8,)  there  was  a  little  quiver  fellow,  and 
'a  would  manage  you  his  piece  thus :  and  'a  would 
about  and  about,  and  come  you  in,  and  come  you 
in:  rah,  tah,  tah,  would  'a  say;  bounce,  woxiVd  'a 
say  ;  and  away  again  would  'a  go,  and  again  would 
'a  come  :  —  I  shall  never  see  such  a  fellow. 

Fal.   Tliese  fellows  will  do  well,  master  Shallow. 

—  Heaven  keep  you,  master  Silence ;  I  will  not  use 
many  words  with  you  :  -'-  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen 
both  :  1  thank  you  :    I  must  a  dozen  mile  to-night. 

—  Bardolph,  give  the  soldiers  coats. 

Shnl.  Sir  John,  heaven  bless  you  and  prosper 
your  afiairs,  and  send  us  peace  !  As  you  return,  visit 


my  house ;  let  our  old  acquaintance  be  renewed : 
peradventure,  I  will  with  you  to  the  court, 
Fal.   I  would  you  would,  master  Shallow 
Shal.    Go  to ;   I  have  spoke  at  a  word.     Fare  you 
well.  {Exeunt  Shallow  and  Silence. 

Fal.  Fare  you  well,  gentle  gentlemen.  On,  Bar- 
dolph ;  lead  the  men  away.  [Exeunt  Bardolph, 
Recruits,  ^c-]  As  I  return,  I  will  fetch  off  these 
justices :  I  do  see  the  bottom  of  justice  Shallow. 
How  subject  we  old  men  are  to  this  vice  of  lying  ! 
This  same  starved  justice  hatli  done  nothmg  but 
prate  to  me  of  the  wildness  of  his  youth,  and  the 
feats  he  hath  done  about  Turnbull-street  ' ;  and 
every  third  word  a  lie,  duer  paid  to  the  hearer  than 
the  Turk's  tribute.  I  do  remember  him  at  Cle- 
ment's Inn,  like  a  man  made  after  supper  of  a 
cheese-paring:  lie  was  so  forlorn,  that  his  dimen- 
sions to  any  thick  sight  were  invisible  :  he  was  the 
very  Genius  of  famine ;  he  came  ever  in  the  rear- 
ward of  the  fashion  ;  and  sung  those  tunes  to  the 
huswives  that  lie  heard  the  carmen  whistle,  and 
sware  —  they  were  his  fancies,  or  his  good-nights.  « 
And  now  is  this  Vice's  dagger'  become  a  squire; 
and  talks  as  familiarly  of  John  of  Gaunt,  as  if  he 
had  been  sworn  brother  to  him  :  and  I'll  be  sworn 
he  never  saw  him  but  once  in  the  Tilt-yard  ;  and 
then  he  burst  his  head,  for  crowding  among  the 
marshal's  men.  I  saw  it ;  and  told  John  of  Gaunt, 
he  beat  his  own  name'* :  for  you  might  have  truss'd 
him,  and  all  his  apparel,  into  an  eel-skin  ;  the  case 
of  a  treble  haut-boy  was  a  mansion  for  him,  a  court ; 
and  now  has  he  land  and  beeves.  Well ;  I  will  be 
acquainted  with  him,  if  I  return  :  and  it  shall  go 
hard,  but  I  will  make  him  a  philosopher's  stone  to 
me  :  If  the  young  dace  be  a  bait  for  the  old  pike, 
I  see  no  reason,  in  the  law  of  nature,  but  I  may 
snap  at  him.     Let  time  shape,  and  there  an  end. 

[ErU. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  ^  Forest  in  Yorkshire. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  Mowbray, 
Hastings,  and  others* 

Arch.   What  is  this  forest  call'd  ? 

Hast.  'Tis  Gualtree  forest,  an't  shall  please  your 
grace. 

Arch.  Here  stand,  my  lord ;  and  send  discoverers 
forth, 
To  know  the  numbers  of  our  enemies. 

Hast.  We  have  sent  forth  already. 

Arch.  'Tis  well  done. 

My  friends  and  brethren  in  these  great  affairs, 
I  must  acquaint  you  that  I  have  receiv'd 
New-dated  letters  from  Northumberland  ; 
Their  cold  intent,  tenour  and  substance,  thus  :  — 
Here  doth  he  wish  his  person,  with  such  powers 
As  might  hold  sortance  9  with  his  quality, 
nie  which  he  could  not  levy  ;  whereupon 
He  is  retir'd,  to  ripe  his  growing  fortunes. 
To  Scotland  :   and  concludes  in  hearty  prayers. 
That  your  attempts  may  overlive  the  tiazard. 
And  fearful  meeting  of  their  opposite. 


'^  Musket 

"  An  exhibition  of  archert. 


?  March. 
*  Be  suiUble. 


Mowb.   Thus  do  the  hopes  we  have  in  him  toucli 
ground. 
And  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 

Eiiter  a  Messenger 

Hast.  Now,  what  news  ? 

Mess.   West  of  this  forest,  scarcely  off  a  mile. 
In  goodly  form  comes  on  the  enemy  : 
And,  by  the  ground  they  hide,  I  judge  their  number 
Upon,  or  near,  the  rate  of  thirty  thousand. 

Mowb.  The  just  proportion  tliat  we  gave  tliem  out. 
Let  us  sway  on,  and  face  them  in  the  field. 

Enter  Westmoreland. 

Arch.   What  well-appointed  leader  fronts  us  here "'' 

Mowb.   I  think,  it  is  my  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

West.    Health  and  fair  greeting  from  our  general. 
The  prince,  lord  John,  and  duke  of  Lancaster. 

Arch.  Say  on,  my  lord  of  Westmoreland,  in  peace , 
What  doth  concern  your  coming  ? 

West.  Then,  my  lord, 

Unto  your  grace  do  I  in  chief  address 
The  substance  of  my  speech.      If  that  rebellion 

'  In  Clerkcnwell.  '  Titles  of  little  poems 

3  A  wooden  dagger  like  that  used  by  the  modern  harlequin. 

4  Gaunt  u  thin,  slender. 


il6 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


Came  like  itself,  in  base  and  abject  routs, 

Led  on  by  bloody  youth,  guarded  with  rage, 

And  countenanc'd  by  boys  and  beggary ; 

T  say,  if  vile  commotion  so  appear'd, 

In  his  true,  native,  and  most  proper  shape, 

You,  reverend  father,  and  these  noble  lords. 

Had  not  been  here,  to  dress  the  ugly  form 

Of  base  and  bloody  insurrection 

With  your  fair  honours.      You,  lord  archbishop,  — 

"Whose  see  is  by  a  civil  peace  maintain'd ; 

Whose  beard  the  silver  hand  of  peace  hath  touch'd ; 

Whose  learning  and  good  letters  peace  hath  tutor'd ; 

Wliose  white  investments  figure  innocence. 

The  dove  and  very  blessed  spirit  of  peace,  — 

Wherefore  do  you  so  ill  translate  yourself. 

Out  of  the  speech  of  peace,  that  bears  such  grace, 

Into  the  harsh  and  boist'rous  tongue  of  war  ? 

Turning  your  books  to  graves,  your  ink  to  blood. 

Your  pens  to  lances  ;  and  your  tongue  divine 

To  a  loud  trumpet,  and  a  point  of  war  ? 

^rch.  Wherefore  do  I  this  ?  so  the  question  stands. 
Briefly  to  this  end  :  —  We  are  all  diseased  ; 
And,  with  our  surfeiting,  and  wanton  hours. 
Have  brought  ourselves  into  a  burning  fever. 
And  we  must  bleed  for  it :   of  which  disease 
Our  late  king,  Richard,  being  infected,  died. 
But,  my  most  noble  lord  of  Westmoreland, 
I  take  not  on  me  here  as  a  physician  j 
Nor  do  I,  as  an  enemy  to  peace. 
Troop  in  the  throngs  of  military  men ; 
But,  rather,  show  a  while  like  fearful  war. 
To  diet  rank  minds,  sick  of  happiness  ; 
And  purge  the  obstructions,  M^hich  begin  to  stop 
Our  very  veins  of  life.      Hear  me  more  plainly. 
I  have  in  equal  balance  justly  weigh'd 
What  wrongs  our  arms  may  do,  what  wrongs  we 

suffer, 
And  find  our  griefs 7  heavier  than  our  offences. 
We  see  which  way  the  stream  of  time  doth  run, 
And  are  enforc'd  from  our  most  quiet  sphere 
By  the  rough  torrent  of  occasion  : 
And  have  the  summary  of  all  our  griefs. 
When  time  shall  serve,  to  show  in  articles : 
Which,  long  ere  this,  we  offer'd  to  the  king, 
And  might  by  no  suit  gain  our  audience : 
When  we  are  wrong'd,  and  would  unfold  our  griefs. 
We  are  denied  access  unto  his  person 
Even  by  those  men  that  most  have  done  us  wrong. 
The  dangers  of  the  days  but  newly  gone, 
(Whose  memory  is  written  on  the  earth 
With  yet-appearing  blood,)  and  the  examples 
Of  every  minute's  instance,  (present  now,) 
Have  put  us  in  these  ill-beseeming  arms  : 
Not  to  break  peace,  or  any  branch  of  it ; 
But  to  establish  here  a  peace  indeed. 
Concurring  both  in  name  and  quality. 

West.   When  ever  yet  was  your  appeal  denied  ? 
Wherein  have  you  been  galled  by  the  king  ? 
What  peer  hath  been  suborn'd  to  grate  on  you  ? 
That  you  should  seal  this  lawless  bloody  book 
Of  forg'd  rebellion  with  a  seal  divine. 
And  consecrate  commotion's  bitter  edge  ? 

Arc/i.   My  brother  general,  the  commonwealth, 
I  make  my  quarrel  in  particular. 

JFest.   There  is  no  need  of  any  such  redress  ; 
Or,  if  there  were,  it  not  belongs  to  you. 

Mowb.   Why  not  to  him,  in  part ;  and  to  us  all. 
That  feel  the  bruises  of  the  days  before ; 
And  suffer  the  condition  of  these  times, 
7  Grievances. 


To  lay  a  heavy  and  unequal  hand 
Upon  our  honours  ? 

West.  O  my  good  lord  Mowbray, 

Construe  the  times  to  their  necessities. 
And  you  shall  say  indeed,  —  it  is  the  time. 
And  not  the  king,  that  doth  you  injuries. 
Yet,  for  your  part,  it  not  appears  to  me, 
Either  from  the  king,  or  in  the  present  time. 
That  you  should  have  an  inch  of  any  groimd  m 

To  build  a  grief  on  ;  Were  you  not  restor'd  ■ 

To  all  the  duke  of  Norfolk's  signiories,  l 

Your  noble  and  right- well  remember'd  father's? 

Mowb.  What  thing,  in  honour,  had  my  father  lost. 
That  need  to  be  reviv'd,  and  breath'd  in  me  ? 
The  king,  that  lov'd  him,  as  the  state  stood  then, 
Was,  force  perforce,  compell'd  to  banish  him  : 
And  then,  when  Harry  Bolingbroke,  and  he,  — 
Being  mounted,  and  both  roused  in  their  seats. 
Their  neighing  coursers  daring  of  the  spur. 
Their  armed  staves  in  charge,  their  beavers  down. 
Their  eyes  of  fire  sparkling  through  sights  of  steel, 
And  the  loud  trumpet  blowing  them  together  ; 
Then,  then,  when  there  was  nothing  could  have  staid 
My  father  from  the  breast  of  Bolingbroke, 
O,  when  the  king  did  throw  his  warder  8  down. 
His  own  life  hung  upon  the  staff  he  threw : 
Then  threw  he  down  himself;  and  all  their  lives. 
That  by  indictment,  and  by  dint  of  sword, 
Have  since  miscarried  under  Bolingbroke. 

West.   You  speak,  lord  Mowbray,  now  you  know 
not  what : 
The  earl  of  Hereford  was  reputed  then 
In  England  the  most  valiant  gentleman  ; 
Who  knows,  on  whomfortune  wouldthen  have  smil'd? 
But  if  your  father  had  been  victor  there, 
He  ne'er  had  borne  it  out  of  Coventry  : 
For  all  the  country,  in  a  general  voice. 
Cried  hate  upon  him  ;  and  all  their  prayers,  and  love. 
Were  set  on  Hereford,  whom  they  doted  on, 
And  bless'd  and  grac'd  indeed,  more  than  the  king. 
But  this  is  mere  digression  from  my  purpose.  — 
Here  come  I  from  our  princely  general, 
To  know  your  griefs ;  to  tell  you  from  his  grace. 
That  he  veill  give  you  audience :  and  wherein 
It  shall  appear  that  your  demands  are  just. 
You  shall  enjoy  them  ;  every  thing  set  off, 
That  might  so  much  as  think  you  enemies. 

Mowb.  But  he  hath  forc'd  us  to  compel  this  offer; 
And  it  proceeds  from  policy,  not  love. 

West.   Mowbray,  you  overween  9,  to  take  it  so  ; 
This  offer  comes  from  mercy,  not  from  fear : 
For,  lo  !  within  a  ken  ',  our  army  lies : 
Upon  mine  honour,  all  too  confident 
To  give  admittance  to  a  thought  of  fear. 
Our  battle  is  more  full  of  names  than  yours. 
Our  men  more  perfect  in  the  use  of  arms. 
Our  armour  all  as  strong,  our  cause  the  best ; 
Then  reason  wills,  our  hearts  should  be  as  good  :  — ■ 
Say  you  not  then,  our  offer  is  compell'd. 

Mowb.  Well,  by  my  will,  we  shall  admit  no  parley. 

West.  That  argues  but  the  shame  of  your  ofience  : 
A  rotten  case  abides  no  handling. 

^05^   Hath  the  prince  John  a  full  commission. 
In  very  ample  virtue  of  his  father. 
To  hear,  and  absolutely  to  determine 
Of  what  conditions  we  shall  stand  upon  ? 

West.   That  is  intended '^  in  the  general's  name  : 
I  muse  3,  you  make  so  slight  a  question.  ^^ 


8  Truncheon.  >*  Think  too  highly. 

1  Sight.  ''  Understood.  '^  Wonder, 


_! 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


417 


Arch.  Tlien  take,  my  lord  of  Westmoreland,  tliis 
schedule ; 
For  tliis  contains  our  general  grievances:  — 
Each  several  article  herein  redress'd  ; 
All  members  of  our  cause,  both  here  and  hence, 
That  are  insinew'd  to  this  action, 
Acquitted  by  a  true  substantial  form  ; 
And  present  execution  of  our  wills 
To  us,  and  to  our  purposes,  consign'd ; 
We  come  within  our  awful  banks  again. 
And  knit  our  powers  to  the  arm  of  peace. 

lyest.  This  will  I  show  the  general.  Please  you,  lords. 
In  sight  of  both  our  battles  we  may  meet : 
And  either  end  in  peace,  which  lieaven  so  frame ! 
Or  to  the  place  of  difference  call  the  swords 
Which  must  decide  it. 

Arch.  My  lord,  we  will  do  so. 

[Exit  West. 

Mowb.  Tliere  is  a  thing  within  my  bosom,  tells  me 
That  no  conditions  of  our  peace  can  stand. 

Hast.  Fear  you  not  that :  if  we  can  make  our  peace 
Upon  such  large  terms,  and  so  absolute, 
As  our  conditions  shall  consist  upon. 
Our  peace  shall  stand  as  firm  as  rocky  mountains. 

Moivb.   Ay,  but  our  valuation  shall  be  such. 
That  every  slight  and  false-derived  cause, 
Yea,  every  idle,  nice**,  and  wanton  reason. 
Shall,  to  the  king,  taste  of  tliis  action  : 
That,  were  our  royal  faiths  martyrs  in  love, 
We  shall  be  winnow'd  with  so  rough  a  wind. 
That  even  our  corn  shall  seem  as  light  as  chaff". 
And  good  from  bad  find  no  partition. 

Arch.   No,  no,  my  lord ;  Note  this,  —  the  king 
is  weary 
Of  dainty  and  such  picking  ^  grievances  : 
For  he  hath  found,  —  to  end  one  doubt  by  death. 
Revives  two  greater  in  tlie  heirs  of  life. 
And  therefore  will  he  wipe  his  tables  6  clean  ; 
And  keep  no  tell-tale  to  his  memory, 
That  may  repeat  and  history  his  loss 
To  new  remembrance :    For  full  well  he  knows. 
He  cannot  so  precisely  weed  this  land, 
As  his  misdoubts  present  occasion  : 
His  foes  are  so  enrooted  with  his  friends, 
Tliat,  plucking  to  unfix  an  enemy. 
He  doth  unfasten  so,  and  shake  a  friend. 
So  that  this  land,  like  an  offensive  wife. 
That  hath  enrag'd  him  on  to  offer  strokes ; 
As  he  is  striking,  holds  his  infant  up. 
And  hangs  resolv'd  correction  in  tlie  arm 
That  was  uprcar'd  to  execution. 
.    Hast.   Besides,  the  king  hath  wasted  all  his  rods 
On  late  offenders,  that  he  now  doth  lack 
The  very  instruments  of  chastisement : 
So  that  his  power,  like  to  a  fangless  lion. 
May  offer,  but  not  hold. 

Arch.  'Tis  very  true  ;  — 

And  therefore  be  assur'd,  my  good  lord  marshal. 
If  we  do  now  make  our  atonement  well, 
Our  peace  will,  like  a  broken  limb  united, 
Grow  stronger  for  the  breaking. 

Mowb.  Be  it  so. 

Here  is  retum'd  my  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

lie-enter  Westmoreland. 
West.  The  prince  is  here  at  hand :   Pleaseth  your 
lordship, 
To  meet  his  grace  just  distance  'tween  our  armies  ? 

*  Trivial.  »  Iniignificant 

<  Book  for  mernorandum*. 


Mowb.   Your  grace  of  York,  in  Gcd's  name  then 

set  forward. 
Arch.   Before,  and  greet  his  grace  :  —  my  lord, 

we  come.  [Exeimt. 

SCENE   II Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter,  from  one  side,  Mowbray,  the  Archbishop, 
Hastings,  and  others  :  from  the  other  side,  Princf. 
John  o/"  Lancaster,  Westmoreland,  Officers,  and 
Attendants. 

P.  John.   You   are   well   encounter'd   here,   my 
cousin  Mowbray  :  — 
Good  day  to  you,  gentle  lord  archbishop ;  — 
And  so  to  you,  lord  Hastings,  —  and  to  all.  — 
My  lord  of  York,  it  better  show'd  with  you, 
When  that  your  flock,  assembled  by  the  bell, 
Encircled  you,  to  hear  with  reverence 
Your  exposition  on  the  holy  text ; 
Than  now  to  see  you  here  an  iron  man, 
Cheering  a  rout  of  rebels  with  your  drum, 
Turning  the  word  to  sword,  and  life  to  death. 
That  man,  that  sits  within  a  monarch's  heart. 
And  ripens  in  the  sunshine  of  his  favour. 
Would  he  abuse  the  countenance  of  the  king, 
Alack,  what  mischiefs  might  be  set  abroach, 
In  shadow  of  such  greatness  !  With  you,  lord  bishop, 
It  is  even  so :  —  Who  hath  not  heard  it  spoken. 
How  deep  you  were  within  the  books  of  heaven  ? 
To  us,  the  speaker  in  his  parliament ; 
To  us,  the  imagin'd  voice  of  heaven  itself ; 
The  very  opener,  and  intelligencer, 
Between  the  grace,  the  sanctities  of  heaven. 
And  our  dull  workings  :    O,  who  shall  believe, 
But  you  misuse  the  reverence  of  your  place ; 
Employ  the  countenance  and  grace  of  heaven, 
As  a  false  favourite  doth  his  prince's  name, 
In  deeds  dishonourable  ?   You  have  taken  up. 
Under  the  counterfeited  zeal  of  heaven. 
The  subjects  of  heaven's  substitute,  my  father  ; 
And,  both  against  the  peace  of  heaven, 
Have  here  up-swann'd  them. 

Aixh.  Good  my  lord  of  Lancaster. 

I  am  not  here  against  your  father's  peace  : 
But,  as  I  told  my  lord  of  Westmoreland, 
The  time  misorder'd  doth,  in  common  sense. 
Crowd  us,  and  crush  us,  to  this  monstrous  form. 
To  hold  our  safety  up.      I  sent  your  grace 
The  parcels  and  particulars  of  our  grief; 
The  which  hath  been  with  scorn  shov'd  from  the  court. 
Whereon  this  hydra  son  of  war  is  born  : 
Whose  dangerous  eyes  may  well  be  charm'd  asleep. 
With  grant  of  our  most  just  and  right  desires ; 
And  true  obedience  of  this  madness  cur'd 
Stoop  tamely  to  the  foot  of  majesty. 

Mowb.   If  not,  we  ready  are  to  try  our  fortunes 
To  the  last  man. 

Hast.  And  though  we  here  fall  down. 

We  have  supplies  to  second  our  attempt; 
If  they  miscarry,  theirs  sliall  second  them  : 
And  so,  success  7  of  mischief  shall  be  bom  ; 
And  heir  from  heir  shall  hold  this  quarrel  up, 
Whiles  England  shall  liave  generation. 

p.  John.    You  are  too  sliallow,  Hastings,  much 
too  shallow, 
To  sound  the  bottom  of  the  after-times, 

If'est.  Pleaseth  your  grace,  to  answer  them  directly. 
How  far-forth  you  do  like  their  articles  ? 

*  SucCetsioa 
£e 


418 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


P.  John.  I  like  them  all,  and  do  allow  » them  well : 
And  swear  here  by  the  honour  of  my  blood, 
My  father's  purposes  have  been  mistook ; 
-A  nd  some  about  him  have  too  lavishly 
Wrested  his  meaning  and  authority.  — 
My  lord,  these  griefs  shall  be  with  speed  redress'd  ; 
Upon  my  soul  they  shall.     If  this  may  please  you, 
Discharge  your  powers  unto  their  several  counties, 
As  we  will  ours :   and  here,  between  the  armies 
I^et's  drink  together  friendly,  and  embrace  ; 
That  all  their  eyes  may  bear  those  tokens  home. 
Of  our  restored  love,  and  amity. 
jirch.  I  take  your  princely  word  for  these  redresses. 

P.  John.  I  give  it  you,  and  will  maintain  my  wor  I; 
And  thereupon  I  drink  unto  your  grace. 

Hast.    Go,  captain,  [To  an  Officer.']  and  deliver 
to  the  army 
This  news  of  peace  ;  let  them  have  pay,  and  part : 
I  know  it  will  well  please  them  ;  Hie  thee,  captain. 

[Exit  Officer. 

Arch.   To  you,  my  noble  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

West.   I  pledge  your  grace :    And,  if  you  knew 
what  pains 
I  have  bestow'd,  to  breed  this  present  peace. 
You  would  drink  freely  :   but  my  love  to  you 
Shall  show  itself  more  openly  hereafter. 

Arch.   I  do  not  doubt  you. 

West.  I  am  glad  of  it :  — 

Health  to  my  lord,  and  gentle  cousin,  Mowbray. 

Mowb.  You  wish  me  health  in  very  happy  season  ; 
For  I  am,  on  the  sudden,  something  ill. 

Arch.   Against  ill  chances,  men  are  ever  merry  ; 
But  heaviness  foreruns  the  good  event. 

West.   Therefore  be  merry,  coz ;    since   sudden 
sorrow 
Serves  to  say  thus,  —  Some  good  thing  comes  to- 
morrow. 

Arch.    Believe  me,  T  am  passing  light  in  spirit. 

Mowb.   So  nmch  the  worse,  if  your  own  rule  be 
true.  [Shouts  within. 

P.  John.    The  word  of  peace  is  render'd  ;   Hark, 
how  they  shout ! 

Mowb.   This  had  been  cheerful,  after  victory. 

Arch.    A  peace  is  of  the  nature  of  a  conquest ; 
For  then  both  parties  nobly  are  subdued, 
And  neither  party  loser. 

P.  John.  Go,  my  lord, 

And  let  our  army  be  discharged  too.  — 

[Exit  Westmoreland. 
And,  good  my  lord,  so  please  you,  let  our  trains 
March  by  us  ;  that  we  may  peruse  the  men 
We  should  have  cop'd  withal. 

Arch.  Go,  good  lord  Hastings, 

And,  ere  they  be  dismissed,  let  them  march  by. 

[Exit  Hastings. 

P.  John.   I  trust,  my  lords,  we  shall  lie  to-night 
together.  — 

Re-enter  Westmoreland. 
Now,  cousin,  wherefore  stands  our  army  still  ? 
West.    The  leaders,  having  charge  from  you  to 
stand. 
Will  not  go  off  until  they  hear  you  speak. 
P.  John.   They  know  their  duties. 

Re-enter  Hastings. 

Hast.   My  lord,  our  army  is  dispers'd  already  : 

Like  vouthful  steers  unyok'd,they  take  their  courses 

East,  west,  north,  south  ;  or,  like  a  school  broke  up. 

Each  hurries  towards  his  home,  and  sporting-place. 

^  Approve. 


West.   Good  tidings,  my  lord  Hastings ;  for  the 
which 
I  do  arrest  thee,  traitor,  of  high  treason :  — 
And  you,  lord  archbishop, — and  you,  lord  Mowbray, 
Of  capital  treason  I  attach  you  both. 

Moicb.    Is  this  proceeding  just  and  honourable  ? 

West.   Is  your  assembly  so  ? 

Arch.   Will  you  thus  break  your  faith  ? 

p.  John.  I  pawn'd  thee  none  : 

I  promis'd  you  redress  of  these  same  grievances, 
Whereof  you  did  complain ;  which,  by  mine  honour, 
I  will  perform  with  a  most  Christian  care. 
But,  for  you,  rebels,  — look  to  taste  the  due 
Meet  for  rebellion,  and  such  acts  as  yours. 
Most  ihallowly  did  you  these  arms  commence, 
Fondly  9  brought  here,  and  foolishly  sent  hence.  — 
Strike  up  our  drums,  pursue  the  scatter'd  stray  ; 
Heaven,  and  not  we,  have  safely  fought  to-day.  — 
Some  guard  these  traitors  to  the  block  of  death, 
Treason's  true  bed,  and  yielder  up  of  breath. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   III.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Alarums:    Excursions.      Enter    Falstaff   and 
Colevile,  meeting. 

Fal.  What's  your  name,  sir?  of  what  condition 
are  you ;  and  of  what  place,  I  pray  ? 

Cole.  I  am  a  knight,  sir ;  and  my  name  is  — 
Colevile  of  the  dale. 

Fal.  Well  then,  Colevile  is  your  name  ;  a  knight 
is  your  degree  ;  and  your  place,  the  dale  :  Colevile 
shall  still  be  your  name,  —  a  traitor  your  degree ; 
and  the  dungeon  your  place,  —  a  place  deep  enough  ;^ 
so  shall  you  still  be  Colevile  of  the  dale. 

Cole.   Are  not  you  sir  John  Falstaff  ? 

Fal.  As  good  a  man  as  he,  sir,  whoe'er  I  am. 
Do  ye  yield,  sir  ?  or  shall  I  sweat  for  you  ?  If  I  do 
sweat,  they  are  drops  of  thy  lovers,  and  they  weep 
for  thy  death  :  therefore  rouse  up  fear  and  trembling, 
and  do  observance  to  my  mercy. 

Cole.  I  think,  you  are  sir  John  Falstaff;  and,  in 
that  thought,  yield  me. 

Fal.  I  have  a  whole  school  of  tongues  in  this 
belly  of  mine  ;  and  not  a  tongue  of  them  all  speaks 
any  other  word  but  my  name.  An  I  had  but  a  belly 
of  any  indifferency,  I  were  simply  the  most  active 
fellow  in  Europe  :  —  Here  comes  our  general. 

Enter  Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  Westmoreland, 
and  others. 

P.  John.  The  heat  is  past,  follow  no  further  now ;  — 
Call  in  the  powers,  good  cousin  Westmoreland.  — 
[Eocit  Westmoreland. 
Now,  Falstaff,  where  have  you  been  all  this  while  ? 
When  every  thing  is  ended,  then  you  come  : 
These  tardy  tricks  of  yours  will,  on  my  life. 
One  time  or  other  break  some  gallows'  back. 

Fal.  I  would  be  sorry,  my  lord,  but  it  should  be 
thus ;  I  never  knew  yet,  but  rebuke  and  check  was 
the  reward  of  valour.  Do  you  think  me  a  swallow, 
an  arrow,  or  a  bullet  ?  have  I,  in  my  poor  and  old 
motion,  the  expedition  of  thought?  I  have  speeded 
hither  with  the  very  extremest  inch  of  possibility : 
I  have  foundered  nine-score  and  odd  posts ;  and 
here,  travel-tainted  as  I  am,  have,  in  my  pure  and 
immaculate  valour,  taken  sir  John  Colevile  of  the 
dale,  a  most  furious  knight,  and  valorous  enemy  : 


Foolishly. 


J 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


419 


But  what  of  that?  he  saw  me,  and  yielded ;  that  I 
mayjustlysay  with  the  hooked-nose  fellow  of  Rome  ', 
—  I  came,  saw,  and  overcame. 

P.  John.  It  was  more  of  his  courtesy  than  your 
deserving. 

Fal.  I  know  not ;  here  he  is,  and  here  I  yield 
him  :  and  I  beseech  your  grace  let  it  be  booked 
with  tlie  rest  of  this  day's  deeds  ;  or  I  will  have  it 
in  a  particular  ballad  else,  with  mine  own  picture 
on  tlie  top  of  it,  Colevile  kissing  my  foot :  To  the 
which  course,  if  I  be  enforced,  if  you  do  not  all 
show  like  gilt  two-pences  to  me;  and  I,  in  the 
clear  sky  of  fame,  o'ershining  you  as  much  as  the 
full  moon  doth  the  cinders  of  the  element,  which 
shew  like  pins'  heads  to  her ;  believe  not  the  word 
of  the  noble  :  Therefore  let  me  have  right  and  let 
desert  mount. 

P.  John.   Thine's  too  heavy  to  mount. 

Fal.    Let  it  shine  then. 

P.  John.   Thine's  too  thick  to  shine. 

Fal.  Let  it  do  something,  my  good  lord,  that  may 
do  me  good,  and  call  it  what  you  will. 

P.  John.   Is  thy  name  Colevile  ? 

Cole.  It  is,  my  lord. 

P.  John.    A  famous  rebel  art  thou,  Colevile. 

Fal.   And  a  famous  true  subject  took  him. 

Cole.   I  am,  my  lord,  but  as  my  betters  are. 
That  led  me  hither :  had  they  been  ruled  by  me. 
You  should  have  won  them  dearer  than  you  have. 

Fal.  I  know  not  how  they  sold  themselves :  but 
thou,  like  a  kind  fellow,  gavest  thyself  away ;  and 
I  thank  thee  for  thee. 

Re-enter  Westmoreland. 

P.  John.   Now,  have  you  left  pursuit  ? 

Jfest.    Retreat  is  made,  and  execution  stay'd. 

P.  John.   Send  Colevile,  with  his  confederates, 
To  York,  to  present  execution : 
Blunt,  lead  him  hence ;  and  see  you  guard  him  sure. 
[Exeunt  some  with  Colevile. 
And  now  despatch  we  toward  the  court,  my  lords; 
I  hear,  the  king  my  father  is  sore  sick  : 
Our  news  shall  go  before  us  to  his  majesty,  — 
Which,  cousin,  you  shall  bear,  —  to  comfort  him  ; 
And  we  with  sober  speed  will  follow  you. 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to 
go  through  Glostershire  ;  and,  when  you  come  to 
court,  stand  my  good  lord,  'pray,  in  your  good 
report. 

P.  John.   Fare  you  well,  Falstaff :   I,  in  my  con- 
dition '^, 
Shall  better  speak  of  you  than  you  deserve.     [Exit. 

Fal.  I  would,  you  had  but  the  wit :  'twere  better 
than  your  dukedom.  —  Good  faith,  tin's  same  young 
sober-blooded  boy  doth  not  love  me ;  nor  a  man 
cannot  make  him  laugh  ;  —  but  that's  no  marvel,  he 
dnnks  no  wine.  There's  never  any  of  these  de- 
mure boys  come  to  any  proof:  for  thin  drink  doth 
so  over- cool  their  blood,  they  are  generally  fools  and 
cowards ;  —  which  some  of  us  should  be  too,  but 
for  inflammation.  A  good  sherris-sack  liath  a  two- 
fold operation  in  it.  It  ascends  me  into  the  brain  ; 
dries  me  there  all  the  foolish,  and  dull,  and  crudy 
vapours  which  environ  it ;  makes  it  apprehensive, 
quick,  forgetive  %  full  of  nimble,  fiery,  and  delect- 
iJjle  shapes  ;  which  delivered  o'er  to  the  voice,  (tlie 
tongue,)  which  is  the  birth,  becomes  excellent  wit. 
The  second  property  of  your  excellent  sherris  is,  — 

•  Julius  Osar.  «  In  my  piesent  temper. 

•  Inventive 


the  warming  of  the  blood ;  which,  before  cold  and 
settled,  left  the  liver  white  and  pale,  which  is  the 
badge  of  pusillanimity  and  cowardice :  but  the 
sherris  warms  it,  and  makes  it  course  from  the  in- 
wards to  the  parts  extreme.  It  illumineth  the  face  ; 
which,  as  a  beacon,  gives  warning  to  all  the  rest  of 
this  little  kingdom,  man,  to  arm  j  and  then  the 
vital  commoners,  and  inland  petty  spirits,  muster 
me  all  to  their  captain,  the  heart ;  who,  great,  and 
putfed  up  with  this  retinue,  doth  any  deed  of 
courage  :  and  this  valour  comes  of  sherris  :  So  that 
skill  in  the  weapon  is  nothing,  without  sack ;  for 
that  sets  it  a- work  :  and  learning,  a  mere  hoard  of 
gold,  kept  by  a  devil ;  till  sack  commences  it  *, 
and  sets  it  in  act  and  use.  Hereof  comes  it,  that 
prince  Harry  is  valiant :  for  the  cold  blood  he  did 
naturally  inherit  of  his  father,  he  hath,  like  lean, 
steril,  and  bare  land,  manured,  husbanded,  and 
tilled,  with  excellent  endeavour  of  drinking  good, 
and  good  store  of  fertile  sherris  ;  that  he  is  become 
very  hot  and  valiant.  If  I  had  a  thousand  sons, 
the  first  human  principle  I  would  teach  them  should 
be,  —  to  forswear  thin  potations,  and  addict  them- 
selves to  sack. 

Enter  Bardolph. 
How  now,  Bardolph? 

Bard.   The  army  is  discharged  all,  and  gone. 

Fal.  Let  them  go.  I'll  through  Glostershire ; 
and  there  will  I  visit  master  Robert  Shallow,  es- 
quire :  I  have  him  already  tempering  between  my 
finger  and  my  thumb,  and  shortly  will  I  seal  with 
him.  5     Come  away.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV Westminster. 

Palace. 


A   Room  in  the 


Enter  Kikg   Henry,    Clarence,   Prince   Huk- 
PHREY,  Warwick,  and  otfters. 

IT.  Hen.  Now,  lords,  if  heaven  doth  give  success- 
ful end 
To  this  debate  that  bleedeth  at  our  doors, 
We  will  our  youth  lead  on  to  higher  fields. 
And  draw  no  swords  but  what  are  sanctified. 
Our  navy  is  address 'd  6,  our  power  collected, 
Our  substitutes  in  absence  well  invested. 
And  every  thing  lies  level  to  our  wish : 
Only,  we  want  a  little  personal  strength  ; 
And  pause  us,  till  these  rebels  now  afoot, 
Come  underneath  the  yoke  of  government. 

War.   Both  which  we  doubt  not  but  your  miyestj 
Shall  soon  enjoy. 

JT.  Hen.  Humphrey,  my  son,  of  Gloster, 

Where  is  the  prince  your  brother  ? 

P.  Humph.   I  think  he's  gone  to  hunt,  my  lord, 
at  Windsor. 

A".  Hen.   And  how  accompanied  ? 

P.  Humph.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord. 

K.  Hen.  Is  not  his  brother,  Thomas  of  Clarence, 
with  him  ? 

P.  Humph.   No,  my  good  lord,  he  is  in  presence 
here. 

Cla.   What  would  my  lord  and  father  ? 

K.  Hen.   Nothing  but  well  to  thee,  Thomas  of 
Clarence. 
How  chance,  tliou  art  not  with  the  prince  thy  brother  ? 
He  loves  thee,  and  thou  dost  neglect  him,  Thomas ; 

*  Brings  it  mto  action. 

^  An  allusion  to  the  old  use  of  waling  with  soft  wax. 

«  Ready,  prepared. 

Ee  2 


420 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


Tlioii  hast  a  better  place  in  his  affection, 

I'han  all  thy  brothers  ;  cherish  it,  my  boy  ; 

And  noble  offices  thou  mayst  effect 

Of  mediation,  after  I  am  dead, 

Between  his  greatness  and  thy  other  brethren  :  — 

Therefore  omit  him  not ;  blunt  not  his  love  : 

Nor  lose  the  good  advantage  of  his  grace, 

By  seeming  cold,  or  careless  of  his  will, 

For  he  is  gracious,  if  he  be  observ'd  7 ; 

He  hath  a  tear  for  pity,  and  a  hand 

Open  as  day  for  melting  charity : 

Yet  notwithstanding,  being  incens'd,  he's  flint ; 

As  humorous  as  winter,  and  as  sudden 

As  flaws  congealed  in  the  spring  of  day. 

His  temper,  therefore,  must  be  well  observ'd  : 

Chide  him  for  faults,  and  do  it  reverently, 

When  you  perceive  his  blood  inclin'd  to  mirth  : 

But,  being  moody,  give  him  line  and  scope ; 

Till  that  his  passions,  like  a  whale  on  ground. 

Confound  themselves  with  working.      Learn  this, 

Thomas, 
And  thou  shalt  prove  a  shelter  to  thy  friends; 
A  hoop  of  gold,  to  bind  thy  brothers  in  j 
That  the  united  vessel  of  their  blood. 
Mingled  with  venom  of  suggestion, 
(As,  force  perforce,  the  age  will  pour  it  in,) 
Shall  never  leak,  though  it  do  work  as  strong 
As  aconitum^,  or  rash  gunpowder.       , 

Cla.   I  shall  observe  him  with  all  care  and  love. 

K.  Hen.  Why  art  thou  not  at  Windsor  with  him, 
Thomas  ? 

Cla.  He  is  not  there  to-day  ;  he  dines  in  London. 
.    K.  Hen.   And  how  accompanied  ?  canst  thou  tell 
that  ? 

Cla.  With  Poins,  andother  his  continual  followers. 

IC.  Hen.  Most  subject  is  the  fattest  soil  to  weeds  ; 
And  he,  the  noble  image  of  my  youth. 
Is  overspread  with  them  :    Therefore  my  grief 
Stretches  itself  beyond  the  hour  of  death  ; 
The  blood  weeps  from  my  heart,  when  I  do  shape, 
In  forms  imaginary,  the  unguided  days. 
And  rotten  times,  that  you  shall  look  upon 
When  I  am  sleeping  with  my  ancestors. 
For  when  his  headstrong  riot  hath  no  curb. 
When  rage  and  hot  blood  are  his  counsellors. 
When  means  and  lavish  manners  meet  together, 
O,  with  what  wings  shall  his  affections  fly 
Towards  fronting  peril  and  oppos'd  decay  ! 

War.  My  gracious  lord,  you  look  beyond  him  quite : 
The  prince  but  studies  his  companions. 
Like  a  strange  tongue :  wherein,  to  gain  the  language, 
'Tis  needful  that  the  most  immodest  word 
Be  look'd  upon,  and  learn'd :   which  once  attain'd. 
Your  highness  knows,  comes  to  no  further  use. 
But  to  be  known  and  hated.      So,  like  gross  terms. 
The  prince  will,  in  the  perfectness  of  time. 
Cast  off*  his  followers  :   and  their  memory 
Shall  as  a  pattern  or  a  measure  live, 
By  which  his  grace  must  mete  the  lives  of  others ; 
Turning  past  evils  to  advantages. 

K.  Hen.   'Tis  seldom,  when  the  bee  doth  leave 
her  comb 
In  the  dead  carrion.  —  Who's  here  ?  Westmoreland? 

Enter  Westmoreland. 
West.  Health  to  my  sovereign  !  and  new  happiness 
Added  to  that  that  I  am  to  deliver  ! 
Prince  John,  your  son,  doth  kiss  your  grace's  hand : 

''  Has  attention  shown  him. 

8  Wolfs  Lane,  a  poisonous  herb. 


Mowbray,  the  bishop  Scroop,  Hastings,  and  all, 
Are  brought  to  the  correction  of  your  law  ; 
There  is  not  now  a  rebel's  sword  unsheath'd. 
But  peace  puts  forth  her  olive  every  where. 
The  manner  how  this  action  hath  been  borne. 
Here  at  more  leisure  may  your  highness  read  ; 
With  every  course,  in  this  particular.  9 

K.  Hen.  O  Westmoreland,  thou  art  a  summer-birdj 
Which  ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings 
The  lifting  up  of  day.      Look  !  here's  more  news. 

Enter  Harcourt. 

Har.  From  enemies  heaven  keep  your  majesty  ; 
And  when  they  stand  against  you,  may  they  fall 
As  those  that  I  am  come  to  tell  you  of ! 
The  earl  Northumberland,  and  the  lord  Bardolph, 
With  a  great  power  of  English,  and  of  Scots, 
Are  by  the  sheriff"  of  Yorkshire  overthrown  ; 
The  manner  and  true  order  of  the  fight. 
This  packet,  please  it  you,  contains  at  large. 

JC.  Hen.    And  wherefore  should  these  good  news 
make  me  sick  ? 
Will  fortune  never  come  with  both  hands  full. 
But  write  her  fair  words  still  in  foulest  letters  ? 
She  either  gives  a  stomach,  and  no  food,  — 
Such  are  the  poor,  in  health ;  or  else  a  feast. 
And  takes  away  the  stomach,  —  such  are  the  rich. 
That  have  abundance,  and  enjoy  it  not. 
I  should  rejoice  now  at  this  happy  news ; 
And  now  my  sight  fails,  and  my  brain  is  giddy :  — 
O  me!  come  near  me,  now  I  am  much  ill.    \^Swoon&. 

P.  Humph.   Comfort,  your  majesty  ! 

Cla.  O,  my  royal  father  ! 

West.  My  sovereign  lord,  cheer  up  yourself,  look 
up! 

War.  Be  patient,  princes  ;  you  do  know,  these  fits 
Are  with  his  highness  very  ordinary. 
Stand  from  him,  give  him  air ;  he'll  straight  be  well. 

Cla.  No,  no ;  he  cannot  long  hold  out  these  pangs  j 
The  incessant  care  and  labour  of  his  mind 
Hath  wrought  the  mure ',  that  should  confine  it  in, 
So  thin,  that  life  looks  through,  and  will  break  out. 

P.  Humph.   The  people  fear  me  * ;  for  they  do 
observe 
Unfather'd  heirs,  and  loathly  birds  of  nature ; 
The  seasons  change  their  manners,  as  the  year 
Had  found  some  months  asleep,  and  leap'd  them 
over. 

Cla.  The  river  hath  thrice  flow  d,  no  ebb  between  3; 
And  the  old  folk,  time's  doting  chronicles. 
Say,  it  did  so,  a  little  time  before 
That  our  great  grandsire,  Edward,  sick'd  and  died. 

War.  Speak  lower,  princes,  for  tlie  king  recovers. 

P.  Humph-  This  apoplex  will,  certain,  be  his  end. 

K.  Hen.  I  pray  you,  take  me  up,  and  bear  me  hence 
Into  some  other  chamber  :   softly,  'pray. 

{They  convey  the  King  into  an  inner  part  of 
the  room,  and  place  him  on  a  bed. 
Let  there  be  no  noise  made,  my  gentle  friends  ; 
Unless  some  dulH  and  favourable  hand 
Will  whisper  musick  to  my  weary  spirit. 

War.    Call  for  the  musick  in  the  other  room. 

IT.  Hen.  Set  me  the  crown  upon  my  pillow  here. 

Cla.   His  eye  is  hollow,  and  he  changes  much. 

War.   Less  noise,  less  noise. 

9  The  detail  contained  in  prince  John's  letter. 
»  Wall.  2  Make  me  afraid. 

3  An  historical  fact,  on  Oct  12.  1411. 
*  Melancholy,  soothing. 


I 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


421 


Enter  Prince  Henry. 

P.  Hen.  Who  saw  the  duke  of  Clarence  ? 

C/a.   I  am  here,  brother,  full  of  heaviness. 

P.  Hen.   How  now  !  rain  witliin  doors,  and  none 
abroad ! 
How  doth  the  king  ? 

P.  Humph.  Exceeding  ill. 

P.  Hen.  Heard  he  the  good  news  yet  ? 

Tell  it  him. 

P.  Humph.   He  alter'd  much  upon  the  hearing  it. 

P.  Hen.   If  he  be  sick 
With  joy,  he  will  recover  without  physick. 

War.   Not   so  much  noise,    my  lords :  —  sweet 
prince,  speak  low ; 
The  king  your  father  is  dispos'd  to  sleep. 

Cla.   Let  us  withdraw  into  the  other  room. 

IVar.  Will't  please  your  grace  to  go  along  with  us  ? 

P.  Hen.   No  j  I  will  sit  and  watch  here  by  the 
king.  [Exeunt  all  but  F.  Heury. 

Why  doth  the  crown  lie  there  upon  his  pillow, 
Being  so  troublesome  a  bedfellow  ? 
O  polish'd  perturbation  !  golden  care  ! 
That  keep'st  the  ports  *  of  slumber  open  wide 
To  many  a  watchful  night !  —  sleep  with  it  now  ! 
Yet  not  so  sound,  and  half  so  deeply  sweet. 
As  he,  whose  brow,  with  homely  biggin  6  bound. 
Snores  out  the  watch  of  night.      O  majesty  ! 
When  thou  dost  pinch  thy  bearer,  thou  dost  sit 
Like  a  rich  armour  worn  in  heat  of  day, 
That  scalds  with  safety.     By  his  gates  of  breath 
There  lies  a  downy  feather,  which  stirs  not : 
Did  he  suspire,  that  light  and  weightless  down 
Perforce   must  move.  —  My  gracious  lord !    my 

fatlier  !  — 
This  sleep  is  sound  indeed ;  this  is  a  sleep 
That  from  this  golden  rigol  7  hath  divorc'd 
So  many  English  kings.      Thy  due,  from  me. 
Is  tears,  and  heavy  sorrows  of  the -blood; 
Which  nature,  love,  and  filial  tenderness, 
Shall,  O  dear  father,  pay  thee  plenteously  j 
My  due,  from  thee,  is  this  imperial  crown  ; 
Which,  as  immediate  from  thy  place  and  blood. 
Derives  itself  to  me.     Lo,  here  it  sits,  — 

[Putting  it  on  his  head. 
Which  heaven  shall  guard :   And  put  the  world's 

whole  strength 
Into  one  giant  arm,  it  shall  not  force 
This  lineal  honour  from  me  :    This  from  thee 
Will  I  to  mine  leave,  as  'tis  left  to  me.  [  tlxit. 

K.  Hen.   Warwick !   Gloster  !   Clarence  ! 

Re-enter  Warwick,  and  the  rest. 
Cla.  Doth  the  king  call  ? 

War.  What  would  your  majesty  ?  How  fares  your 

grace? 
A".  Hen.   Why  did  you  leave  me  here  alone,  my 

lords? 
Cla.  We  left  the  prince  my  brother  here,  my  liege, 
Who  undertook  to  sit  and  watch  by  you. 

K.  Hen.  The  prince  of  Wales?    Where  is  he? 

let  me  see  him  : 
He  is  not  here: 

War.   This  door  is  open  ;  he  is  gone  this  way. 
P.  Humph.   He  came  not  tlirough  the  cliambcr 

where  we  stay'd. 
A".  Hen,  Where  is  the  crown  ?  who  took  it  from 

my  pillow  ? 
War.  When  we  withdrew,  my  liege,  we  left  it  here. 

»  G«t«.  «  Cap.  '  Circle 


K.  Hen.   The  prince  hath  ta'en  it  hence :  —  go, 

seek  him  out ; 
Is  he  so  hasty,  that  he  doth  suppose 

My  sleep  my  death  ? 

Find  him,  my  lord  of  Warwick  ;  chide  him  hither. 

[Exit  Warwick. 
This  part  of  his  conjoins  with  my  disease. 
And  helps  to  end  me.  —  See,  sons,  what  things  you 

are  ! 
How  quickly  nature  falls  into  revolt, 
When  gold  becomes  her  object ! 
For  this  the  foolish  over-careful  fathers 
Have  broke  their  sleep  with  thoughts,  their  brains 

with  care, 
Their  bones  witli  industry  ; 
For  this  they  have  engrossed  and  piled  up 
The  canker'd  heaps  of  strange-achieved  gold  ; 
For  this  they  have  been  thoughtful  to  invest 
Their  sons  with  arts,  and  martial  exercises  : 
When,  like  the  bee,  tolling**  from  every  flower 
The  virtuous  sweets  ; 

Our  thighs  pack'd  with  wax,  our  mouths  with  honey, 
We  bring  it  to  the  hive  ;   and,  like  the  bees, 
Are  murder'd  for  our  pains.      This  bitter  taste 
Yield  his  engrossments  9  to  the  ending  fatlier.  —    . 

Re-enter  Warwick. 
Now,  where  is  he  that  will  not  stay  so  long 
Till  his  friend  sickness  hath  determin'd '  me  ? 

War.  My  lord,  I  found  the  prince  in  the  next  room, 
Washing  with  kindly  tears  his  gentle  cheeks ; 
With  such  a  deep  demeanour  in  great  sorrow. 
That  tyranny,  which  never  quaff'd  but  blood, 
Would,  by  beholding  him,  have  wash'd  his  knife 
With  gentle  eye-drops.      He  is  coming  hither. 

K.  Hen.    But  wherefore  did  he  take  away  the 
crown  ? 

Re-enter  Prince  Henry. 

Lo,  where  he  comes. — Come  hither  to  me,  Harry ;  — 
Depart  the  chamber,  leave  us  here  alone. 

[Exeunt  Clarence,  Prince  Humphrey, 
Lords,  ^c. 

P.  Hen.  I  never  thought  to  hear  you  speak  again. 

X.  Hen.    Thy  wish  was  father,  Harry,  to  that 
thought : 
I  stay  too  long  by  thee,  I  weary  thee. 
Dost  thou  so  hunger  for  my  empty  chair, 
That  thou  wilt  needs  invest  thee  with  mine  honours 
Before  thy  hour  be  ripe  ?  O  foolish  youth  ! 
Thou  seek'st  the  greatness  that  will  overwhelm  thee. 
Stay  but  a  little  ;  for  my  cloud  of  dignity 
Is  held  from  falling  with  so  weak  a  wind, 
That  it  will  quickly  drop  :   my  day  is  dim. 
Thou  hast  stolen  that,  which,  after  some  few  hours, 
Were  thine  without  offence  ;  and,  at  my  death, 
Thou  hast  seal'd  up  my  expectation  «  : 
Thy  life  did  manifest,  thou  lov'dst  me  not. 
And  thou  wilt  have  me  die  assur'd  of  it. 
Thou  hid'st  a  thousand  daggers  in  thy  thouglits ; 
Which  thou  hast  whetted  on  thy  stony  heart. 
To  stab  at  half  an  hour  of  my  life. 
What!  canst  thou  not  forbear  me  half  an  hour? 
Then  get  tliee  gone  ;  and  dig  my  grave  thystif ; 
And  bid  the  merry  bells  ring  to  thine  ear, 
That  thou  art  crown'd,  not  that  I  am  dead. 
Let  all  the  tears  that  should  bedew  my  hearse, 


9  Taking  tolL 
»  Ended. 


»  Accumulations. 
'  Coiifimicti  my  opinion. 
E  c  3 


422 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  IV.  Scene  IV. 


Be  di'ops  of  balm,  to  sanctify  thy  head : 

Only  compound  me  with  begotten  dust ; 

Give  that,  which  gave  thee  Life,  unto  the  worms, 

Pluck  down  my  officers,  break  my  decrees ; 

For  now  a  time  is  come  to  mock  at  form, 

Harry  the  Fifth  is  crown'd  :  —  Up,  vanity  ! 

Down,  royal  state  !  all  you  sage  counsellors,  hence ! 

And  to  the  English  court  assemble  now. 

From  every  region,  apes  of  idleness  ! 

Now,  neighbour  confines,  purge  you  of  your  scum : 

Have  you  a  ruffian,  that  will  swear,  drink,  dance. 

Revel  the  night ;  rob,  murder,  and  commit 

The  oldest  sins  the  newest  kind  of  ways  ? 

Be  happy,  he  will  trouble  you  no  more : 

England  shall  double  gild  his  treble  guilt  j 

England  shall  give  him  office,  honour,  might : 

For  the  fifth  Harry  from  curb'd  license  plucks 

The  muzzle  of  restraint,  and  the  wild  dog 

Shall  flesh  his  tooth  in  every  innocent. 

0  my  poor  kingdom,  sick  with  civil  blows  ! 
When  that  my  care  could  not  withhold  thy  riots. 
What  wilt  thou  do,  when  riot  is  thy  care  ? 

O,  thou  wilt  be  a  wilderness  again. 
Peopled  with  wolves,  thy  old  inhabitants  ! 

p.  Hen.   O  pardon  me,  my  liege !    but  for  my 
tears,  {JTneeling. 

The  moist  impediments  unto  my  speech, 

1  had  forestall'd  this  dear  and  deep  rebuke. 
Ere  you  with  grief  had  spoke,  and  I  had  heard 
The  course  of  it  so  far.     There  is  your  crown  ; 
And  He  that  wears  the  crown  immortally. 
Long  guard  it  yours  !   If  I  affect  it  more. 
Than  as  your  honour,  and  as  your  renown. 
Let  me  no  more  from  this  obedience  rise, 
(Which  my  most  true  and  inward  duteous  spirit 
Teacheth,)  this  prostrate  and  exterior  bending  ! 
Heaven  witness  with  me,  when  I  here  came  in, 
And  found  no  course  of  breath  within  your  majesty. 
How  cold  it  struck  my  heart !  if  I  do  feign, 

O,  let  me  in  my  present  wildness  die ; 

And  never  live  to  show  the  incredulous  world 

The  noble  change  that  I  have  purposed  ! 

Coming  to  look  on  you,  thinking  you  dead, 

(And  dead  almost,  my  liege,  to  think  you  were,) 

I  spake  unto  the  crown,  as  having  sense, 

And  thus  upbraided  it.    The  care  on  thee  depending. 

Hath  fed  upon  the  body  of  my  father  ; 

Therefore,  thou,  best  of  gold,  art  worst  of  gold. 

Other,  less  fine  in  carat  %  is  more  precious. 

Preserving  life  in  medicine  potable  : 

Sut  thou,  most  fine,  most  honoured,  most  renown  d, 

Hast  eat  thy  bearer  up.     Thus,  my  most  royal  liege, 

Accusing  it,  I  put  it  on  my  head  ; 

To  try  with  it,  —  as  with  an  enemy. 

That  had  before  my  face  murder'd  my  father,  — 

The  quarrel  of  a  true  inheritor. 

But  if  it  did  infect  my  blood  with  joy, 

Or  swell  my  thoughts  to  any  strain  of  pride  j 

If  any  rebel  or  vain  spirit  of  mine 

Did,  with  the  least  affection  of  a  welcome, 

Give  entertainment  to  the  might  of  it, 

Let  God  for  ever  keep  it  from  my  head ! 

And  make  me  as  the  poorest  vassal  is, 

That  doth  with  awe  and  terror  kneel  to  it ! 

K.  Hen.    O  my  son  ! 
Heaven  put  it  in  thy  mind  to  take  it  hence, 
That  thou  mightst  win  the  more  thy  father's  love, 
Pleading  so  wisely  in  excuse  of  it. 

*  A  term  used  m  describing  the  fineness  of  gold. 


Come  hither,  Harry  ;  sit  thou  by  my  bed, 

And  hear,  I  think,  the  very  latest  counsel 

That  ever  I  shall  breathe.    Heaven  knows,  my  son, 

By  what  by-paths,  and  indirect  crook'd  ways, 

I  met  this  crown ;  and  I  myself  know  well. 

How  troublesome  it  sat  upon  my  head : 

To  thee  it  shall  descend  with  better  quiet, 

Better  opinion,  better  confirmation  : 

For  all  the  soil  of  the  achievement  goes 

With  me  into  the  earth.      It  seem'd  in  me. 

But  as  an  honour  snatch'd  with  boisterous  hand ; 

And  I  had  many  living,  to  upbraid 

My  gain  of  it  by  their  assistances ; 

Which  daily  grew  to  quarrel  and  to  bloodshed. 

Wounding  supposed  peace :   all  these  bold  fears, 

Thou  seest,  with  peril  I  have  answer'd  : 

For  all  my  reign  hath  been  but  as  a  scene 

Acting  that  argument ;  and  now  my  death 

Changes  the  mode  :  for  what  in  me  was  purchas'd  ■*, 

Falls  upon  thee  in  a  more  fairer  sort ; 

So  thou  the  garland  wear'st  successively. 

Yet,  though  thou  stand'st  more  sure  than  I  could  do, 

Thou  art  not  firm  enough,  since  griefs  are  green  ; 

And  all  thy  friends,  which  thou  must  make  tjhy 

friends, 
Have  but  their  stings  and  teeth  newly  ta'en  out  j 
By  whose  fell  working  I  was  first  advanc'd. 
And  by  whose  power  I  well  might  lodge  a  fear 
To  be  again  displac'd  :   which  to  avoid 
I  cut  them  off;  and  had  a  purpose  now 
To  lead  out  many  to  the  Holy  Land  ; 
Lest  rest,  and  lying  still,  might  make  them  look 
Too  near  unto  my  state.     Therefore,  my  Harry, 
Be  it  thy  course,  to  busy  giddy  minds 
With  foreign  quarrels ;  that  action,  hence  borne  out. 
May  waste  the  memory  of  the  former  days. 
More  would  I,  but  my  lungs  are  wasted  so. 
That  strength  of  speech  is  utterly  denied  me. 
How  I  came  by  the  crown,  O  God,  forgive  ! 
And  grant  it  may  with  thee  in  true  peace  live  ! 

P.  Hen.   My  gracious  liege. 
You  won  it,  wore  it,  kept  it,  gave  it  me  ; 
Then  plain,  and  right,  must  my  possession  be  : 
Which  I,  with  more  than  with  a  jcommon  pain, 
'Gainst  all  the  world  will  rightfully  maintain. 

Enter  Prince  John  o/*  Lancaster,  Warwick,  Lordst 
and  others. 
K.  Hen.   Look,  look,  here  comes  my  John  of 

Lancaster. 
P.  John.   Health,  peace,   and   happiness  to  my 

royal  father ! 
K.  Hen.   Thou  bring'st  me  happiness,  and  peace, 
son  John  ; 
But  health,  alack,  with  youthful  wings  is  flown 
From  this  bare,  wither'd  trunk  j  upon  thy  sight. 

My  worldly  business  makes  a  period. 

Where  is  my  lord  of  Warwick  ? 

p.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Warwick  ! 

K.  Hen.   Doth  any  name  particular  belong 
Unto  the  lodging  where  I  first  did  swoon  ? 
War.  'Tis  call'd  Jerusalem,  my  noble  lord. 
K.  Hen.  Laud  be  to  God  !  —  even  there  my  life 
must  end. 
It  hath  been  prophesied  to  me  many  years, 
I  should  not  die  but  in  Jerusalem  ; 
Which  vainly  I  supposed  the  Holy  Land :  — 
But,  bear  me  to  that  chamber  ;  there  I'll  lie  ; 
In  that  Jerusalem  shall  Harry  die.  \Exeunt. 

4  Purchase,  in  Shakspeare,  frequently  means  stolen  goods. 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


42S 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  Glostershire.      A  Hall  in  Shallow's 
House. 

Enter  Shallow,  Falstaff,  Bardolfh,  and  Page. 

Shal.  By  cock  and  pye,  sir,  you  shall  not  away 
to-night. What,  Davy,  I  say  ! 

Fal.  You  must  excuse  me,  master  Robert  Shallow. 

Shal.  I  will  not  excuse  you ;  you  shall  not  be 
excused;  excuses  shall  not  be  admitted;  there  is 
no  excuse  shall  serve  j  you  shall  not  be  excused. — 
Why,  Davy! 

Enter  Davy. 

Davi/.   Here,  sir. 

Shal.  Davy,  Davy,  Davy,  —  let  me  see,  Davy ; 
let  me  see  :  —  yea,  marry,  William  cook,  bid  him 
come  hither.  —  Sir  John,  you  shall  not  be  excused. 

Davy.  Marry,  sir,  thus  ;  —  those  precepts  6  can- 
not be  served  :  and,  again,  sir,  —  Shall  we  sow  the 
head-land  with  wheat? 

Shal.  With  red  wheat,  Davy.  But  for  William 
cook  ; Are  there  no  young  pigeons  ? 

Davt/.   Yes,    sir. Here   is  now  the   smith's 

note,  for  shoeing  and  plough-irons. 

Shal.  Let  it  be  cast  7,  and  paid.:  — sir  John,  you 
shall  not  be  excused. 

Davy.  Now,  sir,  a  new  link  to  the  bucket  must 
needs  be  had  :  —  And,  sir,  do  you  mean  to  stop  any 
of  William's  wages,  about  the  sack  he  lost  the  other 
day  at  Hinckley  fair  ? 

Shal.  He  shall  answer  it :  ^— -  Some  pigeons, 
Davy ;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens ;  a  joint  of 
mutton ;  and  any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell 
William  cook. 

Davy.   Doth  the  man  of  war  stay  all  night,  sir  ? 

Shal.  Yes,  Davy.  I  will  use  him  well;  A  friend 
i'the  court  is  better  than  a  penny  in  purse.  Use  his 
men  well,  Davy.      About  thy  business,  Davy. 

Davy.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  to  countenance  William 
Visor  of  Wincot  against  Clement  Perkes  of  the  hill. 

Shal.  There  are  many  complaints,  Davy,  against 
that  Visor;  that  Visor  is  an  arrant  knave,  on  my 
knowledge. 

Dai>y.  I  grant  your  worship,  that  he  is  a  knave, 
sir :  but  yet,  heaven  forbid,  sir,  but  a  knave  should 
have  some  countenance  at  his  friend's  request.  An 
honest  man,  sir,  is  able  to  speak  for  himself,  when 
a  knave  is  not.  I  have  served  your  worship  truly, 
sir,  this  eight  years;  and  if  I  cannot  once  or  twice 
in  a  quarter  bear  out  a  knave  against  an  honest 
man,  I  have  but  a  very  little  credit  with  your  wor- 
ship. The  knave  is  mine  honest  friend,  sir ;  there- 
fore, I  beseech  your  worship,  let  him  be  counte- 
nanced. 

Shal.  Go  to ;  I  say,  he  shall  have  no  wrong. 
Look  about,  Davy.  [Exit  Davy.]  Where  are 
you,  sir  John  ?  Come,  off  with  your  boots.  —  Give 
me  your  hand,  master  Bardolpli. 

Bard.   I  jun  glad  to  see  your  worship. 

ShaL  I  thank  thee  with  all  my  heart,  kind  mas- 
ter Bardolph  :  —  and  welcome,  my  tall  fellow.  [  To 
the  Page.']   Come,  sir  John.  [Exit  Shallow. 

Pal.  I'll  follow  you,  good  master  Robert  Shallow. 
Bardolph,  look  to  our  horses.     [Exeunt  Bardolph 


and  Page  ]  If  I  were  sawed  into  quantities,  I  should 
make  four  dozen  of  such  bearded  hermit's  staves  as 
master  Shallow.  It  is  a  wonderful  thing,  to  see  the 
semblable  coherence  of  his  men's  spirits  and  his  : 
They,  by  observing  him,  do  bear  themselves  like 
foolish  justices ;  he,  by  conversing  with  them,  is 
turned  into  a  justice-like  serving  man  ;  their  sijirits 
are  so  married  in  conjunction  with  the  participation 
of  society,  that  they  flock  together  in  consent,  like 
so  many  wild-geese.  If  I  had  a  suit  to  master 
Shallow,  I  would  humour  his  men,  with  the  im- 
putation of  being  near  their  master :  if  to  his  men, 
I  would  curry  with  master  Shallow,  that  no  man 
could  better  command  his  servants.  It  is  certain, 
that  either  wise  bearing,  or  ignorant  carriage,  is 
caught,  as  men  take  diseases,  one  of  another  :  tlicre- 
fore,  let  men  take  heed  of  their  company.  1  will 
devise  matter  enough  out  of  this  Shallow,  to  keep 
prince  Harry  in  continual  laughter,  the  wearing- 
out  of  six  fashions,  (which  is  four  terms,  or  two 
actions,)  and  he  shall  laugh  without  intervallums. 
O,  it  is  much,  that  a  lie,  with  a  slight  oath,  and  a 
jest,  with  a  sad  brow  8,  will  do  with  a  fellow  that 
never  had  the  ache  in  his  shoulders !  O,  you  shall 
see  him  laugh,  till  his  face  be  like  a  wet  cloak  ill 
laid  up. 

Shal.    [Jruhin.']   Sir  John! 

Fal.  I  come,  master  Shallow ;  I  come,  master 
Shallow.  [Exit  Falstaff. 


SCENE  XL 


Westminster. 
Palace. 


A    Room  in   the 


«  Warrants. 


Cast  up. 


Enter  Warwick,  and  the  Lord  Chief  Justic*. 
War.   How  now,  my  lord  chief  Justice  ?  whither 

away  ? 
Ch.  Just.   How  doth  the  king? 
War.  Exceeding  well ;  his  cares  are  now  all  ended. 
Ch.  Just.   I  hope,  not  dead. 

War.  He's  walk'd  the  way  of  nature  ; 

And,  to  our  purposes,  he  lives  no  more. 

Ch.  Just.  I  would  his  majesty  had  call'd  me  with 
him : 
The  service  that  I  truly  did  his  life, 
Hath  left  me  open  to  all  injuries. 

War.   Indeed,  I  think,  the  young  king  loves  you 

not. 
Ch.  Just.  I  know  he  doth  not ;  and  do  arm  myself. 
To  welcome  the  condition  of  the  time  ; 
Which  cannot  look  more  hideously  upon  me 
Than  I  have  drawn  it  in  my  fantasy. 

Enter  Prince  Johv,   Prince    Humphrey,    Cla- 
rence, Westmoreland,  and  others. 

War.  Here  come  the  heavy  issue  of  dead  Harry  : 
O,  that  the  living  Harry  had  the  temper 
Of  him,  the  worst  of  these  three  gentlemen  ! 
How  many  nobles  then  should  hold  their  places, 
That  must  strike  sail  to  spirits  of  vile  sort  I 
Ch.  Just.    Alas  I    I  fear,  all  will  be  overturn'd. 
P.  John.    Good  morrow,  cousin  Warwick. 
P.  Humph,  eta.   Good  morrow,  cousin. 
P.  John.   We  meet  like  men  that  had  forgot  to 
speak. 

■  A  aerioua  faca 
E  e  4 


424. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  V. 


War.  We  do  remember ;  but  our  argument 
Is  all  too  heavy  to  admit  such  talk. 

P.  John.  Well,  peace  be  with  him  that  hath  made 
us  heavy ! 

Ch.  Just.    Peace  be  with  us,  lest  we  be  heavier ! 

P.  Humph.   O,  good  my  lord,  you  have  lost  a 
friend  indeed : 
And  I  dare  swear,  you  borrow  not  that  face 
Of  seeming  sorrow  ;  it  is,  sure,  you  own. 

P.  John.   Though  no  man  be  assiur'd  what  grace 
to  find, 
You  stand  in  coldest  expectation  : 
I  am  the  sorrier;  'would  'twere  otherwise. 

Cla.   Well,  you  must  now  speak  sir  John  FalstafF 
fair; 
Which  swims  against  your  stream  of  quality. 

Ch.  Just.    Sweet  princes,   what   I   did,   I  did  in 
honour, 
Led  by  the  impartial  conduct  of  my  soul  j 
And  never  shall  you  see,  that  I  will  beg 
A  ragged  and  forestall'd  remission.  — 
If  truth  and  upright  innocency  fail  me, 
I'll  to  the  king  my  master  that  is  dead. 
And  tell  him  who  hatii  sent  me  after  him. 

fTar.   Here  comes  the  prince. 

Enter  King  Henry  V. 
Ch.  Just.   Good  morrow ;  and  heaven  save  your 


majesty 


ITing.   This  new  and  gorgeous  garment,  majesty, 
Sits  not  so  easy  on  me  as  you  think.  — 
Brothers,  you  mix  your  sadness  with  some  fear ; 
This  is  the  English,  not  the  Turkish  court, 
Not  Amurath  an  Amurath  9  succeeds, 
But  Harry  Harry  :    Yet  be  sad,  good  brothers, 
For,  to  speak  truth,  it  very  well  becomes  you ; 
Sorrow  so  royally  in  you  appears. 
That  I  will  deeply  put  the  fashion  on. 
And  wear  it  in  my  heart.      Why  then,  be  sad  ; 
But  entertain  no  more  of  it,  good  brothers. 
Than  a  joint  burden  laid  upon  us  all. 
For  me,  by  Heaven,  I  bid  you  be  assur'd, 
I'll  be  your  father  and  your  brother  too ; 
Let  me  but  bear  your  love,  I'll  bear  your  cares. 
Yet  weep,  that  Harry's  dead ;  and  so  will  I : 
But  Harry  lives,  that  shall  convert  those  tears. 
By  number,  into  hours  of  happiness. 

P.  John,  ^-c.  We  hope  no  other  from  your  majesty. 

ITing.   You  all  look  strangely  on  me  :  —  and  you 
most ;  [  To  the  Chief  Justice. 

You  are,  I  think,  assur'd,  I  love  you  not 

Ch.  Just.   I  am  assur'd,  if  I  be  measur'd  rightly, 
Your  majesty  hath  no  just  cause  to  hate  me. 

Xing.   No ! 
How  might  a  prince  of  my  great  hopes  forget 
So  great  indignities  you  laid  upon  me  ? 
What !  rate,  rebuke,  and  roughly  send  to  prison 
The  immediate  heir  of  England  !   Was  this  easy  ? 
May  this  be  wash'd  in  Lethe  and  forgotten  ? 

Ch.  Just.  I  then  did  use  the  person  of  your  father ; 
The  image  of  his  power  lay  then  in  me  : 
And,  in  the  administration  of  his  law. 
Whiles  I  was  busy  for  the  commonwealth, 
Your  highness  pleased  to  forget  my  place. 
The  majesty  and  power  of  law  and  justice, 
Tlie  image  of  the  king  whom  I  presented. 
And  struck  me  in  my  very  seat  of  judgment; 

9  Emperor  of  the  Turks,  died  in  1596  ;  his  son,  who  suc- 
ceeded him,  had  all  his  brothers  strangled. 


Whereon,  as  an  offender  to  your  father, 

I  gave  bold  way  to  my  authority, 

And  did  commit  you.      If  the  deed  were  ill. 

Be  you  contented,  wearing  now  the  garland. 

To  have  a  son  set  your  decrees  at  nought ; 

To  pluck  down  justice  from  your  awful  bench  ; 

To  trip  the  course  of  law,  and  blunt  the  sword 

That  guards  tiie  peace  and  safety  of  your  person  : 

Nay,  more :   to  spurn  at  your  most  royal  image, 

And  mock  your  workings  in  a  second  body. 

Question  your  royal  thoughts,  make  the  case  yours  j 

Be  now  the  father,  and  propose  a  son  : 

Hear  your  own  dignity  so  much  profan'd, 

Sae  your  most  dreadful  laws  so  loosely  slighted. 

Behold  yourself  so  by  a  son  disdain'd  : 

And  then  imagine  me  taking  your  part. 

And,  in  your  power,  soft  silencing  your  son  : 

A  fter  this  cold  considerance,  sentence  me  ; 

And,  as  you  are  a  king,  speak  in  your  state  ', 

What  I  have  done,  that  misbecame  my  place. 

My  person,  or  my  liege's  sovereignty. 

ITing.    You  are  right,  justice,  and  you  weigh  this 
well; 
Therefore  still  bear  the  balance,  and  the  sword  : 
And  I  do  wish  your  honours  may  increase, 
Till  you  do  live  to  see  a  son  of  mine 
Offend  you,  and  obey  you,  as  I  did. 
So  shall  I  live  to  speak  my  father's  words ;  — 
Happy  am  7,  that  have  a  man  so  bold, 
That  dares  do  justice  on  my  proper  son  : 
And  not  less  happy,  having  such  a  sou, 
That  would  deliver  up  his  greatness  so 
Into  the  hands  of  justice.  —  You  did  commit  me  : 
For  which  I  do  commit  into  your  hand 
The  unstained  sword  that  you  have  us'd  to  bear ; 
With  this  remembrance,  —  That  you  use  the  same 
With  the  like  bold,  just,  and  impartial  spirit, 
As  you  have  done  'gainst  me.      There  is  my  hand  ; 
You  shall  be  as  a  father  to  my  youth : 
My  voice  shall  sound  as  you  do  prompt  mine  ear ; 
And  I  will  stoop  and  humble  my  intents 

To  your  well-practis'd,  wise  directions. 

And,  princes  all,  believe  me,  I  beseech  you  ;  — 
My  father  is  gone  wild  into  his  grave. 
For  in  his  tomb  lie  my  affections ; 
And  with  his  spirit  sadly  I  survive ; 
To  mock  the  expectation  of  the  world ; 
To  frustrate  prophecies ;  and  to  raze  out 
Rotten  opinion,  who  hath  writ  me  down 
After  my  seeming.      The  tide  of  blood  in  me 
Hath  proudly  flow'd  in  vanity  till  now  : 
Now  doth  it  turn,  and  ebb  back  to  the  sea : 
Where  it  shall  mingle  with  the  state  of  floods. 
And  flow  henceforth  in  formal  majesty. 
Now  call  we  our  high  court  of  parliament : 
And  let  us  choose  such  limbs  of  noble  council. 
That  the  great  body  of  our  state  may  go 
In  equal  rank  with  the  best  govern'd  nation  ; 
That  war,  or  peace,  or  both  at  once,  may  be 

As  things  acquainted  and  familiar  to  us ; 

In  which  you,  father,  shall  have  foremost  hand. 

[To  the  LoRn  Chief  Justice. 
Our  coronation  done,  we  will  accite  ', 
As  I  before  remember'd,  all  our  state : 
And  (heaven  consigning  to  my  good  intents) 
No  prince,  nor  peer,  shall  have  just  cause  to  say,  — 
Heaven  shorten  Harry's  happy  life  one  day. 

[Exeunt. 

'  In  your  regal  character  and  office.  2  Sunmion 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


423 


SCENE    III Glostershlre.       The    Garden   of 

Shallow's  House, 

Enter  Falstaff,   Shallow,  Silence,  Bardolph, 
the  Page,  and  Davy. 

Shal.  Nay,  you  shall  see  mine  orchard :  where,  in 
an  arbour,  we  will  eat  a  last  year's  pippin  of  my  own 
graffing,  with  a  dish  of  carraways,  and  so  forth  ;  — 
come,  cousin  Silence ;  —  and  then  to  bed. 

Fal.  You  have  here  a  goodly  dwelling,  and  a  rich. 
iS7ia/.    Barren,  barren,  barren ;  beggars  all,  beg- 
gars all,  sir  John  :  —  marry,   good  sir.  —  Spread, 
Davy ;  spread,  Davy ;  well  said,  Davy. 

Fal.  This  Davy  serves  you  for  good  uses ;  he  is 
your  serving-man,  and  your  husbandman. 

Shal.   A  good  varlet,  a  good  varlet,  a  very  good 
varlet,  sir  John.  —  By  the  mass,  I  have  drunk  too 
much  sack  at  supper  ;  —  A  good  varlet.     Now  sit 
down,  now  sit  down :  —  come,  cousin. 
Sil.   Ah,  sirrah  !  quoth-a,  —  we  shall 
Do  nothing  but  eat,  and  make  good  cheer, 

[Singing. 
uind  praise  heaven  Jor  the  merry  year  ; 
So  merrily. 
And  ever  among  so  merrily. 
Fal.    There's   a   merry   heart !  —  Good   master 
Silence,  I'll  give  you  a  health  for  that  anon. 
Shal.    Give  master  Bardolph  some  wine,  Davy. 
Davy.    Sweet  sir,  sit ;    [Seating  Bardolph  and 
the  Page  at  another  /aWe.]    I'll  be  with  you  anon  ;  — 

most  sweet  sir,  sit. Master  page,  good  roaster 

page,  sit :  prqface  1 '  What  you  want  in  meat,  we'll 
have  in  drink.  But  you  must  bear;  the  heart's 
all.  [ExU. 

Shal.  Be  merry,  master  Bardolph  :  —  and  my 
little  soldier  there,  be  merry. 

Sil.     J3e  merry,  be  merry,  my  wife\  as  all ; 

[Singing. 
For  women  are  shrews,  both  short  and  tall  ; 
'  Tis  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all. 

And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide. 
Be  merry,  be  merry,  ^c. 
Fal.   I  did  not  think  master  Silence  had  been  a 
man  of  this  mettle. 

SU.  Who,  I  ?  I  have  been  merry  twice  and  once, 
ere  now. 

Re-eixter  Davt. 
Davy.   There  is  a  dish  of  leather-coats'*  for  you. 

\Setting  thenX  before  Bardolph. 
Shal.   Davy, — 

Davy.  Your  worship  ?  —  I'll  be  with  you  straight. 
[To  Bard.]  —  A  cup  of  wine,  sir  ? 

Sil.  A  cup  of  wine,  that's  brisk  and  fine, 

[Singing. 
And  dnnk  unto  the  lady  mine  ; 
And  a  merry  heart  lives  long-a. 
Fal.   Well  said,  master  Silence. 
Sil.    And  we  shall  be  merry  ;  —  now  comes  in 
the  sweet  of  the  night. 

Fal.  Health  and  long  life  to  you,  master  Silence. 
Sil.   Fill  the  cup,  and  let  it  come  ; 

ril  pledge  you  a  mile  to  the  bottom. 
•  5// a/.  Honest  Bardolph,  welcome  :  If  thouwantest 
any  thing,  and  wilt  not  call,  beshrew  tliy  heart.  — 
Welcome,  my  little  tiny  tliicf;  [To  the  Page.^  and 
wtlcome,  indeed,  too.  —  I'll  drink  to  master  Bar- 
dul])h,  and  to  all  the  cavaleroes  about  London. 

'  Italian,  much  goo<l  may  it  do  you. 
♦  Apples  commonly  callwl  russctines. 


Davy.   I  hope  to  see  London  once  ere  I  die. 

Bard.    An  I  might  see  you  there,  Davy,  — 

ShcU.  By  the  mass,  you'll  crack  a  quart  together. 
Ha !  will  you  not,  master  Bardolph  ? 

Bard.   Yes,  sir,  in  a  pottle  pot. 

Shal.  I  thank  thee  :  —  The  knave  will  stick  by 
thee,  I  can  assure  thee  that :  he  will  not  out :  he  is 
true  bred. 

Bard.    And  I'll  stick  by  him,  sir. 

Shal.  Why,  there  spoke  a  king.  Lack  nothing : 
be  merry.  [KnockiTig  heard.]  Look  who's  at  door 
there  :    Ho  !  who  knocks  ?  [Bxil  Davy. 

Fal.  Why,  now  you  have  done  me  right. 

[  To  Silence,  ivho  drinks  a  bumper, 

Sil.  Do  me  right,  [Singing 

And  dub  me  knight  *  .• 
Samingo.  ^ 
Is't  not  so  ? 

Fal.  "Tis  so. 

Sil.  Is't  so  ?  Why,  then  say,  an  old  man  can  do 
somewhat. 

Re-enter  Davy. 

Davy.  An  it  please  your  worship,  there's  one  Pistol 
come  from  the  court  with  news. 

Fal.   From  the  court !  let  him  come  in.  — 

Enter  Pistol. 
How  now.  Pistol  ? 

Pist.   Save  you,  sir  John  ! 

Fal.   What  wind  blew  you  hither,  Pistol  ? 

Pist,  Not  the  ill  wind  which  blows  no  man  to 
good.  —  Sweet  knight,  thou  art  now  one  of  the 
greatest  men  in  the  realm. 

Sil.  By'r  lady,  I  think  'a  be  j  but  goodman  Puff 
of  Barson. 

Pist.   Puff? 
Puff  in  thy  teeth,  most  recreant  coward  base  !  — 
Sir  John,  I  am  thy  Pistol,  and  thy  friend, 
And  helter-skelter  have  I  rode  to  thee  ; 
And  tidings  do  I  bring,  and  lucky  joys. 
And  golden  times,  and  happy  news  of  price. 

Fal.  I  pr'ythee  now,  deliver  them  like  a  man  of 
this  world. 

Pist.  A  fico  for  the  world,  and  worldlings  base  !• 
I  speak  of  Africa,  and  golden  joys. 

Fal.  O  base  Assyrian  knight,  what  is  thy  news? 
Let  king  Cophetua  know  the  truth  thereof. 

Sil.  Afid  Robin  Hood,  Scarlet,  and  John.   [Sings. 

Pist.    Shall  dunghill  curs  confront  the  Helicons? 
And  shall  good  news  be  baffled  ? 
Then,  Pistol,  lay  thy  head  in  Furies'  lap. 

Shal.  Honest  gentleman,  I  know  not  your  breeding. 

Pist.   Why  then,  lament  therefore. 

Shal.  Give  me  pardon,  sir; —  If,  sir,  you  come 
with  news  from  the  court,  I  take  it,  there  is  but 
two  ways ;  either  to  utter  them,  or  to  conceal  them. 
I  am,  sir,  under  the  king,  in  some  authority. 

Pist.  Under  which  king,  Bezonian  ?  speak,  or  die, 

Shal.   Under  king  Harry. 

Pist.  Harry  the  fourth  ?  or  fifth  ? 

Shal.    Harr>'  tlie  fourth. 

Pist.  A  fico  for  thine  office  !  — 

Sir  John,  thy  tender  lambkin  now  is  king  ; 
Harry  the  fifth's  the  man.      I  speak  the  truth : 
When  Pistol  lies,  do  this ;  and  fig  me,  like 
Tiie  bragging  Spaniard. 

■*  He  who  drank  a  bum|>or  on  his  knees,  to  the  health  of  his 
mistress,  was  «lut>l)'d  a  knight  for  the  evening 

^  It  should  Ix^  Domingo:  it  is  (wrt  of  a  song  m  one  of  Nasbe's 
plays. 


426 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  V. 


.    Fal.  What!  is  the  old  king  dead ? 

Pist.  As  nail  in  door :  the  things  I  speak,  are  just. 

Fal.  Away,  Bardolph  ;  saddle  my  horse. —  Master 
Robert  Shallow,  choose  what  office  thou  wilt  in  the 
land,  'tis  thine.  —  Pistol,  I  will  double-charge  thee 
with  dignities. 

Bard.  O  joyful  day  !  —  I  would  not  take  a  knight- 
hood for  my  fortune. 

Pist.   What  ?  I  do  bring  good  news  ? 

Fal.  Carry  master  Silence  to  bed.  —  Master 
Shallow,  my  lord  Shallow,  be  what  thou  wilt,  I  am 
fortune's  steward.  Get  on  thy  boots ;  we'll  ride 
all  night :  —  O,  sweet  Pistol :  —  Away  Bardolph. 
l^Exit  Bard.]  —  Come,  Pistol,  utter  more  to  me; 
and  withal,  devise  something,  to  do  thyself  good.  — 
Boot,  boot,  master  Shallow ;  I  know,  the  young 
king  is  sick  for  me.  Let  us  take  any  man's  horses ; 
the  laws  of  England  are  at  my  commandment. 
Happy  are  they  which  have  been  my  friends  ;  and 
woe  to  my  lord  chief  justice  ! 

Pist.   Let  vultures,  vile  seize  on  his  lungs  also  ! 
Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led,  say  they  : 
Why,  here  it  is  ;  Welcome  these  pleasant  days. 

\_Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV.  —  A  public  Place  near  Westminster 
Abbey. 

Enter  two  Grooms,  strewing  Bushes. 

1  Groom.   More  rushes,  more  rushes. 

2  Groom.   The  trumpets  have  sounded  twice. 

1  Groom.  It  will  be  two  o'clock  ere  they  come 
from  the  coronation  :   Despatch,  despatch. 

[Exeunt  Grooms. 
Enter  Falstaff,  Shallow,  Pistol,  Bardolph, 
and  the  Page. 

Fal.  Stand  here  by  me,  master  Robert  Shallow ; 
I  will  make  the  king  do  you  grace  :  I  will  leer  upon 
him,  as  'a  comes  by  ;  and  do  but  mark  the  counte- 
nance that  he  will  give  me. 

Pist.   Bless  thy  lungs,  good  knight. 

Fal.  Come  here.  Pistol ;  stand  behind  me.  —  O, 
if  I  had  had  time  to  have  made  new  liveries,  I  would 
have  bestowed  the  thousand  pound  I  borrowed  of 
you.  [To  Shallow.]  But 'tis  no  matter ;  this  poor 
show  doth  better :  this  doth  infer  the  zeal  I  had  to 
see  him. 

Shal.  It  doth  so. 

Fal.  It  shows  my  earnestness  of  affection. 

Shal.   It  doth  so. 

Fal.   My  devotion. 

Shal.   It  doth,  it  doth,  it  doth. 

Fal.  As  it  were,  to  ride  day  and  night ;  and  not 
to  deliberate,  not  to  remember,  not  to  have  patience 
to  shift  me. 

Shal.   It  is  most  certain. 

Fal.  But  to  stand  stained  with  travel,  and  sweating 
with  desire  to  see  him :  thinking  of  nothing  else ; 
putting  all  affairs  else  in  oblivion  ;  as  if  there  were 
nothing  else  to  be  done,  but  to  see  him. 

Pist.  'Tis  semper  idem,  for  absque  hoc  nihil  est"^  : 
*Tis  all  in  every  part. 

Shal.  'Tis  so  indeed. 

[Shouts  within,  and  the  Trumpets  sound. 

Pist.   There  roar'd  the  sea,  the  trtunpet-clangor 
sounds. 

Enter  the  King  and  his  Train,  the  Chief  Justice 
among  them. 
Fal.  God  save  thy  grace,  king  Hal !  my  royal  Hal ! 
7  'Tis  all  in  all,  and  all  in  every  part. 


Pist.  The  heavens  thee  guard  and  keep,  most 
royal  imp  of  fame  ! 

Fal.   God  save  thee,  my  sweet  boy  ! 

JKing.   My  lord  chief  justice,  speak  to  that  vain 
man. 

Ch.  Just.  Have  you  yovu"  wits  ?  know  you  what 
'tis  you  speak  ? 

Fal.  My  king !  my  Jove  !  I  speak  to  thee,  my 
heart ! 

I^ng.   I  know  thee  not,  old  man :    Fall  to  tliy 
prayers ; 
How  ill  white  hairs  become  a  fool,  and  jester  ! 
I  have  long  dream'd  of  such  a  kind  of  man. 
So  surfeit-swell'd,  so  old,  and  so  profane ; 
But,  being  awake,  I  do  despise  my  dream. 
Make  less  thy  body,  hence  8,  and  more  thy  grace  ; 
Leave  gormandizing ;  know,  the  grave  doth  gape 
For  thee  thrice  wider  than  for  other  men : 
Reply  not  to  me  with  a  fool-bom  jest ; 
Presume  not,  that  I  am  the  thing  I  was  , 
For  heaven  doth  know,  so  shall  the  world  perceive, 
That  I  have  turn'd  away  my  former  self ; 
So  will  I  those  that  kept  me  company. 
When  thou  dost  hear  I  am  as  I  have  been, 
Approach  me ;  and  thou  shalt  be  as  thou  wast, 
The  tutor  and  the  feeder  of  my  riots  : 
Till  then,  I  banish  thee,  on  pain  of  death,  — 
As  I  have  done  the  rest  of  my  misleaders,  — 
Not  to  come  near  our  person  by  ten  miles. 
For  competence  of  life,  I  will  allow  you. 
That  lack  of  means  enforce  you  not  to  evil : 
And,  as  we  hear  you  do  reform  yourselves, 
We  will,  —  according  to  your  strength,  and  qua- 
lities, — 
Give  you  advancement,  —  Be  it  your  charge,  my 

lord. 
To  see  performed  the  tenor  of  our  word.  — 
Set  on.  [Exeunt  King,  and  his  Train. 

Fal.  Master  Shallow,  I  owe  you  a  thousand 
pound. 

Shal.  Ay,  marry,  sir  John ;  which  I  beseech  you 
to  let  me  have  home  with  me. 

Fal.  That  can  hardly  be,  master  Shallow.  Do 
not  you  grieve  at  this  ;  I  shall  be  sent  for  in  private 
to  him  :  look  you,  he  must  seem  thus  to  the  world. 
Fear  not  your  advancement ;  I  will  be  the  man  yet, 
that  shall  make  you  great. 

Shal.  I  cannot  perceive  how ;  unless  you  give 
me  your  doublet,  and  stuff  me  out  with  straw.  I 
beseech  you,  good  sir  John,  let  me  have  five  hundred 
of  my  thousand. 

Fal  Sir,  I  will  be  as  good  as  my  word :  this  that 
you  heard,  was  but  a  colour. 

Shal.  A  colour,  I  fear,  that  you  will  die  in,  sir 
John. 

Fal.  Fear  no  colours ;  go  with  me  to  dinner, 
Come,  lieutenant  Pistol ;  —  come,  Bardolph  :  —  I 
shall  be  sent  for  soon  at  night.  [Exeunt. 

Be-enter  Prince  John,  the  Chief  Justice, 
Queers,  ^c. 
P.  John.   I  like  this  fair  proceeding  of  the  king's; 
He  hath  intent,  his  wonted  followers 
Shall  all  be  very  well  provided  for ; 
But  all  are  banish'd,  till  their  conversations 
Appear  more  wise  and  modest  to  the  world. 
Ch.  Just.    And  so  they  are. 

P.  John.   The  king  hath  call'd  his  parliament,  my 
lord. 

"  Henceforward. 


y 

1 


II 


Scene  V. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


427 


Ch.  Juat^   He  hath. 

P.  John.   I    will  lay  odds,  —  that  ere  this  year 
expire, 
We  bear  our  civil  swords,  and  native  fire, 


As  far  as  France  :   I  heard  a  bird  so  sing. 
Whose  musick,  to  my  thinking,  pleas'd  the  king. 
Come,  will  you  hence  ? 

[Exeunt, 


EPILOGUE.  ■—  Spoken  by  a  Dancer. 


First,  my  fear ;  then,  my  court' sy ;  last,  my 
speech.  My  fear  is,  your  displeasure  j  my  court' sy, 
my  duty ;  and  my  speech,  to  beg  your  pardons.  If 
you  look  for  a  good  speech  now,  you  undo  me :  for 
what  I  have  to  say,  is  of  mine  otun  making ;  and 
what,  indeed,  I  should  say,  will,  I  doubt,  prove  mine 
own  marring.  But  to  the  purpose,  and  so  to  the 
venture.  — Be  it  known  to  you,  (as  it  is  very  well,) 
I  was  lately  here  in  the  end  of  a  displeasing  play,  to 
pray  your  patience  for  it,  and  to  promise  you  a 
better.  I  did  m£an,  indeed,  to  pay  you  udth  this  ; 
which,  if,  like  an  ill  venture,  it  come  unluckily  hom^, 
I  break,  and  you,  my  gentle  creditors  lose.  Here,  I 
promised  you^  I  would  be,  and  here  I  commit  my 
body  to  your  mercies  :  bate  me  some,  and  I  will  pay 
you  some,  and  as  mrost  debtors  do,  promise  you 
iri/initely. 

If  my  tongue  cannot  entreat  you  to  acquit  me,  will 
you  command  me  to  use  my  legs  ?  and  yet  that  were 


but  light  payment, — to  dance  out  of  your  debt.  But 
a  good  conscience  mil  make  any  possible  satisfaction, 
and  so  will  I.  All  the  gentlewomen  here  have  for- 
given me :  if  the  gentlemen  "will  not,  then  the  gentle- 
men do  not  agree  with  the  gentlewomen,  which  was 
never  seen  before  in  such  an  assembly. 

One  word  more,  I  beseech  you.  If  you  be  not  too 
much  cloyed  tvith  fat  ment,  our  humble  author  will 
continue  the  story,  with  sir  John  in  it,  and  make  you 
merry  with  fair  Katharine  of  France :  where,  for 
any  thing  I  know,  Falstaff  shaU  die  of  a  sweat,  unless 
already  he  be  killed  with  your  hard  ojnninns ;  for 
Oldcastle  died  a  martyr,  and  this  is  not  the  man. 
My  tongue  is  weary ;  when  my  legs  are  too,  I  will 
bid  you  good  night :  and  so  kneel  down  before  you  ; 
—  but,  indeed,  to  pray  for  the  queen.  9 

B  Most  of  the  ancient  interludes  conclude  with  a  prayer  for 
the  king  or  queen.  Hence,  perhaps,  the  Vivant  Rex  S(  Regina, 
at  the  bottom  of  our  modern  play.bills. 


b 


I 


% 


u 


KING   HENRY   V. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  Henry  the  Fifth. 

Duke  of  Gloster,  T  „    ,,       ^    i.     v 
,^  o  >  Brothers  to  the  King. 

Duke  OF  Bedford,  J  * 

Duke  of  Exeter,  Uncle  to  the  King. 
Duke  of  York,  Cousin  to  tlie  King. 
Earls  of  Salisbury,  Westmoreland,  and  War- 
wick. 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
Bishop  of  Ely. 

Earl  of  Cambridge,  ")  „        .    ^  •     ,       i 

Lord  Scroop,  \  Conspirator s^^^against     the 

Sir  Thomas  Grey,     J  °' 

Sir   Thomas    Erpingham,     Gower,     Fluellen, 

Macmorris,    Jamy,     Officers    in    King 

Henry's  army. 
Bates,  Court,  Williams,  Soldiers  in  the  same. 
Nym,    Bardolph,    Pistol,  formerly    Servants  to 

Falstaff,  now  Soldiers  in  the  same. 
Boy,  Servant  to  them. 

T/ie  SCENE,  at  tfie  beginning  of  the  play,  lies 


A  Herald. 
Chorus. 

Charles  the  Sixth,  King  of  France. 

Lewis,  the  Dauphin. 

Dukes  of  Burgundy,  Orleans,  and  Bourbon. 

The  Constable  of  France. 

Rambures,  and  Grandpree,  French  Lords. 

Governor  of  Harfleur. 

MoNTJOY,  a  French  Herald. 

Ambassadors  to  the  King  of  England. 

Isabel,  Queen  of  France. 
Katharine,  Daughter  of  Charles  and  Isabel. 
Alice,  a  Lady  attending  on  the  Princess  Katharine 
Quickly,  Pistol's  Wife,  an  Hostess. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Officers,  French  and  English  Soldiers 
Messengers,  and  Attendants, 
in  England ;  bu^  afterwards  wholly  in  France. 


FAIR   KaIHAFl^ 


ANIJ    MOST    FAIR  : 


KING    HENRY    V. 


Enter  Chorus. 

O,  for  a  muse  of  fire  that  would  ascend 
The  brightest  heaven  of  invention  ! 
A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act, 
And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene  ! 
Tlien  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself. 
Assume  the  port  of  Mars  ;  and  at  his  heels, 
Leash'd  in  like  hounds,  should  famine,  sword,  and 

fire. 
Crouch  for  employment.      But  pardon,  gentles  all. 
The  flat  unraised  spirit,  that  hath  dar'd, 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold,  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object :    Can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France,  or  may  we  cram 
Within  the  wooden  O  ',  the  very  casques  '•, 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt  ? 
O,  pardon !  since  a  crooked  figure  may 

'  An  illusion  to  the  circular  form  of  the  theatre. 
2  Helmets. 


Attest,  in  little  place,  a  million  ; 

And  let  us,  ciphers  to  this  great  accompt. 

On  your  imaginary  forces  3  work  ; 

Suppose,  within  the  girdle  of  these  walls. 

Are  now  confin'd  two  mighty  monarchies, 

Whose  high  upreared  and  abutting  fronts 

The  perilous,  narrow  ocean  parts  asunder. 

Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts  , 

Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man. 

And  make  imaginary  puissance  : 

Think,  when  we  talk  of  horses,  that  you  see  them 

Printing  their  proud  hoofs  i'  the  receiving  earth  : 

For  'tis  your  thoughts  that  now  must  deck  our  kings. 

Carry  them  here  and  there  ;  jumping  o'er  times ; 

Turning  the  accomplishment  of  many  years 

Into  an  hour-glass  ;   For  the  which  supply. 

Admit  me  Chorus  to  this  history  ; 

Who,  prologue-like,  your  humble  patience  pray, 

Gently  to  hear,  kindly  to  judge,  our  play. 

3  Powers  of  fancy. 


Act  I.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


429 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.  —  London.     An  Ante-chamber  in  the 
King'i  Palace. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  Bishop 
OF  Ely. 

Cant.   My  lord,  I'U  tell  you,  —  that  self  bill  is 
urg'd, 
Which,  in  the  eleventh  year  o'  the  last  king's  reign. 
Was  like,  and  had  indeed  against  us  pass'd. 
But  that  the  scambling  and  unquiet  time 
Did  push  it  out  of  further  question. 

J?/y.    But  how,  my  lord,  shall  we  resist  it  now  ? 
Cant.   It  must  be  thought  on.     If  it  pass  against 
us. 
We  lose  the  better  half  of  our  possession  : 
For  all  the  temporal  lands,  which  men  devout 
By  testament  have  given  to  the  church. 
Would  they  strip  from  us  ;  being  valued  thus,  — 
As  much  as  would  maintain,  to  the  king's  honour. 
Full  fifteen  earls,  and  fifteen  hundred  knights ; 
Six  thousand  and  two  hundred  good  esquires ; 
And,  to  relief  of  lazars,  and  weak  age. 
Of  indigent  faint  souls,  past  corporal  toil, 
A  hundred  alms-houses,  right  well  supplied ; 
And  to  the  coffers  of  the  king  beside, 
A  thousand  pounds  by  the  year :   Tlius  runs  the  bill. 
nil/.   Tliis  would  drink  deep. 
Cant.  'Twould  drink  the  cup  and  all. 

Ell/.   But  what  prevention  ? 
Cant.   Tlie  king  is  full  of  grace  and  fair  regard. 
£li/.   And  a  true  lover  of  the  holy  church. 
Ca7it.   The  courses  of  his  youth  promis'd  it  not. 
The  breath  no  sooner  left  his  father's  body. 
But  that  his  vvildness,  mortified  in  him, 
Seem'd  to  die  too :   yea,  at  that  very  moment, 
Consideration  like  an  angel  came. 
And  whipp'd  the  offending  Adam  out  of  him  ; 
Ivcaving  his  body  as  a  paradise. 
To  envelop  and  contain  celestial  spirits. 
Never  was  such  a  sudden  scholar  made  : 
Never  came  reformation  in  a  flood, 
With  such  a  heady  current,  scouring  faults ; 
Nor  never  hydra-headed  wilfulness 
So  soon  did  lose  his  seat,  and  all  at  once, 
As  in  this  king. 
J^fj/-  We  are  blessed  in  the  change. 

Cant.    Hear  him  but  reason  in  divinity. 
And,  all-admiring,  with  an  inward  wish 
You  would  desire,  the  king  were  made  a  prelate : 
Hear  him  debate  of  commonwealth  affairs, 
You  would  say,  — it  hath  been  all-in-all  his  study  : 
List  '  his  discourse  of  war,  and  you  sliall  hear 
A  fearful  battle  render'd  you  in  musick  : 
Turn  him  to  any  cause  of  policy. 
The  Gordian  knot  of  it  he  will  unloose, 
Familiar  as  his  garter  ;  that,  when  he  speaks. 
The  air,  a  charter'd  libertine,  is  still, 
And  the  mute  wonder  lurketh  in  men's  ears. 
To  steal  his  sweet  and  honeyed  sentences ; 
So  that  the  art  and  practick  part  of  life 
Must  be  the  mistress  to  this  iheorick  : 
Which  is  a  wonder,  how  his  grace  should  glean  it. 
Since  his  addiction  was  to  courses  vain  : 
His  companies  unletter'd,  rude,  and  shallow  ; 
•  Listen  tn. 


His  hours  fill'd  up  with  riots,  banquets,  sports ; 
And  never  noted  in  him  any  study. 
Any  retirement,  any  sequestration 
From  open  haunts  and  popularity. 

Ell/.  The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle  j 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best, 
Neighbour'd  by  fruit  of  baser  quality  : 
And  so  the  prince  obscur'd  his  contemplation 
Under  the  veil  of  wildness  ;  which,  no  doubt. 
Grew  like  the  summer  grass,  fastest  by  night. 
Unseen,  yet  crescive  '-^  in  his  faculty. 

Cant.   It  must  be  so  :  for  miracles  are  ceas'd  ; 
And  therefore  we  must  needs  admit  the  means. 
How  things  are  perfected. 

■Eli/.  But,  my  good  lord. 

How  now  for  mitigation  of  this  bill 
Urg'd  by  the  commons  ?   Doth  his  majesty 
Incline  to  it,  or  no  ? 

Ca7it.  He  seems  indifferent. 

Or,  rather,  swaying  more  upon  our  part. 
Than  cherishing  the  exhibiters  against  us  : 
For  I  have  made  an  offer  to  his  majesty,  — 
Upon  our  spiritual  convocation ; 
And  in  regard  of  causes  now  in  hand. 
Which  I  have  open'd  to  his  grace  at  large. 
As  touching  France,  —  to  give  a  greater  sum 
Than  ever  at  one  time  the  clergy  yet 
Did  to  his  predecessors  part  withal. 

Ely.   How  did  this  offer  seem  receiv'd,  my  lord  ? 
Cant.   With  good  acceptance  of  his  majesty ; 
Save,  that  there  was  not  time  enough  to  hear 
(As,  I  perceiv'd,  his  grace  would  fain  have  done,) 
The  severals,  and  unhidden  passages. 
Of  his  true  titles  to  some  certain  dukedoms  ; 
And,  generally,  the  crown  and  seat  of  France, 
Deriv'd  from  Edward,  his  great  grandfather. 

Ell/.  What  was  the  impediment  that  broke  this  oflT? 
Cant.   The  French  ambassador,  upon  that  instant, 
Crav'd  audience :   and  the  hour,  I  think,  is  come, 
To  give  him  hearing  :   Is  it  four  o'clock  ? 

Ell/.  It  is. 

Cant.   Then  go  we  in,  to  know  his  embassy ; 
Which  I  could,  with  a  ready  guess,  declare. 
Before  the  Frenchman  speak  a  word  of  it. 
Ell/.   I'll  wait  upon  you  ;  and  I  long  to  hear  it. 

[Exeunt, 
SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  of  State  in  the  same. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  Bedford,  Exeter, 
Warwick,  Westmoreland,  and  Attendants. 
K.  Hen.   Where  is  my  gracious  lord  of  Canter- 
bury ? 
Exe.   Not  here  in  presence. 
K.  Hen.    Send  for  him,  good  uncle. 
West.    Shall  we  call  in  the  ambassador,  my  liege? 
A".  Hen.    Not  yet,  my  cousin ;  we  would  be  re- 
solv'd, 
Before  we  hear  him,  of  some  things  of  weight. 
That  task  our  thoughts,  concerning  us  and  France. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  or  Canterbury,  and  Bishop 
OF  Ely. 
Cant.   God,  and  his  angels,  guard  your  sacred 
throne, 
And  make  you  long  become  it ! 
*  Increasing, 


430 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  I. 


JT.  Hen.  Sure,  we  thank  you. 

My  learned  lord,  we  pray  you  to  proceed  ; 
And  justly  and  religiously  unfold, 
Why  the  law  Salique,  that  they  have  in  France, 
Or  should,  or  should  not,  bar  us  in  our  claim. 
And  heaven  forbid,  my  dear  and  faithful  lord. 
That  you  should  fashion,  wrest,  or  bow  your  reading. 
Or  nicely  charge  your  understanding  soul 
With  opening  titles  miscreate,  whose  right 
Suits  not  in  native  colours  with  the  truth ; 
For  heaven  doth  know,  how  many,  now  in  health, 
Shall  drop  their  blood  in  approbation 
Of  what  your  reverence  shall  incite  us  to  : 
Therefore  take  heed  how  you  impawn  our  person. 
How  you  awake  the  sleeping  sword  of  war  j 
We  charge  you  in  the  name  of  God,  take  heed : 
For  never  two  such  kingdoms  did  contend. 
Without  much  fall  of  blood ;  whose  guiltless  drops 
Are  every  one  a  woe,  a  sore  complaint, 
'Gainst  him,  whose  wrongs  give  edge  unto  the  swords 
That  make  such  waste  in  brief  mortality. 
Under  this  conjuration,  speak,  my  lord : 
And  we  will  hear,  note,  and  believe  in  heart. 
That  what  you  speak  is  in  your  conscience  wash'd 
As  pure  as  sin  with  baptism. 
^  Cant.   Then  hear  me,  gracious  sovereign,  —  and 

you  peers, 
That  owe  your  lives,  your  faith,  and  services. 
To  this  imperial  throne  ;  —  There  is  no  bar 
To  make  against  your  highness'  claim  to  France, 
But  this  which  they  produce  from  Pharamond,  — 
Jn  terram  Salicam  mulieres  ne  succedant. 
No  woman  shall  succeed  in  Salique  land  : 
Which  Salique  land  the  French  unjustly  gloze^, 
To  be  the  realm  of  France,  and  Pharamond 
The  founder  of  this  law  and  female  bar. 
let  their  own  autliors  faithfully  affirm, 
That  the  land  Salique  lies  in  Germany, 
Between  the  floods  of  Sala  and  of  Elbe  : 
Where  Charles  the  great,  having  subdued  the  Saxons, 
There  left  behind  and  settled  certain  French  ; 
Who,  holding  in  disdain  the  German  women. 
For  some  dishonest  manners  of  their  life, 
Establish'd  there  this  law,  —  to  wit,  no  female 
Should  be  inheritrix  in  Salique  land  ; 
Which  Salique,  as  I  said,  'twixt  Elbe  and  Sala, 
Is  at  this  day  in  Germany  call'd  —  Meisen. 
Thus  doth  it  well  appear,  the  Salique  law 
Was  not  devised  for  the  realm  of  France  : 
Nor  did  the  French  possess  the  Salique  land 
Until  four  hundred  one  and  twenty  years 
After  defunction  of  king  Pharamond, 
Idly  suppos'd  the  founder  of  this  law  : 
Who  died  within  the  year  of  our  redemption 
Four  hundred  twenty-six  ;  and  Charles  the  great 
Subdued  the  Saxons,  and  did  seat  the  French 
Beyond  the  river  Sala,  in  the  year 
Eight  hundred  five.      Besides,  their  writers  say, 
King  Pepin,  which  deposed  Childerick, 
Did,  as  heir-general,  being  descended 
Of  Blithild,  which  was  daughter  to  king  Clothair, 
Make  claim  and  title  to  the  crown  of  France. 
Hugh  Capet  also,  —  that  usurp'd  the  crown 
Of  Charles  the  duke  of  Lorain,  sole  heir  male 
Of  the  true  line  and  stock  of  Charles  the  great,  — 
To  fine  4  his  title  with  some  show  of  truth, 
(Though,  in  pure  truth,  it  was  corrupt  and  naught,) 
Convey'd  himself  *  as  heir  to  the  lady  Lingare, 

3  Explain.  4  Make  showy  or  specious. 

*  Derived  his  title. 


Daughter  to  Charlemain,  who  was  the  son 
To  Lewis  the  emperor,  and  Lewis  the  son 
Of  Charles  the  great.      Also  king  Lewis  the  tenth. 
Who  was  sole  heir  to  the  usurper  Capet, 
.  Could  not  keep  quiet  in  his  conscience. 
Wearing  the  crown  of  France,  till  satisfied 
That  fair  queen  Isabel,  his  grandmother. 
Was  lineal  of  the  lady  Ermengare, 
Daughter  to  Charles  the  foresaid  duke  of  Lorain  : 
By  the  which  marriage,  the  line  of  Charles  the  great 
Was  re-united  to  the  crown  of  France. 
So  that,  as  clear  as  is  the  summer's  sun. 
King  Pepin's  title,  and  Hugh  Capet's  claim, 
King  Lewis  his  satisfaction,  all  appear 
To  hold  in  right  and  title  of  the  female : 
So  do  the  kings  of  France  unto  this  day ; 
Howbeit  they  would  hold  up  this  Salique  law. 
To  bar  your  highness  claiming  from  the  female ; 
And  rather  choose  to  hide  them  in  a  net. 
Than  amply  to  imbare  ^  their  crooked  titles 
Usurp'd  from  you  and  your  progenitors. 

II.  Hen.   May  I,  with  right  and  conscience,  make 
this  claim  ? 

Cant.  The  sin  upon  my  head,  dread  sovereign  ! 
For  in  the  book  of  Numbers  is  it  writ,  — 
When  the  son  dies,  let  the  inheritance 
Descend  unto  the  daughter.      Gracious  lord. 
Stand  for  your  own  ;  unwind  your  bloody  flag  ; 
Look  back  unto  your  mighty  ancestors : 
Go,  my  dread  lord,  to  your  great  grandsire's  tomb, 
From  whom  you  claim  !  invoke  his  warlike  spirit. 
And  your  great  uncle's,  Edward  the  black  prince  ; 
Who  on  the  French  ground  play'd  a  tragedy, 
Making  defeat  on  the  full  power  of  France  ; 
Whiles  his  most  mighty  father  on  a  hill 
Stood  smiling,  to  behold  his  lion's  whelp 
Forage  in  blood  of  French  nobility.  7 
O  noble  English,  that  could  entertain 
With  half  their  forces  the  full  pride  of  France  ; 
And  let  anotner  half  stand  laughing  by. 
All  out  of  work,  and  cold  for  action  ! 

nil/.   Awake  remembrance  of  these  valiant  dead. 
And  with  your  puissant  arm  renew  their  feats  ; 
You  are  their  heir,  you  sit  upon  their  throne ; 
The  blood  and  courage,  that  renowned  them, 
Runs  in  your  veins  ;  and  my  thrice-puissant  liege 
Is  in  the  very  May-morn  of  his  youth. 
Ripe  for  exploits  and  mighty  enterprizes. 

Exe.  Your  brother  kings  and  monarchs  of  the  earth 
Do  all  expect  that  you  should  rouse  yourself, 
As  did  the  former  lions  of  your  blood. 

West.   They  know  your  grace  hath  cause,  and 
means,  and  might ; 
So  hath  your  highness  ;  never  king  of  England 
Had  nobles  richer,  and  more  loyal  subjects  ; 
Whose  hearts  have  left  their  bodies  here  in  England, 
And  lie  pavilion'd  in  the  fields  of  France. 

Cant.    O,  let  their  bodies  follow,  my  dear  liege. 
With  blood,  and  sword,  and  fire  to  win  your  right : 
In  aid  whereof,  we  of  the  spiritualty 
Will  raise  your  highness  such  a  mighty  sum, 
As  never  did  the  clergy  at  one  time 
Bring  in  to  any  of  your  ancestors. 

JT.  Hen.   We  must  not  only  arm  to  invade  the 
French  ; 
But  lay  down  our  proportions  to  defend 
Against  the  Scot,  who  will  make  road  upon  us 
With  all  advantages. 


•  Lay  open. 


'  At  the  battle  of  Cressy. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


431 


Cant.  They  of  those  marches  8,  gracious  sovereign, 
Shall  be  a  wall  sufficient  to  defend 
Our  inland  from  the  pilfering  borderers. 

K.  Hen.  We  do  not  mean  the  coursing  snatchers 
only, 
But  fear  the  main  intendment  9  of  the  Scot, 
Who  hath  been  still  a  giddy  neighbour  to  us ; 
For  you  shall  read,  tha'.  my  great  grandfather 
Never  went  with  his  forces  into  France, 
But  that  the  Scot  on  his  unfurnished  kingdom 
Came  pouring,  like  the  tide  into  a  breach, 
With  ample  and  brim  fulness  of  his  force ; 
Galling  the  gleaned  land  with  hot  essays ; 
Girding  witli  grievous  siege,  castles  and  towns ; 
That  England,  being  empty  of  defence, 
Hath  shook,  and  trembled  at  the  ill  neighbourhood. 

Cant.  She  hath  been  then  more  fear'd '  than  harm'd, 
my  liege : 
For  hear  her  but  exampled  by  herself,  — 
When  all  her  chivalry  hath  been  in  France, 
And  she  a  mourning  widow  of  her  nobles, 
She  hath  herself  not  only  well  defended. 
But  taken,  and  impounded  as  a  stray. 
The  king  of  Scots,  whom  she  did  send  to  France, — 
To  fill  king  Edward's  fame  with  prisoner  kings  ; 
And  make  your  chronicle  as  rich  with  praise, 
As  is  the  ooze  and  bottom  of  the  sea 
With  sunken  wreck,  and  sumless  treasuries. 

West.  But  there's  a  saying,  very  old  and  true,  — 

If  that  you  will  France  win. 
Then  with  Scotland  Jirst  begin  : 

For  once  the  eagle  England  being  in  prey, 
To  her  unguarded  nest  the  weasel  Scot 
Comes  sneaking,  and  so  sucks  her  princely  eggs  ; 
Playing  the  mouse,  in  absence  of  tlie  cat. 
To  spoil  and  havock  more  than  she  can  eat. 

Exe.   It  follows  then,  the  cat  must  stay  at  home  : 
Yet  that  is  but  a  sad  necessity ; 
Since  we  have  locks  to  safeguard  necessaries, 
And  pretty  traps  to  catch  the  petty  thieves. 
While  that  the  armed  hand  doth  fight  abroad. 
The  advised  head  defends  itself  at  home  : 
For  government,  though  high,  and  low,  and  lower, 
Put  into  parts,  doth  keep  in  one  concent ; 
Congruing  '^  in  a  full  and  natural  close. 
Like  musick. 

Cant.  True :   therefore  doth  heaven  divide 

The  state  of  man  in  divers  functions. 
Setting  endeavour  in  continual  motion  ; 
To  which  is  fixed,  as  an  aim  or  butt. 
Obedience  :   for  so  work  the  honey  bees ; 
Creatures,  that,  by  a  rule  in  nature,  teach 
ITie  act  of  order  to  a  peopled  kingdom. 
Tliey  have  a  king,  and  officers  of  sorts  ^ : 
Where  some,  like  magistrates,  correct  at  home ; 
Others,  like  merchants,  venture  trade  abroad  ; 
Others,  like  soldiers,  armed  in  their  stings. 
Make  boot  upon  the  summer's  velvet  buds  ; 
Which  pillage  they  with  merry  march  bring  home 
To  the  tent-royal  of  their  emperor  : 
Who,  busied  in  his  majesty,  sun-eys 
ITie  singing  masons  building  roofs  of  gold  ; 
The  civil  citizens  kneading  up  the  honey ; 
Tlie  poor  mi  chanick  porters  crowding  in 
Their  heavy  burdens  at  his  narrow  gate  ; 
The  sad-ey'd  justice,  with  his  surly  hum, 

"  The  twrders  of  England  and  Scotland. 

»  General  dinposition.  >  Frightened 

'  Agreeing.  3  DiflTerent  degree*. 


Delivering  o'er  to  Executors  *  pale 

The  lazy  yawning  drone.     I  this  infer,  — 

That  many  things,  having  full  reference 

To  one  concent,  may  work  contrariously  ; 

As  many  arrows,  loosed  several  ways, 

Fly  to  one  mark  ; 

As  many  several  ways  meet  in  one  town  ; 

As  many  fresh  streams  run  in  one  self  sea ; 

As  many  lines  close  in  the  dial's  center ; 

So  may  a  thousand  actions,  once  afoot. 

End  in  one  purpose,  and  be  all  well  borne 

Without  defeat.     Therefore  to  France,  my  liege. 

Divide  your  happy  England  into  four ; 

Whereof  take  you  one  quarter  into  France, 

And  you  withal  shall  make  all  Gallia  shake. 

If  we,  with  thrice  that  power  left  at  home. 

Cannot  defend  our  own  door  from  the  dog, 

Let  us  be  worried  ;  and  our  nation  lose 

The  name  of  hardiness,  and  policy. 

IC.  Hen.    Call  in  the  messengers,  sent  from  the 
dauphin. 

[Exit  an  Attendant.    The  Kino  ascends  his  Throne. 
Now  are  we  well  resolv'd :  and,  —  by  God's  help, 
And  yours,  the  noble  sinews  of  our  power,  — 
France  being  ours,  we'll  bend  it  to  our  awe, 
Or  break  it  all  to  pieces  :   Or  there  we'll  sit, 
Ruling  in  large  and  ample  empery  5, 
O'er  France,  and  all  her  almost  kingly  dukedoms ; 
Or  lay  these  bones  in  an  unworthy  urn, 
Tombless,  with  no  remembrance  over  them  : 
Either  our  history  shall,  with  full  mouth. 
Speak  freely  of  our  acts  ;  or  else  our  grave. 
Like  Turkish  mute,  shall  have  a  tongueless  mouth. 
Not  worshipp*d  with  a  waxen  epitaph. 

Enter  Ambassadors  of  France. 
Now  are  we  well  prepar'd  to  know  the  pleasure 
Of  our  fair  cousin  dauphin  ;  for  we  hear. 
Your  greeting  is  from  him,  not  from  the  king. 

Amh.  May  it  please  your  majesty,  to  give  us  leave 
Freely  to  render  what  we  have  in  charge ; 
Or  shall  we  sparingly  show  you  far  off 
The  dauphin's  meaning,  and  our  embassy  ? 

K.  Hen.   We  are  no  tyrant,  but  a  Christian  king ; 
Under  whose  grace  our  passion  is  a  suliject. 
As  are  our  wretches  fetter'd  in  our  prisons  : 
Therefore,  with  frank  and  with  uncurbed  plainness, 
Tell  us  the  dauphin's  mind. 

Amb.  Thus,  then,  in  few. 

Your  highness,  lately  sending  into  France, 
Did  claim  some  certain  dukedoms,  in  the  right 
Of  your  great  predecessor,  king  Edward  the  third. 
In  answer  of  which  claim,  the  prince  our  master 
Says,  —  that  you  savour  too  much  of  your  youth  ; 
And  bids  you  be  advis'd,  there's  nought  in  France, 
That  can  be  with  a  nimble  galliard*'  won  ; 
You  cannot  revel  into  dukedoms  tliere  : 
He  therefore  sends  you,  meeter  for  your  spirit, 
This  tun  of  treasure  ;  and,  in  lieu  of  this. 
Desires  you,  let  the  dukedoms,  that  you  claim. 
Hear  no  more  of  you.      Tliis  the  dauphin  speaks. 

K.  Hen.   What  treasure,  uncle  ? 

Exe.  Tennis-balls,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.   We  are  glad,  the  dauphin  is  so  pleasant 
with  us ; 
His  present,  and  your  pains,  we  thank  you  for . 
When  we  have  match'd  our  rackets  to  these  balls. 
We  will,  in  France,  by  God's  grace,  play  a  set, 

*  Executioner*.       ^  Dominion.       <  An  ancient  dance 


432 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  II. 


Shall  strike  his  father's  crown  into  the  hazard  7  : 
Tell  him,  he  hath  made  a  match  with  such  a  wrangler, 
That  all  the  courts  of  France  will  be  disturb'd 
With  chaces.3     And  we  understand  him  well. 
How  he  comes  o'er  us  with  our  wilder  days, 
Not  measuring  what  use  we  made  of  them. 
We  never  valu'd  this  poor  seat9  of  England; 
And  therefore,  living  hence  ',  did  give  ourself 
To  barbarous  license  ;   As  'tis  ever  common, 
That  men  are  merriest  Avhen  they  are  from  home. 
But  tell  the  dauphin,  —  I  will  keep  my  state  ; 
Be  like  a  king,  and  show  my  sail  of  greatness. 
When  I  do  rouse  me  in  my  throne  of  France  : 
For  that  I  have  laid  by  my  majesty, 
And  plodded  like  a  man  for  working-days ; 
But  I  will  rise  there  with  so  full  a  glory, 
That  I  will  dazzle  all  the  eyes  of  France, 
Yea,  strike  the  dauphin  blind  to  look  on  us. 
And  tell  the  pleasant  prince,  —  this  mock  of  his 
Hath  turn'd  his  balls  to  gun-stones  ;  and  his  soul 
Shall  stand  sore  charged  for  the  wasteful  vengeance 
That  shall  fly  with  them :  for  many  a  thousand  widows 
Shall  this  his  mock  mock  out  of  their  dear  husbands  ; 
Mock  mothers  from  their  sons,  mock  castles  down ; 
And  some  are  yet  ungotten,  and  unborn, 
Tliat  shall  have  cause  to  curse  the  dauphin's  scorn. 


But  this  lies  all  witliin  the  will  of  God, 
To  whom  I  do  appeal ;  and  in  whose  name, 
Tell  you  the  dauphin,  I  am  coming  on. 
To  venge  me  as  I  may,  and  to  put  forth 
My  rightful  hand  in  a  well-hallow'd  cause. 
So,  get  you  hence  in  peace ;  and  tell  the  dauphin. 
His  jest  will  savour  but  of  shallow  wit, 
When  thousands  weep,  more  than  did  laugh  at  it,  — 
Convey  them  with  safe  conduct.  —  Fare  you  well. 
[Exeunt  Ambassadors. 

Uxe.   This  was  a  merry  message. 

K.  Hen.  We  hope  to  make  the  sender  blush  at  it. 
[Descends from  his  Throne. 
Therefore,  my  lords,  omit  no  happy  hour, 
Tliat  may  give  furtherance  to  our  expedition : 
For  we  have  now  no  thought  in  us  but  France ; 
Save  those  to  heaven,  that  run  before  our  business. 
Therefore,  let  our  proportions  for  these  wars 
Be  soon  collected :   and  all  things  thought  upon, 
That  may  with  reasonable  swiftness,  add 
More  feathers  to  our  wings ;  for,  God  before, 
We'll  chide  this  dauphin  at  his  father's  door. 
Therefore,  let  every  man  now  task  his  thought. 
That  this  fair  action  may  on  foot  be  brought. 

[Exeunt, 


ACT  11. 


Enter  Chorus. 
Chor.    Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on  fire. 
And  silken  dalliance  in  the  wardrobe  lies  ; 
Now  thrive  the  armourers,  and  honour's  thought 
Reigns  solely  in  the  breast  of  every  man  : 
They  sell  the  pasture  now,  to  buy  the  horse ; 
Following  the  mirror  of  all  Christian  kings. 
With  winged  heels,  as  English  Mercuries. 
For  now  sits  Expectation  in  the  air; 
And  hides  a  sword,  from  hilts  unto  the  point. 
With  crowns  imperial,  crowns,  and  coronets, 
Promis'd  to  Harry,  and  his  followers. 
The  French  advis'd  by  good  intelligence 
Of  this  most  dreadful  preparation. 
Shake  in  their  fear  ;  and  with  pale  policy 
Seek  to  divert  the  English  purposes. 
O  England  !  —  model  to  thy  inward  greatness. 
Like  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart,  — 
What  might'st  thou  do,  that  honour  would  thee  do. 
Were  all  thy  children  kind  and  natural ! 
But  see  thy  fault !   France  hath  in  thee  found  out 
A  nest  of  hollow  bosoms,  which  he  fills 
With  treacherous  crowns :  and  three  corrupted  men,  — 
One,  Richard  earl  of  Cambridge ;  and  the  second, 
Henry  lord  Scroop  of  Masham  ;  and  the  third. 
Sir  Thomas  Grey  knight  of  Northumberland,  — 
Have,  for  the  gilt  -^  of  France,  (  O  guilt,  indeed  ! ) 
Confirm'd  conspiracy  with  fearful  France ; 
And  by  their  hands  this  grace  of  kings  must  die, 
(If  hell  and  treason  hold  their  promises,) 
Ere  he  take  ship  for  France,  and  in  Southampton. 
Linger  your  patience  on  ;  and  well  digest 
The  abuse  of  distance,  while  we  force  a  play. 
The  sum  is  paid  ;  the  traitors  are  agreed ; 
The  king  is  set  from  London  ;  and  the  scene 

7  A  place  in  the  tennis-court,  into  which  the  ball  is  some- 
times struck.  «  A  term  at  tennis.  ^  The  throne, 
i  Withdrawing  from  the  court.                    2  Gold. 


Is  now  transported,  gentles,  to  Southampton  : 
There  is  the  playhouse  now,  there  must  you  sit : 
And  thence  to  France  shall  we  convey  you  safe, 
And  bring  you  back,  charming  the  narrow  seas 
To  give  you  gentle  pass ;  for,  if  we  may. 
We'll  not  offend  one  stomach  with  our  play. 
But,  till  the  king  come  forth,  and  not  till  then, 
Unto  Southampton  do  we  shift  our  scene.       [Exit. 

SCENE  L  — London.      Before  Quickly's  House 
i?i  Eastcheap. 

Enter  Nym  and  Bardolph. 

Bard.   Well  met,  corporal  Nym. 

Nym.    Good  morrow,  lieutenant  Bardolph. 

Bard.  What,  are  ancient  Pistol  and  you  friends  yet? 

Nym.  For  my  part,  I  care  not  ;  I  say  little  ;  but 
when  time  shall  serve,  there  shall  be  smiles  ;  —  but 
that  shall  be  as  it  may.  I  dare  not  fight ;  but  I  will 
wink,  and  hold  out  mine  iron  :  It  is  a  simple  one ; 
but  what  though  ?  it  will  toast  cheese  ;  and  it  will 
endure  cold  as  another  man's  sword  will;  and 
there's  the  humour  of  it. 

Bard.  I  will  bestow  a  breakfast,  to  make  you 
friends ;  and  we'll  be  all  three  sworn  brothers  to 
France  ;  let  it  be  so,  good  corporal  Nym. 

Nym.  'Faith,  I  will  live  so  long  as  I  may,  that's 
the  certain  of  it ;  and  when  I  cannot  live  any  longer, 
I  will  do  as  I  may  :  that  is  my  rest  "*,  that  is  the 
rendezvous  of  it. 

Bard,  It  is  certain,  corporal,  that  he  is  married 
to  Nell  Quickly  :  and,  certainly  she  did  you  wrong ; 
for  you  were  troth-plight  to  her. 

Nym.  I  cannot  tell ;  things  must  be  as  they  may  : 
men  may  sleep,  and  they  may  have  their  throats 
about  them  at  that  time  ;  and  some  say,  knives  have 

3  Determination, 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


433 


edges.  It  must  be  as  it  may  :  though  patience  be 
a  tired  mare,  yet  she  will  plod.  'Ihere  must  be 
conclusions.      Well,  I  cannot  tell. 

Enter  Pistol  and  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Bard.  Here  comes  ancient  Pistol,  and  his  wife  : 
—  good  corporal,  be  patient  here.  —  How  now, 
mine  host  Pistol  ? 

Pist.   Base  tike  \  call'st  thou  me  —  host  ? 
Now,  by  this  hand,  I  swear,  I  scorn  the  term  ; 
Nor  shall  my  Nell  keep  lodgers. 

Quick.  No,  by  my  troth,  not  long :  [Nym  draws 
his  sword.]  O  well-a-day.  Lady,  if  he  be  not  drawn 
now  !  O  Lord  !  here's  corporal  Nym's  —  now  shall 
we  have  wilful  murder  conmiitted.  Good  lieute- 
nant Bardolph,  —  good  corporal,  offer  nothing  here. 

Ni/jn.   Pish ! 

Fist.  Pish  for  thee,  Iceland  dog!  thou  cur  of 
Iceland ! 

Quick.  Good  corporal  Nym,  show  the  valour  of  a 
man,  and  put  up  thy  sword. 

Nym.   Will  you  shog  off'  I  would  have  you  solus. 
[Sheathing  his  sword. 

Pist.  Solus,  egregious  dog  ?  O  viper  vile  ! 
The  solus  in  thy  most  marvellous  face ; 
I'he  solus  in  thy  teeth,  and  in  thy  throat. 
And  in  thy  hateful  lungs,  yea,  in  thy  maw,  perdy.  * 

Nym.  I  am  not  Barbason^  ;  you  cannot  conjure 
me.  I  have  an  humour  to  knock  you  indifferently 
well  :  If  you  grow  foul  with  me,  Pistol,  I  will 
scour  you  with  my  rapier,  as  I  may,  in  fair  terms : 
and  that's  the  humour  of  it. 

Pist.    O   braggard    vile,    and   desp'rate   furious 
wight ! 
The  grave  doth  gape,  and  doting  death  is  near; 
Therefore  exhale.'  [Pistol  and  Nym  draw. 

Bard.  Hear  me,  hear  me  what  I  say :  —  he  that 
strikes  the  first  stroke,  I'll  run  him  up  to  the  hilts, 
as  I  am  a  soldier.  {^Draws. 

Pist.   An  oath  of  mickle  might ;  and  fury  shall 
abate. 
Give  me  thy  fist,  thy  fore-foot  to  me  give  ; 
Thy  spirits  are  most  tall. 

Nym.  I  will  cut  thy  throat,  one  time  or  other, 
in  fair  terms  ;  that  is  the  humour  of  it. 

Pist.   Coupe  le  gorge,  that's  the  word? —  I  thee 
defy  again. 

0  hound  of  Crete  8,  think'st  thou  my  spouse  to  get? 

1  have,  and  I  will  hold,  the  quondam  9  Quickly 
For  the  only  she;  and —  Pauca,  there's  enough. 

Enter  the  Boy. 

Boy.  Mine  host,  Pistol,  you  must  come  to  my 
roaster,  —  and  you,  hostess ;  —  he  is  very  sick,  and 
would  to  bed.  —  'Faith,  he's  very  ill. 

Quick.  By  my  troth,  he'll  yield  the  crow  a  pudding 
one  of  these  days :  the  king  has  killed  his  heart.  — 
Good  husband,  come  home  presently. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Quickly  and  Boy. 

Bard.  Come,  shall  I  make  you  two  friends  ?  We 
must  to  France  together ;  Why  should  we  keep 
knives  to  cut  one  another's  throats  ? 

Pist.   Let   floods  o'erswell,  and  fiends  for  food 
howl  on ! 

Nym.  You'll  pay  me  the  eight  shillings  I  won  of 
you  at  betting  ? 

Pist.   Base  is  the  slave  that  pays. 


*  Dog.  -  rax  j 

'  Breathe  your  last 


*  Par  Dieu  !  ^  Name  of  a  dcmoa 

•  BloodUhound.        »  Formerly. 


Nym.  That  now  I  will  have ;  that's  the  humour 
of  it. 

Pist.   As  manhood  shall  compound  ;  Push  home. 

Bard.  By  this  sword,  he  that  makes  the  first 
thrust,  I'll  kill  him ;  by  this  sword,  I  will. 

Pist.   Sword   is  an   oath,  and  oaths   must  have 
their  course. 

Bard  Corporal  Nym,  an  thou  wilt  be  friends,  be 
friends  :  an  thou  wilt  not,  why  then  be  enemies 
with  me  too.      Pr'ythee,  put  up. 

Nym.  I  shall  have  my  eight  shillings,  I  won  of 
you  at  betting  ? 

Pist.    A  noble  ^  shalt  thou  have,  and  present  pay  ; 
And  liquor  likewise  will  I  give  to  thee, 
And  friendship  shall  combine,  and  brotherhood  : 
I'll  live  by  Nym,  and  Nym  shall  live  by  me  ;  — 
Is  not  this  just  ?  —  for  I  shall  sutler  be 
Unto  the  camp,  and  profits  will  accrue. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Nym.   I  shall  have  my  noble  ? 

Pist.   In  cash  most  justly  paid. 

Nym.   Well,  then,  that's  the  humour  of  it. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Quick.  As  you  ever  came  of  women,  come  in 
quickly  to  sir  John :  Ah,  poor  heart !  he  is  so  shaked 
of  a  burning  quotidian  tertian,  that  it  is  most 
lamentable  to  behold.      Sweet  men,  come  to  him. 

Nym.  The  king  hath  run  bad  humours  on  the 
knight,  that's  the  even  of  it. 

Pist.    Nym,  thou  hast  spoke  the  right ; 
His  heart  is  fracted  and  corroborate. 

Nynu  The  king  is  a  good  king  :  but  it  must  be  as 
it  may ;  he  passes  some  humours,  and  careers. 

Pist.  Let  us  condole  the  kuight ;  for,  lambkins, 
we  will  live.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  II. —  Southampton.  A  Council- Cliamber. 
Enter  Exeter,  Bedford,  and  Westmoreland. 

Bed.   By  heaven,  his  grace  is  bold,  to  trust  these 

traitors. 
Exe.   They  shall  be  apprehended  by  and  by. 
West.   How  smooth  and  even  they  do  bear  them> 
selves ! 
As  if  allegiance  in  their  bosoms  sat, 
Crowned  with  faith,  and  constant  loyalty. 

Bed.   The  king  hath  note  of  all  that  they  intend, 
By  interception  which  they  dream  not  of. 

Exe.  Nay,  but  the  man  that  was  his  bedfellow. 
Whom  he  hath  cloy'd  and  grac'd  with  princely  fa- 
vours,— 
That  he  should,  for  a  foreign  purse,  so  sell 
His  sovereign's  life  to  death  and  treachery  ! 

Trumpet  sounds.      Enter  Kino   Henry,    Scroop, 
Cambridge,  Grey,  Lords  and  Attendants. 

K.  Hen.   Now  sits  the  wind  fair,  and  we  will 
aboard. 
My  lord  of  Cambridge,  —  and   my   kind  lord  of 

Masham,  — 
And   you,  my  gentle  knight, —— give  me  your 

tlioughts : 
Think  you  not,  that  the  powers  we  bear  with  us, 
Will  cut  their  passage  through  the  force  of  France  ; 
Doing  the  execution,  and  the  act, 
For  which  we  have  in  head^  assembled  them? 
Scroop.  No  doubt,  my  liege,  if  each  man  do  his  best. 

*  A  coin,  value  six  shillings  and  eighUpence. 
»  Force 

Ff 


434 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  II. 


K.  Hen.   I  doubt  not  that:  since  we  are  well  per- 
suaded, 
We  carry  not  a  heart  with  us  from  hence, 
That  grows  not  in  a  fair  consent  with  ours ; 
Nor  leave  not  one  behind,  that  doth  not  wish 
Success  and  conquest  to  attend  on  us 

Cam,'   Never  was  monarch  better  fear'd,  and  lov'd, 
Than  is  your  majesty ;  there's  not,  I  think,  a  subject, 
'Ihat  sits  in  heart-grief  and  uneasiness 
Under  the  sweet  shade  of  your  government. 

Grey.  Even  those,  that  were  your  father's  enemies. 
Have  steep'd  their  galls  in  honey ;  and  do  serve  you 
With  hearts  create  of  duty  and  of  zeal. 

K.  Hen.  We  therefore  have  great  cause  of  thank- 
fulness ; 
And  shall  forget  the  office  of  our  hand. 
Sooner  than  quittance  "*  of  desert  and  merit. 
According  to  the  weight  and  worthiness. 

Scroop.    So  service  shall  with  steeled  sinews  toil ; 
And  labour  shall  refresh  itself  with  hope  j 
To  do  your  grace  incessant  services. 

K.  Hen.  We  judge  no  less.  —  Uncle  of  Exeter, 
Enlarge  the  man  committed  yesterday, 
That  rail'd  against  our  person:   we  consider. 
It  was  excess  of  wine  that  set  him  on  ; 
And,  on  his  more  advice,  we  pardon  him. 

Scroop.   That's  mercy,  but  too  much  security  ; 
Let  him  be  punish'd,  sovereign ;  lest  example 
Breed,  by  his  sufferance,  more  of  such  a  kind. 

K.  Hen.    O,  let  us  yet  be  merciful. 

Cam.   So  may  your  highness,  and  yet  punish  too. 

Grey.  You  show  great  mercy,  if  you  give  him  life, 
After  the  taste  of  much  correction. 

K.  Hen.    Alas,  your  too  much  love  and  care  of  me 
Are  heavy  orisons  *  'gainst  this  poor  wretch. 
If  little  faults,  proceeding  on  distemper, 
Shall  not  be  wink'd  at,  how  shall  we  stretch  our  eje, 
When  capital   crimes,  chew'd,  swallow'd,  and  di- 
gested. 
Appear  before  us?  —  We'll  yet  enlarge  that  man, 
Though  Cambridge,  Scroop,  and  Grey,  —  in  their 

dear  care, 
And  tender  preservation  of  our  person,  — 
Would  have  him    punish'd.       And   now   to   our 

French  causes ; 
Who  are  the  late  ^  commissioners  ? 

Cam.    I  one,  my  lord  ; 
Your  highnesr  bade  me  ask  for  it  to-day. 

Scroop.    So  did  you  me,  my  liege. 

Grey.   And  me,  my  royal  sovereign. 

K.  Hen.   Then,  Richard,  earl  of  Cambridge,  there 
is  yours  ;  — 
There  yours,  lord  Scroop  of  Masham  ;  —  and,  sir 

knight. 
Grey  of  Northumberland,  this  same  is  yours  :  — 
Read  them  ;  and  know,  I  know  your  worthiness.  — 
My  lord  of  Westmoreland,  —  and  uncle  Exeter,  — 
We  will  aboard  to-night.  —  Why,  how  now,  gentle- 
men ? 
What  see  you  in  those  papers,  that  you  lose 
So  much  complexion  ?  —  look  ye,  how  they  change! 
Their  cheeks  are  paper.  —  Why,  what  read  you  there. 
That  hath  so  cowarded  and  chas'd  your  blood 
Out  of  appearance  ? 

Cam.  I  do  confess  my  fault : 

And  do  submit  me  to  your  highness'  mercy. 
Grey.  Scroop.    To  which  we  all  appeal. 
K.  Hen.  The  mercy,  that  was  quick'  in  us  but  late. 


*  Recompense. 
6  Lately  appointed. 


*  Prayers. 
7  Living. 


By  your  own  counsel  is  suppress'd  and  kill'd : 
You  must  not  dare  for  shame,  to  talk  of  mercy  ; 
For  your  own  reasons  turn  into  your  bosoms. 
As  dogs  upon  their  masters,  worrying  them.  — 
See  you  my  princes,  and  my  noble  peers, 
These  English  monsters !  My  lord  of  Cambridge 

here,  — 
You  know,  how  apt  our  love  was,  to  accord 
To  furnish  him  with  all  apnertinents 
Belonging  to  his  honour  ;  and  this  man 
Hath,  for  a  few  light  crowns,  lightly  conspir'd 
And  sworn  unto  the  practices  of  France, 
To  kill  us  here  in  Hampton ;  to  the  which, 
This  knight,  no  less  for  bounty  bound  to  us 
Than  Cambridge  is,  —  hath  likewise  sworn —  But  O ! 
What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  lord  Scroop  ;  thou  cruel, 
Ingrateful,  savage,  and  inhuman  creature  ! 
Thou,  that  didst  bear  the  key  of  all  my  counsels, 
That  knew'st  the  very  bottom  ofmy  soul. 
That  almost  mightst  have  coin'd  me  into  gold, 
Wouldst  thou  have  practis'd  on  me  for  thy  use  ? 
May  it  be  possible,  that  foreign  hire 
Could  out  of  thee  extract  one  spark  of  evil. 
That  might  annoy  my  finger?  'tis  so  strange. 
That  though  the  truth  of  it  stands  off*  as  gross 
As  black  from  white,  my  eye  will  scarcely  see  it. 
Treason,  and  murder,  ever  kept  together. 
As  two  yoke-devils  sworn  to  cither's  purpose, 
Working  so  grossly  in  a  natural  cause, 
That  admiration  did  not  whoop  at  them  : 
But  thou,  'gainst  all  proportion,  didst  bring  in 
Wonder,  to  wait  on  treason,  and  on  murder  : 
And  whatsoever  cunning  fiend  it  was. 
That  wrought  upon  thee  so  preposterously. 
Gave  thee  no  instance  why  thou  shouldst  do  treason, 
Unless  to  dub  thee  with  the  name  of  traitor. 
If  that  same  daemon,  that  hath  guU'd  thee  thus. 
Should  with  his  lion  gait «,  walk  the  whole  world. 
He  might  return  to  vasty  Tartar  9  back. 
And  tell  the  legions  —  I  can  never  win 
A  soul  so  easy  as  that  Englishman's. 
O,  how  hast  thou  with  jealousy  infected 
The  sweetness  of  affiance  !   Show  men  dutiful  ? 
Why,  so  didst  thou  :    Seem  they  grave  and  learned? 
Why,  so  didst  thou  :    Come  they  of  noble  family  ? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :    Seem  they  religious  ? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :    Or  are  they  spare  in  diet ; 
Free  from  gross  passion,  or  of  mirth,  or  anger; 
Constant  in  spirit,  not  swerving  with  the  blood ; 
Garnish'd  and  deck'd  in  modest  complement ' ; 
Not  working  with  the  eye,  without  the  ear, 
And,  but  in  purged  judgment,  trusting  neither? 
Such,  and  so  finely  bolted  %  didst  thou  seem ; 
And  thus  thy  fall  hath  left  a  kind  of  blot. 
To  mark  the  full-fraught  man,  and  best  indued, 
With  some  suspicion.     I  will  weep  for  thee  j 
For  this  revolt  of  thine,  methinks,  is  like 
Another  fall  of  man.  —  Their  faults  are  open. 
Arrest  them  to  the  answer  of  the  law  ;  — 
And  heaven  acquit  them  of  their  practices ! 

Exe.   I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  namo 
of  Richard  earl  of  Cambridge. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high   treason,    by  the  name  of 
Henry  lord  Scroop  of  Masham. 

I    arrest  thee  of  high  treason,   by  the  name  of 
Thomas  Grey,  knight  of  Northumberland. 

Scroop.  Our  purposes  God  justly  hath  discover'd; 
And  I  repent  my  fault,  more  than  my  death  ; 
8  Pace,  step.  ^  Tartarus 

'  Accomplishment.  '  Sifted. 


I 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


435 


Which  I  beseech  your  highness  to  forgive. 
Although  my  body  pay  the  price  of  it. 

Cam.   For   me,  —  tlie   gold  of  France   did  not 
seduce ; 
Although  r  did  admit  it  as  a  motive, 
The  sooner  to  eftect  what  I  intended  : 
But  heaven  be  thanked  for  prevention ; 
Which  I  in  sufferance  heartily  will  rejoice. 
Beseeching  God,  and  you,  to  pardon  me. 

Grey.   Never  did  faitiiful  subject  more  rejoice 
At  the  discovery  of  most  dangerous  treason, 
Than  1  do  at  this  hour  joy  o'er  myself. 
Prevented  from  a  damned  enterprize  : 
My  fault,  but  not  my  body,  pardon,  sovereign. 

K.  Hen.   God  quit  you  in  his  mercy  !   Hear  your 
sentence. 
You  have  conspir'd  against  our  royal  person, 
Join'd  with  an  enemy  proclaim'd,  and  from  his  coffers 
Receiv'd  the  golden  earnest  of  our  death  ; 
Wherein  you  would  have  sold  your  king  to  slaughter. 
His  princes  and  his  peers  to  servitude. 
His  subjects  to  oppression  and  contempt. 
And  his  whole  kingdom  unto  desolation. 
Touching  our  person,  seek  we  no  revenge ; 
But  we  our  kingdom's  safety  must  so  tender, 
Wliose  ruin  you  three  sought,  that  to  her  laws 
We  do  deliver  you.      Get  you  therefore  hence. 
Poor  miserable  wretches,  to  your  death  : 
The  taste  whereof,  God.  of  his  mercy,  give  you 
Patience  to  endure,  and  true  repentance 
Of  all  your  dear  offences  !  —  Bear  them  hence. 

[Exeunt  Conspirators,  guarded. 
Now,  lords,  for  France  ;  the  enterprize  whereof 
Shall  be  to  you,  as  us,  like  glorious. 
We  doubt  not  of  a  fair  and  lucky  war ; 
Since  heaven  so  graciously  hath  brought  to  light 
This  dangerous  treason,  lurking  in  our  way. 
To  hinder  our  beginnings,  we  doubt  not  now. 
But  every  rub  is  smootlied  on  our  way. 
Then  forth,  dear  countrymen  ;  let  us  deliver 
Our  puissance  into  the  hand  of  God, 
Putting  it  straight  in  expedition. 
Cheerly  to  sea  ;  the  signs  of  war  advance  : 
No  king  of  England,  if  not  king  of  France. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Mrs.  Quickly'^iToawemEastcheap. 

Enter  Pistol,   Mrs.  Quickly,  Nym,    Bardolfh, 
and  Boy. 

Quick.  Pf'ythee,  honey-sweet  husband,  let  me 
bring  thee  to  Staines. 

Pist.   No ;  for  my  manly  heart  doth  yearn.  3  — 
Bardolph,  be  blithe ;  —  Nym,  rouse  thy  vaunting 

veins ; 
Boy,  bristle  thy  courage  up ;  for  Falstaff  he  is  dead. 
And  we  must  yearn  therefore. 

Bard.  'Would,  I  were  with  him,  wheresome'er 
he  is. 

Quick.  Nay,  sure,  he's  in  Arthur's  bosom,  if  ever 
man  went  to  Arthur's  bosom.  'A  made  a  finer  end, 
and  went  away,  an  it  had  been  any  christom'*  child ; 
'a  parted  even  just  between  twelve  and  one,  e'en  at 
turning  o'the  tide :  for  after  I  saw  him  fumble  with 
the  sheets,  and  play  with  flowers,  and  smile  ufKjn 
his  finger's  ends,  I  knew  there  was  but  one  way  ;  for 
his  nose  was  as  sharp  as  a  i>en,  and  'a  babbled  of 
green  fields.  How  now,  sir  John  ?  quoth  I  :  what, 
man  !  be  of  good  cheer.     So  'a  cried  out —  God, 


'  Grieve. 


*  A  child  not  more  than  a  month  old. 


God,  God  !  three  or  four  times  :  now  I,  to  comfort 
him,  bid  him,  'a  should  not  think  of  God ;  I  hoped, 
there  was  no  need  to  trouble  himself  with  any  such 
thoughts  yet :  So,  'a  bade  me  lay  more  clothes  on 
his  feet :  I  put  my  hand  into  the  bed,  and  felt  them, 
and  they  were  as  cold  as  any  stone  ;  then  1  felt  to 
his  knees,  and  all  was  as  cold  as  any  stone. 

Nym.    They  say,  he  cried  out  of  sack. 

Quick.    Ay,  that  'a  did. 

Hard-    And  of  women. 

Quick.    Nay,  that  'a  did  not. 

Hoy.    Yes,  that  'a  did ;  and  said,  they  were  devils 
incarnate. 

Quick.  'A  could  never  abide  carnation ;  'twas  a 
colour  he  never  liked. 

Baid.    Well,  he  is  gone,  and  all  the  riches  I  got 
in  his  service. 

Kym.   Shall  we  shog  off?  the  king  will  be  gone 
from  Southampton. 

Pist.   Come,  let's  away.  —  My  love,  give  me  thy 
lips. 
Look  to  my  chattels,  and  my  moveables : 
Let  senses  rule ;  the  word  is,  Fitch  and  pay ; 
Trust  none ; 

For  oaths  are  straws,  men's  faiths  are  wafer  cakes. 
And  hold-fast  is  the  only  dog,  my  duck ; 
Therefore,  caveto  be  thy  counsellor. 
Go,  clear  thy  crystals,  —  Yoke-fellows  in  arms. 
Let  us  to  France !  like  horse-leeches,  my  boys ; 
To  suck,  to  suck,  the  very  blood  to  suck  ! 

Boy.  And  that  is  but  unwholesome  food,  they  say. 

Pist.   Touch  her  soft  mouth  and  march. 

Bard.    Farewell,  hostess.  [ITissing  her. 

Nym.  I  cannot  kiss,  that  is  the  humour  of  it ;  but, 
adieu. 

Pist.   Let  housewifery  appear ;  keep  close,  I  thee 
command. 

Quick.   Farewell;  adieu.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  IV.  —  France.     A  Room  in  tlie  French 
King's  Palace. 

Enter  the  French  King  attended  ;  the  Dauphin,  the 
Duke  or  Burgundy,  the  Constable,  and  otiiers. 

Fr.  £ing.  Thus  come  the  English  with  full  power 
upon  us ; 
And  more  than  carefully  it  us  concerns. 
To  answer  royally  in  our  defences. 
Therefore  the  dukes  of  Berry,  and  of  Bretagne, 
Of  Brabant,  and  of  Orleans,  shall  make  forth,  — 
And  you,  prince  dauphin,  —  with  all  swift  despatch, 
To  line,  and  new  repair,  our  towns  of  war, 
With  men  of  courage,  and  with  means  defendant : 
For  England  his  approaches  makes  as  fierce, 
As  waters  to  the  sucking  of  a  gulph. 
It  fits  us  then,  to  be  as  provident 
As  fear  may  teach  us,  out  of  late  examples 
Left  by  the  fatal  and  neglected  English 
Upon  our  fields. 

Z>au.  IMy  most  redoubted  father 

It  is  most  meet  we  arm  us  'gainst  the  foe  : 
For  peace  itself  should  not  so  dull  ^  a  kingdom, 
(Though  war,  nor  no  known  quarrel,  were  in  ques- 
tion,) 
But  tliat  defences,  musters,  preparations. 
Should  be  maintain'd,  assembled,  and  collected, 
As  were  a  war  in  expectation. 
Therefore,  I  say,  'tis  meet  we  all  go  forth, 
To  view  the  sick  and  feeble  parts  of  France : 

*  Render  it  callous,  Insenaibla 
Ff  2 


436 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  II.  Scene  IV. 


And  let  us  do  it  with  no  show  of  fear ; 

No,  with  no  more,  than  if  we  heard  that  England 

Were  busied  with  a  Whitsun  morrice-dance  : 

For,  my  good  liege,  she  is  so  idly  king'd, 

Her  scepter  so  fantastically  borne 

By  a  vain,  giddy,  shallow,  humorous  youth. 

That  fear  attends  her  not. 

Con.  O  peace,  prince  dauphin  ! 

You  are  too  much  mistaken  in  this  king : 
Question  your  grace  the  late  ambassadors,  — 
With  what  great  state  he  heard  their  embassy. 
How  well  supplied  with  noble  counsellors. 
How  modest  in  exception  6,  and,  withal, 
How  terrible  in  constant  resolution,  — 
And  you  shall  find,  his  vanities  fore-spent 
Were  but  the  outside  of  the  Roman  Brutus, 
Covering  discretion  with  a  coat  of  folly. 

Dau.   Well,  'tis  not  so,  my  lord  high  constable, 
But  though  we  think  it  so,  it  is  no  matter : 
In  cases  of  defence,  'tis  best  to  weigh 
The  enemy  more  mighty  than  he  seems, 
So  the  proportions  of  defence  are  fiU'd  ; 
Which,  of  a  weak  and  niggardly  projection, 
Doth,  like  a  miser,  spoil  his  coat,  with  scanting 
A  little  cloth. 

Fr.  King.  Think  we  king  Harry  strong  ; 

And,  princes,  look  you  strongly  arm  to  meet  liim. 
The  kindred  of  him  hath  been  flesh'd  upon  us ; 
And  he  is  bred  out  of  that  bloody  strain ', 
That  haunted  us  in  our  familiar  paths  : 
Witness  our  too  much  memorable  shame, 
When  Cressy  battle  fatally  was  struck. 
And  all  our  princes  captiv'd,  by  the  hand 
Of  that  black  name,  Edward  black  prince  of  Wales  ; 
Whiles    that    his    mountain   sire  —  on    mountain 

standing. 
Up  in  the  air,  crown'd  with  the  golden  sun,  — 
Saw  his  heroical  seed,  and  smil'd  to  see  him 
Mangle  the  work  of  nature. 
This  is  a  stem 

Of  that  victorious  stock  ;  and  let  us  fear 
The  native  mightiness  and  fate  of  him. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Ambassadors  from  Henry  king  of  England 
Do  crave  admittance  to  your  majesty. 

Fr.  King.  We'll  give  them  present  audience.    Go, 
and  bring  them. 

[Exeunt  Mess,  and  certain  Lords. 
You  see  this  chase  is  hotly  follow'd,  friends. 

Dau.  Turn  head,  and  stop  pursuit:  for  coward  dogs 
Most  spend  their  mouths,  when  what  they  seem  to 

threaten. 
Runs  far  before  them.     Good  my  sovereign. 
Take  up  the  English  short ;  and  let  them  know 
Of  what  a  monarchy  you  are  the  head : 
Self-love,  my  liege,  is  not  so  vile  a  sin 
As  self-neglecting. 

Re-enter  Lords,  with  Exeter  and  Train. 

Fr.  King.  From  our  brother  England  ? 

Exe.  From  him :  and  thus  he  greets  your  majesty. 
He  wills  you,  in  the  name  of  the  Almighty, 
That  you  divest  yourself,  and  lay  apart 
The  borrowed  glories,  that,  by  gift  of  heaven. 
By  law  of  nature,  and  of  nations,  'long 
To  him,  and  to  his  heirs  ;  namely,  the  crown. 


7  In  making  objections. 


Lineage. 


And  all  wide-stretched  honours  that  pertain, 

By  custom  and  the  ordinance  of  times. 

Unto  the  crown  of  France.      Tljat  you  may  know, 

'Tis  no  sinister,  nor  no  awkward  claim, 

Pick'd  from  the  worm-holes  of  long-vanish'd  days, 

Nor  from  the  dust  of  old  oblivion  rak'd. 

He  sends  you  this  most  memorable  line, 

[Gives  a  paper. 
In  every  branch  truly  demonstrative ; 
Willing  you  overlook  this  pedigree  : 
And,  when  you  find  him  evenly  deriv'd 
From  his  most  fam'd  of  famous  ancestors, 
Edward  the  third,  he  bids  you  then  resign 
Your  crown  and  kingdom,  indirectly  held 
From  him,  the  native  and  true  challenger. 

Fr.  King.   Or  else,  what  follows  ? 

Exe.  Bloody  constraint ;  for  if  you  hide  the  crown 
Even  in  your  hearts,  there  will  he  rake  for  it : 
And  therefore  in  fierce  tempest  is  he  coming, 
In  thunder,  and  in  earthquake,  like  a  Jove  j 
(That,  if  requiring  fail,  he  will  compel;) 
And  bids  you,  in  the  bowels  of  the  Lord, 
Deliver  up  the  crown ;  and  to  take  mercy 
On  the  poor  souls,  for  whom  this  hungry  war 
Opens  his  vasty  jaws :  and  on  your  head 
Turns  he  the  widows'  tears,  the  orphans'  cries. 
The  dead  men's  blood,  the  pining  maidens'  groans. 
For  husbands,  fathers,  and  betrothed  lovers, 
That  shall  be  swallow'd  in  this  controversy. 
This  is  his  claim,  his  threat'ning,  and  my  message  ; 
Unless  the  dauphin  be  in  presence  here. 
To  whom  expressly  I  bring  greeting  too. 

Fr.  King.  For  us,  we  will  consider  of  this  further : 
To-morrow  shall  you  bear  our  full  intent 
Back  to  our  brother  England. 

JDau.  For  the  dauphin, 

I  stand  here  for  him  ;  What  to  him  from  England? 

Exe.  Scorn  and  defiance  ;  slight  regard,  contempt. 
And  any  thing  that  may  not  misbecome 
The  mighty  sender,  doth  he  prize  you  at. 
Thus  says  my  king  :   and,  if  your  father's  highness 
Do  not,  in  grant  of  all  demands  at  large. 
Sweeten  the  bitter  mock  you  sent  his  majesty. 
He'll  call  you  to  so  hot  an  answer  for  it. 
That  caves  and  womby  vaultages  of  France 
Shall  chide  your  trespass,  and  return  your  mock 
In  second  accent  of  his  ordnance. 

Dau.    Say,  if  my  father  render  fair  reply, 
It  is  against  my  will :  for  I  desire 
Nothing  but  odds  with  England  :   to  that  end, 
As  matching  to  his  youth  and  vanity, 
I  did  present  him  with  those  Paris  balls. 

Exe.   He'll  make  your  Paris  Louvre  shake  for  it, 
Were  it  the  mistress  court  of  mighty  Europe  : 
And,  be  assur'd,  you'll  find  a  ditference, 
(As  we,  his  subjects,  have  in  wonder  found,) 
Between  the  promise  of  his  greener  days. 
And  these  he  masters  now  :  now  he  weighs  time. 
Even  to  the  utmost  grain ;  which  you  shall  read 
In  your  own  losses,  if  he  stay  in  France. 

Fr.  King.   To-morrow  shall  you  know  our  mind 
at  full. 

Exe.  Despatch  us  with  all  speed,  lest  that  our  king 
Come  here  himself  to  question  our  delay  ; 
For  he  is  footed  in  this  land  already. 

Fr.  King.   You  shall  be  soon  despatch'd  with  fair 
conditions : 
A  night  is  but  small  breath,  and  little  pause. 
To  answer  matters  of  this  consequence. 

[Exeunt* 


i 


I 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


437 


ACT  III. 


Enter  Chorus. 
Chor,   Thus  with  imagin'd  wiug  our  swift  scene 
flies, 
In  motion  of  no  less  celerity 

Than  that  of  thought.    Suppose,  that  you  have  seen 
The  well-appointed  king  at  Hampton  pier 
Embark  his  royalty  ;  and  his  brave  fleet 
With  silken  streamers  the  young  Phoebus  fanning. 
Play  with  your  fancies ;  and  in  them  behold, 
Upon  the  hempen  tackle,  ship-boys  climbing  : 
Hear  the  shrill  whistle,  which  doth  order  give 
To  sounds  confus'd  :   behold  the  threaden  sails, 
Borne  with  the  invisible  and  creeping  wind. 
Draw  the  huge  bottoms  through  the  furrow'd  sea. 
Breasting  the  lofty  surge :    O,  do  but  think. 
You  stand  upon  the  rivage*,  and  behold 
A  city  on  the  inconstant  billows  dancing ; 
For  so  appears  this  fleet  majestical. 
Holding  due  course  to  Haifleur.      Follow,  follow  ! 
Grapple  your  minds  to  sternage  9  of  this  navy  ; 
And  leave  your  England,  as  dead  midnight,  still. 
Guarded  with  grandsires,  babies,  and  old  women, 
Or  past,  or  not  arriv'd  to,  pith  and  puissance : 
For  who  is  he,  whose  chin  is  but  enrich'd 
With  one  appearing  hair,  that  will  not  follow 
These  cuU'd  and  choice-drawn  cavaliers  to  France  ? 
Work,  work  your  thoughts,  and  therein  see  a  siege : 
Behold  the  ordnance  on  their  carriages. 
With  fatal  mouths  gaping  on  girded  Harfleur. 
Suppose,  tlie  ambassador  from  the  French  comes  back; 
Tells  Harry  —  that  the  king  doth  offer  him 
Katharine  his  daughter ;  and  with  her,  to  dowry, 
Some  petty  and  unprofitable  dukedoms. 
The  offer  likes  not :  and  the  nimble  gunner, 
With  linstock  •  now  the  dreadful  cannon  touches, 

[Alarum  ;  and  Chambers  '^  go  off. 
And  down  goes  all  before  them.      Still  be  kind. 
And  eke  out  our  performance  with  your  mind.  [Exit. 

SCENE  I.  —  Before  Harfleur. 

Alarums.     Enter  King  Henry,  Exeter,  Bedford, 
Gloster,  and  Soldiers,  with  Scaling  Ladders. 
K,  Hen.  Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends, 
once  more ; 
Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead ! 
In  peace,  there's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man, 
As  modest  stillness  and  humility : 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger ; 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour'd  rage ; 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect  j 
Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head. 
Like  tlie  brass  cannon ;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm  it. 
As  fearfully,  as  doth  a  galled  rock 
O'erhang  and  jutty3  his  confounded  ••  base, 
Swiird  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 
Now  set  tlie  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide  ; 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 
To  his  full  height !  —  On,  on,  you  noblest  English, 

■  Bank  or  shoTf.  •  Stem*  of  the  ihipc. 

'  The  ftaff  which  hold*  the  match  used  in  firing  cannon. 

»  Small  pieces  of  ordnance. 

»  A  mole  to  withstand  the  encroachment  of  the  tide 

*  Worn,  wasted. 


Whose  blood  is  fet  *  from  fathers  of  war-proof ! 

Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 

Have,  in  these  parts,  from  morn  till  even  fought. 

And  sheath 'd  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument. ^ 

Dishonour  not  your  mothers  ;  now  attest. 

That  those,  whom  you  call'd  fathers,  did  beget  you  ! 

Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood. 

And  teach  them  how  to  war !  —  And  you,  good 

yeomen. 
Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture  ;  let  us  swear 
That  you  are  worth  your  breeding ;  which  I  doubt 

not; 
For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base. 
That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips. 
Straining  upon  the  start.      The  game's  afoot ; 
Follow  your  spirit :  and,  upon  this  charge. 
Cry —  God  for  Harry  !  England  !  and  saint  George  ! 

[Exeunt.     Alarum,  and  Chambers  go  off. 

SCENE  W. —  The  same. 

Forces  pass  over;  then  enter  Nym,  Bardolfh,  Pis- 
tol, and  Boy. 

Bard.  On,  on,  on,  on,  on  !  to  the  breach,  to  the 
breach! 

Nym.  'Pray  thee,  corporal,  stay  ;  the  knocks  are 
too  hot ;  and,  for  mine  own  part,  I  have  not  a  case 
of  lives  :  the  humour  of  it  is  too  hot,  that  is  the  very 
plain-song  of  it. 

Fist.    The  plain-song  is  most  just ;  for  humours 
do  abound ; 
Knocks  go  and  come ;   God's  vassals  drop  and  die ; 
And  sword  and  shield. 
In  bloody  field. 
Doth  win  immortal  fame. 
Boy.   'Would  I  were  in  an  alehouse  in  London ! 
I  would  give  all  my  fame  for  a  pot  of  ale  and  safety. 
Fist.   And  I : 

If  wishes  would  prevail  with  me, 
My  purpose  should  not  fail  with  me, 
But  thither  would  I  hie. 
Boy.  As  duly,  but  not  as  truly,  as  bird  doth  sing 
on  bough. 

Enter  Flcellkn. 

Flu.  Up  to  the  preaches,  you  rascals  !  will  you 
not  up  to  the  preaches  ?  [Driving  them  forward. 

Fist.  Be  merciful,  great  duke,  to  men  of  mould  ! 
Abate  thy  rage,  abate  thy  manly  rage  ! 
Abate  thy  rage,  great  duke  ! 
Good  bawcock,  bate  thy  rage !  use  lenity,  sweet  chuck  1 

Nym.  These  be  good  humours  I  —  your  honour 
wins  bad  humours. 

[Exeunt  Nym,  Pistol,  and  Bardolph, 
followed  by  Flukllkn. 

Boy.  As  young  as  I  am,  I  have  observed  these 
three  swashers.  I  am  boy  to  them  all  three :  but 
all  they  three,  though  they  would  serve  me,  could 
not  be  man  to  me ;  for,  indeed,  tlu-ee  such  anticks 
do  not  amount  to  a  man.  For  Bardolph,  —  he  is 
white-livered,  and  red-faced  ;  by  the  means  whereof, 
'a  faces  it  out,  but  fights  not.      For  Pistol, he 

"  Fetched.  «  Matter,  subject 

Ff3      * 


438 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  m. 


hath  a  killing  tongue,  and  a  quiet  sword  :  by  the 
means  whereof  'a  breaks  words,  and  keeps  whole 
weapons.  For  Nym,  —  he  hath  heard  that  men 
of  few  words  are  the  best  7  men  ;  and  therefore  he 
scorns  to  say  his  prayers,  lest  'a  should  be  thought 
a  coward ;  but  his  few  bad  words  are  match'd  with 
as  few  good  deeds ;  for  'a  never  broke  any  man's 
head  but  his  own  ;  and  that  was  against  a  post,  when 
he  was  drunk.  They  will  steal  any  thing,  and  call 
it  —  purchase.  Bardolph  stole  a  lute-case  ;  bore  it 
twelve  leagues,  and  sold  it  for  three  halfpence.  — 
Nym,  and  Bardolph,  are  sworn  brothers  in  filching  ; 
and  in  Calais  they  stole  a  fire-shovel :  1  knew,  by 
that  piece  of  service,  the  men  would  carry  coals.  8 
They  would  have  me  as  familiar  with  men's  pockets, 
as  their  gloves  or  their  handkerchiefs  :  which  makes 
much  against  my  manhood,  if  I  should  take  from 
another's  pocket,  to  put  into  mine ;  for  it  is  plain 
pocketing  up  of  wrongs.  I  must  leave  them,  and  seek 
some  better  service :  their  villainy  goes  against  my 
weak  stomach.  \^ExU  Boy. 

Re-enter  Fluellen,  GowEVi  following. 

Gow.  Captain  Fluellen,  you  must  come  presently 
to  the  mines  j  the  duke  of  Gioster  would  speak  with 
you. 

Flu.  To  the  mines  !  tell  you  the  duke,  it  is  not 
so  good  to  come  to  the  mines  :  For,  look  you,  the 
mines  is  not  according  to  the  disciplines  of  the  war ; 
the  concavities  of  it  is  not  sufficient ;  for,  look  you, 
th'  athversary  (you  may  discuss  unto  the  duke,  look 
you,)  is  dightS  himself  four  yards  under  the  coun- 
termines :  I  think,  'a  will  plow  up  all,  if  there  is  not 
better  directions. 

Gow.  The  duke  of  Gioster,  to  whom  the  order  of 
the  siege  is  given,  is  altogether  directed  by  an  Irish- 
man ;  a  very  valiant  gentleman,  i'faith. 

Flu.   It  is  captain  Macmorris,  is  it  not  ? 

Gow.  I  think  it  be. 

Flu.  He  is  an  ass,  as  in  the  'orld  :  I  will  verify 
as  much  in  his  peard :  he  has  no  more  directions  in 
the  true  disciplines  of  the  wars,  look  you,  of  the 
Roman  disciplines,  than  is  a  puppy-dog. 

Enter  Macmorris  and  Jamy,  at  a  distance. 

Gow.  Here  'a  comes;  and  the  Scots  captain, 
captain  Jamy,  with  him. 

Flu.  Captain  Jamy  is  a  marvellous  falorous  gen- 
tleman, that  is  certain  ;  and  of  great  expedition,  and 
knowledge,  in  the  ancient  wars,  upon  my  particular 
knowledge  of  his  directions :  he  will  maintain  his 
argument  as  well  as  any  military  man  in  the  'orld, 
in  the  disciplines  of  the  pristine  wars  of  the  Romans. 

Jamy.    I  say,  gud-day,  captain  Fluellen. 

Flu.  God-den  to  your  worship,  goot  captain  Jamy. 

Gow.  How  now,  captain  Macmorris  ?  have  you 
quit  the  mines  ?  have  the  pioneers  given  o'er  ? 

Mac.  Tish  ill  done  :  the  work  ish  give  over,  the 
trumpet  sound  the  retreat.  By  my  hand,  I  swear, 
and  by  my  father's  soul,  the  work  ish  ill  done  ;  it 
ish  give  over  :  I  would  have  blowed  up  the  town  in 
an  hour.  O,  tish  ill  done,  tish  ill  done ;  by  my 
hand,  tish  ill  done  ! 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  I  peseech  you  now,  will 
you  voutsafe  me,  look  you,  a  few  disputations  with 
you,  as  partly  touching  or  concerning  the  disciplines 
of  the  war,  the  Roman  wars,  in  the  way  of  argument, 
look  you,  and  friendly  communication  ;  partly,  to 
satisfy  my  opinion,  and  partly,  for  the  satisfaction, 
7  Ilravest.  e  pocket  affronts.  9  Digged. 


look  you,  of  my  mind,  as  touching  the  direction  of 
the  military  discipline ;  that  is  the  point. 

Jamy.  It  sail  be  very  gud,  gud  feith,  gud  captains 
bath  :  and  I  sail  quit '  you  with  gud  leve,  as  I  may 
pick  occasion  ;  that  sail  I,  marry. 

Mac.  It  is  no  time  to  discourse,  the  day  is  hot, 
and  the  weather,  and  the  wars,  and  the  king,  and 
the  dukes  ;  it  is  no  time  to  discourse.  The  town  is 
beseeched,  and  the  trumpet  calls  us  to  the  breach ; 
and  we  talk,  and  do  nothing ;  'tis  shame  for  us  all : 
'tis  shame  to  stand  still ;  it  is  shame,  by  my  hand  : 
and  there  is  throats  to  be  cut,  and  works  to  be  done  ; 
and  there  ish  nothing  done. 

Jamy.  By  the  mess,  ere  theise  eyes  of  mine  take 
themselves  to  slumber,  aile  do  gude  service,  or  aile 
ligge  i'  the  grund  for  it ;  ay,  or  go  to  death  ;  and 
aile  pay  it  as  valorously  as  I  may,  that  sal  I  surely 
do,  that  is  the  breffand  the  long  :  Mary,  I  wad  full 
fain  heard  some  question  'tween  you  tway. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  I  think,  look  you> 
under  your  correction,  there  is  not  many  of  your 
nation 

Mac.  Of  my  nation  ?  What  ish  my  nation  ?  ish 
a  villain,  and  a  bastard,  and  a  knave,  and  a  rascal? 
What  ish  my  nation  ?  Who  talks  of  my  nation  ? 

Flu.  Look  you,  if  you  take  the  matter  otherwise 
than  is  meant,  captain  Macmorris,  peradventure,  I 
shall  think  you  do  not  use  me  with  that  affability  as 
in  discretion  you  ought  to  use  me,  look  you ;  being 
as  goot  a  man  as  yourself,  both  in  the  disciplines  of 
wars,  and  in  the  derivation  of  my  birth,  and  in  other 
particularities. 

Mac.  I  do  not  know  you  so  good  a  man  as  my- 
self :   I  will  cut  off  your  head. 

Gow.  Gentlemen  both,  you  will  mistake  each  other. 

Jamy.  Au  !  that's  a  foul  fault. 

\^A  Parley  sounded. 

Gow.   The  town  sounds  a  parley. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  when  there  is  more 
better  opportunity  to  be  required,  look  you,  I  will 
be  so  bold  as  to  tell  you,  I  know  the  disciplines  of 
war  ;  and  there  is  an  end.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —Before  the  Gates  o/'Harfleur. 

The  Governor  and  some  Citizens  on  the  Walls  ;  the 
English  Forces  beloiv.  Enter  King  Henry  and 
his  Train. 

K.  Hen.  How  yet  resolves  the  governor  of  the  town  ? 
This  is  the  latest  parle  we  will  admit : 
Therefore,  to  our  best  mercy  give  yourselves : 
Or,  like  to  men  proud  of  destruction. 
Defy  us  to  our  worst :   for,  as  I  am  a  soldier, 
(A  name,  that,  in  my  thoughts,  becomes  me  best,) 
If  I  begin  the  battery  once  again, 
I  will  not  leave  the  half-achieved  Harfleur, 
Till  in  her  ashes  she  lie  buried. 
The  gates  of  mercy  shall  be  all  shut  up  ; 
And  the  fiesh'd  soldier —  rough  and  hard  of  heart,— 
In  liberty  of  bloody  hand,  shall  range. 
What  is  it  then  to  me,  if  impious  war,  — 
Array'd  in  flames,  like  to  the  prince  of  fiends,  — 
Do,  with  his  smirch'd  '2  complexion,  all  fell  ^  feats 
Enlink'd  to  waste  and  desolation  ? 
What  is't  to  me,  when  you  yourselves  are  cause? 
What  rein  can  hold  licentious  wickedness. 
When  down  the  hill  he  holds  his  fierce  career  ? 
We  may  as  bootless  ^  spend  our  vain  command 


I 


'    Requite,  answer. 
3  Cruel. 


Soiled. 
Without  success. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


439 


Upon  the  enraged  soldiers  in  their  spoil, 

As  send  precepts  to  the  Leviathan 

To  come  ashore.      Therefore,  you  men  of  Harfleur 

Take  pity  of  your  town,  and  of  your  people, 

Whiles  yet  my  soldiers  are  in  my  command  ; 

Whiles  yet  the  cool  and  temperate  wind  of  grace 

O'erblows  the  filthy  and  contagious  clouds 

Of  deadly  murder,  spoil,  and  villainy. 

If  not,  why,  in  a  moment,  look  to  see 

The  blind  and  bloody  soldier  with  foul  hand 

Defile  the  locks  of  your  shrill-shrieking  daughters ; 

Your  fathers  taken  by  the  silver  beards, 

And  their  most  reverend  heads  dash'd  to  the  walls  ; 

Your  naked  infants  spitted  upon  pikes ; 

Whiles  the  mad  mothers  with  their  howls  confus'd 

Do  break  the  clouds,  as  did  the  wives  of  Jewry 

At  Herod's  bloody-hunting  slaughtermen. 

What  say  you  ?  will  you  yield,  and  this  avoid? 

Or,  guilty  in  defence,  be  thus  destroy'd  ? 

Gov.  Our  expectation  hath  this  day  an  end  : 
The  dauphin,  whom  of  succour  we  entreated, 
Returns  us  —  that  his  powers  are  not  yet  ready 
To  raise  so  great  a  siege.     Therefore,  dread  king, 
We  yield  our  town,  and  lives  to  thy  soft  mercy : 
Enter  our  gates  ;  dispose  of  us,  and  ours  ; 
For  we  no  longer  are  defensible. 

IT.  Hen.  Open  your  gates.  —  Come,  uncle  Exeter, 
Go  you  and  enter  Harfleur ;  there  remain. 
And  fortify  it  strongly  'gainst  the  French  ; 
Use  mercy  to  them  all.      For  us,  dear  uncle,  — 
The  winter  coming  on,  and  sickness  growing 
Upon  our  soldiers,  —  we'll  retire  to  Calais. 
To-night  in  Harfleur  will  we  be  your  guest ; 
To-morrow  for  the  march  are  we  addrest.  ^ 

iFlourish.     The  King,  ^c.  enter  the  Tovm. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Rouen.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  the  French  Kino,  the  Dauphin,   Duke  of 

Bourbon,  the  Constable  of  France,  and  others. 

Fr.  King.   'Tis  certain,  he  hath  pass'd  the  river 
Some. 

Con.   And  if  he  be  not  fought  withal,  my  lord, 
Let  us  not  live  in  France  :  let  us  quit  all. 
And  give  our  vineyards  to  a  barbarous  people. 

Dau.   Shall  a  few  sprays  of  us,  — 
Our  scions,  put  in  wild  and  savage  stock, 
Spirt  up  so  suddenly  into  the  clouds. 
And  overlook  their  grafters? 

Bour.   Normans,  but  bastard  Normans,  Norman 
bastards ! 
Mort  de  ma  vie  I  if  they  march  along 
Unfought  withal,  but  I  will  sell  my  dukedom, 
To  buy  a  slobbery  and  a  dirty  farm 
In  that  nook-shotten6  isle  of  Albion. 

Con.   Dieu  de  battaiUes  J    where  have  they  this 
mettle  ? 
Is  not  their  climate  foggy,  raw,  and  dull  ? 
On  whom,  as  in  despite,  the  sun  looks  pale. 
Killing  their  fruit  with  frowns  ?   Can  sodden  water, 
A  drench  for  sur-rein'd?  jades,  their  barley  broth, 
Decoct  their  cold  blood  to  such  valiant  heat? 
And  shall  our  quick  blood,  spirited  with  wine. 
Seem  frosty  ?  O,  for  honour  of  our  land, 
Let  us  not  hang  like  roping  icicles 
Upon  our  houses'  thatch,  whales  a  more  frosty  people 
Sweat  drops  of  gallant  youth  in  our  rich  fields ; 
Poor  —  we  may  call  them,  in  their  native  lords. 

*  Prepared.  «  Shooting  into  promontories. 

">  Orer.ridden. 


Dau.   By  faith  and  honour, 
Our  madams  mock  at  us. 

Hour.   1  hey  bid  us  —  to  the   English    dancing- 
schools. 
And  teach  lavoltas  high,  and  swift  corantos  ^  ; 
Saying,  our  grace  is  only  in  our  heels, 
And  that  we  are  most  lofty  runaways. 

Fr.  King.  Where  is  Montj6y,  the  herald  ?  speed 
him  hence ; 
Let  him  greet  England  with  our  sharp  defiance.  — 
Up,  princes  ;  and,  with  spirit  of  honour  edg'd. 
More  sharper  than  your  swords,  hie  to  the  field  ; 
Charles  De-la-bret,  high  constable  of  France  ; 
You  dukes  of  Orleans,  Bourbon,  and  of  Berry, 
Alen^on,  Brabant,  Bar,  and  Burgundy  ; 
Jacques  Chatillion,  Rambures,  Vaudemont, 
Beaumont,  Grandpre,  Roussi,  and  Fauconberg, 
Foix,  Lestrale,  Bouciqualt,  and  Charolois ; 
High  dukes,  great  princes,  barons,  lords,  and  knights, 
For  your  great  seats,  now  quit  you  of  great  shames, 
Bar  Harry  England,  that  sweeps  through  our  land 
With  pennons  9  painted  in  the  blood  of  Harfleur  : 
Rush  on  his  host,  as  doth  the  melted  snow 
Upon  the  vallies ;  — 
You  have  power  enough,  — 
And  in  a  captive  chariot,  intoRoUen 
Bring  him  our  prisoner. 

Con.  This  becomes  the  great 

Sorry  am  I,  his  numbers  are  so  few, 
His  soldiers  sick,  and  famish'd  in  their  march  j 
For,  I  am  sure  when  he  shall  see  our  army, 
He'll  drop  his  heart  into  the  sink  of  fear. 
And,  for  achievement,  offer  us  his  ransome. 

Fr.  King.   Therefore,   lord   constable,    haste   on 
Montj6y  : 
And  let  him  say  to  England,  that  we  send 
To  know  what  willing  ransome  he  will  give.  — 
Prince  dauphin,  you  shall  stay  with  us  in  Roiien. 

Dau.   Not  so,  I  do  beseech  your  majesty. 

Fr.  King.   Be  patient,  for  you  shall  remain  with 
us. — 
Now  forth,  lord  constable,  and  princes  all ; 
And  quickly  bring  us  word  of  England's  fall. 

^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V The  English  Camp  in  Picardy. 

Enter  GowER  and  Fluellen. 

Gow.  How  now,  captain  Fluellen?  come  you 
from  the  bridge  ? 

Flu.  I  assure  you,  there  is  very  excellent  service 
committed  at  the  pridge. 

Gow.   Is  the  duke  of  Exeter  safe  ? 

Flu.  The  duke  of  Exeter  is  as  magnanimous  as 
Agamemnon  ;  and  a  man  tliat  I  love  and  honour 
with  my  soul,  and  my  heart,  and  my  duty,  and  my 
life,  and  my  livings,  and  my  uttermost  powers  :  he 
is  not,  (God  be  praised,  and  plessed!)  any  hurt  in 
the  *orld;  but  keeps  the  pridge  most  valiantly, 
with  excellent  discipline.  There  is  an  ensign  there 
at  the  pridge, —  I  think,  in  my  very  conscience,  he 
is  as  valiant  as  Mark  Antony  ;  and  he  is  a  man  of 
no  estimation  in  the  'orld :  but  I  did  see  him  do 
gallant  service. 

Gow.   Wlmt  do  you  oall  him  ? 

Flu.   He  is  called  —  ancient  Pistol. 

Gowb  I  know  him  not. 


Dance*. 


'  Pendant*,  small  flags. 
Ff  4 


440 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  m. 


Enter  Pistol. 

Flu.  Do  you  not  know  him  ?  Here  comes  the 
man. 

Fist.  Captain,  I  thee  beseech  to  do  me  favours : 
The  duke  of  Exeter  doth  love  thee  well. 

Flu.  Ay,  and  I  have  merited  some  love  at  his 
hands. 

Pist.   Bardolph,  a  soldier,  firm  and  sound  of  heart, 
Of  buxom  valour,  hath,  —  by  cruel  fate, 
And  giddy  fortune's  furious  fickle  wheel, 
That  goddess  blind. 
That  stands  upon  the  rolling  restless  stone,  — 

Flu.  By  your  patience,  ancient  Pistol.  Fortune 
is  painted  plind,  with  a  muffler  i  before  her  eyes,  to 
signify  to  you  that  fortune  is  plind :  And  she  is 
painted  also  with  a  wheel ;  to  signify  to  you,  which 
is  the  moral  of  it,  that  she  is  turning,  and  incon- 
stant and  variations,  and  mutabilities ;  and  her 
foot,  look  you,  is  fixed  upon  a  spherical  stone, 
which  rolls,  and  rolls,  and  rolls  ;  —  In  good  truth 
the  poet  is  make  a  most  excellent  description  of 
fortune  :   fortune,  look  you,  is  an  excellent  moral. 

Pist.   Fortune  is  Bardolph's  foe,  and  frowns  on 
him  ; 
For  he  hath  stol'n  a  j)ix  2,  and  hanged  must  'a  be. 
Let  gallows  gape  for  dog,  let  man  go  free, 
And  let  not  hemp  his  windpipe  suffocate  : 
But  Exeter  hath  given  the  doom  of  death. 
For  ;jM7  of  little  price. 

Therefore,  go  speak,  the  duke  will  hear  thy  voice ; 
And  let  not  Bardolph's  vital  breath  be  cut 
With  edge  of  penny  cord,  and  vile  reproach  : 
Speak,  captain,  for  his  life,  and  I  will  thee  requite. 

Flu.  Ancient  Pistol,  I  do  partly  undestand  your 
meaning. 

Pist.   Why  then  rejoice  therefore. 

Flu.  Certainly,  ancient,  it  is  not  a  thing  to  re- 
joice at :  for  if,  look  you,  he  were  my  brother,  I 
would  desire  the  duke  to  use  his  goot  pleasure,  and 
put  him  to  executions  j  for  disciplines  ought  to  be 
used. 

Pist.    Ajigo  for  thy  friendship  ! 

Flu.    It  is  well. 

Pist.  The  fig  of  Spain  !3  [Exit  Pistol. 

Flu.    Very  good. 

Gow.  Why  this  is  an  arrant  counterfeit  rascal ; 
I  remember  him  now  ;  a  cutpurse. 

Fbi.  I'll  assure  you,  'a  utter'd  as  prave  'ords  at 
the  pridge,  as  you  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day  : 
But  it  is  very  well ;  what  he  has  spoke  to  me,  that 
is  well,  I  warrant  you,  when  time  is  serve. 

Gow.  Why,  'tis  a  gull,  a  fool,  a  rogue  ;  that  now 
and  then  goes  to  the  wars,  to  grace  himself,  at  his 
return  into  London,  under  the  form  of  a  soldier. 
And  such  fellows  are  perfect  in  great  commanders' 
names  :  and  they  will  learn  you  by  rote,  where  ser- 
vices were  done  ;  —  at  such  and  such  a  sconce  ^,  at 
such  a  breach,  at  such  a  convoy :  who  came  off 
bravely,  who  was  shot,  who  disgraced,  what  terms 
the  enemy  stood  on  :  and  this  they  con  perfectly  in 
the  phrase  of  war,  which  they  trick  up  with  new- 
tuned  oaths  :  And  what  a  beard  of  the  general's 
cut,  and  a  horrid  suit  of  the  camp,  will  do  among 
foaming  bottles  and  ale-wash'd  wits,  is  wonderful 
to  be  thought   on  !    but  you  must  learn  to  know 

'  A  fold  of  linen,  which  partially  covered  the  face. 
■*  A  small  box  in  which  were  kept  the  consecrated  wafers. 
■''  An  allusion  to  the  custom  in  Spain  and  Italy  of  giving 
poisoned  tigs. 
*  An  entrenchment  hastilythrown  up. 


such  slanders  of  the  age,  or  else  you  may  be  mar- 
vellous mistook. 

Flu.  I  tell  you  what,  captain  Gower ;  —  I  do 
perceive,  he  is  not  the  man  that  he  would  gladly 
make  show  to  the  'orld  he  is ;  if  I  find  a  hole 
in  his  coat,  I  will  tell  him  my  mind.  [Drum heard.] 
Hark  you,  the  king  is  coming ;  and  I  must  speak 
with  him  from  the  pridge. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  and  Soldiers. 

Flu.  Cot  pless  your  majesty  ! 

JT.  Hen.  How  now,  Fluellen  ?  camest  thou  £rom 
the  bridge  ? 

Flu.  Ay,  so  please  your  majesty.  The  duke  of 
Exeter  has  very  gallantly  maintained  the  pridge : 
l"he  French  is  gone  off,  look  you;  and  there  is  gallant 
and  most  prave  passages  :  Marry,  th'  athversary 
was  have  possession  of  the  pridge ;  but  he  is  en- 
forced to  retire,  and  the  duke  of  Exeter  is  master 
of  the  pridge  :  I  can  tell  your  majesty,  the  duke  is 
a  prave  man. 

JT.  Hen.   What  men  have  you  lost,  Fluellen  ? 

Flu.  The  perdition  of  th'  athversary  hath  been 
very  great,  very  reasonable  great :  marry,  for  my 
part,  I  think  the  duke  hath  lost  never  a  man,  but 
one  that  is  like  to  be  executed  for  robbing  a  church, 
one  Bardolph,  if  your  majesty  know  the  man :  his 
face  is  all  bubukles,  and  whelks,  and  knobs,  and 
flames  of  fire ;  and  his  lips  plows  at  his  nose,  and  it 
is  like  a  coal  of  fire,  sometimes  plue,  and  sometimes 
red ;  but  his  nose  is  executed,  and  his  fire's  out. 

IT.  Hen.  We  would  have  all  such  offenders  so 
cut  off:  and  we  give  express  charge,  that  in  our 
marches  through  the  country,  there  be  nothing 
compelled  from  the  villages,  nothing  taken  but  paid 
for ;  none  of  the  French  upbraided,  or  abused  in 
disdainful  language  j  For  when  lenity  and  cruelty 
play  for  a  kingdom,  the  gentler  gamester  is  the 
soonest  winner. 

Tucket  sounds.     Enter  Montjoy. 

Mont.   You  know  me  by  my  habit. 

IT.  Hen.  Well  then,  I  know  thee ;  What  shall  I 
know  of  thee  ? 

Mont.   My  master's  mind. 

JT.  Hen.    Unfold  it. 

Mont.  Thus  says  my  king :  —  Say  thou  to  Harry 
of  England,  Though  we  seemed  dead,  we  did  but 
sleep  ;  Advantage  is  a  better  soldier,  than  rashness. 
Tell  him,  we  could  have  rebuked  him  at  Harfleur  ; 
but  that  we  thought  not  good  to  bruise  an  injury, 
till  it  were  full  ripe :  —  now  we  speak  upon  our  cue  ^, 
and  our  voice  is  imperial :  England  shall  repent  his 
folly,  see  his  weakness,  and  admire  our  sufferance. 
Bid  him,  therefore,  consider  of  his  ransome ;  which 
must  proportion  the  losses  m'c  have  borne,  the  sub- 
jects we  have  lost,  the  disgrace  we  have  digested ; 
which,  in  weight  to  re-answer,  his  pettiness  would 
bow  under.  For  our  losses  his  exchequer  is  too 
poor ;  for  the  effusion  of  our  blood,  the  muster  of 
his  kingdom  too  faint  a  number ;  and  for  our  dis- 
grace, his  own  person,  kneeling  at  our  feet,  but  a 
weak  and  worthless  satisfaction.  To  this  add  — 
defiance:  and  tell  him,  for  conclusion,  he  hath 
betrayed  his  followers,  whose  condemnation  is  pro- 
nounced. So  far  my  king  and  master  j  so  much 
my  oflice. 

IT.  Hen.   What  is  thy  name  ?   I  know  thy  quality. 

*  In  proper  time. 


Scene  VI. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


441 


Mont.  Montjoy. 

JT.  Hen.  Thou  dost  thy  office  fairly.     Turn  thee 
back, 
And  tell  thy  king,  —  1  do  not  seek  him  now  ; 
But  could  be  willing  to  march  on  to  Calais 
Without  impeachment^:  for,  to  say  tlie  sooth, 
(Though  'tis  no  wisdom  to  confess  so  much 
Unto  an  enemy  of  craft  and  vantage,) 
My  people  are  with  sickness  much  enfeebled  ; 
My  numbers  lessen'd ;  and  those  few  I  have 
Almost  no  better  than  so  many  French  ; 
Who,  when  they  were  in  health,  I  tell  thee,  herald, 
I  thought  upon  one  pair  of  English  legs 
Did  march  three  Frenchmen.  —  Yet,  forgive  me, 

heaven. 
That  I  do  brag  thus !  —  this  yoiu"  air  of  France 
Hath  blown  that  vice  in  me ;   I  must  repent. 
Go,  therefore,  tell  thy  master  here  I  am ; 
My  ransome,  is  this  frail  and  worthless  trunk  ; 
My  army,  but  a  weak  and  sickly  guard  ; 
Yet  God  before',  tell  him  we  will  come  on, 
Though  France  himself,  and  such  another  neighbour. 
Stand  in  our  way.   There's  for  thy  labour,  Montjoy  j 
Go,  bid  thy  master  well  advise  himself: 
If  we  may  pass,  we  will ;  if  we  be  hinder'd. 
We  shall  your  tawny  ground  with  your  red  blood 
Discolour :  and  so,  Montjoy,  fare  you  well. 
The  sum  of  all  our  answer  is  but  this : 
We  would  not  seek  a  battle,  as  we  are ; 
Yet,  as  we  are,  we  say,  we  will  not  shun  it ; 
So  tell  your  master. 

Mont.   I  shall  deliver  so.      Thanks  to  your  high- 
ness. [Exit  Montjoy. 

Glo.   I  hope  they  will  not  come  upon  us  now. 

A'.  Ben.   We  are  in  God's  hand,  brother,  not  in 
theirs. 
March  to  the  bridge ;  it  now  draws  toward  night  r  — 
Beyond  the  river  we'll  encamp  ourselves ; 
And  on  to-morrow  bid  them  march  away.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  \l The  French  Camp  near  Agincourt. 

Enter  the  Constable  o/" France,  thehoKo  Rambures, 
the  Duke  of  Orleans,  Dauphin,  and  others. 

Con.  Tut !  I  have  the  best  armour  of  the  world. 
—  'Would  it  were  day. 

OrL  You  have  an  excellent  armour ;  but  let  my 
horse  have  his  due. 

dm.   It  is  the  best  horse  of  Europe. 

Orl.   Will  it  never  be  morning  ? 

Dau.  My  lord  of  Orleans,  and  my  lord  high 
constable,  you  talk  of  horse  and  armour.  — 

Orl.  You  are  as  well  provided  of  both,  as  any 
prince  in  the  world. 

Dau.    What  a  long  night  is  this  ! I  will  not 

change  my  horse  with  any  that  treads  but  on  four 
pasterns.  Ca,  ha  /  He  bounds  from  the  earth,  as  if 
his  entrails  were  hairs ! «  le  cheval  volant,  the  Pe- 
gasus, qui  a  les  narines  de  feu  !  When  I  bestride 
him,  I  soar,  I  am  a  hawk  :  he  treads  the  air  ;  the 
earth  sings  when  he  touches  it ;  the  basest  horn  of 
his  hoof  is  more  musical  than  the  pipe  of  Hermes. 

Orl.   He's  of  the  colour  of  the  nutmeg. 

Dnu.  And  of  the  heat  of  the  ginger.  It  is  a  beast 
for  Perseus :  he  is  pure  air  and  fire ;  and  the  dull 
elements  of  earth  and  water  never  appear  in  him, 

•  Hinderance  ?  Then  used  for  Ood  being  my  guide. 

*  Alluding  to  the  bounding  of  tennis-balls,  which  were  stuffed 
with  hair. 


but  only  in  patient  stillness,  while  his  rider  mounts 
him  :  he  is,  indeed,  a  horse ;  and  all  other  jades  you 
may  call — beasts. 

Con,  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  is  a  most  absolute  and 
excellent  horse. 

Dau.  It  is  the  prince  of  palfreys;  his  neigh  is 
like  the  bidding  of  a  monarch,  and  his  countenance 
enforces  homage. 

Orl.   No  more,  cousin. 

Dau-  Nay,  tlie  man  hath  no  wit,  that  cannot,  from 
the  rising  of  the  lark  to  the  lodging  of  the  lamb, 
vary  deserved  praise  on  my  palfrey :  it  is  a  theme 
as  fluent  as  the  sea ;  turn  the  sands  into  eloquent 
tongues,  and  my  horse  is  argument  for  them  all : 
'tis  a  subject  for  a  sovereign  to  reason  on,  and  for  a 
sovereign's  sovereign  to  ride  on  ;  and  for  the  world 
(familiar  to  us,  and  unknown,)  to  lay  apart  their 
particular  functions,  and  wonder  at  him.  I  once 
writ  a  sonnet  in  his  praise,  and  began  thus  :  Wonder 
ofruUure,  — 

Orl.  1  have  heard  a  sonnet  begin  so  to  one's 
mistress. 

Dau.  Then  did  they  imitate  that  which  I  composed 
to  my  courser ;  for  my  horse  is  my  mistress. 

Con.  You  have  good  judgment  in  horseman- 
ship. 

Ram.  My  lord  constable,  the  armour,  that  I  saw 
in  your  tent  to-night,  are  those  stars,  or  suns,  upon 
it? 

Con.   Stars,  my  lord. 

Dau.   Some  of  them  will  fall  to-morrow,  I  hope. 

Con.   And  yet  my  sky  shall  not  want. 

Dau.  That  may  be,  for  you  bear  a  many  super- 
fluously ;  and  'twere  more  honoiu",  some  were  away. 

Con.  Even  as  your  horse  bears  your  praises ;  who 
would  trot  as  well,  were  some  of  your  brags  dis- 
mounted. 

Dau.  'Would  I  were  able  to  load  him  with  his 
desert !  Will  it  never  be  day  ?  I  will  trot  to-morrow 
a  mile,  and  my  way  shall  be  paved  with  English 
faces. 

Con.  I  will  not  say  so,  for  fear  I  should  be  faced 
out  of  my  way  :  But  1  would  it  were  morning,  for 
I  would  fain  be  about  the  ears  of  the  English. 

Ram.  Who  will  go  to  hazard  with  me  for  twenty 
English  prisoners. 

Con.  You  must  first  go  yourself  to  hazard,  ere 
you  have  them. 

Dau.  'Tis  midnight ;   I'll  go  arm  myself.   [Exit. 

Orl.    The  dauphin  longs  for  morning. 

Ram.    He  longs  to  eat  the  English. 

Con.    I  think,  he  will  eat  all  he  kills. 

Orl.  By  the  white  liand  of  my  lady,  he's  a  gallant 
prince. 

Con.  Swear  by  her  foot,  that  she  may  tread  out 
the  oath. 

Orl.  He  is  simply,  the  most  active  gentleman  of 
France. 

Con.  Doing  is  activity  :  and  he  will  still  be  doing. 

Orl.   He  never  did  harm,  that  I  heard  of. 

Con.  Nor  will  do  none  to-morrow  ;  he  will  keep 
that  good  name  still. 

Orl.   I  know  him  to  be  valiant. 

Con.  I  was  told  that,  by  one  that  knows  him 
better  than  you. 

Orl.    What's  he? 

Con.  Marry,  he  told  me  so  himself;  and  he  said, 
he  cared  not  who  knew  it. 

Orl.  He  needs  not,  it  is  no  hidden  virtue  in  him. 

Con.   By  my  faith,  sir,  but  it  is ;  never  any  body 


442 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  III 


saw  it,  but  his  lackey :  'tis  a  hooded  valour ;  and, 
when  it  appears,  it  will  bate.  9 

Orl.   Ill-will  never  said  well. 

Con.  I  will  cap  that  proverb  with — There  is  flat- 
tery in  friendship. 

Orl.  And  I  will  take  up  that  with  —  Give  the 
devil  his  due. 

Con.  Well  placed  j  there  stands  your  friend  for 
the  devil. 

Orl.  You  are  the  better  at  proverbs,  by  how  much 
—  A  fool's  bolt  is  soon  shot. 

Con.   You  have  shot  over. 

Orl.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  you  were  overshot. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord  high  constable,  the  English  lie 
within  fifteen  hundred  paces  of  your  tent. 

Con.   "Who  hath  measured  the  ground  ? 

Mess.    The  lord  Grandpr^. 

Con.  A  valiant  and  most  expert  gentleman.  — 
Would  it  were  day!  —  Alas,  poor  Harry  of  Eng- 
land !  —  he  longs  not  for  the  dawning,  as  we  do. 

Orl.  What  a  wretched  and  peevish  *  fellow  is  this 
king  of  England,  to  mope  with  his  fat-brained  fol- 
lowers so  far  out  of  his  knowledge ! 


Con.  If  the  English  had  any  apprehension,  they 
would  run  away. 

Orl.  That  they  lack  ;  for  if  their  heads  had  any 
intellectual  armour,  they  could  never  wear  such 
heavy  head-pieces. 

Ram.  That  island  of  England  breeds  very  valiant 
creatures ;  their  mastiffs  are  of  unmatchable  courage. 

Orl.  Foolish  curs !  that  run  winking  into  the 
mouth  of  a  Russian  bear,  and  have  their  heads 
crushed  like  rotten  apples :  You  may  as  well  say,  — 
that's  a  valiant  flea,  that  dare  eat  his  breakfast  on 
the  lip  of  a  lion. 

Con.  Just,  just ;  and  the  men  do  sympathize  with 
the  mastiffs,  in  robustious  and  rough  coming  on, 
leaving  their  wits  with  their  wives  :  and  then  give 
them  great  meals  of  beef,  and  iron  and  steel,  Siey 
will  eat  like  wolves,  and  fight  like  devils. 

Orl.  Ay,  but  these  English  are  shrewdly  out  of  beef. 

Con.  Then  we  shall  find  to-morrow — they  have 
only  stomachs  to  eat,  and  none  to  fight.  Now  is  it 
time  to  arm :   Come,  shall  we  about  it  ? 

Orl.   It  is  now  two  o'clock :  but,  let  me  see,  — 
by  ten. 
We  shall  have  each  a  hundred  Englishmen. 

[ExewU. 


ACT  IV. 


Enter  Chorus. 
Chor.   Now  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time. 
When  creeping  murmur,  and  the  poring  dark. 
Fills  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe. 
From  camp  to  camp,  through  the  foul  womb  of  night, 
The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  '^  sounds. 
That  the  fix'd  sentinels  almost  receive 
The  secret  whispers  of  each  other's  watch : 
Fire  answers  fire;  and  through  their  paly  flames 
Each  battle  sees  the  other's  umber'd^  face: 
Steed  threatens  steed,  in  high  and  boastful  neighs 
Piercing  the  night's  dull  ear ;  and  from  the  tents. 
The  armourers,  accomplishing  the  knights. 
With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up, 
Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 
The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do  toll. 
And  the  third  hour  of  drowsy  morning  name. 
Proud  of  their  numbers,  and  secure  in  soul. 
The  confident  and  over-lusty"*  French 
Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice  ; 
And  chide  the  cripple  tardy-gaited  night, 
Who,  like  a  foul  and  ugly  witch,  doth  limp 
So  tediously  away.     The  poor  condemned  English, 
Like  sacrifices,  by  their  watchful  fires 
Sit  patiently,  and  inly  ruminate 
The  morning's  danger ;   and  their  gesture  sad, 
Investing  lank-lean  cheeks,  and  war-worn  coats, 
Presenteth  them  unto  the  gazing  moon 
So  many  horrid  ghosts.      O,  now,  who  will  behold 
The  royal  captain  of  this  ruin'd  band, 
Walking  from  watch  to  watch,  from  tent  to  tent, 
Let  him  cry — Praise  and  glory  on  his  head ! 
For  forth  he  goes,  and  visits  ail  his  host ; 
Bids  them  good-morrow,  with  a  modest  smile  ; 

8  An  equivoque  in  terms  in  falconry  :  he  means  his  valour 
Is  hid  from  every  body  but  his  lackey,  and  when  it  appears  it 
will  fall  ofE 

'  Foolish.  2  Gently,  lowly. 

'  Discoloured  by  the  gleam  of  the  fires.        *  Over-saucy. 


And  calls  them  ^brothers,  friends,  and  countrymen. 
Upon  his  royal  face  there  is  no  note, 
How  dread  an  army  hath  enrounded  him ; 
Nor  doth  he  dedicate  one  jot  of  colour 
Unto  the  weary  and  all-watched  night: 
But  freshly  looks,  and  over-bears  attaint. 
With  cheerful  semblance,  and  sweet  majesty  j 
That  every  wretch,  pining  and  pale  before. 
Beholding  him,  plucks  comfort  from  his  looks ; 
A  largess  universal,  like  tlie  sun. 
His  liberal  eye  doth  give  to  every  one. 
Thawing  cold  fear.     Then,  mean  and  gentle  all. 
Behold,  as  may  unworthiness  define, 
A  little  touch  of  Harry  in  the  night : 
And  so  our  scene  must  to  the  battle  fly : 
Where,  (O  for  pity  !)  we  shall  much  disgrace  — 
With  four  or  five  most  vile  and  ragged  foils. 
Right  ill-dispos'd,  in  brawl  ridiculous,  — 
The  name  of  Agincourt :   Yet,  sit  and  see  ; 
Minding  ^  true  things,  by  what  their  mockeries  be.  : 

[ExU. 

SCENE  L  —  The  English  Catnp  at  Agincourt. 

Enter  King  Henrt,  Bedford,  and  Gloster. 

Jr.  Hen.   Gloster,  'tis  true,  that  we  are  in  great 
danger ; 
The  greater  therefore  should  our  courage  be.  — 
Good  morrow,  brother  Bedford.  —  Now  we  find 
There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil. 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out ; 
For  our  bad  neighbour  makes  us  early  stirrers, 
Which  is  both  healthful,  and  good  husbandry : 
Besides,  they  are  our  outward  consciences, 
And  preachers  to  us  all ;  admonishing, 
That  we  should  dress  us  fairly  for  our  end. 
Thus  may  we  gather  honey  from  the  weed 
And  make  a  moral  of  the  devil  himself. 

»  Calling  to  remembrance. 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


443 


Enter  Erpin(ihak. 


Good  morrow,  old  sir  Thomas  Erpingham  : 
A  good  soft  pillow  for  that  good  white  head 
Were  better  tlian  a  churlish  turf  of  France. 

Erp.   Not  so,  my  liege ;  this  lodging  likes  me 
better, 
Since  I  may  say— now  lie  I  like  a  king. 

K.  Hen.   "I'is  good  for  men  to  love  tlieir  present 
pains, 
Upon  example  ;  so  the  spirit  is  eased  : 
And,  when  the  mind  is  quicken'd,  out  of  doubt, 
The  organs,  though  defunct  and  dead  before. 
Break  up  their  drowsy  grave,  and  newly  move 
With  casted  slough  6  and  fresh  legerity. 7 
Lend  me  thy  cloak,  sir  Thomas.  —  Brothers  both, 
Commend  me  to  the  princes  in  our  camp ; 
Do  my  good- morrow  to  them  ;  and  anon, 
Desire  them  all  to  my  pavilion. 

Glo.   We  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Bedford. 

Erp.   Shall  I  attend  your  grace  ? 

IT.  Hen.  No,  my  good  knight ; 

Go  with  my  brothers  to  my  lords  of  England; 
I  and  my  bosom  must  debate  a  while. 
And  then  I  would  no  other  company. 

Erp.    The    Lord   in    heaven   bless   thee,    noble 
Harry.  [Exit  Erpingham. 

A'.  Hen.  Worthy  old  heart !  thou  speakest  cheer- 
fully. 

Enter  Pistol. 

Pist.    Quivald? 

K.  Hen.   A  friend. 

Pist.   Discuss  unto  me ;   Art  thou  officer ; 
Or  art  thou  base,  common,  and  popular? 

K.  Hen.   I  am  a  gentleman  of  a  company. 

Pist.   Trailest  thou  the  puissant  pike  ? 

K.  Hen.   Even  so :   what  are  you  ? 

Pist.   As  good  a  gentleman  as  the  emperor. 

K.  Hen.   Then  you  are  a  better  than  the  king. 

Pist.   The  king's  a  bawcock,  and  a  heart  of  gold, 
A  lad  of  life,  an  imp  of  fame ; 
Of  parents  good,  of  fist  most  valiant : 
I  kiss  his  dirty  shoe,  and  from  my  heart-strings 
I  love  the  lovely  bully.     What's  thy  name  ? 

K.  Hen.   Harry  le  Roy. 

Pist.   Le  Roy  I  a    Cornish    name:    art  thou   of 
Cornish  crew  ? 

K.  Hen.   No,  I  am  a  Welshman. 

Pist.   Knowest  thou  Fluellen. 

K.Hen.   Yes. 

Pist.  Tell  him,  I'll  knock  his  leek  about  his  pate, 
Upon  saint  David's  day. 

K.  Hen.  Do  not  you  wear  your  dagger  in  your  cap 
that  day,  lest  he  knock  that  about  yours. 

Pist.   Art  thou  his  friend  ? 

K.  Hen.   And  his  kinsman  too. 

Pist.   The  fgo  for  thee  then  ! 

A''.  Hen.   I  thank  you  :    Heaven  be  with  you. 

Piit.    My  name  is  Pistol  called.  [Exit. 

K.  Hen.   It  sorts  well  with  your  fierceness. 

Enter  Fluellen  and  Gower,  severally. 

Gow.   Captain  Fluellen  ! 

Etu.  So  !  speak  lower.  It  is  the  greatest  admir- 
ation in  the  universal  'orld,  when  tlie  true  and 
aimcient  prerogatifes  and  laws  of  the  wars  is  not 
kept :  if  you  would  take  the  pains  but  to  examine 

*  Slouch  is  the  skin  which  serpents  annually  throw  off         J 
^  Lightness,  nimblencss. 


the  wars  of  Pompey  the  Great,  you  shall  find,  I 
warrant  you,  that  there  is  no  tiddle  taddle,  or  pib- 
ble  pabble,  in  Pompey's  camp ;  I  warrant  you,  you 
shall  find  the  ceremonies  of  the  wars,  and  the  cares 
of  it,  and  the  forms  of  it,  and  the  sobriety  of  it,  and 
the  modesty  of  it,  to  be  otherwise. 

Gow.  Why,  the  enemy  is  loud  j  you  heard  him 
all  night. 

Flu.  If  the  enemy  is  an  ass  and  a  fool,  and  a 
prating  coxcomb,  is  it  meet,  tliink  you,  that  we 
should  also,  look  you,  be  an  ass,  and  a  fool,  and  a 
prating  coxcomb ;  in  your  ovni  conscience  now  ? 

Gow.   I  will  speak  lower. 

Elu.  1  pray  you,  and  beseech  you,  that  you  will. 
[Exeufit  GowER  and  Fluellen. 

JT.  Hen.  Though  it  appear  a  little  out  of  fashion, 
There  is  much  care  and  valour  in  this  Welshman. 

Enter  Bates,  Court,  and  Williams. 

Court.  Brother  John  Bates,  is  not  that  the  morn- 
ing which  breaks  yonder? 

Bates.  I  think  it  be  :  but  we  have  no  great  cause 
to  desire  the  approach  of  day. 

Will.  We  see  yonder  the  beginning  of  the  day, 
but,  I  think,  we  shall  never  see  the  end  of  it.  — 
Who  goes  there  ? 

JC.Hen.   A  friend. 

WUt.   Under  what  captain  serve  you  ? 

IT.  Hen.   Under  sir  Thomas  Erpingham. 

Will.  A  good  old  commander,  and  a  most  kind 
gentleman :  I  pray  you,  what  thinks  he  of  our  estate  ? 

JT.  Hen.  Even  as  men  wrecked  upon  a  sand,  that 
look  to  be  washed  off  the  next  tide. 

Bates.   He  hath  not  told  his  thought  to  the  king  ? 

JT.  Hen.  No :  nor  it  is  not  meet  he  should.  For, 
though  I  speak  it  to  you,  I  think,  the  king  is  but  a 
man,  as  I  am :  the  violet  smells  to  him,  as  it  doth 
to  me  ;  the  element  shows  to  him,  as  it  doth  to  me ; 
all  his  senses  have  but  human  conditions  8 :  his  ce- 
remonies laid  by,  he  appears  but  a  man ;  and  though 
his  affections  are  higher  mounted  than  ours,  yet, 
when  they  stoop,  they  stoop  with  the  like  wing ; 
therefore  when  he  sees  reason  of  fears,  as  we  do, 
his  fears,  out  of  doubt,  be  of  the  same  relish  as  ours 
are  :  Yet,  in  reason,  no  man  should  possess  him  with 
any  appearance  of  fear,  lest  he,  by  showing  it, 
should  dishearten  his  army. 

Bates.  He  may  show  what  outward  courage  he 
will :  but,  I  believe,  as  cold  a  night  as  'tis,  he  could 
wish  himself  in  the  Thames  up  to  the  neck  :  and  so 
I  would  he  were,  and  I  by  him,  at  all  adventures^ 
so  we  were  quit  here. 

JT.  Hen.  By  my  troth,  I  will  speak  my  conscience 
of  the  king ;  I  think,  he  would  not  wish  himself 
any  where  but  where  he  is. 

Bates.  Then,  'would  he  were  here  alone ;  so 
should  he  be  sure  to  be  ransomed,  and  a  many  poor 
men's  lives  saved. 

JT.  Hen.  I  dare  say,  you  love  him  not  so  ill,  to 
wish  him  here  alone  :  howsoever  you  speak  this,  to 
feel  other  men's  minds :  Methinks,  I  could  not  die 
any  where  so  contented,  as  in  the  king's  company ; 
his  cause  being  just,  and  liis  quarrel  honourable. 

Will.    That's  more  than  we  know. 

Bates.  Ay,  or  more  than  we  should  seek  after ; 
for  we  know  enough,  if  we  know  we  are  the  king's 
subjects  ;  if  his  cause  be  wrong,  our  obedience  to 
the  king  wipes  the  crime  of  it  out  of  us. 

"  QualittM. 


444 


KING  HENRf  V. 


Act  IV. 


fFill-  But,  if  the  cause  be  not  good,  the  kin^ 
himself  hath  a  heavy  reckoning  to  make  ;  when  all 
those  legs,  and  arms,  and  heads,  chopped  off  in  a 
battle,  shall  join  together  at  the  latter  day,  and  cry 
all  —  We  died  at  such  a  place  ;  some  swearing ; 
some,  crying  for  a  surgeon  ;  some,  upon  their  wives 
left  poor  behind  them  ;  some,  upon  the  debts  they 
owe  ;  some,  upon  their  children  rawly  '  left.  I  am 
afeard  there  are  few  die  well,  that  die  in  battle  ;  for 
how  can  they  charitably  dispose  of  any  thing,  when 
blood  is  their  argument  ?  Now,  if  these  men  do 
not  die  well,  it  will  be  a  black  matter  for  the  king 
that  led  them  to  it ;  whom  to  disobey,  were  against 
all  proportion  of  subjection. 

IT.  Hen.  So,  if  a  son,  that  is  by  his  father  sent 
about  merchandize,  do  sinfully  miscarry  upon  the 
sea,  the  imputation  of  his  wickedness,  by  your  rule, 
should  be  imposed  upon  his  father  that  sent  him : 
or  if  a  servant,  under  his  master's  command,  trans- 
porting a  sum  of  money,  be  assailed  by  robbers,  and 
die  in  many  irreconciled  iniquities,  you  may  call  the 
business  of  the  master  the  author  of  the  servant's 
perdition :  —  But  this  is  not  so :  the  king  is  not 
bound  to  answer  the  particular  endings  of  his  sol- 
diers, the  father  of  his  son,  nor  the  master  of  his 
servant :  for  they  purpose  not  their  death,  when 
they  purpose  their  services.  Besides,  there  is  no 
king,  be  his  cause  never  so  spotless,  if  it  come  to 
the  arbitrement  of  swords,  can  try  it  out  with  all 
unspotted  soldiers.  Some,  peradventure,  have  on 
them  the  guilt  of  premeditated  and  contrived  mur- 
der ;  some,  of  beguiling  virgins  with  the  broken 
seals  of  perjury  ;  some,  making  the  wars  their  bul- 
wark, that  have  before  gored  the  gentle  bosom  of 
peace  with  pillage  and  robbery.  Now,  if  these  men 
have  defeated  the  law,  and  outrun  native  punish- 
ment 2,  though  they  can  outstrip  men,  they  have  no 
wings  to  fly  from  God  :  war  is  his  vengeance  ;  so 
that  here  men  are  punished,  for  before-breach  of 
the  king's  laws,  in  now  the  king's  quarrel :  where 
they  feared  the  death,  they  have  borne  life  away  ; 
and  where  they  would  be  safe,  they  perish :  Then 
if  they  die  unprovided,  no  more  is  the  king  guilty 
of  it,  than  he  was  before  guilty  of  those  impieties 
for  the  which  they  are  now  visited.  Every  subject's 
duty  is  the  king's ;  but  every  subject's  soul  is  his 
own.  Therefore  should  every  soldier  in  the  wars 
do  as  every  sick  man  in  his  bed,  wash  every  mote 
out  of  his  conscience  :  and  dying  so,  death  is  to 
him  advantage  ;  or  not  dying,  the  time  was  blessedly 
lost,  wherein  such  preparation  was  gained :  and,  in 
him  that  escapes,  it  were  not  sin  to  think,  that 
making  God  so  free  an  offer,  he  let  him  outlive  that 
day  to  see  his  greatness,  and  to  teach  others  how 
they  should  prepare. 

Will.  'Tis  certain,  every  man  that  dies  ill,  the  ill 
is  upon  his  own  head,  the  king  is  not  to  answer  for  it. 

Bates.  I  do  not  desire  he  should  answer  for  me ; 
and  yet  I  determine  to  fight  lustily  for  him. 

JC.  Hen.  I  myself  heard  the  king  say,  he  would 
not  be  ransomed. 

Will.  Ay,  he  said  so,  to  make  us  fight  cheerfully ; 
but  when  our  throats  are  cut,  he  may  be  ransomed, 
and  we  ne'er  the  wiser. 

JC.  Hen.  If  I  live  to  see  it,  I  will  never  trust  his 
word  after. 

Will.  'Mass,  you'll  pay  3  him  then !  That's  a  peril- 
ous shot  out  of  an  elder  gun,  that  a  poor  and  private 

I  Suddenly.         2  1.  e.  Punishment  in  their  native  country. 
3  To  pay  here  signifies  to  bring  to  account,  to  punish. 


displeasure  can  do  against  a  monarch  !  you  may  as 
well  go  about  to  turn  the  sun  to  ice,  with  fanning  in 
his  face  with  a  peacock's  feather.  You'll  never 
trust  his  word  after !  come,  'tis  a  foolish  saying. 

IT.  Hen.  Your  reproof  is  something  too  round ; 
I  should  be  angry  with  you,  if  the  time  were  con- 
venient. 

Will.  Let  it  be  a  quarrel  between  us,  if  you  live. 

IT.  Hen.   I  embrace  it. 

WUl.    How  shall  I  know  thee  again. 

IT.  Hen.  Give  me  any  gage  of  thine,  and  I  will 
wear  it  in  my  bonnet :  then,  if  ever  thou  darest 
acknowledge  it,  I  will  make  it  my  quarrel. 

Will.  Here's  my  glove ;  give  me  another  of  thine. 

JC.  Hen.   There. 

Will.  This  will  I  also  wear  in  my  cap  :  if  ever 
thou  come  to  me  and  say,  after  to-morrow.  This  is 
my  glove,  by  this  hand,  I  will  take  thee  a  box  on  the 
ear. 

K.  Hen.  If  ever  I  live  to  see  it,  I  will  challenge  it. 

WiU.   Thou  darest  as  well  be  hanged. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  I  will  do  it,  though  I  take  thee  in 
the  king's  company. 

Will.   Keep  thy  word  :   fare  thee  well. 

Bates.  Be  friends,  you  English  fools,  be  friends ; 
we  have  French  quarrels  enough,  if  you  could  tell 
how  to  reckon. 

K.  Hen.  Indeed,  the  French  may  lay  twenty  French 
crowns  to  one,  they  will  beat  us ;  for  they  bear  them 
on  their  shoulders  :    But  it  is  no  English  treason  to 
cut  French  crowns ;  and,  to-morrow  the  king  him- 
self will  be  a  clipper.  [Exeunt  Soldiers. 
Upon  the  king !  let  us  our  lives,  our  souls, 
Our  debts,  our  careful  wives,  our  children,  and 
Our  sins,  lay  on  the  king  ;  —  we  must  bear  all. 
O  hard  condition  !  twin-born  with  greatness. 
Subjected  to  the  breath  of  every  fool. 
Whose  sense  no  more  can  feel  but  his  own  wringing ! 
What  infinite  heart's  ease  must  kings  neglect. 
That  private  men  enjoy  ? 

And  what  have  kings,  that  privates  have  not  too. 
Save  ceremony,  save  general  ceremony? 
And  what  art  thou,  thou  idle  ceremony  ? 
What  kind  of  god  art  thou,  that  sufFer'st  more 
Of  mortal  griefs,  than  do  thy  worshippers  ? 
What  are  thy  rents  ?  what  are  thy  comings-in  ? 

0  ceremony,  show  me  but  thy  worth  ! 
What  is  the  soul  of  adoration  ? 

Art  thou  aught  else  but  place,  degree,  and  form. 

Creating  awe  and  fear  in  other  men  ? 

Wherein  thou  art  less  happy  being  fear'd 

Than  they  in  fearing. 

What  drink'st  thou  oft,  instead  of  homage  sweet. 

But  poison'd  flattery?  O,  be  sick,  great  greatness, 

And  bid  thy  ceremony  give  thee  cure  ! 

Think'st  thou,  the  fiery  fever  will  go  out 

With  titles  blown  from  adulation  ? 

Will  it  give  place  to  flexure  and  low  bending  ? 

Canst  thou,  when  thou  command' st  the  beggar's 

knee, 
Command  the  health  of  it  ?  No,  thou  proud  dreamy 
That  play'st  so  subtly  with  a  king's  repose ; 

1  am  a  king,  that  find  thee ;  and  I  know, 
'Tis  not  the  balm,  the  scepter,  and  the  ball. 
The  sword,  the  mace,  the  crown  imperial. 
The  enter-tissued  robe  of  gold  and  pearl. 
The  farced  ^  title  running  'fore  the  king. 
The  throne  he  sits  on,  nor  the  tide  of  pomp 

'  Farced  is  stuffed.    The  tumid  puffy  titles  with  which 
king's  name  is  introduced. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


445 


That  beats  upon  the  liigh  shore  of  this  world, 
No,  not  all  these,  thrice-gorgeous  ceremony, 
Not  all  these,  laid  in  bed  majestical. 
Can  sleep  so  soundly  as  the  wretched  slave ; 
Who,  witli  a  body  fiU'd,  and  vacant  mind. 
Gets  him  to  rest,  cramm'd  with  distressful  bread  ; 
Never  sees  horrid  night,  the  child  of  hell ; 
But,  like  a  lackey,  from  the  rise  to  set, 
Sweats  in  the  eye  of  Phoebus,  and  all  night. 
Sleeps  in  Elysium  ;  next  day,  after  dawn. 
Doth  rise,  and  help  Hyperion  <5  to  his  horse ; 
And  follows  so  the  ever-running  year 
With  profitable  labour,  to  his  grave  : 
And,  but  for  ceremony,  such  a  wretch. 
Winding  up  days  with  toil,  and  nights  with  sleep, 
Had  the  fore-hand  and  vantage  of  a  king. 
The  slave,  a  member  of  the  country's  peace. 
Enjoys  it ;  but  in  gross  brain  little  wots. 
What  watch  the  king  keeps  to  maintain  the  peace, 
Whose  hours  the  peasant  best  advantages. 

Enter  Ekpingham. 

Erp.  My  lord,  your  nobles,  jealous  of  your  absence. 
Seek  through  your  camp  to  find  you. 

-A'  Hen.  Good  old  knight. 

Collect  them  all  together  at  my  tent : 
I'll  be  before  thee. 

E^P'  I  shall  do't,  my  lord.         [Exit. 

K.  Hen.   O  God  of  battles !  steel   my  soldiers' 
hearts! 
Possess  them  not  with  fear ;  take  from  them  now 
The  sense  of  reckoning,  if  the  opposed  numbers 
Pluck  their  hearts  from  them !— Not  to-day,  O  Lord, 

0  not  to-day,  think  not  upon  the  fault 
My  father  made  in  compassing  the  crown ! 

1  Richard's  body  have  interred  new  ; 

And  on  it  have  bestow'd  more  contrite  tears, 
Tlian  from  it  issued  forced  drops  of  blood. 
Five  hundred  poor  I  have  in  yearly  pay. 
Who  twice  a  day  their  wither'd  hands  hold  up 
Toward  heaven,  to  pardon  blood ;  and  I  have  built 
Two  chantries,  where  the  sad  and  solemn  priests 
Sing  still  for  Richard's  soul.      More  will  I  do : 
Tliough  all  that  I  can  do,  is  nothing  worth  j 
Since  that  my  penitence  comes  after  all. 
Imploring  pardon. 

Enter  Glostbr. 
Glo.   My  liege ! 

K.  Hen.  My  brother  Gloster's  voice  ?  —  Ay ; 

I  know  thy  errand,  I  will  go  with  thee :  — 
The  day,  my  friends,  and  all  things  stay  for  me. 

{Exeunt. 
SCENE  II.  —  The  French  Camp, 

Enter  Dauphin,  Orleans,  Rambures,  arid  others. 
Orl.  The  sun  doth  gild  our  armour ;  up,  my  lords. 
Dau. Montezd  cheval: — My  horse !  valet/ lacquay! 

ha  ! 
Orl.   O  brave  spirit ! 

Dau.    Via  !  "> —  les  eaux  et  la  terre 

Orl.    Bienpuis  ?  fair  et  le  feu 

Dau.    del !   cousin  Orleans. 

Enter  Constable. 
Now,  my  lord  constable  ! 

Con.    Hark,  how  our  steeds  for  present  service 
neigh. 


»  The  sun. 


An  old  encouraging  exclamation. 


Z)au .  Mount  them,and  make  incision  in  their  hides; 
That  their  hot  blood  may  spin  in  English  eyes. 
And  dout  ^  them  with  superfluous  courage  :    Ha  ! 

Ram.  What,  will  you  have  them  weep  our  horses* 
blood? 
How  shall  we  then  behold  their  natural  tears  ? 


Enter 
Mess.   The  English  are  embattled,  you   French 

peers. 
Con.   To  horse,  you  gallant  princes  !  straight  to 
horse ! 
Do  but  behold  yon  poor  and  starved  band. 
And  your  fair  show  shall  suck  away  their  souls. 
Leaving  them  but  the  shales  and  husks  of  men. 
There  is  not  work  enough  for  all  our  hands ; 
Scarce  blood  enough  in  all  their  sickly  veins, 
To  give  each  naked  curtle-ax  a  stain. 
That  our  French  gallants  shall  to-day  draw  out. 
And  sheath  for  lack  of  sport :  let  us  but  blow  on 

them. 
The  vapour  of  our  valour  will  o'ertum  them. 
'Tis  positive  'gainst  all  exceptions,  lords. 
That  our  superfluous  lackeys,  and  our  peasants,  — 
•Mru-   jjj  unnecessary  action,  swarm 


Who. 


About  our  squares  of  battle,  —  were  enough 

To  purge  this  field  of  such  a  hilding  9  foe  ; 

Though  we,  upon  this  mountain's  basis  by. 

Took  stand  for  idle  speculation  : 

But  that  our  honours  must  not.     What's  to  say  ? 

A  very  little  little  let  us  do. 

And  all  is  done.      Then  let  the  trumpets  sound 

The  tucket-sonuance  ',  and  the  note  to  mount : 

For  our  approach  shall  so  much  dare  the  field. 

That  England  shall  couch  down  in  fear,  and  yield. 

Enter  Grandprk. 

Grand.    Why  do  you  stay  so  long,  my  lords  of 
France  ? 
Yon  island  carrions,  desperate  of  their  bones, 
Ill-favour'dly  become  the  morning  field  : 
Their  ragged  curtains  -  poorly  are  let  loose. 
And  our  air  shakes  them  passing  scornfully. 
Big  Mars  seems  bankrupt  in  their  beggar'd  host. 
And  faintly  through  a  rusty  beaver  peeps. 
Their  horsemen  sit  like  fixed  candlesticks, 
With  torch-staves  in  their  hand:   and  their  poor 

jades 
Lob  down  their  heads,  dropping  the  hides  and  hips  ; 
The  gum  down-roping  from  their  pale-dead  eyes  ; 
And  in  their  pale  dull  mouths  the  gimmal  3  bit 
Lies  foul  with  chew'd  grass,  still  and  motionless ; 
And  their  executors,  the  knavish  crows. 
Fly  o'er  them  all,  impatient  for  their  hour. 
Description  cannot  suit  itself  in  words. 
To  demonstrate  the  life  of  such  a  battle 
In  life  so  lifeless  as  it  shows  itself. 

Con.   They  have  said  their  prayers,  and  they  stay 

for  death. 
Dau.  Shall  we  go  send  them  dinners,  and  fresh 

suits. 
And  give  their  fasting  horses  provender, 
And  after  fight  with  them  ? 

Con.   I  stay  but  for  my  guard  ;   On,  to  the  field : 
I  will  the  banner  from  a  trumpet  take. 
And  use  it  for  my  haste.      Come,  come  away  ! 
Tlie  sun  is  high,  and  we  outwear  the  day.      [Exeunt. 

**  D<»  them  o|it,  extinguish  them.  »  Mean,  despicable; 

'  The  name  "of  an  introductory  flourish  on  the  trumpet 
2  Colour*  3  Ring. 


44d 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  IV. 


SCENE  III.  —  The  English  Camp. 

Enter   the    English    Host  ;     Gloster,    Bedford, 
Exeter,  Salisbury,  and  Westmoreland. 

Glo.   Where  is  the  king  ? 

Bed.  The  king  himself  is  rode  to  view  their  battle. 

West.  Of  fighting  men  they  have  full  three-score 
thousand. 

Exe.  There's  five  to  one  ;  besides,  they  all  are  fresh. 

Sal.   God's  arm  strike  with  us  !  'tis  a  fearful  odds. 
God  be  wi'  you,  princes  all ;   I'll  to  ray  charge  : 
If  we  no  more  meet,  till  we  meet  in  heaven, 
Then  joyfully,  —  my  noble  lord  of  Bedford,  — 
My  dear  lord  Gloster, —  and  my  good  lord  Exeter, — 
And  my  kind  kinsman,  —  warriors  all,  adieu  ! 

Bed.   Farewell,  good  Salisbury :  and  good  luck 
go  with  thee ! 

Exe.  Farewell,  kind  lord ;  fight  valiantly  to-day : 
And  yet  I  do  thee  wrong,  to  mind  thee  of  it, 
For  thou  art  fram'd  of  the  firm  truth  of  valour. 

l^Exit  Salisbury. 

Bed.   He  is  as  full  of  valour  as  of  kindness ; 
Princely  in  both. 

West.  O  that  we  now  had  here 

Enter  King  Henry. 

But  one  ten  thousand  of  those  men  in  England, 
That  do  no  work  to-day  ! 

K.  Hen,  What's  he,  that  wishes  so  ? 

My  cousin  Westmoreland  ?  —  No,  my  fair  cousin  : 
If  we  are  mark'd  to  die,  we  are  enough 
To  do  our  country  loss ;  and  if  to  live, 
The  fewer  men,  the  greater  share  of  honour. 

0  no,  I  pray  thee,  wish  not  one  man  more. 
By  Jove,  1  am  not  covetous  for  gold  ; 
Nor  care  I,  who  doth  feed  upon  my  cost ; 

It  yearns''  me  not,  if  men  my  garments  wear  ; 
Such  outer  things  dwell  not  in  my  desires  : 
But,  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honour, 

1  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 

No,  'faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man  from  England : 
By  heaven !  I  would  not  lose  so  great  an  honour. 
As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would  share  from  me, 
For  the  best  hope  I  have.     O,  do  not  wish  one  more  : 
Rather  proclaim  it,  Westmoreland,  through  my  host, 
That  he,  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  figlit. 
Let  him  depart ;  his  passport  shall  be  made. 
And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse  : 
We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company, 
That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 
This  day  is  call'd  —  the  feast  of  Crispian  : 
He,  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe  home, 
Will  stand  a  tip-toe  when  this  day  is  nam'd, 
And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian  : 
He,  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see  old  age. 
Will  yearly  on  the  vigil  feast  his  friends, 
And  say  —  to-morrow  is  saint  Crispian  : 
Then  will  he  strip  his  sleeve,  and  show  his  scars. 
And  say,  these  wounds  I  had  on  Crispin's  day. 
Old  men  forget ;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot, 
But  he'll  remember,  with  advantages. 
What  feats  he  did  that  day  :    Then  shall  our  names, 
Familiar  in  their  mouths  as  household  words,  — 
Harry  the  king,  Bedford,  and  Exeter, 
Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloster,  — 
Be  in  their  flowing  cups  freshly  remember'd : 
This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son  ; 
And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go  by. 
From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world, 
4  Grieves. 


But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered  : 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers ; 

For  he,  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me, 

Shall  be  my  brother ;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile, 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition  »  : 

And  gentlemen  in  England,  now  a-bed. 

Shall  think  themselves  accurs'd,  they  were  not  here  ; 

And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap,  while  any  speaks 

That  fought  with  us  upon  saint  Crispin's  day. 

Enter  Salisbury. 
Sal.  My  sovereign  lord,  bestow  yourself  with  speed : 
The  French  are  bravely  in  their  battles  set, 
And  will  with  all  expedience  charge  on  us. 

jr.  Hen.  All  things  are  ready,  if  our  minds  be  so. 
West.   Perish  the  man,  whose  mind  is  backward 

now ! 
K.  Hen.   Thou  dost  not  wish  more  help  from 

England,  cousin? 
West.  By  heaven,  my  liege,  'would  you  and  I  alone, 
Without  more  help,  might  fight  this  battle  out ! 
JC  Hen.  Why,  now  thou  hast  unwish'd  five  thou- 
sand men ; 
Which  likes  me  better,  than  to  wish  us  one.  — 
You  know  your  places :    God  be  with  you  all  1 

Tucket.     Enter  Montjoy. 

Mont.   Once  more  I  come  to  know  of  thee,  king 
Harry, 
If  for  thy  ransome  thou  wilt  now  compound, 
Before  thy  most  assured  overthrow  : 
For,  certainly,  thou  art  so  near  the  gulf. 
Thou  needs  must  be  englutted.     Besides,  in  mercy. 
The  constable  desires  thee  —  thou  wilt  mind  9 
Thy  followers  of  repentance ;  that  their  souls 
May  make  a  peaceful  and  a  sweet  retire 
From  off  these  fields,  where  (wretches)  their  poor 

bodies 
Must  lie  and  fester. 

K.  Hen.  Who  hath  sent  thee  now  ? 

Mont.   The  constable  of  France. 

K.  Hen.  I  pray  thee,  bear  my  former  answer  back ; 
Bid  them  achieve  me,  and  then  sell  my  bones. 
Good  Heaven  !  why  should  they  mock  poor  fellows 

thus? 
The  man,  that  once  did  sell  the  lion's  skin 
While  the  beast  liv'd,  was  killed  with  hunting  him. 
A  many  of  our  bodies  shall,  no  doubt. 
Find  native  graves  ;  upon  the  which,  I  trust, 
Shall  witness  live  in  brass  of  this  day's  work ; 
And  those  that  lea\e  their  valiant  bones  in  France, 
Dying  like  men,  though  buried  in  your  dunghills, 
They  shall  be  fam'd ;  for  there  the  sun  shall  greet 

them, 
And  draw  their  honours  reeking  up  to  heaven. 
Let  me  speak  proudly  ;  —  Tell  the  constable, 
We  are  but  warriors  for  the  working-day  : 
Our  gayness,  and  our  gilt',  are  all  besmirch'd* 
With  rainy  marching  in  the  painful  field  ; 
There's  not  a  piece  of  feather  in  our  host, 
(Good  argument,  I  hope,  we  shall  not  fly,) 
And  time  hath  worn  us  into  slovenry  : 
But,  by  the  mass,  our  hearts  are  in  the  trim  : 
And  my  poor  soldiers  tell  me  —  yet  ere  night 
They'll  be  in  fresher  robes ;  or  they  will  pluck 
The  gay  new  coats  o'er  the  French  soldiers'  heads, 
And  turn  them  out  of  service.      If  they  do  this, 
(As,  if  God  please,  they  shall,)  my  ransome  then 

*  t.  e.  This  day  shall  advance  him  to  the  rank  of  a  gentleman. 
9  Remind.  »  Gilding.  ^  Soiled, 


I 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  V 


447 


k 


Will  soon  be  levied.     Herald,  save  thou  thy  labour ; 
Come  thou  no  more  for  ransome,  gentle  herald  ; 
They  shall  have  none,  I  swear,  but  these  my  joints : 
Which  if  they  have  as  I  will  leave  'em  to  them. 
Shall  yield  tliem  little,  tell  the  constable. 

Mont.  I  shall,  king  Harry.  And  so  fare  thee  well : 
Thou  never  shalt  hear  herald  any  more.  [Exii. 

K.  Hen.   I  fear,  thou'lt  once  more  come  again  for 
ransome. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  York. 
York.   My  lord,  most  humbly  on  my  knee  I  beg 
The  leading  of  the  vaward.3 

K.  Hen.   Take  it,  brave  York,  —  Now,  soldiers, 
march  away  :• — 
And  how  thou  pleasest,  God,  dispose  the  day ! 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IW.-- The  Field  of  Battle. 
Alarums :     Excursions.       Enter    French    Soldier, 
Pistol,  and  Boy. 

Fist.   Yield,  cur. 

Fr.  Sol.  Je  pense,  que  vous  estes  le  gentilhomme  de 
bonne  quality. 

Fist.  Quality,  call  you  me  ?  —  Construe  me,  art 
thou  a  gentleman  ?  What  is  thy  name?  discuss. 

Fr.  Sol.    0  seigneur  Dicu  ! 

Fist.  O,  signieur  Dew  should  be  a  gentleman :  — 
Perpend  my  words,  O  signieur  Dew,  and  mark  j  — 
O  signieur  Dew,  thou  diest  on  point  of  fox  *,  [ 

Except,  O  signieur,  thou  do  give  to  me  I 

Egregious  ransome.  | 

Fr.  Sol.  0,  prennez  misericorde  /  ayez piti^  de  moy. 

Fist.   Moy  shall  not  serve,  I  will  have  forty  moys; 
For  I  will  fetch  thy  rim*  out  at  thy  throat. 
In  drops  of  crimson  blood. 

Fr.  Sol.  Est  U  impossible  d^eschapper  la  force  de 
ton  bras. 

Fist.   Brass,  cur ! 
Olfer'st  me  brass  ? 

Fr.  Sol.    0,  pardonnez  moy  ! 

Fist.    Say'st  thou  me  so  ?  is  that  a  ton  of  moys  ?  — 
Come  hither,  boy ;  Ask  me  this  slave  in  French, 
What  is  his  name. 

Boy.   Escoutez  ;  Comment  estes  vous  appelii  ? 

Fr.  Sol.   Monsieur  le  Fer. 

Boy.    He  says,  his  name  is  —  master  Fer. 

Fist.  Master  Fer,  I'll  fer  him,  and  firk  ^  him,  and 
ferret  Jiim  :  —  discuss  the  same  in  French  unto  him. 

Boy.  I  do  not  know  the  French  for  fer,  and  fer- 
ret, and  firk. 

Fist.   Bid  him  prepare,  for  I  will  cut  his  throat. 

Fr.  Sol.    Que  (lit  il,  Monsieur  F 

Boy.  //  me  commande  de  vous  dire  que  vousfaites 
vous  prest  ;  car  ce  soldat  icy  est  dispose  toute  a,  cetle 
heure  de  couper  vostre  gorge. 

Fist.   Ouy,  couper  gorge,  par  may  foy,  pesant 
Unless  thou  give  me  crowns,  brave  crowns  ; 
Or  mangled  shalt  thou  be  by  this  my  sword. 

Fr.  Sol.  0,  je  vous  supplie  pour  Vamour  de  Dieu, 
me pardonner  !  Je  suis gentilhomme  de  bonne  maison : 
gardez  ma  vie,  etje  vous  donneray  deux  cents  escus. 

JHst.   What  are  his  words  ? 

Boy.  He  prays  you  to  save  his  life  :  he  is  a  gen- 
tleman of  a  good  house ;  and,  for  his  ransome,  he 
will  give  you  two  hundred  crowns. 

Pist.    Tell  him,  —  my  fury  shall  abate,  and  I 
The  crowns  will  take. 

'  Vanguard. 

*  An  old  cant  word  Tor  a  Rword,  so  called  from  a  Tamoui 
•word  cutler  of  the  name  of  Fox. 

*  The  diapliragm.  •  Chaatisc. 


Fr.  Sol.   Fetit  monsieur,  que  dit-U  9 

Boy.  Encore  quil  est  contre  sonjurement,  de  par- 
donner aucun  prisonnier ;  neantmoins,  pour  les  escus 
que  vous  Cavez  promis,  il  est  contend  de  xxms  donncr 
la  lihertit  le  franchise  ment. 

Fr.  Sol.  Sur  mes  genour,  je  vous  donne  mille  re- 
merciemem  :  etje  niestime  heureux  que  je  suis  tombe 
entre  les  mains  d'un  c/ievalier,  je  pense,  le  plus  brave, 
valiant,  et  tres  distingue  seigneur  d^ Angleterre. 

Fist.   Expound  unto  me,  boy. 

Boy.  He  gives  you,  upon  his  knees,  a  thousand 
thanks  :  and  he  esteems  himself  happy  that  he  hath 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  (as  he  thinks)  the  most  brave, 
valorous,  and  thrice-worthy  signieur  of  England. 

Fist.  As  I  suck  blood,  I  will  some  mercy  show.  — 
Follow  me,  cur.  [Exit  Pistol. 

Boy.  Suivez  vous  le  graiui  capitaine. 

[Exit  French  Soldier. 
I  did  never  know  so  full  a  voice  issue  from  so 
empty  a  heart :  but  the  saying  is  true,  —  The  empty 
vessel  makes  the  greatest  sound.  Bardolph,  and 
Nym,  had  ten  times  more  valour  than  this  rearing 
devil  i'the  old  play,  that  every  one  may  pare  his 
nails  with  a  wooden  dagger;  and  they  are  both 
hanged ;  and  so  would  this  be,  if  he  diu^t  steal  any 
thing  adventurously.  I  must  stay  with  the  lackeys, 
with  the  luggage  of  our  camp  :  the  French  might 
have  a  good  prey  of  us,  if  he  knew  of  it  j  for  there 
is  none  to  guard  it  but  boys.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  Fart  of  the  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarums.      Enter  Dauphih,   Orleans,   Boukbox, 
Constable,  Rambures,  and  ot/iers. 
Con.   0  diable  I 
Orl.   0  seigneur  I  —  le  jour  est  perdu,   tout  est 

perdu  / 
Dau.  Mort  de  ma  vie  !  all  is  confounded,  all ! 
Reproach  and  everlasting  shame 
Sits  mocking  in  our  plumes.  —  0  meschante fortune! 
Do  not  run  away.  [A  short  Alarum. 

Con.  Why  all  our  ranks  are  broke. 

Dan.   O  perdurable'  shame!  —  let's   stab  our- 
selves. 
Be  these  the  wretches  that  we  play'd  at  dice  for  ? 
Orl.   Is  this  the  king  we  sent  to  for  his  ransome? 
Bour.   Shame,    and  eternal  shame,  nothing  but 
shame ! 
Let  us  die  instant :    Once  more  back  again  ; 
And  he  tliat  will  not  follow  Bourbon  now, 
Let  him  go  hence,  with  shame  and  infamy. 

Con.  Disorder,  that  hath  spoil'd  us,  friend  us  now ! 
Let  us,  in  heaps,  go  offer  up  our  lives 
Unto  these  English,  or  else  die  with  fame. 

Orl.   We  are  enough,  yet  living  in  the  field, 
To  smother  up  the  English  in  our  throngs. 
If  any  order  might  be  thought  upon. 

Bour,  The  devil   take   order  now ;    I'll   to  the 
throng ; 
Let  life  be  short ;  else,  shame  will  be  too  long. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  VI Another  Fart  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.  EnterKi^cllKVKr,and  Forces,-  Exeter, 
and  others. 
IT.  Hen.   Well  have  we  done,  thrice  valiant  coun- 
trymen : 
But  all's  not  done,  yet  keep  the  French  the  field. 


44*8 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  IV. 


Exe.  The  duke  of  York  commends  him  to  your 
majesty. 

JT.  Hen.  Lives  he,  good  uncle?  thrice,  within  this 
hour, 
I  saw  him  down  ;  thrice  up  again,  and  fighting ; 
From  helmet  to  the  spur,  all  blood  he  was. 

Exe.   In  which  array,  (brave  soldier,)  doth  he  lie. 
Larding  the  plain :   and  by  his  bloody  side, 
(Yoke-fellow  to  his  honour-owing  wounds,) 
The  noble  earl  of  Suffolk  also  lies, 
Suffolk  first  died  :  and  York,  all  haggled  over. 
Comes  to  him,  where  in  gore  he  lay  insteep'd. 
And  takes  him  by  the  beard  ;  kisses  the  gashes. 
That  bloodily  did  yawn  upon  his  face ; 
And  cries  aloud,  —  Tarry,  dear  cousin  Suffolk  ! 
My  soul  shall  thine  keep  company  to  heaven : 
Tarry,  sweet  soul,  for  mine,  thenjly  a-breast ; 
As,  in  this  glorious  and  well-foughten  field. 
We  kept  together  in  our  chivalry  ! 
Upon  these  words  I  came,  and  cheer'd  him  up  : 
He  smil'd  me  in  the  face,  raught^  me  his  hand. 
And,  with  a  feeble  gripe,  says,  —  Dear  my  lord. 
Commend  my  service  to  my  sovereign. 
So  did  he  turn,  and  over  Suffolk's  neck 
He  threw  his  wounded  arm,  and  kiss'd  his  lips  ; 
And  so,  espous'd  to  death,  with  blood  he  seal'd 
A  testament  of  noble-ending  love. 
The  pretty  and  sweet  manner  of  it  forc'd 
Those  waters  from  me,  which  I  would  have  stopp'd 
But  I  had  not  so  much  of  man  in  me, 
But  all  my  mother  came  into  mine  eyes, 
And  gave  me  up  to  tears. 

JT.  Hen.  I  blame  you  not ; 

For,  hearing  this,  I  must  perforce  compound 
Witii  mistful  eyes,  or  they  will  issue  too.  — 

\^Alarum. 
But,  hark  !  what  new  alarum  is  this  same  ? 
The  French  have  reinforc'd  their  scatter'd  men  :  — 
Then  every  soldier  kill  his  prisoner ; 
Give  the  word  through.  [Eieunt. 

SCENE  VII.     Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Alarums.     Enter  Fluellen  and  Gower. 

Flu.  Kill  the  poys  and  the  luggage !  'tis  expressly 
against  the  law  of  arms :  'tis  as  arrant  a  piece  of 
knavery,  mark  you  now,  as  can  be  offer'd  in  the 
'orld:   In  your  conscience  now,  is  it  not? 

Gow.  'Tis  certain,  there's  not  a  boy  left  alive ; 
and  the  cowardly  rascals,  that  ran  from  the  battle, 
have  done  this  slaughter  :  besides,  they  have  burned 
and  carried  away  all  that  was  in  the  king's  tent; 
wherefore  the  king,  most  worthily,  hath  caused 
every  soldier  to  cut  his  prisoner's  throat.  O,  'tis  a 
gallant  king ! 

Flu.  Ay,  he  was  porn  at  Monmouth,  captain 
Gower.  What  call  you  the  town's  name,  where 
Alexander  the  pig  was  born  ? 

Gow.    Alexander  the  great. 

Flu.  Why,  I  pray  you,  is  not  pig,  great  ?  The 
pig,  or  the  great,  or  the  mighty,  or  the  huge,  or  the 
magnanimous,  are  all  one  reckonings,  save  the 
phrase  is  a  little  variations. 

Gow.  I  think,  Alexander  the  great  was  born  in 
Macedon ;  his  father  was  called  —  Philip  of  Mace- 
don  ;  as  I  take  it. 

Flu.   I  think  it  is  in  Macedon,  where  Alexander 
is  porn.      I  tell  you,  captain,  —  If  you  look  in  the 
maps  of  the  'orld,  I  warrant,  you  shall  find,  in  the 
8  Reached. 


comparisons   between    Macedon    and    Monmouth, 
that  the  situations,  look  you,  is  both  alike.     There 
is  a  river  in  Macedon  ;  and  there  is  also  moreover 
a  river  at  Monmouth  :   it  is  called  Wye,  at  Mon- 
mouth ;  but  it  is  out   of  my  prains,  what   is  the 
name  of  the  other  river ;  but  'tis  all  one,  'tis  so  like 
as  my  fingers  is  to  my  fingers,  and  there  is  salmons 
in  both.      If  you  mark  Alexander's  life  well,  Harry 
of  Monmouth's  life  is  come  after  it  indifferent  well ;  ^H 
for  there  is  figures  in  all  things.      Alexander,  you  ^H 
know,  in  his  rages,  and  his  furies,  and  his  vn-aths,   ^^ 
and  his  cholers,  and  his  moods,  and  his  displeasures, 
and  his  indignations,  and  also  being  a  little  intoxi- 
cates in  his  prains,  did,  in  his  ales  and  his  angers, 
look  you,  kill  his  pest  friend,  Clytus. 

Gow.  Our  king  is  not  like  him  in  that ;  he  never 
killed  any  of  his  friends. 

Flu.  It  is  not  well  done,  mark  you  now,  to  take 
tales  out  of  my  mouth,  ere  it  is  made  an  end  and 
finished.  I  speak  but  in  the  figures  and  compari- 
sons of  it :  As  Alexander  is  kill  his  friend  Clytus, 
being  in  his  ales  and  his  cups ;  so  also  Harry  Mon- 
mouth, being  in  his  right  wits  and  his  goot  judg- 
ments, is  turn  away  the  fat  knight  with  the  great 
pelly-doublet :  he  was  full  of  jests,  and  gipes,  and 
knaveries,  and  mocks ;  I  am  forget  his  name. 

Gow.   Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Flu.  That  is  he :  I  can  tell  you  there  is  goot  meu 
born  at  Monmouth. 

Gow.   Here  comes  his  majesty 

Alarum.  Enter  King  Henry,  vnth  a  Part  of  the 
English  Forces;  Warwick,  Gloster,  Exeter, 
and  others. 

IT.  Hen.  I  was  not  angry  since  I  came  to  France 
Until  this  instant.  —  Take  a  trumpet,  herald  ; 
Ride  thou  unto  the  horseman  on  yon  hill ; 
If  they  will  fight  with  us,  bid  them  come  down, 
Or  void  the  field  ;  they  do  offend  our  sight ; 
If  they'll  do  neither,  we  will  come  to  them  ; 
And  make  them  skirr^  away  as  swift  as  stones 
Enforced  from  the  old  Assyrian  slings  : 
Besides,  we'll  cut  the  throats  of  those  we  have ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them,  that  we  shall  take. 
Shall  taste  our  mercy  :  —  Go,  and  tell  them  so. 

Enter  Montjoy. 

Exe.   Here  comes  the  herald  of  the  French,  my 
liege. 

Glo.   His  eyes  are  humbler  than  they  us'd  to  be. 

jr.  Hen.   How  now,  what   means   this,   herald? 
know'st  thou  not. 
That  I  have  fin'd  these  bones  of  mine  for  ransome? 
Com'st  thou  again  for  ransome  ? 

Mont.  No,  great  king  : 

I  come  to  thee  for  charitable  licence, 
That  we  may  wander  o'er  this  bloody  field. 
To  book  our  dead,  and  then  to  bury  them  ; 
To  sort  our  nobles  from  our  common  men  ; 
For  many  of  our  princes  (woe  the  while  !) 
Lie  drown'd  and  soak'd  in  mercenary  blood  ; 
(So  do  our  vulgar  drench  their  peasant  limbs 
In  blood  of  princes  ;)  and  tlieir  wounded  steeds 
Fret  fetlock  deep  in  gore,  and,  with  wild  rage, 
Yerk  out  their  armed  heels  at  their  dead  masters, 
Killing  them  twice.      O,  give  us  leave,  great  king, 
To  view  the  field  in  safety,  and  dispose 
Of  their  dead  bodies. 

♦  Scour. 


Scene  VII. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


U9 


I 


IT.  Hen.  I  tell  thee  truly,  herald, 

I  know  not,  if  the  day  be  ours  or  no ; 
For  yet  a  many  of  your  horsemen  peer, 
And  gallop  o'er  the  field. 

Mont.  The  day  is  yours. 

K.  Hen.   Praised  be  God,  and  not  our  strength 
for  it !  — 
What  is  this  castle  call'd,  that  stands  hard  by  ? 

Mont.   They  call  it —  Agincourt. 

K.  Hen.  Then  call  we  this — the  fieldof  Agincourt, 
Fought  on  the  day  of  Crispin  Crispianus. 

Flu.  Your  grandfather  of  "famous  memory,  an't 
please  your  majesty,  and  your  great  uncle  Edward, 
the  plack  prince  of  Wales,  as  I  have  read  in  the 
chronicles,  fought  a  most  prave  pattlehere  in  France. 

K.  Hen.   They  did,  Fluellen. 

Flu.  Your  majesty  says  very  true :  If  your  ma- 
jesty is  remembered  of  it,  the  Welshmen  did  goot 
service  in  a  garden  where  leeks  did  grow,  wearing 
leeks  in  their  Monmouth  caps ;  which  your  ma- 
jesty knows,  to  this  hour  is  an  honourable  padge  of 
the  service ;  and,  I  do  believe,  your  majesty  takes 
no  scorn  to  wefu*  the  leek  upon  saint  Tavy's  day. 

K.  Hen.  I  wear  it  for  a  memorable  honour : 
For  I  am  Welsh,  you  know,  good  countryman. 

Flu.  All  the  water  in  Wye  cannot  wash  your 
majesty's  Welsh  plood  out  of  your  pody,  I  can  tell 
you  that :  Got  pless  it  and  preserve  it,  as  long  as 
it  pleases  his  grace,  and  his  majesty  too  ! 

K.  Hen.   Thanks,  good  my  countryman. 

Flu.  I  am  your  majesty's  countryman,  I  care 
not  who  know  it ;  I  will  confess  it  to  all  the  'orld  : 
I  need  not  to  be  ashamed  of  your  majesty,  so  long 
as  your  majesty  is  an  honest  man. 

K.  Hen.  God  keep  meso — our  heralds  go  with  liim. 
Bring  me  just  notice  of  the  numbers  dead 
On  both  our  parts.  —  Call  yonder  fellow  hither. 

\^Points  to  Williams.      Exeunt  Montjot 
and  others. 

Exe.   Soldier,  you  must  come  to  the  king. 

K.  Heiu  Soldier,  why  wear'st  thou  that  glove  in 
thy  cap  ? 

Will.  An't  please  your  majesty,  'tis  the  gage  of 
one  that  I  should  fight  withal,  if  he  be  alive. 

K.  Hen.  An  Englishman  ? 

jriU.  An't  please  your  majesty,  a  rascal,  that 
swagger'd  with  me  last  night :  who,  if  'a  live,  and 
ever  dare  to  challenge  this  glove,  I  have  sworn  to 
take  him  a  box  o'  the  ear :  or,  if  I  can  see  my  glove 
in  his  cap,  (which  he  swore,  as  he  was  a  soldier,  he 
would  wear,  if  alive,'!  I  will  strike  it  out  soundly. 

A".  Hen.  \Miat  think  you,  captain  Fluellen  ?  is  it 
fit  this  soldier  keep  his  oath  ? 

Flu.  He  is  a  craven  '  and  a  villain  else,  an't  please 
your  majesty,  in  my  conscience. 

A'.  Hen.  It  may  be,  liis  enemy  is  a  gentleman  of 
great  sort  •*,  quite  from  the  answer  of  his  degree. 

Flu.  Though  ho  be  as  goot  a  gentleman  as  the 
tevil  is,  as  Lucifer  and  Beelzebub  himself,  it  is  ne- 
cessjiry,  look  your  grace,  that  he  keep  his  vow  and 
his  oatl) :  if  he  be  perjured,  see  you  now,  his  reput- 
ation is  as  arrant  a  villain,  and  a  Jack-sauce  3,  as 
ever  his  plack  shoe  trod  upon  the  earth,  in  my  con- 
science. 

A'.  Hen.  Then  keep  thy  vow,  sirrah,  when  thou 
meet'st  the  fellow. 

Will.   So  I  will,  my  liege,  as  I  live. 

AT.  Hen.   Who  servest  thou  under? 


•  Coward. 


'  High  rank. 


'  For  saucy  Jack. 


JVill.   Under  captain  Gower,  my  liege. 

Flu.  Gower  is  a  goot  captain  :  and  is  good  know- 
ledge and  literature  in  the  wars. 

A'.  Hen.    Call  him  hither  to  mc,  soldier. 

WiU.    1  will,  my  liege.  [Edit. 

K.  Hen.  Here,  Fluellen  ;  wear  thou  this  favour 
for  me,  and  stick  it  in  thy  cap  ;  When  Alengon  and 
myself  were  down  together,  I  plucked  this  gh>ve 
from  his  helm  :  if  any  man  challenge  this,  he  is  a 
friend  to  Alen9on,  and  an  enemy  to  our  person  ;  if 
thou  encounter  any  such,  apprehend  liim,  an  thou 
dost  love  me. 

Flu.  Your  grace  does  me  as  great  honours  as  can 
be  desired  in  the  hearts  of  his  subjects:  I  would 
fain  see  the  man,  that  has  but  two  legs,  that  sliall 
find  himself  aggriefed  at  this  glove,  that  is  all ;  but 
I  would  fain  see  it  once. 

K.  Hen.  Knowest  thou  Gower  ? 

Flu-  He  is  my  dear  friend,  an  please  you. 

K.  Hen.  Pray  thee,  go  seek  him,  and  bring  him 
to  my  tent. 

Flu.   I  will  fetch  him.  \_Exit. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Wanvick,  —  and  my  brother 
Gloster, 
Follow  Fluellen  closely  at  the  heels  : 
The  glove,  which  I  have  given  him  for  a  favour, 
May,  haply,  purchase  him  a  box  o'  the  ear ; 
It  is  the  soldier's ;   I,  by  bargain,  should 
Wear  it  myself.      Follow,  good  cousin  Warwick  ; 
If  that  the  soldier  strike  him,  (as,  I  judge 
By  his  blunt  bearing,  he  will  keep  his  word,) 
Some  sudden  mischief  may  arise  of  it ; 
For  I  do  know  Fluellen  valiant, 
And,  touch'd  with  choler,  hot  as  gunpowder, 
And  quickly  will  return  an  injury : 
Follow,  and  see  there  be  no  harm  between  them.  — 
Go  you  with  me,  uncle  of  Exeter.  \Edceui\i, 

SCENE  VIII.  —  Before  King  Henry'*  PavUion. 
Enter  Gower  and  Williams. 

Will.   I  warrant,  it  is  to  knight  you,  captain. 
Enter  Fluellen. 

Fht.  Captain,  I  peseech  you  now,  come  apace  io 
the  king  :  there  is  more  goot  toward  you,  peradven- 
ture,  than  is  in  your  knowledge  to  dream  of. 

Will.    Sir,  know  you  this  glove  ? 

Flu.  Know  the  glove;  I  know  the  glove  is  a  glove. 

Will.  1  know  this  j  and  thus  I  challenge  it. 

[Strikes  hinu 

Flu.  'Sblud,  an  arrant  traitor,  as  any's  in  the 
universal  'orld,  or  in  France,  or  in  England. 

Gow.   How  now,  sir  ?  you  villain  ! 

Will.   Do  you  think  I'll  be  forsworn  ? 

Flu.  Stand  away,  captain  Gower ;  I  will  give 
treason  his  payment  into  plows,  I  warrant  you. 

Will.    I  am  no  traitor. 

Flu.  That's  a  lie  in  thy  throat.  —  I  charge  you  in 
his  majesty's  name,  apprehend  him  ;  he's  a  friend  of 
the  duke  of  Alen^on's. 

Enter  Warwick  and  Gloster. 

War.  How  now,  how  now  !  what's  the  matter  ? 

Flu.  My  lord  of  Warwick,  here  is  (praised  be 
Got  for  it !)  a  most  contagious  treason  come  to  light, 
look  you,  as  you  shall  desire  in  a  summer's  day. 
Here  is  his  majesty. 

Enter  Kino  Henry  and  Exxter. 
A'.  Hen*   How  now,  what's  the  matter  ? 
Gg 


450 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  V. 


Flu.  My  liege,  here  is  a  villain  and  a  traitor,  that, 
look  your  grace,  has  struck  the  glove  which  your 
majesty  is  take  out  of  the  helmet  of  Alen9on. 

Will.  My  liege,  this  was  my  glove ;  here  is  the 
fellow  of  it :  and  he,  that  I  gave  it  to  in  change, 
promised  to  wear  it  in  his  cap  ;  I  promised  to  strike 
him,  if  he  did  :  I  met  this  man  with  my  glove  in 
his  cap,  and  I  have  been  as  good  as  my  word. 

Flu.  Your  majesty  hear  now,  (saving  your  ma- 
jesty's manhood,)  what  an  arrant,  rascally,  beggarly, 
knave  it  is  :  I  hope  your  majesty  is  pear  me  testi- 
mony, and  witness,  and  avouchments,  that  this  is 
the  glove  of  Alen9on,  that  your  majesty  is  give  me, 
in  your  conscience  now. 

K-  Hen.  Give  me  thy  glove,  soldier ;  Look,  here 
is  the  fellow  of  it.  'Twas  I,  indeed,  thou  promised'st 
to  strike ;  and  thou  hast  given  me  most  bitter  terms. 

Flu.  An  please  your  majesty,  let  his  neck  answer 
for  it,  if  there  is  any  martial  law  in  the  'orld. 

K.  Hen.  How  canst  thou  make  me  satisfaction  ? 

WUl.  All  offences,  my  liege,  come  from  the  heart : 
never  came  any  from  mine,  that  might  offend  your 
majesty. 

K.  Hen.   It  was  ourself  thou  didst  abuse. 

WUl.  Your  majesty  came  not  like  yourself:  you 
appeared  to  me  but  as  a  common  man ;  witness  the 
night,  your  garments,  your  lowliness  ;  and  what 
your  highness  suffered  under  that  shape,  I  beseech 
you,  take  it  for  your  own  fault,  and  not  mine  :  for 
had  you  been  as  I  took  you  for,  I  made  no  offence ; 
therefore,  I  beseech  your  highness,  pardon  me. 

JT.  Hen.   Here,  uncle  Exeter,  fill  this  glove  with 
crowns. 
And  give  it  to  this  fellow.  —  Keep  it,  fellow  ; 
And  wear  it  for  an  honour  in  thy  cap. 
Till  I  do  challenge  it.  —  Give  him  the  crowns :  — 
And,  captain,  you  must  needs  be  friends  with  him. 

Flu.  By  this  day  and  this  light,  the  fellow  has 
mettle  enough  in  his  pelly  :  —  Hold,  there  is  twelve 
pence  for  you,  and  I  pray  you  to  serve  Got,  and 
keep  you  out  of  prawls,  and  prabbles,  and  quarrels, 
and  dissensions,  and,  I  warrant  you,  it  is  the  petter 
for  you. 

Wm.   I  will  none  of  your  money. 

Flu.  It  is  with  a  goot  will  ;  I  can  tell  you,  it  will 
serve  you  to  mend  your  shoes  :  Come,  wherefore 
should  you  be  so  pashful  ?  your  shoes  is  not  so  goot : 
'tis  a  goot  silling,  I  warrant  you,  or  I  will  change  it. 

Enter  an  English  Herald. 

K.  Hen.   Now,  herald ;  are  the  dead  number'd  ? 

Her.  Here  is  the  number  of  the  slaughter'd  French. 

{Delivers  a  Paper. 

K.  Hen.   "What  prisoners  of  good  sort  are  taken, 

uncle  ? 
Fxe.  Charles  duke  of  Orleans,  nephew  to  the  king ; 


John  duke  of  Boiirbon,  and  lord  Bouciqualt : 
Of  other  lords,  and  barons,  knights,  and  'squires, 
Full  fifteen  hundred,  besides  common  men. 

K.  Hen.   This  note  doth  tell  me  of  ten  thousand 
French, 
That  in  the  field  lie  slain  :  of  princes  in  this  number. 
And  nobles  bearing  banners,  there  lie  dead. 
One  hundred  twenty-six  :  added  to  these. 
Of  knights,  esquires,  and  gallant  gentlemen. 
Eight  thousand  and  four  hundred  ;  of  the  which. 
Five  hundred  were  but  yesterday  dubb'd  knights : 
So  that,  in  these  ten  thousand  they  have  lost, 
There  are  but  sixteen  hundred  mercenaries  ; 
The  restare — princes,  barons,  lords,  knights,  'squires. 
And  gentlemen  of  blood  and  quality. 
The  names  of  those  their  nobles  that  lie  dead,  — 
Charles  De-la-bret,  high  constable  of  France ; 
Jaques  of  Chatillon,  admiral  of  France  ; 
The  master  of  the  cross-bows,  lord  Rambures  ; 
Great-master  of  France,  the  brave  sir  Guischard 

Dauphin ; 
John  duke  of  Alen9on  ;   Antony  duke  of  Brabant, 
The  brother  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy  ; 
And  Edward  duke  of  Bar  ;  of  lusty  earls, 
Grandpr^,  and  Roussi,  Fauconberg,  and  Foix, 
Beaumont,  and  Marie,  Vaudemoiit,  and  I^estrale, 

Here  was  a  royal  fellowship  of  death  ! 

Where  is  the  number  of  our  English  dead  ? 

[Herald  presents  another  Paper. 
Edward  the  duke  of  York,  the  earl  of  Suffolk, 
Sir  Richard  Ketly,  Davy  Gam,  esquire: 
None  else  of  name  :   and,  of  all  other  men. 
But  five-and-twenty.      O  God,  thy  arm  was  here. 
And  not  to  us,  but  to  thy  arm  alone. 
Ascribe  we  all.  —  When,  without  stratagem, 
But  in  plain  shock,  and  even  play  of  battle. 
Was  ever  known  so  great  and  little  loss. 
On  one  part  and  on  the  other?  —  Take  it.  Lord, 
For  it  is  only  thine  ! 

Exe.  'Tis  wonderful ! 

K.  Hen.  Come,  go  we  in  procession  to  the  village : 
And  be  it  death  proclaimed  through  our  host, 
To  boast  of  this,  or  take  that  praise  from  God, 
Which  is  his  only. 

Flu.   Is  it  not  laAvful,  an  please  your  majesty,  to 
tell  how  many  is  killed  ? 

K.  Hen.   Yes,  captain,  but  with  this  acknowledg- 
ment,   , 
That  God  fought  for  us. 

Flu.   Yes,  my  conscience,  he  did  us  great  goot, 

K.  Hen.    Do  we  all  holy  rites  ; 
Let  there  be  sung  Non  nobis,  and  7(6  Deum, 
The  dead  with  charity  enclos'd  in  clay. 
We'll  then  to  Calais  ;  and  to  England  then  ; 
Where  ne'er  from  France  arriv'd  more  happy  men. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V, 


Enter  Chorus. 
Chor.   Vouchsafe  to  those  that  have  not  read  the 
story. 
That  I  may  prompt  them  :   and  of  such  as  have, 
1  humbly  pray  them  to  admit  the  excuse 
Of  time,  of  numbers,  and  due  course  of  things, 
Which  cannot  in  their  huge  and  proper  life 


Be  here  presented.      Now  we  bear  the  king 
Toward  Calais :   grant  him  there ;  there  seen. 
Heave  him  away  upon  your  winged  thoughts. 
Athwart  the  sea  :   Behold,  the  English  beach 
Pales  in  the  flood  with  men,  with  wives,  and  boys. 
Whose  shouts  and  claps  out-voice  the  deep-mouth'd 
sea, 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


4t51 


Which,  like  a  mighty  whiffler  ^  'fore  the  king, 
Seems  to  prepare  his  way  :  so  let  him  land ; 
And,  solemnly,  see  him  set  on  to  London. 
So  swift  a  pace  hath  thought,  that  even  now 
You  may  imagine  him  upon  Blackheath  : 
Where  that  his  lords  desire  him,  to  have  ^  borne 
His  bruised  helmet,  and  his  bended  sword, 
Before  him,  through  the  city  :   he  forbids  it. 
Being  free  from  vainness  and  self-glorious  pride ; 
Giving  full  trophy,  signal,  and  ostent. 
Quite  from  himself,  to  God.      But  now  behold. 
In  the  quick  forge  and  working-house  of  thought, 
How  London  doth  pour  out  her  citizens  ! 
The  mayor,  and  all  his  brethren,  in  best  sort,  — 
Like  to  the  senators  of  the  antique  Rome, 
With  the  plebeians  swarming  at  their  heels,  — 
Go  forth,  and  fetch  their  conquering  Caesar  in  : 
As,  by  a  lower  but  by  loving  likelihood  ^, 
Were  now  the  general  of  our  gracious  empress  7 
(As,  in  good  time,  he  may,)  from  Ireland  coming. 
Bringing  rebellion  broached  ^  on  his  sword, 
How  many  would  the  peaceful  city  quit, 
To  welcome  him?  much  more,  and  much  more  cause, 
Did  they  this  Harry.      Now  in  London  place  him ; 
(As  yet  the  lamentation  of  the  French 
Invites  the  king  of  England's  stay  at  home : 
The  emperor's  coming  in  behalf  of  France, 
To  order  peace  between  them  ;)  and  omit 
All  the  occurrences,  whatever  chanc'd. 
Till  Harry's  back-return  again  to  France  ; 
There  must  we  bring  him  ;  and  myself  have  play'd 
The  interim,  by  remembering  you  —  'tis  past. 
Then  brook  abridgement ;  and  your  eyes  advance 
After  your  thoughts,  straight  back  again  to  France. 

[Exit. 
SCE  NE  L  —  France,  ^n  English  Court  of  Guard. 
Enter  Fluellen  and  Gower. 

Gorv.  Nay,  that's  right ;  but  why  wear  you  your 
leek  to-day  ?  Saint  Davy's  day  is  past. 

Flu.  There  is  occasions  and  causes  why  and 
wherefore  in  all  things  ;  I  will  tell  you,  as  my 
friend,  captain  Gower.  The  rascally,  beggarly, 
pragging  knave.  Pistol,  —  which  you  and  yourself, 
and  all  the  'orld,  know  to  be  no  petter  than  a  fellow, 
look  you  now,  of  no  merits,  —  he  is  come  to  me, 
and  prings  me  pread  and  salt  yesterday,  look  you, 
and  bid  me  eat  my  leek  :  it  was  in  a  place  where  I 
could  not  breed  no  contentions  with  him  ;  but  I  will 
be  so  pold  as  to  wear  it  in  my  cap  till  I  ste  him  once 
again,  and  then  I  will  tell  him  a  little  piece  of  my 
desires. 

Enter  Pistol. 

Goiv.  Why,  here  he  comes,  swelling  like  a  turkey- 
cock. 

Flu.  'Tis  no  matter  for  his  swellings,  nor  his  tur- 
key-cocks. —  Pless  you,  ancient  Pistol !  you  scurvy 
knave,  pless  you ! 

Pist.    Ha !  art  thou  Bedlam  ?   dost  thou  thirst, 
base  Trojan, 
To  have  me  fold  up  Parca's  fatal  web  ? 
Hence  !   I  am  qualmish  at  the  smell  of  leek. 

Flu.  1  pesecch  you  heartily,  scurvy  knave,  at  my 
desires,  and  my  requests,  and  my  petitions,  to  eat, 
look  you,  this  leek  ;  because,  look  you,  you  do  not 
love  it,  nor  your  affections,  and  your  appetites,  and 

*  An  offircr  who  walks  first  in  processions. 

*  i  r  To  order  it  to  be  borno.  •  Similitude. 
'  The  earl  of  Fj>.hox  in  the  reign  of  Elixabcth. 

«  Si>ittcd,  transfixed. 


your  digestions,  does  not  agree  with  it,  I  would 
desire  you  to  eat  it. 

Pist.   Not  for  Cadwallader  and  all  his  goats. 

Flu.  There  is  one  goat  for  you.  [Strikes  him."] 
Will  be  so  goot,  scald  knave,  as  eat  it  ? 

Pist.   Base  Trojan,  thou  shalt  die. 

Flu.  You  say  very  true,  scald  knave,  when  Got's 
will  is :  I  will  desire  you  to  live  in  the  mean  time, 
and  eat  your  victuals ;  come,  there  is  sauce  for  it. 
[Striking  him  again.  J  You  called  me  yesterday, 
mountain-squire ;  but  I  will  make  you  to-day  a 
squire  of  low  degree.  I  pray  you,  fall  to  j  if  you 
can  mock  a  leek,  you  can  eat  a  leek. 

Gow.  Enough,  captain  ;  you  have  astonished  him. 

Flu.  I  say,  I  will  make  him  eat  some  part  of  my 
leek,  or  I  will  peat  his  pate  four  days :  —  Pite,  I 
pray  you  ;  it  is  goot  for  your  green  wound,  and 
your  ploody  coxcomb. 

Pist.   Must  I  bite? 

Flti.  Yes,  certainly ;  and  out  of  doubt,  and  out 
of  questions  too,  and  ambiguities. 

Pist.  By  this  leek,  I  will  most  horribly  revenge  ; 
I  eat,  and  eke  I  swear  — 

Flu.  Eat,  I  pray  you  :  Will  you  have  some  more 
sauce  to  your  leek?  there  is  not  enough  leek  to 
swear  by. 

Pist.   Quiet  thy  cudgel ;  thou  dost  see,  I  eat. 

Flu.  Much  goot  do  you,  scald  knave,  heartily. 
Nay,  'pray  you,  throw  none  away ;  the  skin  is  goot 
for  your  proken  coxcomb.  When  you  take  occa- 
sions to  see  leeks  hereafter,  I  pray  you  mock  at 
them  ;  that  is  all. 

Pist.   Good. 

Flu.  Ay,  leeks  is  goot :  —  Hold  you,  there  is  a 
groat  to  heal  your  pate. 

Pist.   Me  a  groat. 

Flu.  Yes,  verily,  and  in  truth,  you  shall  take  it ; 
or  I  have  another  leek  in  my  pocket,  which  you 
shall  eat. 

Pist.   I  take  thy  groat,  in  earnest  of  revenge. 

Flu.  If  I  owe  you  any  thing,  1  will  pay  you  in 
cudgels;  you  shall  be  awoodmonger,  and  buy  nothing 
of  me  but  cudgels.  God  be  wi'  you,  and  keep  you, 
and  heal  your  pate.  [Exit. 

Pist.   All  hell  shall  stir  for  this. 

Gow.  Go,  go;  you  are  a  counterfeit  cowardly 
knave.  Will  you  mock  at  an  ancient  tradition,  — 
begun  upon  an  honourable  respect,  and  worn  as  a 
memorable  trophy  of  predeceased  valour,  —  and  dare 
not  avouch  in  your  deeds  any  of  your  words  ?  I  have 
seen  you  gleeking  9  and  galling  at  this  gentleman 
twice  or  thrice.  You  thought,  because  he  could 
not  speak  English  in  the  native  garb,  he  could  not 
therefore  handle  an  English  cudgel:  you  find  it 
otherwise ;  and  hencefortli,  let  a  Welsh  correction 
teach  you  a  good  English  condition. '    Fare  ye  well. 

[Eiit. 

Pist.   Doth  fortune  play  the  huswife  *  with  me 
now  ? 
News  have  I,  that  my  Nell  is  dead  i'  the  spital ', 
And  there  my  rendezvous  is  quite  cut  off. 
Old  I  do  wax  ;  and  from  my  weary  limbs 
Honour  is  cudgcU'd.     Well,  pimp  will  I  turn, 
And  something  lean  to  cutpurse  of  quick  hand. 
To  England  will  I  steal,  and  there  I'll  steal  : 
And  patches  will  I  get  unto  these  scars. 
And  swear,  I  got  them  in  the  Gallia  wars.      [Exit. 


•  Scoffing,  sneering. 
'  For  jilt 


•  Temper. 
'  Hospital 


452 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  V. 


SCENE  II.  — Troy es  m  Champagne.    An  Apart- 
ment in  the  French  King's  Palace, 

Enter  at  one  door,  Kino  Henry,   Bedford,  Glos- 
TER,   Exeter,   Warwick,  Westmoreland,    and 
other  Lords  ;  at  another,  the  French  King,  Queen 
Isabel,  the  Princess  Katharine,  Lords,  Ladies, 
^c.  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  his  Train. 
K.  Hen.   Peace  to  this  meeting,  wherefore  we  are 
met ! 
Unto  our  brother  France,  —  and  to  our  sister. 
Health  and  fair  time  of  day :  — joy  and  good  wishes 
To  our  most  fair  and  princely  cousin  Katharine  ; 
And  (as  a  branch  and  member  of  this  royalty, 
By  whom  this  great  assembly  is  contriv'd,) 
We  do  salute  you,  duke  of  Burgundy  ;  — 
And,  princes  French,  and  peers,  health  to  you  all ! 
Fr.  King'    Right  joyous  are  we  to  behold  your 
face. 
Most  worthy  brother  England  ;  fairly  met :  — 
So  are  you,  princes  English,  every  one. 

Q.  Isa.   So  happy  be  the  issue,  brother  England, 
Of  this  good  day,  and  of  this  gracious  meeting, 
As  we  are  now  glad  to  behold  your  eyes ; 
Your  eyes,  which  hitherto  have  borne  in  them 
Against  the  French,  that  met  them  in  their  bent, 
The  fatal  balls  of  murdering  basilisks  ; 
The  venom  of  such  looks,  we  fairly  hope. 
Have  lost  their  quality  ;  and  that  this  day 
Shall  change  all  griefs,  and  quarrels,  into  love. 
K.  Hen.   To  cry  amen  to  that,  thus  we  appear. 
Q.  Isa.  You  English  princes  all,  I  do  salute  you. 
Bur.  My  duty  to  you  both,  on  equal  love. 
Great  kings  of  France  and  England!   That  I  have 

labour*  d 
With  all  my  wits,  my  pains,  and  strong  endeavours, 
To  bring  your  most  imperial  majesties 
Unto  this  bar'*  and  royal  interview. 
Your  mightiness  on  both  parts  best  can  witness. 
Since  them  my  office  hath  so  far  prevail'd, 
That  face  to  face,  and  royal  eye  to  eye. 
You  have  congreeted  ;  let  it  not  disgrace  me. 
If  I  demand,  before  this  royal  view. 
What  rub,  or  what  impediment,  there  is. 
Why,  that  the  naked,  poor,  and  mangled  peace, 
Dear  nurse  of  arts,  plenties,  and  joyful  births. 
Should  not,  in  this  best  garden  of  the  world. 
Our  fertile  France,  put  up  her  lovely  visage? 
Alas  !  she  hath  from  France  too  long  been  chas'd  ; 
And  all  her  husbandry  doth  lie  on  heaps. 
Corrupting  in  its  own  fertility. 
Her  vine,  the  merry  cheerer  of  the  heart, 
Unpruned  dies :  her  hedges  even-pleached,  — 
Like  prisoners  wildly  over-grown  with  hair, 
Put  forth  disorder'd  twigs  :  her  fallow  leas. 
The  darnel,  hemlock,  and  rank  fumitory. 
Doth  root  upon  ;  while  that  the  coulter  rusts. 
That  should  deracinate  ^  such  savagery  : 
The  even  mead,  that  erst  brought  sweetly  forth 
The  freckled  cowslip,  burnet,  and  green  clover. 
Wanting  the  scythe,  all  uncorrected,  rank. 
Conceives  by  idleness  ;  and  nothing  teems. 
But  hateful  docks,  rough  thistles,  kecksies,  burs. 
Losing  both  beauty  and  utility. 
And  as  our  vineyards,  fallows,  meads,  and  hedges. 
Defective  in  their  natures,  grow  to  wildness ; 
Even  so  our  houses,  and  ourselves,  and  children. 
Have  lost,  or  do  not  learn,  for  want  of  time. 
The  sciences  that  should  become  our  country  ; 
*  Barrier.  *  Force  up  by  the  roots. 


But  grow,  like  savages,  —  as  soldiers  will. 
That  nothing  do  but  meditate  on  blood,  — 
To  swearing,  and  stern  looks,  difFus'd^  attire, 
And  every  thing  that  seems  unnatural. 
Which  to  reduce  into  our  former  favour', 
You  are  assembled :   and  my  speech  entreats, 
That  I  may  know  the  let  8,  why  gentle  peace 
Should  not  expel  these  inconveniences. 
And  bless  us  with  her  former  qualities. 

K,  Hen.   If,  duke  of  Burgundy,  you  would  the 
peace. 
Whose  want  gives  growth  to  the  imperfections 
Which  you  have  cited,  you  must  buy  that  peace 
With  full  accord  to  all  our  just  demands; 
Whose  tenours  and  particular  effects 
You  have,  enschedul'd  briefly,  in  your  hands. 

Bur.    The  king  hath  heard  them  j   to  the  which, 
as  yet. 
There  is  no  answer  made. 

K.  Hen.  Well  then,  the  peace. 

Which  you  before  so  urg'd,  lies  in  his  answer. 

Fr.  King.  I  have  but  with  a  cursory  eye 
O'er-glanc'd  the  articles  :   pleaseth  your  grace 
To  appoint  some  of  your  council  presently 
To  sit  with  us  once  more,  with  better  heed 
To  re-survey  them,  we  will,  suddenly, 
Pass  our  accept,  and  peremptory  answer. 

K.  Hen.  Brother,  we  shall.  —  Go,  uncle  Exeter,  — 
And  brother  Clarence,  —  and  you,  brother  Gloster,  — 
Warwick, — and  Huntingdon, — go  with  the  king  : 
And  take  with  you  free  power  to  ratify. 
Augment,  or  alter,  as  your  wisdoms  best 
Shall  see  advantageable  for  our  dignity. 
Any  thing  in,  or  out  of,  our  demands  ; 

And  we'll  consign  thereto Will  you,  fair  sister, 

Go  with  the  princes,  or  stay  here  with  us  ? 

Q.  Isa.  Our  gracious  brother,  I  will  go  with  them; 
Haply,  a  woman's  voice  may  do  some  good, 
When  articles,  too  nicely  urg'd,  be  stood  on. 

K.  Hen.    Yet  leave  our  cousin  Katharine  here 
with  us ; 
She  is  our  capital  demand,  compris'd 
Within  the  fore-rank  of  our  articles. 

Q.  Isa.    She  hath  good  leave. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Henry,  Katharine, 
and  her  Gentlewoman. 

K.  Hen  Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair  ! 

Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms. 
Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear. 
And  plead  his  love- suit  to  her  gentle  heart? 

Kath.  Your  majesty  shall  mock  at  me  ;  I  cannot 
speak  your  England. 

K.  Hen.  O  fair  Katharine,  if  you  will  love  me 
soundly  with  your  French  heart,  I  will  be  glad  to 
hear  you  confess  it  brokenly  with  your  English 
tongue.      Do  you  like  me,  Kate  ? 

Kath.  Pardonnez  may,  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  —  like 
me. 

K.  Hen.  An  angel  is  like  you,  Kate;  and  you  are 
like  an  angel. 

Kath.  Que  dit-U?  que  jesuis  semblable  dies  anges? 

Alice.  Oiii/,  vrayment,  (suuf  vostre  grace)  aiiisi 
dit-U. 

K.  Hen.  I  said  so,  dear  Katharine ;  and  I  must 
not  blush  to  affirm  it. 

Kath.  0  !  les  langues  des  hommes  sont  pleines  des 
tromperies. 

K.  Hen.  What  says  she,  fair  one?  that  the  tongues 
of  men  are  full  of  deceits  ? 

6  Extravagant.  7  Appearance.  »  Hinderance. 


I 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


453 


Alice.  Oiiy ;  flat  de  tongues  of  de  mans  is  be  full 
of  deceits  :   dat  is  de  princess. 

K.  Hen.  The  princess  is  the  better  English- 
woman. I'faith,  Kate,  my  wooing  is  fit  for  thy 
understanding  :  I  am  glad,  thou  canst  speak  no 
better  English  ;  for,  if  thou  couldst,  thou  wouldst 
find  me  such  a  plain  king,  that  thou  wouldst  think, 
I  had  sold  my  fann  to  buy  my  crown.  I  know  no 
ways  to  mince  it  in  love,  but  directly  to  say  —  I  love 
you  :  then,  if  you  urge  me  further  than  to  say  —  Do 
you,  in  faith  ?  I  wear  out  my  suit.  Give  me  your 
answer  ;  i'faith,  do  ;  and  so  clap  hands  and  a  bar- 
gain :    How  say  you,  lady  ? 

Kath.   Sauf  vostre  homieur ,  me  understand  well. 

A'.  Hen.  Marry,  if  you  would  put  me  to  verses, 
or  to  dance  for  your  sake,  Kate,  why  you  undid  me  : 
for  the  one,  I  have  neither  words  nor  measure ;  and 
for  the  other,  I  have  no  strength  in  measure  9,  yet  a 
reasonable  measure  in  strength.  If  I  could  win  a 
lady  at  leap-frog,  or  by  vaulting  into  my  saddle  with 
my  armour  on  my  back,  under  the  correction  of 
bragging  be  it  spoken,  I  should  quickly  leap  for  a 
wife.  Or,  if  I  might  buffet  for  my  love,  or  bound 
my  horse  for  her  favours,  I  could  lay  on  like  a 
butcher,  and  sit  like  a  jack-an-apes,  never  off:  but, 
I  cannot  look  greenly  ',  nor  gasp  out  my  eloquence, 
nor  I  have  no  cunning  in  protestation  ;  only  down- 
right oaths,  which  I  never  use  till  urged,  nor  never 
break  for  urging.  If  thou  canst  love  a  fellow  of 
tliis  temper,  Kate,  whose  face  is  not  wortli  sun- 
burning,  that  never  looks  in  his  glass  for  love  of  any 
thing  he  sees  there,  let  thine  eye  be  thy  cook.  I 
speak  to  thee  plain  soldier  :  If  thou  canst  love  me 
for  this,  take  me  :  if  not,  to  say  to  thee  —  that  I 
shall  die,  is  true  ;  but  —  for  thy  love,  no ;  yet  I  love 
thee  too.  And  while  thou  livest,  dear  Kate,  take 
a  fellow  of  plain  and  uncoined  '  constancy ;  for  he 
perforce  must  do  thee  right,  because  he  hath  not 
the  gift  to  woo  in  other  places :  for  these  fellows  of 
infinite  tongue,  that  can  rhyme  themselves  into 
ladies'  favours  —  they  do  always  reason  themselves 
out  again.  What !  a  speaker  is  but  a  prater ;  a 
rhjine  is  but  a  ballad.  A  good  leg  will  fall^;  a 
straight  back  will  stoop  ;  a  black  beard  will  turn 
white ;  a  curled  pate  will  grow  bald ;  a  fair  face 
will  wither  ;  a  full  eye  will  w  ax  hollow  :  but  a  good 
heart,  Kate,  is  the  sun  and  moon ;  or  rather  the 
sun,  and  not  the  moon ;  for  it  shines  bi  ight,  and 
never  changes,  but  keeps  his  course  truly.  If  thou 
would  have  such  a  one,  take  me :  And  take  me, 
take  a  soldier;  take  a  soldier,  take  a  king  :  And 
what  sayest  thou  tlien  to  my  love  ?  speak,  my  fair, 
and  fairly,  I  pray  tliee. 

Kath.  Is  it  possible  dat  I  should  love  de  enemy 
of  France  ? 

A'.  Hen,  No  ;  it  is  not  possible,  you  should  love 
the  enemy  of  France,  Kate  ;  but  in  loving  me,  you 
should  love  the  friend  of  France ;  for  1  love  France 
so  well,  that  I  will  not  part  with  a  village  of  it ;  I 
will  have  it  all  mine :  and,  Kate,  when  France  is 
mine,  and  I  am  yours,  then  yours  is  France,  and 
you  are  mine. 

Kath.   I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat. 

K.  Hen.  No,  Kate  ?  I  will  tell  thee  in  French  ; 
wliich,  I  am  sure,  will  hang  upon  my  tongue  like  a 
new-married  wife  about  her  husband's  neck,  hardly 
to  be  shook  off.     Quandjay  la  possession  de  France, 

'  In  dancing.  '  i.  e.  Like  a  young  lover,  awkwardly. 

'  He  means,  resembling  a  plain  piece  of  metal,  which  hot 
not  yet  received  any  imprestioa  '  Fall  away. 


^  quand  vous  avez  la  possession  de  mot,  (let  me  see, 
what  then?  Saint  Dennis  be  my  speed!)  —  done 
vostre  est  France^  ^  vous  estes  mienne.  It  is  as  easy 
for  me,  Kate,  to  conquer  the  kingdom,  as  to  speak 
so  much  more  French  :  I  shall  never  move  thee  in 
French,  unless  it  be  to  laugh  at  me. 

Kath.  Sauf  vostre  honneur,  le  Franqois  que  vous 
parlez,  est  meUleur  que  CAnglois  lequelje  parle. 

K.  Hen.  No,  'faith,  is't  not,  Kate  :  but  thy  speak- 
ing of  my  tongue,  and  I  thine,  most  truly  falsely, 
must  needs  be  granted  to  be  much  at  one.  But, 
Kate,  dost  thou  understand  thus  much  English? 
Canst  thou  love  me  ? 

Kath.   I  cannot  tell. 

K.  Hen.  Can  any  of  your  neighbours  tell,  Kate  ? 
I'll  ask  them.  Come,  1  know  thou  lovest  me  ;  and 
at  night  when  you  come  into  your  closet,  you'll 
question  this  gentlewoman  about  me ;  and  I  know, 
Kate,  you  will  to  her,  dispraise  those  parts  in  me, 
that  you  love  with  your  heart :  but,  good  Kate, 
mock  me  mercifully  ;  the  rather,  gentle  princess, 
because  I  love  thee  cruelly.  How  answer  you,  la 
plus  belle  Catharine  du  monde,  mon  trh  chere  et  divine 
deesse  f 

Kaih.  Your  majesti  'axefaiisse  French  enough  to 
deceive  de  most  sage  demoiselle  dat  is  en  France. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  fye  upon  my  false  French  !  By 
mine  honour,  in  true  English,  I  love  thee,  Kate  :  by 
which  honour  I  dare  not  swear,  thou  lovest  me ; 
yet  my  blood  begins  to  flatter  me  that  thou  dost, 
notwithstanding  the  poor  and  untempcring  effect 
of  my  visage.  Now  beshrew  my  father's  ambition  ! 
he  was  always  thinking  of  civil  wars ;  therefore  was 
I  created  with  a  stubborn  outside,  with  an  aspect 
of  iron,  tliat,  when  I  come  to  woo  ladies,  I  fright 
them.  But,  in  faith,  Kate,  tlie  elder  I  wax,  the 
better  I  shall  appear  :  my  comfort  is,  that  old  age, 
that  ill-layer  up  of  beauty,  can  do  no  more  spoil 
upon  my  face  :  thou  hast  me,  if  thou  ha.st  me,  at 
the  worst ;  and  thou  shalt  wear  me,  if  thou  wear 
me,  better  and  better ;  and  therefore  tell  me,  most 
fair  Katharine,  will  you  have  me  ?  Put  off*  your 
maiden  blushes;  avouch  the  thoughts  of  your  heart 
with  the  looks  of  an  empress ;  take  me  by  the  hand, 
and  say  —  Harry  of  England,  I  am  thine  :  which 
word  thou  shalt  no  sooner  bless  mine  ear  withal, 
but  I  will  tell  thee  aloud —  England  is  thine.  Ire- 
land is  thine,  France  is  tliine,  and  Henry  Planla- 
gcnet  is  tliine  ;  who,  though  I  speak  it  before  his 
face,  if  he  be  not  fellow  with  the  best  king,  thou 
shalt  find  the  best  king  of  good  fellows.  Comt, 
your  answer  in  broken  musick  ;  for  thy  voice  is 
niusick,  and  thy  English  broken  :  therefore,  quein 
of  all,  Katharine,  break  thy  mind  to  me  in  broken 
English,  Wilt  thou  have  me? 

Kath.   Dat  is,  as  it  shall  please  de  rot/  mon  pere. 

K  Hen.  Nay,  it  will  please  him  well,  Kate ;  it 
shall  please  him,  Kate. 

Kath.    Den  it  shall  also  content  me. 

A'.  Hen.  Upon  that  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  I 
call  you  —  my  queen. 

Kath.  Laissez,  mon  seifrneiir,  laissez,  taifsez :  ma 
foy,  je  ne  veux  point  que  vaus  altbav^n'z  vostre  ^iran- 
dfur,  en  baisant  la  vwin  d'xine  tnnlre  indif^ne  servl- 
tfur  i  exaisez  may,  je  vous  svppliCy  mon  Ires  puisaatU 
seigneur. 

A'.  Hen.   Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate. 

Kath.  Les  dames,  ^-  demoiselles,  pour  estre  baiseea 
devani  leur  nopces,  U  nest  pas  la  coutume  de  France. 

K.  Hen.   Madam  my  interpreter,  what  says  she? 
Gg  3 


454. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Act  V.   Scene  II. 


^llce-  Dat  it  is  not  be  de  fashion  pour  les  ladies  of 
France,  —  I  cannot  tell  what  is  baiser,  en  English. 

K.  Hen.    To  kiss. 

Alice.   Your  majesty  entendre  bettre  que  moy. 

K.  Hen.  It  is  not  the  fashion  for  the  maids  in 
France  to  kiss  before  they  are  married,  would  she  say  ? 

Alice.    Ouy,  vrayment. 

K.  Hen.  6,  Kate,  nice  customs  curt'sy  to  great 
kings.  Dear  Kate,  you  and  I  cannot  be  confined 
within  the  weak  list^  of  a  country's  fashion  :  we  are 
the  makers  of  manners,  Kate ;  and  the  liberty  that 
follows  our  places,  stops  the  mouths  of  all  find- 
faults  ;  as  I  will  do  yours,  for  upholding  the  nice 
fashion  of  your  country,  in  denying  me  a  kiss  : 
therefore,  patiently,  and  yielding.  \^Kissing  her.] 
You  have  witchcraft  in  your  lips,  Kate  :  there  is 
more  eloquence  in  a  sugar  touch  of  them,  than  in 
the  tongues  of  the  French  council ;  and  they  should 
sooner  persuade  Harry  of  England,  than  a  general 
petition  of  mouarchs.      Here  comes  your  father. 

E7iter  the  French  King  and  Queen,  Burgundy, 
Bedforc,  Gi-oster,  Exeter,  "Westmoreland, 
and  other  French  and  English  Lords. 

Bur.  God  save  your  majesty  !  my  royal  cousin, 
teach  you  our  princess  English  ? 

IT.  Hen.  I  would  have  her  learn,  my  fair  cousin, 
how  perfectly  I  love  her;  and  that  is  good  English. 

JBur.    Is  she  not  apt  ? 

IT.  Hen.  Our  tongue  is  rough,  coz  ;  and  my  con- 
dition 5  is  not  smooth  :  so  that,  having  neither  the 
voice  nor  the  heart  of  flattery  about  me,  I  cannot  so 
conjure  up  the  spirit  of  love  in  her,  that  he  will 
appear  in  his  true  likeness.      Shall  Kate  be  my  wife  ? 

Fr.  King.  So  please  you  :  —  we  have  consented  to 
all  terms  of  reason. 

K  Hen.    Is't  so,  my  lords  of  England  ? 

West.   The  king  hath  granted  every  article  : 
His  daughter,  first ;  and  then,  in  sequel,  all, 
According  to  their  firm  proposed  natures. 

Exe.  Only,  he  hath  not  yet  subscribed  this :  — 
Where  your  majesty  demands,  —  That  the  king  of 
France  having  any  occasion  to  write  for  matter  of 
grant,  shall  name  your  highness  in  this  form,  and 
with  this  addition,  in  French,  —  Notre  tres  cherjilz 
Henry  roy  d" Angleterre,  heritier  de  France;  and 
thus  in  Latin,  —  Prceclarissimus  Jilius  noster  Hen- 
ricus,  rex  AnglicB,  ^  hceres  Francice. 

Fr.  King.  Nor  this  I  have  not,  brother,  so  denied, 
But  your  request  shall  make  me  let  it  pass. 


Slight  barrier. 


Temper. 


K.Hen.  I  pray  you,  then,  in  love  and  dear  alliance. 
Let  that  one  article  rank  with  the  rest : 
And,  thereupon,  give  me  your  daughter. 

Fr.  King-  Take  her,  fair  son  ;  and  from  her  blood 
raise  up 
Issue  to  me  :   that  the  contending  kingdoms 
Of  France  and  England,  whose  very  shores  look  pale 
With  envy  of  each  other's  happiness, 
May  cease  their  hatred  ;  and  this  dear  conjunction 
Plant  neighbourhood  and  Christian-like  accord 
In  their  sweet  bosoms,  that  never  war  advance 
His  bleeding  sword  'twixt  England  and  fair  France. 

All.   Amen  ! 

K.  Hen.   Now  welcome,  Kate  :  —  and  bear  me 
witness  all. 
That  here  1  kiss  her  as  my  sovereign  queen. 

\Flourish. 

Q.  Tsa.    God,  the  best  maker  of  all  marriages. 
Combine  your  hearts  in  one,  your  realms  in  one ! 
As  man  and  wife,  being  two,  are  one  in  love. 
So  be  there  'twixt  your  kingdoms  such  a  spousal, 
That  never  may  ill  office,  or  fell  jealousy. 
Which  troubles  oft  the  bed  of  blessed  marriage. 
Thrust  in  between  the  paction  of  these  kingdoms. 
To  make  divorce  of  their  incorporate  league  ; 
That  English  may  as  French,  French  Englishmen, 
Receive  each  other  !  —  God  speak  this  Amen ; 

All.   Amen ! 

K.  Hen.     Prepare  we  for  our  marriage :  —  on 
which  day, 
My  lord  of  Burgundy,  we'll  take  your  oath. 
And  all  the  peers',  for  surety  of  our  leagues.  — 
Then  shall  I  swear  to  Kate,  and  you  to  me ! 
And  may  our  oaths  well  kept  and  prosp'rous  be  ! 

\^Exeunt. 
Enter  Chorus. 

Thus  far,  with  rough,  and  all  unable  pen, 

Our  bending  6  author  hath  pursu'd  the  story ; 
In  little  room  confining  mighty  men. 

Mangling  by  starts  the  full  course  of  their  glory. 
Small  time,  but,  in  that  small,  most  greatly  liv'd 

This  star  of  England  :  fortune  made  his  sword ; 
By  which  the  world's  best  garden  7  he  achiev'd, 

And  of  it  left  his  son  imperial  lord. 
Henry  the  sixth,  in  infant  bands  crown'd  king 

Of  France  and  England,  did  this  king  succeed  ; 
Whose  state  so  many  had  the  managing, 

That  they  lost  France,  and  made  his  England  bleed : 
Which  oft  our  stage  hath  shown  ;  and  for  their  sake. 
In  your  fair  minds  let  this  acceptance  take.       [Exit. 

8  i.  e.  Unequal  to  the  weight  of  the  subject       7  France. 


i 


u" 


«• 

H 


HRST  PART  OF 

KING     HENRY     VI. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  Henry  the  Sixth. 

Duke  of  Gloster,  Uncle  to  the  King,  and  Pro- 
tector, 

Duke  of  Bedford,  Uncle  to  the  King,  and  Regent 
of  France. 

Thomas  Beaufort,  Duke  of  Exeter,  great  Uncle 
to  the  King. 

Henry  Beaufort,  ^'reai  Uncle  to  the  King,  Bishop 
of  Winchester,  and  cflerwurds  Cardinal. 

John  Beaufort,  ^aW  (^Somerset;  afterwards  Duke. 

Richard  Plantagenet,  eldest  Son  of  Richard,  late 
Earl  of  Cambridge;  afterwards  Duke  of 
York. 

Earl  or  Warwick. 

Earl  of  Salisbury. 

Earl  of  Suffolk. 

Lord  Talbot,  afterwards  Earl  o/"  Shrewsbury. 

John  Talbot,  his  Son. 

Edward  Mortimer,  Earl  of  March. 

Mortimer's  Keeper,  and  a  Lawyer. 

Sir  John  Fastolfe. 

Sir  William  Lucy. 

Sir  William  Glansdale. 


Sir  Thomas  Gargrave. 

SCENE,  partly  in  England,  and  partly  in  France. 


Mayor  o/"  London. 

WooDviLLE,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 

Vernon,  of  the  White  Rose,  or  York  Faction. 

Basset,  of  the  Red  Rose,  or  Lancaster  Faction. 

Charles,  Dauphin,  and  afterwards  King  of  France. 

Reignier,  DukeofAnjou,  and  titular Kingqf  Naples, 

Duke  of  Burgundy. 

Duke  of  ALEN90N. 

Governor  of  Paris. 

Bastard  of  Orleans. 

Master- Gunner  of  Orleans,  and  his  Son. 

General  of  the  French  Forces  in  Bourdeaux. 

A  French  Sergeant. 

A  Porter. 

MARGARE.T,  Daughter  to  Reignier;  afterwards  mar- 
ried to  King  Henry. 
Countess  of  Auvergne. 
Joan  la  Pucelle,  commonly  called  Joan  of  Arc. 

Lords,  Warders  of  the  Tower,  Heralds,  Officers, 
Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  several  Attendants 
both  on  the  English  and  French. 


HOW   BAT   TOO.   UAUAM?     AR»   TOO   NOW   PKRan*.DKD 
THAT  TALBOT   IS   BDT    SHADOW    OP   HIMHELF  / 


FIRST  PART  OF 


KING    HENRY    VI 


ACT  L 


SCENE  I.  —  Westminster  Abbey. 

Dend  March.  Corpse  of  King  Henry  the  Fifth 
discmtered,  li/ing  in  state  ;  attended  on  by  the  Dukes 
OK  Bedford,  Gloster,  and  Exeter  ;  the  Earl  of 
Warwick,    the    Bishop   of    Winchester,   He- 

raids,  ^c. 

lied.   Hung  be  the  heavens  with  black,  yield  day 
to  night ! 
Comets  importing  change  of  times  and  states, 
Brandish  your  crjstal  tresses  in  the  sky  ; 
And  with  them  scourge  the  bad  revolting  stars, 
That  have  consented  unto  Henry's  death  ! 
Henry  the  Fifth,  too  famous  to  live  long ! 
England  ne'er  lost  a  king  of  so  much  worth. 


Glo.   England  ne'er  had  a  king  until  his  time. 
Virtue  he  had,  deserving  to  command : 
His  brandish'd  sword  did  blind  men  with  his  beams; 
His  arms  spread  wider  than  a  dragon's  wings ; 
His  sparkling  eyes  replete  with  wrathful  fire, 
More  dazzled  and  drove  back  his  enemies. 
Than  mid-day  sun,  fierce  bent  {gainst  tlicir  faces. 
What  should  I  say  ?  his  deeds  exceed  all  speech. 
He  ne'er  lift  up  his  hand,  but  conquered. 

Exe.   We  mourn  in  black  ;  Why  mourn  we  not 
in  blood  ? 
Henry  is  dead,  and  never  shall  revive  : 
Upon  a  wooden  coffin  we  attend  ; 
And  death's  dishonourable  victory 
We  with  our  stately  |»resence  glorify, 


456 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


Like  captives  bound  to  a  triumphant  car. 
What  ?  shall  we  curse  the  planets  of  mishap, 
That  plotted  thus  our  glory's  overthrow  ? 
Or  shall  we  think  the  subtle-witted  French 
Conjurers  and  sorcerers,  that,  afraid  of  him, 
By  magick  verses  '  have  contriv'd  his  end  ? 

Win.   He  was  a  king  bless'd  of  the  King  of  kings. 
The  battles  of  the  Lord  of  hosts  he  fought : 
The  church's  prayers  made  him  so  prosperous. 

Glo.  None  do  you  like  but  an  effeminate  prince, 
Whom,  like  a  school-boy,  you  may  over-awe. 

Win.  Gloster,  whate'er  we  like,  thou  art  protector ; 
And  lookest  to  command  the  prince,  and  realm. 
Thy  wife  is  proud ;  she  holdeth  thee  in  awe. 
More  than  religion  or  than  churchmen  may. 

Glo.  Name  not  religion,  for  thou  lov'st  the  flesh. 
And  ne'er  throughout  the  year  to  church  thou  go'st. 
Except  it  be  to  pray  against  thy  foes. 

Bed.   Cease,  cease,  these  jars,  and  rest  your  minds 
in  peace ! 
Let's  to  the  altar  :  —  Heralds,  wait  on  us  :  — 
Instead  of  gold,  we'll  offer  up  our  arms  ; 
Since  arms  avail  not,  now  that  Henry's  dead.  — 
Posterity,  await  for  wretched  years. 
When  at  their  mothers'  moist  eyes  babes  shall  suck  ; 
Our  isle  be  made  a  nourish  2  of  salt  tears. 
And  none  but  women  left  to  wail  the  dead.  — 
Henry  the  Fifth  !  thy  ghost  I  invocate ; 
Prosper  this  realm,  keep  it  from  civil  broils  ! 
Combat  with  adverse  planets  in  the  heavens ! 
A  far  more  glorious  star  thy  soul  will  make, 
Than  Julius  Caesar,  or  bright 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   My  honourable  lords,  health  to  you  all ! 
Sad  tidings  bring  I  to  you  out  of  France, 
Of  loss,  of  slaughter,  and  discomfiture : 
Guienne,  Champaigne,  Rheims,  Orleans, 
Paris,  Guysors,  Poictiers,  are  all  quite  lost. 

Bed.   What  say'st  thou,  man,  before  dead  Henry's 
corse  ? 
Speak  softly ;  or  the  loss  of  those  great  towns 
Will  make  him  burst  his  lead,  and  rise  from  death. 

Glo.   Is  Paris  lost  ?  is  Roiien  yielded  up  ? 
If  Henry  were  recall'd  to  life  again. 
These  news  would  cause  him  once  more  yield  the  ghost. 

Exe.  How  were  they  lost?  what  treachery  was  us'd? 

Mess.  No  treachery ;  but  want  of  men  and  money. 
Among  the  soldiers  this  is  muttered,  — 
That  here  you  maintain  several  factions  ; 
And,  whilst  a  field  should  be  despatch'd  and  fought, 
You  are  disputing  of  your  generals. 
One  would  have  ling'ring  wars  with  little  cost ; 
Another  would  fly  swift,  but  wanteth  wings ; 
A  third  man  thinks,  without  expence  at  all. 
By  guileful  fair  words  peace  may  be  obtain'd. 
Awake,  awake,  English  nobility  ! 
Let  not  sloth  dim  your  honours,  new-begot : 
Cropp'd  are  the  flower-de-luces  in  your  arms  ; 
Of  England's  coat  one  half  is  cut  away. 

Exe.   Were  our  tears  wanting  to  this  funeral. 
These  tidings  would  call  forth  her  flowing  tides. 

Bed.  Me  they  concern ;  regent  I  am  of  France :  — 
Give  me  my  steeled  coat,  I'll  fight  for  France.  — 
Away  with  these  disgraceful  wailing  robes ! 
Wounds  I  will  lend  the  French,  instead  of  eyes. 
To  weep  their  intermissive  miseries.  3 

•  There  was  a  notion  long  prevalent,  that  life  might  be  taken 
away  by  metrical  charms. 
■^  Nurse  was  anciently  so  spelt. 
3  i.e.  Their  miseries  which  have  had  only  a  short  intermission. 


Enter  another  Messenger. 

2  Mess.   Jyords,    view    these  letters,  full  of  bad 

mischance, 
France  is  revolted  from  the  English  quite ; 
Except  some  petty  towns  of  no  import : 
The  dauphin  Charles  is  crowned  king  in  Rheims ; 
The  bastard  of  Orleans  with  him  is  join'd  ; 
Reignier,  duke  of  Anjou,  doth  take  his  part 
The  duke  of  Alen9on  flieth  to  his  side. 

Exe.   The  dauphin  crowned  king  !  all  fly  to  him 
O,  whither  shall  we  fly  from  this  reproach  ? 

Glo.  We  will  not  fly,  but  to  our  enemies'  throats 
Bedford,  if  thou  be  slack,  I'll  fight  it  out. 

Bed.    Gloster,  why  doubt'st  thou  of  my  forward 
ness? 
An  army  have  I  muster'd  in  my  thoughts. 
Wherewith  already  France  is  over-run. 

Enter  a  third  Messenger. 

3  Mess.  My  gracious  lords, — to  add  to  your  laments, 
Wherewith  you  now  bedew  king  Henry's  hearse, — 
I  must  inform  you  of  a  dismal  fight, 

Betwixt  the  stout  lord  Talbot  and  the  French. 

JVin.   AVhat !  wherein  Talbot  overcame?  is'tso? 
3  Mess.   O,  no;  wherein  lord  Talbot  was  o'er- 
thrown  ; 
The  circumstance  I'll  tell  you  more  at  large. 
The  tenth  of  August  last,  this  dreadful  lord, 
Retiring  from  the  siege  of  Orleans, 
Having  full  scarce  six  thousand  in  his  troop, 
By  three  and  twenty  thousand  of  the  French 
Was  round  encompassed  and  set  upon  ; 
No  leisure  had  he  to  enrank  his  men  ; 
He  wanted  pikes  to  set  before  his  archers  ; 
Instead  whereof,  sharp  stakes,  pluck'd  out  of  hedges. 
They  pitched  in  the  ground  confusedly, 
To  keep  the  horsemen  off  from  breaking  in. 
More  than  three  hours  the  fight  continued ; 
Where  valiant  Talbot,  above  human  thought, 
Enacted  wonders  with  his  sword  and  lance. 
Hundreds  he  sent  to  death,  and  none  durst  stand  him ; 
Here,  there,  and  every  where,  enrag'd  he  slew : 
The  French  exclaim'd,  the  devil  was  in  arms ; 
All  the  whole  army  stood  agaz'd  on  him : 
His  soldiers,  spying  his  undaunted  spirit, 
A  Talbot !  a  Talbot !  cried  out  amain, 
And  rush'd  into  the  bowels  of  the  battle. 
Here  had  the  conquest  fully  been  sealed  up. 
If  sir  John  Fastolfe  had  not  play'd  the  coward 
He  being  in  the  vaward  (plac'd  behind 
With  purpose  to  relieve  and  follow  them,) 
Cowardly  fled,  not  having  struck  one  stroke. 
Hence  grew  the  general  wreck  and  massacre ; 
Enclosed  were  they  with  their  enemies  : 
A  base  Walloon,  to  win  the  dauphin's  grace. 
Thrust  Talbot  with  a'  spear  into  the  back  ; 
Whom  all  France,  withtheir  chief  assembled  strengthj^ J 
Durst  not  presume  to  look  once  in  the  face. 

Bed.   Is  Talbot  slain  ?  then  I  will  slay  myself, 
For  living  idly  here,  in  pomp  and  ease. 
Whilst  such  a  worthy  leader,  wanting  aid, 
Unto  his  dastard  foe-men  is  betray  d. 

3  Mess    O  no,  he  lives ;  but  is  took  prisoner, 
And  lord  Scales  with  him,  and  lord  Hungerford  ; 
Most  of  the  rest  slaughter'd,  or  took  likewise. 

Bed.   His  ransome  there  is  none  but  I  shall  pay ; 
I'll  hale  the  dauphin  headlong  from  his  throne. 
His  crown  shall  be  the  ransome  of  my  friend ; 
Four  of  their  lords  I'll  change  for  one  of  ours.  — 


1 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


457 


k 


Farewell,  my  masters ;  to  my  task  will  I ; 
Bonfires  in  France  forthwith  I  am  to  make, 
To  keep  our  great  saint  George's  feast  withal : 
Ten  thousand  soldiers  with  me  I  will  take, 
"Whose  bloody  deeds  shall  make  all  Europe  quake. 

3  Mess.  So  you  had  need;  for  Orleans  is  besieg'd ; 
The  English  army  is  grown  weak  and  faint : 
The  earl  of  Salisbury  craveth  supply, 
And  hardly  keeps  his  men  from  mutiny, 
Since  they,  so  few,  watch  such  a  multitude. 

Exe.  Remember,  lords,  your  oaths  to  Henry  sworn; 
Either  to  quell  the  dauphin  utterly. 
Or  bring  him  in  obedience  to  your  yoke. 

Bed.   I  do  remember  it ;  and  here  take  leave. 
To  go  about  my  preparation.  [Exii. 

Glo.   I'll  to  the  Tower,  with  all  the  haste  1  can. 
To  view  the  artillery  and  munition ; 
And  then  I  will  proclaim  young  Henry  king.   [^Exit. 

Exe.   To  Eltham  will  I,  where  the  young  king  is, 
Being  ordain'd  his  special  governor ; 
And  for  his  safety  there  I'll  best  devise.  \^Exit. 

Win.  Each  hath  his  place  and  function  to  attend  : 
I  am  left  out ;  for  me  nothing  remains. 
But  long  I  will  not  be  Jack-out-of-office  ; 
The  king  from  Eltham  I  intend  to  send. 
And  sit  at  chiefest  stern  of  public  weal.  [^Exii. 

J        SCENE  II.  —  France.     Before  Orleans. 

Enter  Charles,  xvith  his  Forces  i  ALEN90N, 
Reignier,  and  others. 

Char.  Mars  his  true  moving,  even  as  in  the  heavens, 
So  in  the  earth,  to  this  day  is  not  known : 
Late  did  he  shine  upon  the  English  side ; 
Now  we  are  victors,  upon  us  he  smiles. 
What  towns  of  any  moment,  but  we  have  ? 
At  pleasure  here  we  lie,  near  Orleans ; 
Thewhiles,  the  famish'd  English,  like  pale  ghosts. 
Faintly  besiege  us  one  hour  in  a  month. 

Alen.   They  want  their  porridge,    and   their  fat 
bull-beeves : 
Either  they  must  be  dieted  like  mules. 
And  have  their  provender  tyed  to  their  mouths. 
Or  piteous  they  will  look,  like  drowned  mice. 

Reig.  Let's  raise  the  siege :  Why  live  we  idly  here? 
Talbot  is  taken,  whom  we  wont  to  fear  : 
Remaineth  none  but  mad-brain'd  Salisbury  ; 
And  he  may  well  in  fretting  spend  his  gall, 
Nor  men,  nor  money,  hath  he  to  make  war. 

Char.  Sound,  sound  alarum  ;  wewill  rush  on  them. 
Now  for  the  honour  of  the  forlorn  French : 
Him  I  forgive  my  death,  that  killeth  me. 
When  he  sees  me  go  back  one  foot,  or  fly.    [Exeunt. 

Alarums ;  Excursions ;  afterwards  a  Retreat. 

Re-enter  CuAKLEs,  ALEN90K,  Reignier,  anrf  o//jer5. 

Char.  Who  ever  saw  the  like?  what  men  have  I  ?  — 
Dogs !  cowards !  dastards !  —  I  would  ne'er  have  fled, 
But  that  they  left  me  'midst  my  enemies. 

Reig.    Salisbury  is  a  desperate  homicide  ; 
He  fighteth  as  one  weary  of  his  life. 
The  other  lords,  like  lions  wanting  food, 
Do  rush  upon  us  as  their  hungry  prey.  * 

Alcn.    Froissard,  a  countryman  of  ours,  records, 
England  all  Olivers  and  Rowlands  bred. 
During  the  time  Edward  the  third  did  reign. 
More  truly  now  may  this  be  verified  ; 
For  none  but  Samsons,  and  Goliasses, 
It  scndeth  forth  to  skirmisti.      One  to  ten  ! 
*  i.e.  The  prey  for  which  they  arc  hungry. 


Lean  raw-bon'd  rascals !  who  would  e'er  suppose 
They  had  such  courage  and  audacity  ? 

Char.   Let's  leave  this  town ;  for  they  are  haii- 
brain'd  slaves. 
And  hunger  will  enforce  them  to  be  more  eager  : 
Of  old  I  know  them  ;  rather  with  their  teeth 
The  walls  they'll  tear  down,  than  forsake  the  siege. 

Reig.   I  think  by  some  odd  gimmals  ^  or  device, 
Their  arms  are  set,  like  clocks,  still  to  strike  on ; 
Else  ne'er  could  they  hold  out  so,  as  they  do. 
By  my  consent,  we'll  e'en  let  them  alone. 

Alen.   Be  it  so. 

Enter  the  Bastard  of  Orleans. 

Bast.   Where's  the  prince  dauphin  ?  I  have  news 
for  him. 

Char.   Bastard  "  of  Orleans,  thrice  welcome  to  us. 

Bast.   Methinks,  your  looks  are  sad,  your  cheer  ^ 
appall'd ; 
Hath  the  late  overthrow  wrought  this  offence  ? 
Be  not  dismay'd,  for  succour  is  at  hand : 
A  holy  maid  hither  with  me  I  bring, 
Which,  by  a  vision  sent  to  her  from  heaven, 
Ordained  is  to  raise  this  tedious  siege. 
And  drive  the  English  forth  the  bounds  of  France. 
The  spirit  of  deep  prophecy  she  hath. 
Exceeding  the  nine  sibyls  of  old  Rome ; 
What's  past,  and  what's  to  come,  she  can  descry. 
Speak,  shall  I  call  her  in  ?  Believe  my  words. 
For  they  are  certain  and  unfallible. 

Ckar.   Go,   call  her  in :      [Exit  Bastard.]     But, 
first,  to  try  her  skill, 
Reignier,  stand  thou  as  dauphin  in  my  place  : 
Question  her  proudly,  let  thy  looks  be  stern  :  — 
By  this  means  shall  we  sound  what  skill  she  hath. 

[Retires. 

Enter  La  Pucelle,  Bastard  of  Orleans,  and  others. 

Reig.   Fair  maid,  is't  thou  wilt  do  these  wond'rous 
feats  ? 

Puc.   Reignier,  is't  thou  that  thinkest  to  beguile 
me  ?  — 
Where  is  the  dauphin  ?  —  come,  come  from  behind  ; 
I  know  thee  well,  though  never  seen  before. 
Be  not  amaz'd,  there's  nothing  hid  from  me : 
In  private  will  I  talk  with  thee  apart :  — 
Stand  back,  you  lords,  and  give  us  leave  a  while. 

Reig.   She  takes  upon  her  bravely  at  first  dash. 

Puc.    Dauphin,    I   am    by    birth   a    shepherd's 
daughter. 
My  wit  untrain'd  in  any  kind  of  art. 
Heaven,  and  our  lady  gracious,  hath  it  pleas'd 
To  shine  on  my  contemptible  estate : 
Lo,  whilst  I  waited  on  my  tender  lambs. 
And  to  sun's  parching  heat  display'd  my  cheeks, 
Our  lady  deigned  to  appear  to  me  ; 
And,  in  a  vision  full  of  majesty, 
Will'd  me  to  leave  my  base  vocation. 
And  free  my  country  from  calamity  : 
Her  aid  she  promis'd  and  assui  'd  success  : 
In  complete  glory  she  reveal'd  herself; 
And,  whereas  I  was  black  and  swart  before. 
With  those  clear  rays  which  she  infus'd  on  me. 
That  beauty  am  I  bless'd  with,  which  you  see. 
Ask  me  what  question  thou  canst  possible, 
And  I  will  answer  unpremeditated  : 

*  A  gimmal  is  a  piece  of  jointc<l  work,  where  one  piece 
moves  within  another  ;  here  it  is  taken  at  large  for  an  engine. 
«  This  was  not  in  former  times  a  term  of  reproach. 
■  Countenance 


458 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  L 


My  courage  try  by  combat,  if  thou  dar'st, 
And  thou  shalt  find  that  I  exceed  my  sex. 
Resolve  on  this  »  :   Thou  shalt  be  fortunate, 
If  thou  receive  me  for  thy  warlike  mate. 

Char.   Thou  hast  astonish'd    me  with    thy  high 
terms ; 
Only  this  proof  I'll  of  thy  valour  make,  — 
In  single  combat  thou  shalt  buckle  with  me  : 
And,  if  thou  vanquishest,  thy  words  are  true; 
Otherwise,  I  renounce  all  confidence. 

Puc.  I  am  prepared:  here  is  my keen-edg'd  sword, 
Deck'd  with  five  flower-de-luces  on  each  side ; 
The  which  at  Touraine,  in  saint  Katharine's  church- 
yard. 
Out  of  a  deal  of  old  iron  I  chose  forth. 

Char.   Then  come  on,  damsel,  I  fear  no  woman. 

Puc.   And,  while  I  live,  I'll  ne'er  fly  from  a  man. 

[^Theyfght. 

Char.   Stay,  stay  thy  hands  ;  thou  art  an  Amazon, 
And  fightest  with  the  sword  of  Deborah. 

Puc.   Christ's  mother  helps  me,  else  I  were  too 
weak. 

Char.  Whoe'er    helps  thee,   'tis  thou  that  must 
help  me  : 
My  heart  and  hands  thou  hast  at  once  subdu'd. 
Excellent  Pucelle,  if  thy  name  be  so, 
Let  me  thy  servant,  and  not  sovereign,  be; 
'Tis  the  French  dauphin  sueth  to  thee  thus. 

Puc.   I  must  not  yield  to  any  thoughts  of  love. 
For  my  profession's  sacred  from  above : 
When  I  have  chased  all  thy  foes  from  hence. 
Then  will  I  think  upon  a  recompence. 

Char.   Meantime,  look  gracious  on  thy  prostrate 
thraU. 

Reig.   My  lord,  methinks,  is  very  long  in  talk. 

Alen.   He  may  mean  more  than  we  poor  men  do 
know. 

Reig.  My  lord,  where  are  you?  what  devise  you  on  ? 
Shall  we  give  over  Orleans,  or  no  ? 

Puc.   Why,  no,  I  say,  distrustful  recreants  ! 
Fight  till  the  last  gasp  ;   I  will  be  your  guard. 

Char.  What  she  says,  I'll  confirm ;  we'll  fight  it  out. 

Puc.    Assign'd  am  1  to  be  the  English  scourge. 
This  night  the  siege  assuredly  I'll  raise  : 
Expect  saint  Martin's  summer  9  halcyon  days. 
Since  I  have  entered  into  these  wars. 
Glory  is  like  a  circle  in  the  water. 
Which  never  ceaseth  to  enlarge  itself, 
Till,  by  broad  spreading,  it  disperse  to  nought. 
With  Henry's  death,  the  English  circle  ends  ; 
Dispersed  are  the  glories  it  included. 
Now  am  I  like  that  proud  insulting  ship, 
Which  CiEsar  and  his  fortune  bare  at  once. 

Char.   Was  Mahomet  inspired  with  a  dove  ? 
Thou  with  an  eagle  art  inspired  then. 
Helen,  the  mother  of  great  Constantine, 
Nor  yet  saint  Philip's  daughters  ',  were  like  thee. 
Bright  star  of  Venus,  fall'n  down  on  the  earth, 
How  may  I  reverently  worship  thee? 

Alen.   Leave  off  delays,  and  let  us  raise  the  siege. 

Reig.  Woman,  do  what  thou  canst  to  save  our 
honours ; 
Drive  them  from  Orleans,  and  be  immortaliz'd. 

Char.   Presently  we'll  try :  —  Come,    let's  away 
about  it : 
No  prophet  will  I  trust  if  she  prove  false,    {^Exeunt. 

8  Be  firmly  persuaded  of  it 

9  Expect  prosperity  after  misfortune. 

'  Meaning  the  four  daughters  of  Pliilip  mentioned  in  Acts, 
XX  L  9. 


SCENE  III. —  London.     HUl  before  the  Tower. 

Enter,  at  the  Gates,  the  Duke  of  Gloster,  with  his 
Serving- men,  in  blue  Coats. 

Glo.  I  am  come  to  survey  the  Tower  this  day ; 
Since  Henry's  death,  I  fear,  there  is  conveyance.  "^ 
Where  be  these  warders,  that  they  wait  not  here  ? 
Open  the  gates ;  Gloster  it  is  that  calls. 

[Servants  knock. 

1  Ward.  [Within.'\   Who  is  there  that  knocks  so 

imperiously  ? 

1  Serv.   It  is  the  noble  duke  of  Gloster. 

2  Ward'  \^Wilhin.']    Whoe'er  he  be,  you  may  not] 

be  let  in. 

Serv.   Answer  you  so  the  lord  protector,  villains  ?  \ 
1  Ward.  \^Within.'\  The  Lord  protect  him  !  so  we 
answer  him : 
We  do  no  otherwise  than  we  are  will'd. 

Glo.   Who  willed  you  ?  or  whose  will  stands,  but 
mine? 
There's  none  protector  of  the  realm  but  I.  — 
Break  up  the  gates,  I'll  be  your  warrantize  : 
Shall  I  be  flouted  thus  by  dunghill  grooms  ? 

Servants  rush  at  the  Tower  Gates.     Enter,  to  the 
Gates,  WooDViLLE,  the  Lieutenant. 
Wood.  {^Within.l  What  noise  is  this?  what  trai- 
tors have  we  here  ? 
Glo.  Lieutenant,  is  it  you,  whose  voice  I  hear  ? 
Open  the  gates ;  here's  Gloster,  that  would  enter. 
Wood.  \_Within.']   Have  patience,  noble  duke  ;  1 
may  not  open ; 
The  cardinal  of  Winchester  forbids : 
From  him  I  have  express  commandment, 
That  thou,  nor  none  of  thine,  shall  be  let  in. 

Glo.  Faint-hearted  Woodville,  prizest  him  'fore  me  ? 
Arrogant  Winchester  ?  that  haughty  prelate. 
Whom  Henry,  our  late  sovereign,  ne'er  could  brook? 
Thou  art  no  friend  to  Heaven,  or  to  the  king : 
Open  the  gates,  or  I'll  shut  thee  out  shortly. 

1  Serv.   Open  the  gates  unto  the  lord  protector ; 
Or  we'll  burst  them  open,  if  that  you  come  not  quickly. 

Enter  Winchester,  attended  by  a  Train  of  Ser' 
vants  in  tawny  Coats. 

Win.   How   now,   ambitious  Humphrey  ?    what 
means  this  ? 

Glo,    Piel'd  priest  -%  dost  thou  command  me  to  be 
shut  out? 

Win.   I  do,  thou  most  usurping  proditor  ^, 
And  not  protector  of  the  king  or  realm. 

Glo.   Stand  back  :  thou  manifest  conspirator  ; 
Thou  that  contriv'dst  to  murder  our  dead  lord  : 
I'll  canvass  ^  thee  in  thy  broad  cardinal's  hat, 
If  thou  proceed  in  this  thy  insolence. 

Win.  Nay,  stand  thou  back,  I  will  not  budge  a  foot. 

Glo.  I  will  not  slay  thee,  but  I'll  drive  thee  back  : 
Thy  scarlet  robes,  as  a  child's  bearing-cloth 
I'll  use,  to  carry  thee  out  of  this  place. 

Win.   Do  what  thou  dar'st ;  I  beard  thee  to  thy  face. 

Glo.  What?  am  I  dar'd,  and  bearded  to  my  face?  — 
Draw,  men,  for  all  this  privileged  place  ; 
Blue-coats  to  tawny  coats.  Priest,  beware  your  beard ; 
[Gloster  and  his  men  attack  the  Bishop. 
I  mean  to  tug  it,  and  to  cuff  you  soundly  : 
Under  my  feet  I  stamp  thy  cardinal's  hat ; 
In  spite  of  pope  or  dignities  of  church. 

Win.  Gloster,  thou'lt  answer  this  before  the  pope. 


2  Theft. 
"  Traitor. 


3  Alluding  to  his  shaven  crown. 
»  Sift. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


Glo.   Now  beat  them  hence,  Why  do  you  let  them 
stay  ?  — 
Thee  I'll  chase  hence,  thou  wolf  in  sheep's  array.  — 
Out,  tawny  coats  !  — out,  scarlet  6  hypocrite  ! 

Here  a  peat  Tumvlt.     In  the  midst  ofitf  enter  the 
Mayor  c/"  London,  and  Officers. 

Mai/.   Fye,  lords !  that  you,  being  supreme  ma- 
gistrates. 
Thus  contumtliously  should  break  the  peace  ! 

Glo.   Peace,  mayor;  thou  know'st  little   of  my 
wrongs : 
Here's  Beaufort,  that  regards  nor  God  nor  king. 
Hath  here  distrain'd  the  Tower  to  his  use. 

jrin.   Here's  Gloster  too,  a  foe  to  citizens ; 
One  that  still  motions  war,  and  never  peace, 
O'ercharging  your  free  purses  with  large  fines ; 
That  seeks  to  overthrow  religion. 
Because  he  is  protector  of  tlie  realm  ; 
And  would  have  armour  here  out  of  the  Tower, 
To  crown  himself  king,  and  suppress  the  prince. 

Glo.    I  will    not   answer    thee  with  words,    but 
blows.  [Here  they  skirmish  again. 

May.  Nought  rests  forme,  in  this  tumultuous  strife. 
But  to  make  open  proclamation  :  — 
Come,  officer  j  as  loud  as  e'er  thou  canst. 

Ort.  All  manner  of  men,  assembled  here  in  arms  this 
day,  afiainst  God's  peace  and  the  king's,  we  charge 
find  command  yon,  in  his  highness'  name,  to  repair 
to  your  several  dwelling-places;  and  not  to  wear, 
handle,  or  use,  any  sword,  weapon,  or  dagger, 
henceforward,  vpon  pain  of  death. 
Glo.   Cardinal,  I'll  be  no  breaker  of  the  law  : 

But  we  shall  meet,  and  break  our  minds  at  large. 
Win.  Gloster,  we'll  meet;  to  thy  dear  cost,  be  sure: 

Thy  heart-blood  I  will  have,  for  this  day's  work. 
May.  I'll  call  for  clubs 7,  if  you  will  not  away  : 

This  cardinal  is  more  haughty  than  the  devil. 

Glo.   Mayor,  farewell ;  thou  dost  but  what  thou 

mayst. 
Win.   Abominable  Gloster  !  guard  thy  head  ; 

For  I  intend  to  have  it  ere  long.  {Exeunt. 

May.   See  the  coast  clear'd,    and  then    we  will 

depart.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  ~  France.     Before  Orleans. 

Enter  on  the  Walls,  the  Master- Gunner  and  his  Son. 

M.  Gun.   Sirrah,    thou  know'st  how  Orleans  is 
besieg'd ; 
And  how  the  English  have  the  suburbs  won. 

Son.   Father,  I  know  ;  and  oft  have  shot  at  them, 
Howe'er,  unfortunate,  I  miss'd  my  aim. 

M.  Gun.  But  now  thou  shalt  not.     Be  thou  rul'd 
by  me : 
Chief  master-gunner  am  I  of  this  town  ; 
Something  I  must  do,  to  procure  me  grace  : 
The  prince's  espials  »  have  informed  me. 
How  the  English,  in  the  suburbs  close  intrench 'd. 
Wont,  through  a  secret  grate  of  iron  bars 
In  yonder  tower,  to  overpeer  tlie  city  ; 
And  tlience  discover,  how,  with  most  advantage, 
They  may  vex  us,  with  shot,  or  with  assault. 
To  intercept  tliis  inconvenience, 
A  piece  of  ordnance  'gainst  it  I  have  plac'd ; 
And  fully  even  these  three  days  have  1  watch'd, 

*  An  allusion  to  the  bishop'*  habit 

'  That  ia  for  peaccotliccrt  armed  with  club*  or  stavei. 


459 
boy,  do  thou  watch. 


If  I  could  see  them.     Now 

For  I  can  stay  no  longer. 

If  thou  spy'st  any,  run  and  bring  me  word  ; 

And  thou  shalt  find  me  at  the  governor's.         [Exit. 

Son.    Fatiier,  I  warrant  you  ;  take  you  no  care  ; 
I'll  never  trouble  you,  if  I  may  spy  them. 

Enter,  in  an  upper  Chamber  of  a  Tower  the  Lords 
Salisbury  and    Talbot,    Sir  William   Glans- 
UALE,  Sib  Thomas  Gargrave,  and  others. 
Sal.   Talbot,  my  life,  my  joy,  again  returned  ! 
How  wert  thou  handled,  being  prisoner  ? 
Or  by  what  means  got'st  thou  to  be  releas'd  ? 
Discourse,  I  pr'ythee,  on  this  turret's  top. 

Tal.   The  duke  of  Bedford  Iiad  a  prisoner. 
Called —  the  brave  lord  Ponton  de  Santrailles  ; 
For  him  I  was  exchang'd  and  ransomed. 
But  with  a  baser  man  of  arms  by  far. 
Once,  in  contempt,  they  would  have  barter'd  me  : 
Which  I,  disdaining,  scorn'd  ;  and  craved  death 
Rather  than  I  would  be  so  pil'd  esteem'd.  9 
In  fine,  redeem'd  I  was  as  I  desir'd. 
But,  O  !  the  treacherous  Fastolfe  wounds  my  heart ! 
Whom  with  my  bare  fists  I  would  execute, 
If  I  now  had  him  brought  into  my  power. 

Sal.  Yet  tell'stthou  not,  how  thou  wert  entertain'd. 
Tal.   With  scoffs,  and  scorns,  and  contumelious 
taunts. 
In  open  market-place  produc'd  they  me, 
To  be  a  public  spectacle  to  all ; 
Here,  said  they,  is  the  terror  of  the  French, 
The  scare-crow  that  affrights  our  children  so. 
Then  broke  I  from  the  officers  that  led  me ; 
And  with  my  nails  digg'd  stones  out  of  the  ground. 
To  hurl  at  the  beholders  of  my  shame. 
My  grisly  countenance  made  others  fly  ; 
None  durst  come  near  for  fear  of  sudden  death. 
In  iron  walls  they  deem'd  me  not  secure ; 
So  great  fear  of  my  name  'mongst  them  was  spread. 
That  they  suppos'd,  I  could  rend  bars  of  steel. 
And  spurn  in  pieces  posts  of  adamant : 
Wherefore  a  guard  of  chosen  shot  I  had, 
That  walk'd  about  me  every  minute-while ; 
And  if  I  did  but  stir  out  of  my  bed. 
Ready  they  were  to  shoot  me  to  the  heart. 

Sal.  I  grieve  to  hear  what  tonnents  you  endur'd  j 
But  we  will  be  reveng'd  sufficiently. 
Now  is  it  supper-time  in  Orleans : 
Here  through  this  grate,  I  can  count  every  one. 
And  view  the  Frenchmen  how  they  fortify  ; 
Let  us  look  in,  the  sight  will  much  delight  thee.  — 
Sir  Thomas  Gargrave,  and  sir  William  Glansdale, 
Let  me  have  your  express  opinions. 
Where  is  best  place  to  make  our  battery  next. 
Gar.  I  think  at  the  north  gate;  for  there  stand  lords. 
Glan.    And  I,  here,  at  the  bulwark  of  tlie  bridge. 
Tal.   For  aught  I  see,  this  city  must  be  famish'd. 
Or  with  light  skirmishes  enfeebled. 

[Shot  from  the  2'oum.     Salisbury  and 
Sir  Thomas  Gargrave  yh^ 
Sal.  O  Lord,  have  mercy  on  us,  wretched  sinners! 
Gar.   O  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me,  woeful  man  ! 
Tal.    What   chance  is  this,   that  suddenly  hath 
cross'd  us? 
Speak,  Salisbury ;  at  least,  if  thou  canst  speak  ; 
How  far'st  thou,  mirror  of  all  martial  men  ? 
One  of  thy  eyes,  and  thy  cheek's  side  struck  off!  — 
Accursed  tower  !  accursed  fatal  hand. 
That  hath  contriv'd  this  woeful  tragedy  I 
»  So  strii^)cd  of  honours. 


4^0 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


In  tliirtcen  l)attlcs  Salisbury  o'ercame  : 
Henry  the  fifth  he  first  train'd  to  the  wars , 
Whilst  any  trump  did  sound,  or  drum  struck  up, 
His  sword  did  ne'er  leave  striking  in  the  field. 
Yet  liv'st  thou,  Salisbury?  though  thy  speech  doth  fail. 
One  eye  thou  hast,  to  look  to  heaven  for  grace  : 
Tlie  sun  with  one  eye  vieweth  all  the  world.  — 
Heaven,  be  thou  gracious  to  none  alive, 
If  Salisbury  wants  mercy  at  thy  hands  !  — 
Bear  hence  his  body,  I  will  help  to  bury  it.  — 
Sir  Thomas  Gargrave,  hast  thou  any  life  ? 
Speak  unto  Talbot ;  nay,  look  up  to  him. 
Salisbury,  cheer  thy  spirit  with  this  comfort  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  die,  whiles 

He  beckons  with  his  hand,  and  smiles  on  me  ; 
As  who  should  say,  When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
Remember  to  avenge  me  on  the  French.  — 
Plantagenet,  I  will ;  and  Nero-like, 
Play  on  the  lute,  beholding  the  towns  bum  : 
Wretched  shall  France  be  only  in  my  name. 

[Thunder  heard  ;  afterwards  an  Alarum. 
What  stir  is  this  ?  What  tumult's  in  the  heavens  ? 
Whence  cometh  this  alarum,  and  the  noise  ? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   My  lord,  my  lord,  the  French  have  ga- 
ther'd  head  : 
The  dauphin,  with  one  Joan  la  Pucelle  join'd,  — 
A  holy  prophetess,  new  risen  up,  — 
Is  come  with  a  great  power  to  raise  the  siege. 

[Salisbury  groans. 
Tal.  Hear,  hear,  how  dying  Salisbury  doth  groan  ! 
It  irks  his  heart,  he  cannot  be  reveng'd. 
Frenchmen,  I'll  be  a  Salisbury  to  you  :  — 
Your  hearts  I'll  stamp  out  with  my  horse's  heels. 
And  make  a  quagmire  of  your  mingled  brains. 
Convey  me  Salisbury  into  his  tent. 
And  then  we'll  try  what  dastard  Frenchmen  dai-e. 
[^Exeunt,  bearing  out  the  Bodies, 

SCEN  E  V Before  one  of  the  Gates  of  Orleans. 

Alarum.  Skirmishings.  Talbot  pursueth  the  Dau- 
PHiK,  and  driveth  him  in :  then  enter  Joan  la 
Pucelle,  driving  Englishmen  before  her.  Then 
enter  Talbot. 

Tal.   Where  is  my  strength,  my  valour,  and  my 
force  ? 
Our  English  troops  retire,  I  cannot  stay  them  ; 
A  woman,  clad  in  armour,  chaseth  them. 

Enter  La  Pucelle. 

Here,  here  she  comes  : I'll  have  a  bout  with 

thee; 
Blood  will  I  draw  on  thee,  thou  art  a  witch. 
And  straightway  give  thy  soul  to  him  thou  serv'st. 
Puc.   Come,  come,  'tis  only  I  that  must  disgrace 
thee.  [Theyfght. 

Tal.   My  breast  I'll  burst  with  straining  of  my 
courage. 
And  from  my  shoulders  crack  my  arms  asunder. 
But  I  will  chastise  this  high-minded  strumpet. 

Puc.   Talbot,  farewell ;  thy  hour  is  not  yet  come : 
I  must  go  victual  Orleans  forthwith. 
O'ertake  me,  if  thou  canst ;  I  scorn  thy  strength. 
Go,  go,  cheer  up  thy  hunger-starved  men  ; 


Help  Salisbury  to  make  his  testament : 
This  day  is  ours,  as  many  more  shall  be. 

[Pucelle  enters  the  Town,  with  Soldiers. 
Tid.  My  thoughts  are  whirled  like  a  potter's  wheel; 
I  know  not  where  I  am,  nor  what  I  do ; 
A  witch,  by  fear,  not  force,  like  Hannibal, 
Drives  back  out  troops,  and  conquers  as  she  lists : 
So  bees  with  smoke,  and  doves  with  noisome  stench, 
Are  from  their  hives,  and  houses,  driven  away. 
They  called  us,  for  our  fierceness,  English  dogs ; 
Now,  like  to  whelps,  we  crying  run  away. 

[A  short  Alarum. 
Hark,  countrymen  !  either  renew  the  fight, 
Or  tear  the  lions  out  of  England's  coat ; 
Renounce  your  soil,  give  sheep  in  lions'  stead  : 
Slieep  run  not  half  so  timorous  from  the  wolf. 
Or  horse,  or  oxen,  from  the  leopard. 
As  you  fly  from  your  oft-subdued  slaves. 

[Alarum.     Another  Skirmish. 
It  will  not  be  :  —  Retire  into  your  trenches : 
You  all  consented  unto  Salisbury's  death. 
For  none  would  strike  a  stroke  in  his  revenge.  — 
Pucelle  is  entered  into  Orleans, 
In  spite  of  us,  or  aught  that  we  could  do. 
O,  would  I  were  to  die  with  Salisbury ! 
The  shame  hereof  will  make  me  hide  my  head. 

[Alarum.     Retreat.     Exeunt  Talbot  and  his 
Forces,  ^c. 

SCENE  VI.  —  The  same. 

Enter  on  the  Walls,  Pucelle,  Charles,  Reignier, 
ALEN90N,  and  Soldiers. 

Puc.   Advance  our  waving  colours  on  the  walls ; 
Rescu'd  is  Orleans  from  the  English  wolves  :  — i 
Thus  Joan  la  Pucelle  hath  perform'd  her  word. 

Char.  Divinest  creature,  bright  Astraea's  daughter, 
How  shall  I  honour  thee  for  this  success  ? 
Thy  promises  are  like  Adonis'  gardens, 
That  one  day  bloom 'd,  and  fruitful  were  the  next. 
France,  triumph  in  thy  glorious  prophetess  !  — 
Recover'd  is  the  town  of  Orleans  : 
More  blessed  hap  did  ne'er  befall  our  state. 

Reig.   Why  ring  not  out  the  bells  throughout  the 
town  ? 
f)auphin,  command  the  citizens  make  bonfires. 
And  feast  and  banquet  in  the  open  streets, 
To  celebrate  the  joy  that  heaven  hath  given  us. 

Alen.  All  France  will  be  replete  with  mirth  and  joy. 
When  they  shall  hear  how  we  have  play'd  the  men. 

Char.   '  Tis  Joan,  not  we,  by  whom  the  day  is  won ; 
For  which,  I  will  divide  my  crown  with  her  : 
And  all  the  priests  and  friars  in  my  realm 
Shall,  in  procession,  sing  her  endless  praise. 
A  statelier  pyi-amis  to  her  I'll  rear. 
Than  Rhodope's,  or  Memphis',  ever  was  : 
In  memory  of  her,  when  she  is  dead, 
Her  ashes,  in  an  urn  more  precious 
Than  the  rich  jewel'd  coflTer  of  Darius, 
Transported  shall  be  at  high  festivals 
Before  the  kings  and  queens  of  France. 
No  longer  on  saint  Denis  will  we  cry. 
But  Joan  la  Pucelle  shall  be  France's  saint. 
Come  in  ;  and  let  us  banquet  royally. 
After  this  golden  day  of  victory. 

[Floui-ish.     Exeunt, 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


461 


ACT  IL 


SCENE  I The  same. 

Enter  to  the   Gales,  a    French    Sergeant,  a7id  two 
Sentinels. 

Serg.   Sirs,  take  your  places,  and  be  vigilant : 
If  any  noise,  or  soldier,  you  perceive, 
Near  to  the  walls,  by  some  apparent  sign. 
Let  us  have  knowledge  at  the  court  of  guard.' 

1  Sent.   Sergeant,  you  shall.  [Exit  Sergeant. 

Thus  are  poor  servitors 
(When  others  sleep  upon  their  quiet  beds) 
Constrained  to  watch  in  darkness,  rain,  and  cold. 

Enter  Talbot,  Berford,  Burgundy,  and  Forces, 

u'ith  scaling  Ladders ;  their  Drums  beating  a  dead 

March. 

Tal.  Lord  regent,  — and  redoubted  Burgundy, — 
By  whose  approach,  the  regions  of  Artois, 
Walloon,  and  Picardy,  are  friends  to  us.  — 
This  happy  night  the  Frenchmen  are  secure, 
Having  all  day  carous'd  and  banqueted : 
Embrace  we  then  this  opportunity ; 
As  fitting  best  to  quittance  their  deceit, 
Contriv'd  by  art  and  baleful  sorcery. 

Bed.  Coward  of  France  !  —  how  much  he  wrongs 
his  fame, 
Despairing  of  his  own  arm's  fortitude, 
To  join  with  witches,  and  the  help  of  hell. 

Bur.   Traitors  have  never  other  company.  — 
But  what's  that  Pucelle,  whom  they  term  so  pure  ? 

Tal.   A  maid,  they  say. 

Bed.  A  maid !  and  be  so  martial ! 

Bur.   Pray  heaven,  she  prove  not  masculine  ere 
long; 
If  underneath  the  standard  of  the  French, 
She  carry  armour,  as  she  hath  begun. 

Tal.   Well,  let  them  practise  and  converse  with 
spirits : 
God  is  our  fortress ;  in  whose  conquering  name, 
Let  us  resolve  to  scale  their  flinty  bulwarks. 

Bed.  Ascend,  brave  Talbot ;  we  will  follow  thee. 

Tal.   Not  all  together ;  better  far,  I  guess, 
That  we  do  make  our  entrance  several  ways ; 
That,  if  it  chance  the  one  of  us  do  fail, 
The  other  yet  may  rise  against  their  force. 

Bed.   Agreed  ;   I'll  to  yon  corner. 

Bur.  And  I  to  this. 

2'al.   And  here  will  Talbot  mount,  or  make  his 
grave.  — 
Now,  Salisbury  !  for  thee,  and  for  the  right 
Of  English  Henry,  shall  this  night  appear 
How  much  in  duty  I  am  bound  to  both. 

[  The  English  scale  the  walls,  cri/ing  St.  George  ! 
a  Talbot !  a7ul  all  enter  by  the  Toum. 

Sejit.  [^'ithin.]  Arm,  arm  !  the  enemy  doth  make 
assault ! 
The  French  leap  over  the  Walls  in  their  Shirts.    Enter, 

several  ways,  BASTARn,  Alkn^on,  IIeignier, //a//" 

ready,  and  half  unready. 

Alen.  How  now,  my  lords?  what,  all  unready  so? 

Bast.  Unready  ?  ay,  and  glad  we  'scap'd  so  well. 

Beig.  'Twas  time,  I  trow,  to  wake  and  leave  our 
l>eds. 
Hearing  alarums  at  our  chamber  doors. 
•  The  saroe  as  guard- room. 


Alen.  Of  all  exploits,  since  first  I  follow 'd  arms. 
Ne'er  heard  I  of  a  warlike  enterprize 
More  venturous,  or  desperate  than  this. 

Bast.   I  think,  this  Talbot  be  a  fiend  of  hell. 

Reig.  If  not  of  hell,  the  heavens,  sure,  favour  him. 

Alen.  Here  Cometh  Charles;  I  marvel  how  he  sped. 

Enter  Charles  and  La  Pucelle. 

Bast.   Tut !  holy  Joan  was  his  defensive  guard. 

Char.   Is  this  thy  cunning,  thou  deceitful  dame  ? 
Didst  thou  at  first,  to  flatter  us  withal, 
Make  us  partakers  of  a  little  gain. 
That  now  our  loss  might  be  ten  times  so  much  ? 

Puc.    Wherefore  is  Charles  impatient  with  his 
friend  ? 
At  all  times  will  you  have  my  power  alike  ? 
Sleeping,  or  waking,  must  1  still  prevail, 
Or  will  you  blame  and  lay  the  fault  on  me  ?  — 
Improvident  soldiers !  had  your  watch  been  good. 
This  sudden  mischief  never  could  have  fall'n. 

Char.    Duke  of  Alengon,  this  was  your  default ; 
That,  being  captain  of  the  watch  to-night, 
Did  look  no  better  to  that  weighty  charge. 

Alen.   Had  all  your  quarters  been  as  safely  kept, 
As  that  whereof  I  had  the  government, 
We  had  not  been  tlms  shamefully  surpriz'd. 

Bast.   Mine  was  secure. 

Reig.  And  so  was  mine,  my  lord. 

Char.  And,  for  myself,  most  part  of  all  this  ni^ht, 
Within  her  quarter,  and  mine  own  precinct, 
I  was  employ'd  in  passing  to  and  fro, 
About  relieving  of  the  sentinels : 
Then  how,  or  which  way,  should  they  first  break  in  ? 

Puc.    Question,  my  lords,  no  further  of  the  case, 
How,  or  which  way  ;  'tis  sure,  they  found  some  place 
But  weakly  guarded,  where  the  breach  was  made. 
And  now  there  rests  no  other  shift  but  this,  — 
To  gather  our  soldiers,  scatter'd  and  dispers'd, 
And  lay  new  platforms  ^  to  endamage  them. 

Alarum.  Enter  an  English  Soldier,  crying  A  Talbot ! 
A  Talbot !     Theyjly,  leaving  their  Clothes  behind. 

Sold.   I'll  be  so  bold  to  take  what  they  have  left. 
The  cry  of  Talbot  serves  me  for  a  sword  ; 
For  I  have  loaden  me  with  many  spoils. 
Using  no  other  weapon  but  his  name.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  Orleans.      Within  the  Totcn. 

Enter  Talbot,   BEBFORn,   Burgundy,  a  Captain, 
and  others. 

Bed.   The  day  begins  to  break,  and  night  is  fled, 
Whose  pitchy  mantle  over-veil'd  the  cartJ). 
Here  sound  retreat,  and  cease  our  hot  pursuit. 

[Retreat  sounded. 

Tal.   Bring  forth  the  body  of  old  Salisbury  ; 
And  here  advance  it  in  the  market-place, 
The  middle  centre  of  this  cursed  town.  — 
Now  I  have  paid  my  vow  unto  his  soul ; 
For  every  drop  of  blood  was  drawn  from  him, 
There  hath  at  least  five  Frenchmen  died  to-night. 
And,  that  hereafter  ages  may  behold 
What  ruin  happen'd  in  revenge  of  him, 
Within  their  chiefest  temple  I'll  erect 

•  Plans,  schemes. 


462 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  IJ. 


A  tomb,  wherein  his  corpse  shall  be  interr'd : 

Upon  the  which,  that  every  one  may  read, 

Shall  be  engrav'd  the  sack  of  Orleans  ; 

The  treacherous  manner  of  his  mournful  death, 

And  what  a  terror  he  had  been  to  France. 

But,  lords,  in  all  our  bloody  massacre, 

I  muse  3  we  met  not  with  the  dauphin's  grace ; 

His  new-come  champion,  virtuous  Joan  of  Arc ; 

Nor  any  of  his  false  confederates. 

Bed.  *Tis  thought,  lord  Talbot,  when  the  fight 
began, 
Rous'd  on  the  sudden  from  their  drowsy  beds, 
They  did,  amongst  the  troops  of  armed  men. 
Leap  o'er  the  walls  for  refuge  in  the  field. 

Bur.   Myself  (as  far  as  I  could  well  discern. 
For  smoke,  and  dusky  vapours  of  the  niglit,) 
Am  sure  I  scar'd  the  dauphin  and  his  trull ; 
When  arm  in  arm  they  both  came'  swiftly  running, 
Like  to  a  pair  of  loving  turtle-doves, 
That  could  not  live  asunder  day  or  night. 
After  that  things  are  set  in  order  here, 
We'll  follow  them  with  all  the  power  we  have. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   All  hail,  my  lords  !  which  of  this  princely 
train 
Call  ye  the  warlike  Talbot,  for  his  acts 
So  much  applauded  through  the  realm  of  PVance? 

Ted.   Here  is  the  Talbot ;  who  would  speak  with 
him? 

Mess.   The  virtuous  lady,  countess  of  Auvergne, 
With  modesty  admiring  thy  renown, 
By  me  entreats,  good  lord,  thou  wouldst  vouchsafe 
To  visit  her  poor  castle  where  she  lies  ^ ; 
That  she  may  boast  she  hath  beheld  the  man 
Whose  glory  fills  the  world  with  loud  report. 

Bur.   Is  it  even  so  ?  Nay,  then,  I  see,  our  wars 
Will  turn  into  a  peaceful  comick  sport. 
When  ladies  crave  to  be  encounter'd  with.  — 
You  may  not,  my  lord,  despise  her  gentle  suit. 

Tal.  Ne'er  trust  me  then ;  for,  when  a  world  of  men 
Could  not  prevail  with  all  their  oratory, 
Yet  hath  a  woman's  kindness  over-rul'd  :  — 
And  therefore  tell  her,  I  return  great  thanks  ; 
And  in  submission  will  attend  on  her.  — 
Will  not  your  honours  bear  me  company  ? 

Bed.   No,  truly,  it  is  more  than  manners  will : 
And  I  have  heard  it  said,  —  Unbidden  guests 
Are  often  welcomest  wlien  they  are  gone. 

Tal.   Well  then,  alone,  since  there's  no  remedy, 
I  mean  to  prove  this  lady's  courtesy. 
Come  hither,  captain.  [Whispers.]  —  You  perceive 
my  mind. 

Capt.   I  do,  my  lord,  and  mean  accordingly. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IIL  — Auvergne.      Court  of  the  Castle. 

Enter  the  Countess  atid  her  Porter. 

Count.  Porter,  remember  what  I  gave  in  charge  ; 
And,  when  you  have  done  so,  bring  the  keys  to  me. 

Port.   Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

Count.  The  plot  is  laid  :  if  all  things  fall  out  right, 
I  shall  as  famous  be  by  this  exploit, 
As  Scythian  Thomyris  by  Cyrus'  death. 
Great  is  the  rumour  of  this  dreadful  knight, 
And  his  achievements  of  no  less  account : 
Fain  would  mine  eyes  be  witness  with  mine  ears. 
To  give  their  censure  ^  of  these  rare  reports. 


Wonder 


*  Or'"ion. 


Enter  Messenger  and  Talbot. 

Mess.   Madam, 
According  as  your  ladyship  desir'd, 
By  message  crav'd,  so  is  lord  Talbot  come.       • 

Count.  And  he  is  welcome.   What !  is  thistheman? 

Mess.   Madam,  it  is. 

Count.  Is  this  the  scourge  of  France  ? 

Is  this  the  Talbot,  so  much  fear'd  abroad. 
That  with  his  name  the  mothers  still  their  babes  ? 
I  see  report  is  fabulous  and  false : 
I  thought,  I  should  have  seen  some  Hercules, 
A  second  Hector,  for  his  grim  aspect. 
And  large  proportion  of  his  strong-knit  limbs. 
Alas  !  this  is  a  child,  a  silly  dwarf : 
It  cannot  be,  this  weak  and  writhled  ^  shrimp 
Should  strike  such  terror  to  his  enemies. 

Tal.   Madam,  I  have  been  bold  to  trouble  you  : 
But,  since  your  ladyship  is  not  at  leisure, 
I'll  sort  some  other  time  to  visit  you. 

Count.  What  means  he  now  ?  —  Go,  ask  him  whi- 
ther he  goes. 

Mess.    Stay,  my  lord  Talbot ;  for  my  lady  craves 
To  know  the  cause  of  your  abrupt  departure. 

Tal.   Marry,  for  that  she's  in  a  wrong  belief, 
I  go  to  certify  her,  Talbot's  here. 

Re-enter  Porter,  mkh  Keys. 

Count.   If  thou  be  he,  then  art  thou  prisoner. 

Tal.   Prisoner  !  to  whom  ? 

Count.  To  me,  blood-thirsty  lord  ; 

And  for  that  cause  I  train'd  thee  to  my  house. 
Long  time  thy  shadow  hath  been  thrall  to  me. 
For  in  my  gallery  thy  picture  hangs : 
But  now  the  substance  shall  endure  the  like ; 
And  I  will  chain  these  legs  and  arms  of  thine. 
That  hast  by  tyranny,  these  many  years, 
Wasted  our  country,  slain  our  citizens. 
And  sent  our  sons  and  husbands  captivate. 

Tal.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Count.   Laughest  thou,  wretch  ?  thy  mirth  shall 
turn  to  moan. 

Tal.   I  laugh  to  see  your  ladyship  so  fond  7, 
To  think  that  you  have  aught  but  Talbot's  shadow. 
Whereon  to  practise  your  severity. 

Count.   Why,  art  not  thou  the  man  ? 

T'al.  I  am  indeed. 

Count.   Then  have  I  substance  too. 

Tal.   No,  no,  1  am  but  shadow  of  myself : 
You  are  deceiv'd,  my  substance  is  not  here ; 
For  what  you  see,  is  but  the  smallest  part 
And  least  proportion  of  humanity  : 
I  tell  you,  madam,  were  the  whole  frame  here, 
It  is  of  such  a  spacious  lofty  pitch. 
Your  roof  were  not  sufficient  to  contain  it. 

Count.  This  is  a  riddling  merchant  for  the  nonce  ^  ; 
He  will  be  here,  and  yet  he  is  not  here  : 
How  can  these  contrarieties  agree  ? 

2'al.   That  will  I  show  you  presently. 

He  vAnds  a  Horn.     Drums  heard ;  then  a  Peal  of 
Ordnance.     The  Gates  being  forced,  enter  Soldiers. 
How  say  you,  madam  ?  are  you  now  persuaded. 
That  Talbot  is  but  shadow  of  himself? 
These  are  his  substance,  sinews,  arms,  and  strength. 
With  which  he  yoketh  your  rebellious  necks  ; 
Razeth  your  cities,  and  subverts  your  towns. 
And  in  a  moment  makes  them  desolate. 

Count.  Victorious  Talbot !  pardon  my  abuse  : 


7  Foolish. 


8  For  a  purpose. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


463 


I  find  thou  art  no  less  than  fame  hath  bruited^, 
And  more  than  may  be  gather'd  by  thy  shape. 
Let  my  presumption  not  provoke  thy  wrath ; 
For  I  am  sorry,  that  with  reverence 
I  did  not  entertain  thee  as  thou  art. 

Tal.  Be  not  dismay'd,  fair  lady ;  nor  misconstrue 
The  mind  of  Talbot,  as  you  did  mistake 
The  outward  composition  of  his  body. 
What  you  have  done,  hath  not  ofiended  me : 
No  other  satisfaction  do  I  crave, 
But  only  (with  your  patience)  that  we  may 
Taste  of  your  wine,  and  see  what  cates  you  have ; 
For  soldiers'  stomachs  always  serve  them  well. 

Count.  With  all  my  heart :  and  think  me  honoured 
To  feast  so  great  a  warrior  in  my  house.    [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— London.      The  T^m^le  Garden. 

Enter  the  Earls  of  Somerset,  Suffolk,  arid  War- 
wick ;  Richard  Plantagenet,  Veknon,  and 
another  Lawyer. 

Vlan.   Great  lords,  and  gentlemen,  what  means 
this  silence  ? 
Dare  no  man  answer  in  a  case  of  truth  ? 

Snf.   Within  the  Temple  hall  we  were  too  loud ; 
The  garden  here  is  more  convenient. 

Plan.  Then  say  at  once,  If  I  maintained  the  truth ; 
Or,  else,  was  wrangling  Somerset  in  the  error? 

Suf.  '  Faith,  I  have  been  a  truant  in  the  law ; 
And  never  yet  could  frame  my  will  to  it ; 
And,  therefore,  frame  the  law  unto  my  will. 

Som.  Judge  you,  my  lord  of  Warwick,  then  be- 
tween us. 

War.  Between  two  hawks,  which  flies  the  higher 
pitch. 
Between  two  dogs,  which  hath  the  deeper  mouth, 
Between  two  blades,  which  bears  the  better  temper. 
Between  two  horses,  which  dotii  bear  him  best. 
Between  two  girls,  which  hath  the  merriest  eye, 
I  have,  perhaps,  some  shallow  spirit  of  judgment : 
But  in  these  nice  sharp  quillets  of  the  law. 
Good  faith,  I  am  no  wiser  than  a  daw. 

Flan.  Tut,  tut,  here  is  a  mannerly  forbearance : 
The  truth  appears  so  naked  on  my  side. 
That  any  purblind  eye  may  find  it  out. 

Sum.  And  on  my  side  it  is  so  well  apparell'd. 
So  clear,  so  shining,  and  so  evident. 
That  it  will  glimmer  through  a  blind  man's  eye. 

Plan.   Since  you  are  tongue-ty'd  and  so  loath  to 
speak. 
In  dumb  significants  proclaim  your  thoughts  : 
Let  him,  that  is  a  true-born  gentleman. 
And  stands  upon  the  honour  of  his  birth. 
If  he  suppose  that  I  have  pleaded  truth. 
From  off  this  briar  pluck  a  white  rose  with  me. 

Som.   Let  him  that  is  no  coward,  nor  no  flatterer. 
But  dare  maintain  the  party  of  the  truth. 
Pluck  a  red  rose  from  oflTthis  thorn  with  me. 

War.  I  love  no  colours '  ;  and,  without  all  colour 
Of  base  insinuating  flattery, 
I  pluck  this  white  rose  with  Plantagenet. 

Snf.  I  pluck  this  red  rose,  with  young  Somerset ; 
And  say  withal,  I  think  he  held  the  right. 

Ver.   Stay,  lords  and  gentlemen  :    and  pluck  no 
more, 
Till  you  conclude  —  that  he,  upon  whose  side 
The  fewest  roses  are  cropp'd  from  the  tree, 
Shall  yield  tlie  other  in  the  right  opinion. 

•  Noise*!,  reported. 


Som.   Good  master  Venion,  it  is  well  objected  ' ; 
If  I  have  fewest  I  subscribe  in  silence. 

Plan.    And  I. 

Ver.  Then,  for  the  truth  and  plainness  of  the  case, 
I  pluck  this  pale  and  maiden  blossom  here, 
Giving  my  verdict  on  the  white  rose  side. 

Som.   Prick  not  your  finger  as  you  pluck  it  oflf"; 
Lest,  bleeding,  you  do  paint  the  white  rose  red, 
And  fall  on  my  side  so  against  your  will. 

Ver.   If  I,  my  lord,  for  my  opinion  bleed. 
Opinion  shall  be  surgeon  to  my  hurt. 
And  keep  me  on  the  side  where  still  I  am. 

Som^   Well,  well,  come  on  :   Who  else  ? 

Law.   Unless  my  study  and  my  books  be  false, 
The  argument  you  held,  was  wrong  in  you  ; 

[^To  Somerset. 
In  sign  whereof,  I  phick  a  white  rose  too. 

Plan.   Now,  Somerset,  where  is  your  argument  ? 

Som.   Here,  in  my  scabbard,  meditating  that. 
Shall  die  your  white  rose  in  a  bloody  red. 

Plan.  Mean  time,  your  cheeks  do  coimterfeit  our 


Deceits  ;  a  play  on  the  word. 


For  pale  they  look  with  fear,  as  witnessing 
The  truth  on  our  side. 

Som.  No,  Plantagenet, 

'Tis  not  for  fear  ;  but  anger,  —  that  thy  cheeks 
Blush  for  pure  shame,  to  counterfeit  our  roses  ; 
And  yet  thy  tongue  will  not  confess  thy  error. 

Plan.   Hath  not  tliy  rose  a  canker,  Somerset  ? 

Som.   Hath  not  thy  rose  a  thorn,  Plantagenet  ? 

P/an.  Ay,  sharp  and  piercing,  to  maintain  histruth ; 
Whiles  thy  consuming  canker  eats  his  falsehood. 

Som.  Well,  I'll  find  friends  to  wear  my  bleeding 
roses, 
Tliat  shall  maintain  what  I  have  said  is  true, 
Where  false  Plantagenet  dare  not  be  seen. 

Plan.   Now,  by  this  maiden  blossom  in  my  hand, 
I  scorn  thee  and  thy  fashion,  peevish  boy. 

Suf.    Turn  not  thy  scorns  this  way,  IMantagenct. 

Plan.   Proud  Poole,  I  will  j  and  scorn  both  him 
and  thee. 

Suf.   I'll  turn  my  part  thereof  into  thy  throat. 

Som.   Away,  away,  good  William  De-la- Poole  ! 
We  grace  the  yeoman,  by  conversing  with  him. 

War,  Now,  by  my  life,  thou  wrong'st  him,  Somer- 
set ; 
His  grandfather  was  Lionel,  dnke  of  Clarence, 
Third  son  to  the  third  Edward  king  of  England  j 
Spring  crestless  yeomen  3  from  so  deep  a  root  ? 

Plan.   He  bears  him  on  the  place's  privilege  *, 
Or  durst  not,  for  his  craven  heart,  say  thus. 

Som.  By  him  that  made  me,  I'll  maintain  n)y  words 
On  any  plot  of  ground  in  Christendom  : 
Was  not  thy  father,  Richard,  earl  of  Cambridge, 
For  treason  executed  in  our  late  king's  days  ? 
And,  by  his  treason,  stand'st  not  thou  attainted. 
Corrupted,  and  exempt  *  from  ancient  gentiy  ? 
His  trespass  yet  lives  guilty  in  thy  blood  : 
And,  till  thou  be  restor'd,  thou  art  a  yeoman. 

Plan.   My  father  was  attached,  not  attainted  ; 
Condemn'd  to  die  for  treason,  but  no  ti-aitor ; 
And  that  I'll  prove  on  better  men  than  Somerset, 
Were  growing  time  once  ripen'd  to  my  will. 
For  your  partaker  Poole,  and  you  yourself, 
I'll  note  you  in  my  book  of  memory. 
To  scourge  you  for  tliis  apprehension  ^  : 
Look  to  it  well ;  and  say  you  are  well  warn'd. 

'  Proposed.  *  t  e.  Tho«e  who  have  no  right  to  arms. 

<  The  Temple,  being  a  religious  house,  was  a  sanctuary. 
^  Excluded  ^  Opinion. 


464f 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  U. 


Som.    Ay,  thou  shall  find  us  ready  for  thee  still : 
And  know  us,  by  these  colours,  for  thy  foes  ; 
For  these  my  friends,  in  spite  of  thee,  shall  wear. 

Plan.  And,  by  my  soul,  this  pale  and  angry  rose, 
As  cognizance  of  my  blood-drinking  hate, 
Will  I  for  ever,  and  my  faction,  wear ; 
Until  it  wither  with  me  to  my  grave, 
Or  flourish  to  the  height  of  my  degree. 

Suf.  Go  forward,  and  be  chok'd  with  thy  ambition ! 
And  so  farewell,  until  1  meet  thee  next.  \^Exit. 

Som.  Have  with  tliee,  Poole.  —  Farewell,  ambi- 
tious Richard.  [^Exit. 

Plan.   How  I  am  brav'd,  and  must  perforce  en- 
dure it ! 

War.  This  blot,  that  they  object  against  your  house, 
Shall  be  wip'd  out  in  the  next  parliament, 
C'all'd  for  the  truce  of  Winchester  and  Gloster : 
And,  if  thou  be  not  then  created  York, 
1  will  not  live  to  be  accounted  Warwick. 
Mean  time,  in  signal  of  my  love  to  thee. 
Against  proud  Somerset,  and  William  Poole, 
Will  I  upon  thy  party  wear  this  rose  : 
And  here  I  prophesy.  —  This  brawl  to-day. 
Grown  to  this  faction,  in  the  Temple  garden, 
Shall  send,  between  the  red  rose  and  the  white, 
A  thousand  souls  to  death  and  deadly  night. 

Plan.  Good  master  Vernon,  I  am  bound  to  you. 
That  you  on  my  behalf  would  pluck  a  flower. 

Ver.   In  your  behalf  still  will  I  wear  the  same. 

Laiu.    And  so  will  I. 

Plan.   Thanks,  gentle  sir. 
Come,  let  us  four  to  dinner  :    I  dare  say, 
1'his  quarrel  will  drink  blood  another  day.    [  Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.  —  A  Room  in  tJie  Tower. 

Enter  Mortimer,  brought  in  a  Chair  by  two  Keepers. 

Mor.   Kind  keepers  of  my  weak  decaying  age, 
Let  dying  Mortimer  here  rest  himself.  — 
Even  like  a  man  new  haled  from  the  rack. 
So  fare  my  limbs  with  long  imprisonment : 
And  these  grey  locks,  the  pursuivants  7  of  death, 
Nestor-like  aged,  in  an  age  of  care, 
Argue  the  end  of  Edmund  Mortimer. 
These  eyes  —  like  lamps  whose  wasting  oil  is  spent, 
Wax  dim,  as  drawing  to  their  exigent  s  ; 
Weak  shoulders,  overborne  with  burd'ning  grief, 
And  pithless  arms,  like  to  a  wither'd  vine 
That  droops  his  sapless  branches  to  the  gi-ound  :  — 
Yet  are  these  feet — whose  strengthless  stay  is  numb. 
Unable  to  support  this  lump  of  clay,  — 
Swift-winged  with  desire  to  get  a  grave. 
As  witting  I  no  other  comfort  have.  — 
But  tell  me,  keeper,  will  my  nephew  come  ? 

1  Keep.  Richard  Plantagenet,  my  lord,  will  come. 
We  sent  unto  the  Temple,  to  his  chamber ; 
And  answer  was  return'd,  that  he  will  come. 

Mor.  Enough  ;  my  soul  shall  then  be  satisfied.  — 
Poor  gentleman  !  his  wrong  doth  equal  mine. 
Since  Henry  Monmouth  first  began  to  reign, 
(Before  whose  glory  1  was  great  in  arms,) 
This  loathsome  sequestration  have  I  had ; 
And  even  since  then  hath  Richard  been  obscur'd, 
Depriv'd  of  honour  and  inheritance  : 
But  now,  the  arbitrator  of  despairs, 
Just  death,  kind  umpire  of  men's  miseries, 
With  sweet  enlargement  doth  dismiss  me  hence  ; 
I  would,  his  troubles  likewise  were  expir'd, 
That  so  he  might  recover  what  was  lost. 

7  Pursuivants  are  officers  who  attend  upon  heralds. 

8  End. 


Enter  Richard  Plantagenet. 

1  Keep.  My  lord,  your  loving  nephew  now  is  come. 

Mor.  Richard  Plantagenet,  my  friehd  ?  Is  he  come  ? 

Plan.   Ay,  noble  uncle,  thus  ignobly  us'd. 
Your  nephew,  late-despised  Richard,  comes. 

Mor.  Direct  mine  arms,  I  may  embrace  his  neck, 
And  in  his  bosom  spend  my  latter  gasp  : 
O,  tell  me,  when  my  lips  do  touch  his  cheeks, 
That  I  may  kindly  give  one  fainting  kiss.  — 
And  now  declare,  sweet  stem  from  York's  great  stock. 
Why  didst  thou  say  —  of  late  thou  wert  despis'd  ? 

Plan.  First,  lean  thine  aged  back  against  mi  ne  arm  ? 
And,  in  that  ease,  I'll  tell  thee  my  disease. 9 
This  day,  in  argument  upon  a  case, 
Some  words  there  grew  'twixt  Somerset  and  me  : 
Among  which  terms  he  used  his  lavish  tongue, 
And  did  upbraid  me  with  my  father's  death ; 
Which  obloquy  set  bars  before  my  tongue, 
Else  with  the  like  I  had  requited  him : 
Therefore,  good  uncle,  —  for  my  father's  sake, 
In  honour  of  a  true  Plantagenet, 
And  for  alliance'  sake,  —  declare  the  cause 
My  father,  earl  of  Cambridge,  lost  his  head. 

Mor.  That  cause,  fair  nephew,  that  imprison'd  me, 
And  hath  detain'd  me,  all  my  flow'ring  youth. 
Within  a  loathsome  dungeon,  there  to  pine. 
Was  cursed  instrument  of  his  decease. 

Plan.  Discover  more  at  large  what  cause  that  was  : 
For  I  am  ignorant,  and  cannot  guess. 

Mor.   I  will ;  if  that  my  fading  breath  permit, 
And  death  approach  not  ere  my  tale  be  done. 
Henry  the  fourth,  grandfather  to  this  king, 
Depos'd  his  cousin  Richard  ;   Edward's  son. 
The  first-begotten,  and  the  lawful  heir 
Of  Edward  king,  the  third  of  that  descent : 
During  whose  reign,  the  Percies  of  the  north. 
Finding  his  usurpation  most  unjust, 
Endeavour'd  my  advancement  to  the  throne  : 
The  reason  mov'd  these  warlike  lords  to  this, 
Was  —  for  that  (young  king  Richard  thus  remov'd, 
Leaving  no  heir  begotten  of  his  body,) 
I  was  the  next  by  birth  and  parenta^ ; 
For  by  my  mother  I  derived  am 
From  Lionel  duke  of  Clarence,  the  third  son 
To  king  Edward  the  third,  whereas  he. 
From  John  of  Gaunt  doth  bring  his  pedigree. 
Being  but  fourth  of  that  heroick  line. 
But  mark ;  as,  in  this  haughty  great  attempt. 
They  laboured  to  plant  the  rightful  heir, 
I  lost  my  liberty,  and  they  their  lives. 
Long  after  this,  when  Henry  the  fifth, — 
Succeeding  his  father  Bolingbroke,  —  did  reign, 
Thy  father,  earl  of  Cambridge,  —  then  deriv'd. 
From  famous  Edmund  Langley,  duke  of  York,  — 
Marrying  my  sister,  that  my  mother  was. 
Again,  in  pity  of  my  hard  distress. 
Levied  an  army  ;   weening  '  to  redeem. 
And  have  install'd  me  in  the  diadem  : 
But,  as  the  rest,  so  fell  that  noble  earl. 
And  was  beheaded.      Thus  the  Mortimers, 
In  whom  the  title  rested,  were  suppress'd. 

Plan.  Of  which,  my  lord,  your  honour  is  the  last. 

Mor.   True ;  and  thou  seest,  that  I  no  issue  have  j 
And  that  my  fainting  words  do  warrant  death  : 
Thou  art  my  heir  ;  the  rest,  I  wish  thee  gather : 
But  yet  be  wary  in  thy  studious  care. 

Plan.  Thy  grave  admonishments  prevail  with  me: 
But  yet,  methinks,  my  father's  execution 
Was  nothing  less  than  bloody  tyranny. 

9  Uneasiness,  discontent.  '  Thinking. 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


^65 


Mor.   With  silence,  nephew,  be  thou  politick  ; 
Strong-fixed  is  the  house  of  Lancaster, 
And,  like  a  mountain,  not  to  be  remov'd. 
But  now  thy  uncle  is  removing  hence ; 
As  princes  do  their  courts,  when  they  are  cloy'd 
With  long  continuance  in  a  settled  place. 

Plan.   O,  uncle,  'would  some  part  of  my  young 
years 
Might  but  redeem  the  passage  of  your  age  ! 

Mor.  Thou  dost  then  wrong  me ;  as  the  slaught'rer 
doth, 
Which  giveth  many  wounds,  when  one  will  kill. 
Mourn  not,  except  thou  sorrow  for  my  good ; 
Only,  give  order  for  my  funeral ; 
And  so  farewell ;  and  fair  be  all  thy  hopes  ! 
And  prosperous  be  thy  life,  in  peace,  and  war.  \^Dies. 


.    Plan.  And  peace,  no  war,  befall  thy  parting  soul ! 
In  prison  hast  thou  spent  a  pilgrimage. 
And  like  a  hermit  overpass'd  thy  days.  — 
Well,  I  will  lock  his  counsel  in  my  breast ; 
And  what  I  do  imagine,  let  that  rest.  — 
Keepers,  convey  him  hence ;  and  I  myself 
Will  see  his  burial  better  than  his  life.  — 

[Exeunt  Keepers,  bearing  out  Mortimer. 
Here  dies  the  dusky  torch  of  Mortimer, 
Chok'd  with  ambition  of  the  meaner  sort :  — 
And,  for  those  wrongs,  those  bitter  injuries. 
Which  Somerset  hath  ofFer'd  to  my  house,  — 
I  doubt  not,  but  with  honour  to  redrew ; 
And  therefore  haste  I  to  the  parliament; 
Either  to  be  restored  to  my  blood. 
Or  make  my  ill  the  advantage  of  my  good.     \^Exit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  Parliament  House. 

Flourish.  Enter  King  Henry,  Exeter,  Gloster, 
Warwick,  Somerset,  and  Suffolk  ;  the  Bishop 
OF  Winchester,  Richard  Plantagenet,  and 
others.  G  loster  o^ers  to  put  up  a  Bill  ^  s  Win- 
chester snatches  it,  and  tears  it. 

Win.   Com'st  thou  with  deep  premeditated  lines. 
With  written  pamphlets  studiously  devis'd, 
Humphrey  of  Gloster?  if  thou  canst  accuse. 
Or  aught  intend'st  to  lay  unto  my  charge, 
Do  it  without  invention  suddenly  ; 
As  I  with  sudden  and  extemporal  speech 
Purpose  to  answer  what  thou  canst  object. 

Glo.   Presumptuous  priest !  this  place  commands 
my  patience. 
Or  thou  shouldst  find  thou  hast  dishonour'd  me. 
Think  not,  although  in  writing  I  preferr'd 
The  manner  of  thy  vile  outrageous  crimes, 
That  therefore  I  have  forg'd  or  am  not  able 
Verbatim  to  rehearse  the  method  of  my  pen  : 
No,  prelate ;  such  is  thy  audacious  wickedness. 
Thy  vile,  pestiferous,  and  dissentious  pranks, 
Tliat  very  infants  prattle  of  thy  pride. 
Thou  art  a  most  pernicious  usurer : 
Fro  ward  by  nature,  enemy  to  peace ; 
Lascivious,  wanton,  more  than  well  beseems 
A  man  of  thy  profession,  and  degree ; 
And  for  thy  treachery.  What's  more  manifest? 
In  that  thou  laid'st  a  trap  to  take  my  life. 
As  well  at  London  bridge,  as  at  the  Tower  ? 
Beside,  I  fear  me,  if  thy  thoughts  were  sifted, 
Tlie  king,  thy  sovereign,  is  not  quite  exempt 
From  envious  malice  of  tliy  swelling  heart. 

frin.  Gloster,  I  do  defy  thee.  —  Lords,  vouchsafe 
To  give  me  hearing  what  I  shall  reply. 
If  1  were  covetous,  ambitious,  or  perverse. 
As  he  >%'ill  have  me.  How  am  I  so  poor  ? 
Or  how  haps  it,  I  seek  not  to  advance 
Or  raise  myself,  but  keep  my  wonted  calling? 
And  for  dissension,  Who  prcferretli  peace 
More  than  I  do,  —  except  I  be  provok'd? 
No,  my  good  lords,  it  is  not  that  offends; 
It  is  not  tliat,  that  hath  incens'd  the  duke : 
It  is,  because  no  one  should  sway  but  he ; 
No  one,  but  he,  should  be  about  the  king ; 

'  i.  e.  Articlet  of  Accusation. 


And  that  engenders  thunder  in  his  breast. 
And  makes  him  roar  these  accusations  forth. 
But  he  shall  know,  I  am  as  good  . 

Glo.  As  good : 

Thou  bastard  of  my  grandfather !  — 

Will.    Ay,  lordly  sir ;   For  what  are  you,  I  pray, 
But  one  imperious  in  another's  throne  ? 

Glo.   Am  1  not  the  protector,  saucy  priest? 

JVin.   And  am  I  not  a  prelate  of  the  church? 

Glo.   Yes,  as  an  outlaw  in  a  castle  keeps, 
And  useth  it  to  patronage  his  theft. 

fVin.    Unreverent  Gloster ! 

Glo.  Thou  art  reverent 

Touching  thy  spiritual  function,  not  thy  life. 

Win.    This  Rome  shall  remedy. 

War.  Roam  thither,  then. 

Som.   My  lord,  it  were  your  duty  to  forbear. 

War.   Ay,  see  the  bishop  be  not  overborne. 

Som.   Methinks,  my  lord  should  be  religious. 
And  know  the  office  that  belongs  to  such. 

War.   Methinks  his  lordship  should  be  humbler; 
It  fitteth  not  a  prelate  so  to  plead. 

Som.   Yes,  when  his  holy  state  is  touch'd  so  near. 

War.   State  holy,  or  unhallow'd,  what  of  that  ? 
Is  not  his  grace  protector  to  the  king? 

Plan.   Plantagenet,  I  see,  must  hold  his  tongue; 
Lest  it  be  said,  Speak,  sirrah,  when  you  should  ,- 
Must  your  bold  verdict  enter  talk  with  lords  9 
Else  would  I  have  a  fling  at  Winchester.       [^side. 

IT.  Hen.    Uncles  of  Gloster,  and  of  Winchester, 
The  special  watchmen  of  our  English  weal ; 
I  would  prevail,  if  prayers  might  prevail. 
To  join  your  hearts  in  love  and  amity. 
O,  what  a  scandal  is  it  to  our  crown. 
That  two  such  noble  peers  as  ye  should  jar ! 
Believe  me,  lords,  my  tender  years  can  tell. 
Civil  dissension  is  a  viperous  worm. 
That  gnaws  the  bowels  of  the  commonwealth.  — 

[A  noise  within  ;   Down  with  tije  tawny  coats  ! 
What  tumult's  this? 

War.  An  uproar,  I  dare  warrant. 

Begun  through  malice  of  the  bishop's  men. 

[A  noise  again ;  Stones  !   Stones ! 

Enter  tlie  Mayor  of  I-ondon,  attended. 
May.    O,  my  good  lords, — and  virtuous  Henry, 
Pity  the  city  of  London,  pity  us ! 
The  bishop's  and  the  duke  of  Gloster's  men, 
Hh 


466 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


Forbidden  late  to  carry  any  weapon, 
Have  fill'd  their  pockets  full  of  pebble-stones ; 
And,  banding  themselves  in  contrary  parts, 
Do  pelt  so  fast  at  one  another's  pate, 
That  many  have  their  giddy  brains  knock'd  out. 
Our  windows  are  broke  down  in  every  street. 
And  we,  for  fear,  compell'd  to  shut  our  shops. 
Enter,  skirmishing,  the   Retainers  of  Gloster  and 
Winchester,  with  bloody  pates. 
K.  Hen.  We  charge  you,  on  allegiance  to  ourself, 
To  hold  your  slaught'ring  hands,  and  keep  the  peace. 
Pray,  uncle  Gloster,  mitigate  this  strife. 

1  Serv.   Nay,  if  we  be 

Forbidden  stones,  we'll  fall  to  it  with  our  teeth. 

2  Serv.   Do  what  ye  dare,  we  are  as  resolute. 

{^Skirmish  again. 
Glo.  You  of  my  household,  leave  tlus  peevish  broil, 
And  set  this  unaccustom'd  fight  aside. 

3  Serv-  My  lord,  we  know  your  grace  to  be  a  man 
Just  and  upright ;  and,  for  your  royal  birth, 
Inferior  to  none,  but  to  his  majesty  : 

And  ere  that  we  will  suffer  such  a  prince, 

So  kind  a  father  of  the  commonweal, 

To  be  disgraced  by  an  inkhorn  mate, 

We,  and  our  wives,  and  children,  all  will  fight, 

And  have  our  bodies  slaughter'd  by  thy  foes. 

1  Serv.   Ay,  and  the  very  parings  of  our  nails 
Shall  pitch  a  field,  when  we  are  dead. 

[^Skirmish  again. 

Glo.  Stay,  stay,  I  say  ! 

And,  if  you  love  me,  as  you  say  you  do, 
Let  me  persuade  you  to  forbear  a  while. 

K.  Hen.  O,  how  this  discord  doth  afflict  my  soul ! 
Can  you,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  behold 
My  sighs  and  tears,  and  will  not  once  relent  ? 
Who  should  be  pitiful,  if  you  be  not? 
Or  who  should  study  to  prefer  a  peace. 
If  holy  churchmen  take  delight  in  broils  ? 

War.    My  lord  protector,    yield ;  —  yield   Win- 
chester J  ■ — 
Except  you  mean,  with  obstinate  repulse. 
To  slay  your  sovereign,  and  destroy  the  realm. 
You  see  what  mischief,  and  what  murder  too. 
Hath  been  enacted  through  your  enmity ; 
Then  be  at  peace,  except  ye  thirst  for  blood. 

Win.   He  shall  submit,  or  I  will  never  yield. 

Glo.  Compassion  on  the  king  commands  me  stoop ! 
Or,  I  would  see  his  heart  out,  ere  the  priest 
Should  ever  get  that  privilege  of  me. 

War.   Behold,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  the  duke 
Hath  banish'd  moody  discontented  fury, 
As  by  his  smoothed  brows  it  doth  appear  : 
Why  look  you  still  so  stern,  and  tragical  ? 

Glo.   Here,  Winchester,  I  offer  thee  my  hand. 

K.  Hen.   Fye,  uncle  Beaufort !  I  have  heard  you 
preach, 
That  malice  was  a  great  and  grievous  sin : 
And  vdll  not  you  maintain  the  thing  you  teach. 
But  prove  a  chief  offender  in  the  same  ? 

War.  Sweet  king !  — the  bishop  hath  a  kindly  gird.  3 
For  shame,  my  lord  of  Winchester  !  relent ; 
What,  shall  a  child  instruct  you  what  to  do  ? 

Win.  Well,  duke  of  Gloster,  I  will  yield  to  thee; 
Love  for  thy  love,  and  hand  for  hand  t  give. 

Glo.   Ay  ;  but,  I  fear  me,  with  a  hollow  heart 

See  here,  my  friends,  and  loving  countrymen ; 
This  token  serveth  for  a  flag  of  truce. 
Betwixt  ourselves,  and  all  our  followers ; 
So  help  me  God,  as  I  dissemble  not ! 
3  Feels  an  emotion  of  kindness. 


Win.  So  help  me  God,  as  I  intend  it  not!  [^  Aside. 

K.  Hen.  O  loving  uncle,  kind  duke  of  Gloster, 
How  joyful  am  I  made  by  this  contract !  — 
Away,  my  masters  !  trouble  us  no  more ; 
But  join  in  friendship,  as  your  lords  have  done. 

1  Serv.   Content !  I'll  to  the  surgeon's. 

2  Serv.  And  so  will  I. 

3  Serv.    And  I  will  see  what  physick  the  tavern 

affords.        \_Exeunt  Servants,  Mayor,  ^c. 

War.  Accept  this  scroll,  most  gracious  sovereign, 
Which  in  the  right  of  Richard  Plantagenet, 
We  do  exhibit  to  your  majesty. 

Glo.   Well  urg'd,  my  lord  of  Warwick ;  —  for, 
sweet  prince, 
And  if  your  grace  mark  every  circumstance. 
You  have  great  reason  to  do  Richard  right : 
Especially,  for  those  occasions 
At  Eltham-place  I  told  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.  And  those  occasions,  uncle^  were  of  force: 
Therefore,  my  loving  lords,  our  pleasure  is, 
That  Richaj-d  be  restored  to  his  blood. 

War.  Let  Richard  be  restored  to  his  blood  ; 
So  shall  his  father's  wrongs  be  recompens'd. 

Win.  As  will  the  rest,  so  willeth  Winchester. 

K,  Hen.   If  Richard  will  be  true,  not  that  alone, 
But  all  the  whole  inheritance  I  give. 
That  doth  belong  unto  the  house  of  York, 
From  whence  you  spring  by  lineal  descent. 

Tlan.   Thy  humble  servant  vows  obedience, 
And  humble  service,  till  the  point  of  death. 

K.  Hen.   Stoop  then,  and  set  your  knee  against 
my  foot ; 
And,  in  reguerdon  •*  of  that  duty  done, 
I  girt  thee  with  the  valiant  sword  of  York. 
Rise,  Richard,  like  a  true  Plantagenet ; 
And  rise  created  princely  duke  of  York. 

Plan,  And  so  thrive  Richard,  as  thy  foes  may  fall ! 
And  as  my  duty  springs  so  perish  they 
That  grudge  one  thought  against  your  majesty  ! 

AU.   Welcome,  high  prince,  the  mighty  duke  of 
York! 

Sam.   Perish,  base  prince,  ignoble  duke  of  York ! 

[Aside. 

Glo.   Now  will  it  best  avail  your  majesty. 
To  cross  the  seas,  and  to  be  crown'd  in  France  : 
The  presence  of  a  king  engenders  love 
Amongst  his  subjects,  and  his  loyal  friends ; 
As  it  disanimates  his  enemies. 

IT.  Hen.  When  Gloster  says  the  word,  king  Henry 
goes  J 
For  friendly  counsel  cuts  off  many  foes. 

Glo.   Your  ships  already  are  in  readiness. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Exeter. 

Exe.  Ay,  we  may  march  in  England,  or  in  France, 
Not  seeing  what  is  likely  to  ensue  : 
This  late  dissension,  grown  betwixt  the  peers, 
Burns  under  feigned  ashes  of  forg'd  love, 
And  will  at  last  break  out  into  a  flame  : 
As  fester 'd  members  rot  but  by  degrees. 
Till  bones,  and  flesh,  and  sinews  fall  away. 
So  vdll  this  base  and  envious  discord  breed. 
And  now  I  fear  that  fatal  prophecy, 
Which,  in  the  time  of  Henry,  aam'd  the  fifth. 
Was  in  the  mouth  of  every  sucking  babe, 
That  Henry,  born  at  Monmouth,  should  win  all  j 
And  Henry,  born  at  Windsor,  should  lose  all ; 
Which  is  so  plain,  that  Exeter  doth  wish 
His  days  may  finish  ere  that  hapless  time.     [Exit. 

1  Recompense. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


467 


I 


SCENE  II.— France.     Before  Rouen. 

Enter  La  Pucelle  disguised,  and  Soldiers  dressed 
like  Countrymen,  vdtli  Sacks  upon  their  backs. 

Puc.   These  are  the  city  gates,  the  gates  of  RoUen. 
Through  which  our  policy  must  make  a  breach  : 
Take  lieed,  be  wary  how  you  place  your  words ; 
Talk  like  the  vulgar  sort  of  market-men, 
That  come  to  gather  money  for  their  corn. 
If  we  have  entrance,  (as,  I  hope,  we  shall,) 
And  that  we  find  the  slothful  watch  but  weak, 
I'll  by  a  sign  give  notice  to  our  friends, 
That  Charles  the  dauphin  may  encounter  tliem. 

1  Sold.   Our  sacks  shall  be  a  mean  to  sack  the  city. 
And  we  be  lords  and  rulers  over  Roilen ; 
Therefore  we'll  knock.  [^Knocks. 

Guard.   [Within.]     Qui  est  Id  9 

Puc.   Paisatis,  pauvres  gens  de  France : 
Poor  market-folks,  that  come  to  sell  their  corn. 

Guard.   Enter,  go  in :  the  market-bell  is  rung. 
[^Opens  the  Gates. 

Puc.   Now  Roiten,  I'll  shake  thy  bulwarks  to  the 
ground. 

[PucELLE,  <^c.  enter  the  City. 
Enter  Charles,   Bastard  of  Orleans,  ALEN90N, 
and  Forces. 

Char.   Saint  Denis  bless  this  happy  stratagem  ! 
And  once  again  we'll  sleep  secure  in  Roiien. 

Bast.  Here  enter'd  Pucelle,  and  her  practisants  *  j 
Now  she  is  there,  how  will  she  specify 
Where  is  the  best  and  safest  passage  in  ? 

AUn.  By  thrusting  out  a  torch  from  yonder  tower ; 
Which  once  discern'd  shows  that  her  meaning  is, — 
No  way  to  that®,  for  weakness,  which  she  enter'd. 

Enter  La  Pucelle  on  a  Battlement ;  holding  out  a 
Torch  burning. 

Puc.   Behold,  this  is  the  happy  wedding  torch. 
That  joineth  Roiien  unto  her  countrymen ; 
But  burning  fatal  to  the  Talbotites. 

Bast.   See,    noble   Cheu-les !   the  beacon   of  our 
friend, 
The  burning  torch  in  yonder  turret  stands. 

Char.   Now  shine  it  like  a  comet  of  revenge, 
A  prophet  to  tlie  fall  of  all  our  foes ! 

Alen.  Defer  no  time.  Delays  have  dangerous  ends ; 
Enter,  and  cry — The  Daiiphinf — presently. 
And  then  to  execution  on  the  watch.      [They  enter. 

Alarums*     Enter  Talbot,  and  certain  English. 

Tal.   France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  treason  with  thy 
tears, 
If  Talbot  but  survive  thy  treachery.  — 
Pucelle,  that  witch,  that  cursed  sorceress. 
Hath  wrought  this  hellish  mischief  unawares, 
Tliat  hardly  we  escap'd  the  pride  of  France. 

[Exeunt  to  the  Town. 
Alarum  :  Excursions.  Enter  from  the  Town,  Bed- 
ford, brought  in  sick,  in  a  Chair,  with  Talbot, 
Burgundy,  and  the  English  Forces.  Then  enter, 
on  tlie  Walls,  La  Pucelle,  Charles,  Bastard, 
ALEN90N,  arvd  others. 

Puc.   Good  morrow,  gallants !  want  ye  corn  for 
bread  ? 
I  think,  the  duke  of  Burgundy  will  fast, 
Before  he'll  buy  again  at  such  a  rate  : 
'Twas  full  of  darnel ;  Do  you  like  the  taste  ? 

»  Confederate*  in  stratagems.        •  1.  e.  No  way  equal  to  that 


Bur.  Scoffon,  vile  fiend,  and  shameless  courtezan ! 
I  trust,  ere  long,  to  choke  thee  with  thine  own. 
And  make  thee  curse  the  harvest  of  that  com. 

Char.    Your  grace  may  starve,   perhaps,    before 
that  time. 

Bed.   O,  let  no  words,  but  deeds,  revenge  this 
treason ! 

Puc.   What  will  you  do,  good  grey-beard  ?  break 
a  lance. 
And  run  a  tilt  at  death  within  a  chair  ? 

Tal.   Foul  fiend  of  France,  and  hag  of  all  despite, 
Becomes  it  thee  to  taunt  his  valiant  age. 
And  twit  with  cowardice  a  man  half  dead  ? 
Damsel,  I'll  have  a  bout  with  you  again. 
Or  else  let  Talbot  perish  with  this  shame. 

Puc.  Arc  you  so  hot,  sir  ?  —  Yet,  Pucelle,  hold 
thy  peace ; 
If  Talbot  do  but  thunder,  rain  will  follow.  — 

[Talbot,  and  the  rest  consult  together. 

Tal.   Dare  ye  come  forth  and  meet  us  in  the  field  ? 

Puc.   Belike,  your  lordship  takes  us  then  for  fools. 
To  try  if  that  our  own  be  ours,  or  no. 

Tal.   I  speak  not  to  that  railing  Hecate, 
But  unto  thee,  Alen9on,  and  the  rest; 
Will  ye,  like  soldiers,  come  and  fight  it  out  ? 

Alen.    Signior,  no. 

Tal.   Signior,  hang  !  —  base  muleteers  of  France ! 
Like  peasant  foot-boys  do  they  keep  the  walls ; 
And  dare  not  take  up  arms  like  gentlemen. 

Puc.   Captains,  away :  let's  get  us  from  the  walls ; 
For  Talbot  means  no  goodness,  by  his  looks.  — 
We  came,  sir,  but  to  tell  you  we  are  here. 

[ExeurU  La  Pucelle,  ^c.from  the  WaUs. 

Tal.   And  there  will  we  be  too,  ere  it  be  long. 
Or  else  reproach  be  Talbot's  greatest  fame  !  — 
Vow,  Burgundy,  by  honour  of  thy  house, 
(  Prick 'd  on  by  publick  wrongs,  sustain 'd  in  France,) 
Either  to  get  the  town  again,  or  die : 
And  I,  —  as  sure  as  English  Henry  lives. 
And  as  his  father  here  was  conqueror ; 
As  sure  as  in  this  late  betrayed  town 
Great  Coeur-de-lion's  heart  was  buried ; 
So  sure  I  swear  to  get  the  town,  or  die. 

Btir.   My  vows  are  equal  partners  with  thy  vows. 

Tal.   But,  ere  we  go,  regard  this  dying  prince, 
The  valiant  duke  of  Bedford :  —  Come,  my  lord. 
We  will  bestow  you  in  some  better  place, 
Fitter  for  sickness,  and  for  crazy  age. 

Bed.  Lord  Talbot,  do  not  so  dishonour  me  : 
Here  will  I  sit  before  the  walls  of  Roiien, 
And  will  be  partner  of  your  weal,  or  woe. 

Bur.   Courageous  Bedford,  let  us  now  persuade 
you. 

Bed.   Not  to  be  gone  from  hence  ;  for  once  I  read. 
That  stout  Pendrj^on,  in  his  litter,  sick, 
Came  to  the  field,  and  vanquished  his  foes : 
Methinks,  I  should  revive  the  soldiers'  hearts. 
Because  I  ever  found  them  as  myself. 

Tal.   Undaunted  spirit  in  a  dying  breast !  — 
Then  be  it  so  :  — Heavens  keep  old  Bedford  safe  !  — 
And  now  no  more  ado,  brave  Burgundy, 
But  gather  we  our  forces  out  of  hand, 
And  set  upon  our  boasting  enemy. 

[Exeunt  Burgundy,  Talbot,  andForcett 
leaving  Bedford,  and  others. 

Alarums:  Excursions.    Enter  Sib. J oHV  Fkstoltk, 
and  a  Captain. 
Cap.   Whither  away,  sir  John  Fastolfe,  in  such 
haste  ? 

Hh  2 


468 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


Fast.   Whither  away  ?  to  save  myself  by  flight ; 
We  are  like  to  have  tlie  overthrow  again. 

Cap.   What!  will  you  fly,  and  leave  lord  Talbot? 

Fast.  Ay, 

All  the  Talbots  in  the  world  to  save  my  life.   [Ex-it. 

Cap.  Cowardly  knight !  ill  fortune  follow  thee  ! 

[ErU. 

Retreat:  Excursions.      Enter  from  the  Town,  La 
PucELLE,  ALEN50N,  Charles,  ^c.   arid  exeunt, 
flying- 
Bed.  Now,  quiet  soul,  depart  when  heaven  please ; 
For  I  have  seen  our  enemies'  overthrow. 
What  is  the  trust  or  strength  of  foolish  men  ? 
They,  that  of  late  were  daring  with  their  scoffs. 
Are  glad  and  fain  by  flight  to  save  themselves. 

[Dies,  and  is  carried  off  in  Ms  Chair. 

Alarum  :  Enter  Talbot,  Burgundy,  and  others. 

Tal.   Lost,  and  recover'd  in  a  day  again  ! 
This  is  a  double  honour.  Burgundy: 
Yet,  heavens  have  glory  for  this  victory  ! 

Bur.   Warlike  and  martial  Talbot,  Burgundy 
Enshrines  thee  in  his  heart ;  and  there  erects 
Thy  noble  deeds,  as  valour's  monument. 

Tal.   Thanks,  gentle  duke.    But  where  is  Pucelle 
now? 
I  think,  her  old  familiar  is  asleep  : 
Now  Where's  the  Bastard's  braves,  and  Charles  his 

gleeks?7 
What,  all  a-mort  ?  8  Rolien  hangs  her  head  for  grief, 
That  such  a  valiant  company  are  fled. 
Now  will  we  take  some  order  9  in  the  town, 
Placing  therein  some  expert  officers ; 
And  then  depart  to  Paris,  to  the  king  : 
For  there  young  Harry,  with  his  nobles,  lies. 

Bur.  What  wills  lord  Talbot,  pleaseth  Burgundy. 

Tal.    But  yet,  before  we  go,  let's  not  forget 
The  noble  duke  of  Bedford,  late  deceas'd. 
But  see  his  exequies  '  fulfiU'd  in  RoUen  ; 
A  braver  soldier  never  couched  lance, 
A  gentler  heart  did  never  sway  in  court : 
But  kings,  and  mightiest  potentates,  must  die  ; 
For  that's  the  end  of  human  misery.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — The  Plains  near  the  City. 

Enter  Charles,  the  Bastard,  ALEN90N,  La 

Pucelle,  and  Forces. 

Puc.   Dismay  not,  princes,  at  this  accident, 
Nor  grieve  that  Roiien  is  so  recovered : 
Care  is  no  cure,  but  rather  corrosive, 
For  things  that  are  not  to  be  remedied. 
Let  frantick  Talbot  triumph  for  a  while. 
And  like  a  peacock  sweep  along  his  tail ; 
We'll  pull  his  plumes,  and  take  away  his  train. 
If  dauphin,  and  the  rest,  will  be  but  rul'd. 

Char.   We  have  been  guided  by  thee  hitherto. 
And  of  thy  cunning  had  no  diffidence ; 
One  sudden  foil  shall  never  breed  distrust. 

Bast.  Search  out  thy  wit  for  secret  policies. 
And  we  will  make  thee  famous  through  the  world. 

Alen.   We'll  set  thy  statue  in  some  holy  place. 
And  have  thee  reverenc'd  like  a  blessed  saint ; 
Employ  thee  then,  sweet  virgin,  for  our  good. 

Puc.  Then  thus  it  must  be  ;  this  doth  Joan  devise: 
By  fair  persuasions,  mix'd  with  sugar'd  words, 
We  will  entice  the  duke  of  Burgundy 
To  leave  the  Talbot,  and  to  follow  us. 

7  Scoffs.  *        8  Quite  dispirited. 

9  Make  soiti«  necessary  dispositions.  '  Funeral  rites. 


Char.   Ay,  marry,  sweeting,  if  we  could  do  that, 
France  were  no  place  for  Henry's  warriors ; 
Nor  should  that  nation  boast  it  so  with  us. 
But  be  extirped  from  our  provinces. 

Alen.   For  ever  should  they  be  expuls'd^  from 
France, 
And  not  have  title  to  an  earldom  here. 

Puc.  Your  honours  shall  perceive  how  I  will  work, 
To  bring  this  matter  to  the  wished  end. 

[Drums  heard. 
Hark  !  by  the  sound  of  di-um,  you  may  perceive 
Their  powers  are  marching  unto  Paris-ward. 

An  English  March.     Enter,  and  pass  over  at  a  dis- 
tance, Talbot  and  his  Forces. 
There  goes  the  Talbot,  with  his  colours  spread ; 
And  all  the  troops  of  English  after  liim. 

A  French  March.     Enter  the  Duke  of  Burgundy, 

and  Forces. 
Now  in  the  rearward  comes  the  duke,  and  his  ; 
Fortune,  in  favour,  makes  him  lag  behind. 
Summon  a  parley,  we  will  talk  with  him. 

[A  parley  sounded. 

Char.   A  parley  with  the  duke  of  Burgundy. 

Bur.   Who  craves  a  parley  with  the  Burgundy  ? 

Puc.  Tlie  princely  Charles  of  France,  thy  country- 
man. 

Bur.  What  say'st  thou,  Charles  ?  for  I  am  march- 
ing hence. 

Char.  Speak,  Pucelle ;  and  enchant  him  with  thy 
words. 

Puc.  Brave  Burgundy,undoubted  hope  of  France ! 
Stay,  let  thy  humble  handmaid  speak  to  thee. 

Bur.    Speak  on  ;  but  be  not  over-tedious. 

Puc.  Look  on  thy  country,  look  on  fertile  France, 
And  see  the  cities  and  the  towns  defac'd 
By  wasting  ruin  of  the  cruel  foe  ! 
As  looks  the  mother  on  her  lowly  babe. 
When  death  doth  close  his  tender  dying  eyes, 
See,  see,  the  pining  malady  of  France ; 
Behold  the  wounds,  the  most  unnatural  wounds, 
Which  thou  thyself  hast  given  her  woeful  breast ! 
O,  turn  thy  edged  sword  another  way ; 
Strike  those  that  hurt,  and  hurt  not  those  that  help  ! 
One  drop  of  blood,  drawn  from  thy  country's  bosom, 
Should  grieve  thee  more  than  streams  of  foreign 

gore; 
Return  thee,  therefore,  with  a  flood  of  tears. 
And  wash  away  thy  country's  stained  spots  ! 

Bur.   Either   she    hath   bewitch'd   me  with  her 
words, 
Or  nature  makes  me  suddenly  relent. 

Puc.  Besides,  all  French  and  France  exclaims  on 
thee. 
Doubting  thy  birth  and  lawful  progeny. 
Who  join'st  thou  with,  but  with  a  lordly  nation. 
That  will  not  trust  thee,  but  for  profit's  sake  ? 
When  Talbot  hath  set  footing  once  in  France, 
And  fashion'd  thee  that  instrument  of  ill. 
Who  then,  but  English  Henry,  will  be  lord. 
And  thou  be  thrust  out,  like  a  fugitive  ; 
Call  we  to  mind,  —  and  mark  but  this,  for  proof  j  — 
Was  not  the  duke  of  Orleans  thy  foe? 
And  was  he  not  in  England  prisoner  ? 
But,  when  they  heard  he  was  thine  enemy, 
They  set  him  free,  without  his  ransome  paid. 
In  spite  of  Burgundy,  and  all  his  friends. 
See  then !  thou  fight'st  against  thy  countrymen, 
2  Expelled. 


Act  IV.  Scene  1. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


469 


And  join'st  with  them  will  be  thy  slaughter-men. 
Come,  come,  return  ;  return,  thou  wand'ring  lord  ; 
Cliarles,  and  the  rest,  will  take  thee  in  their  arms. 

Bur.  I  am  vanquished;  thesehaughty  words  of  hers 
Have  batter'd  me  like  roaring  cannon-shot, 
And  made  me  almost  yield  upon  my  knees.  — 
Forgive  me,  country,  and  sweet  countrymen ! 
And,  lords,  accept  this  hearty  kind  embrace  : 
My  forces  and  my  power  of  men  are  yours  ;  — 
So,  farewell,  Talbot ;   I'll  no  longer  trust  thee. 

Puc.  Done  like  a  Frencliman,  turn,  and  turn  again ! 

Char.  Welcome,  brave  duke !  thy  friendship  makes 
us  fresh. 

Bast.  And  doth  beget  new  courage  in  our  breasts. 

^llen.  I'ucelle  hath  bravely  play'd  her  part  in  this. 
And  dotli  deserve  a  coronet  of  gold. 

Char.  Now  let  us  on,  my  lords,  and  join  our  powers ; 
And  seek  how  we  may  prejudice  the  foe.      lExeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — Paris.     A  Boom  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  King  Henry,   Gloster,  and  other  Lords, 

Vernon,  Basset,  ^c.     To  them  Talbot,  awrf  some 

of  his  Officers. 

Tal.  My  gracious  prince, — and  honourable  peers, — 
Hearing  of  your  arrival  in  this  realm, 
I  have  a  while  given  truce  unto  my  wars, 
'I'o  do  my  duty  to  my  sovereign  : 
In  sign  whereof,  this  arm  —  that  hath  reclaim'd 
To  your  obedience  fifty  fortresses, 
Twelve  cities,  and  seven  walled  towns  of  strength, 
Beside  five  hundred  prisoners  of  esteem,  — 
Lets  fall  liis  sword  before  your  highness'  feet ; 
And,  with  submissive  loyalty  of  heart, 
Ascribes  the  glory  of  his  conquest  got, 
First  to  my  God,  and  next  unto  your  grace. 

K.  Hen.  Istliisthe  fam'd  lord  Talbot,  uncle  Gloster, 
That  hath  so  long  been  resident  in  France  ? 


Glo.    Yes,  if  it  please  your  majesty,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.   Welcome,  brave  captain,  and  victorious 
lord ! 
When  I  was  young,  (as  yet  I  am  not  old,) 
I  do  remember  how  my  father  said, 
A  stouter  champion  never  handled  sword. 
Long  since  we  were  resolved"  of  your  truth. 
Your  faithful  service,  and  your  toil  in  war  ; 
Yet  never  have  you  tasted  our  reward. 
Or  been  reguerdon'd  8  with  so  much  as  thanks, 
Because  till  now  we  never  saw  your  face  : 
Therefore,  stand  up ;  and,  for  these  good  deserts. 
We  here  create  you  earl  of  Shrewsbury  ; 
And  in  our  coronation  take  your  place. 

[Exeunt  King  Henry,  Gloster,  Talbot, 
and  Nobles. 

Ver.   Now,  sir,  to  you,  that  were  so  hot  at  sea. 
Disgracing  of  tliese  colours  that  I  wear 
In  honour  of  my  noble  lord  of  York.  — 
Dar'st  thou  maintain  the  former  words  thou  spak'st? 

JBas.   Yes,  sir  ;  as  well  as  you  dare  patronage 
The  envious  barking  of  your  saucy  tongue 
Against  my  lord  the  duke  of  Somerset. 

Ver.   Sirrah,  thy  lord  I  honour  as  he  is. 

Bus.   Why,  what  is  he  ?  as  good  a  man  as  York. 

Ver.   Hark  ye  j  not  so  :  in  witness,  take  ye  tliat. 

[Strikes  him. 

Bast.  Villain,  thou  know'stthelawof  arms  is  such. 
That,  whoso  draws  a  sword,  'tis  present  death  ; 
Or  else  this  blow  should  broach  thy  dearest  blood. 
But  I'll  unto  his  majesty,  and  crave 
I  may  have  liberty  to  venge  tliis  wrong ; 
When  thou  shalt  see,  I'll  meet  thee  to  tliy  cost. 

Ver.  Well,  miscreant,  I'll  be  there  as  soon  as  you ; 
And,  after,  meet  you  sooner  than  you  would. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  Paris.     A  Room  of  State. 

EnterKiJiG  Henry,  Gloster,  Exeter,  York,  Suf- 
folk, Somerset,  Winchester,  Warwick,  Tal- 
bot, the  Governor  of  Paris,  and  others. 

Glo,  Lord  bishop,  set  the  crown  upon  his  head. 
IViji,  God  save  king  Henry,  of  thatname  the  sixth! 
Glo.   Now,  governor  of  Paris,  take  your  oath,  — 
[Governor  hieels. 
That  you  elect  no  other  king  but  him  : 
Esteem  none  friends,  but  such  as  are  his  friends ; 
And  none  your  foes,  but  such  as  shall  pretend  ^ 
Malicious  practices  against  his  state. 

[Exeunt  Gov.  and  his  Train. 

Enter  Sir  John  Fastolfb. 

Fast.  My  gracious  sovereign,  as  I  rode  from  Calais, 
To  hasten  unto  your  coronation, 
A  letter  was  deliver'd  to  my  hands. 
Writ  to  your  grace  from  the  duke  of  Burgundy. 

Tat.   Shame  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  and  thee  ! 
I  vow'd,  base  knight,  when  I  did  meet  tliee  next. 
To  tear  tlie  garter  from  thy  craven's  ^  leg, 

[Plucking  it  off. 
(Wliich  I  have  done,)  because  unworthily 
Thou  wast  installed  in  that  high  degree.  — 


Design. 


*  Mean,  dastardly. 


Pardon  me,  princely  Henry,  and  the  rest : 
This  dastard  at  the  battle  of  Patay, 
When  but  in  all  I  was  six  thousand  strong. 
And  that  the  French  were  almost  ten  to  one,  — 
Before  we  met,  or  that  a  stroke  was  given. 
Like  to  a  trusty  squire,  did  run  away  ; 
In  which  assaidt  we  lost  twelve  hundred  men  ; 
Myself,  and  divers  gentlemen  beside. 
Were  there  surpriz'd,  and  taken  prisoners. 
Then  judge,  great  lords,  if  I  have  done  amiss ; 
Or  whether  that  such  cowards  ought  to  wear 
This  ornament  of  knighthood,  yea,  or  no. 

Glo.  To  say  the  truth,  this  fact  was  infamous. 
And  ill  beseeming  any  common  man  ; 
Much  more  a  knight,  a  captain,  and  a  leader 

Tal.  When  first  this  order  was  ordain'd,  my  lords, 
Knights  of  the  garter  were  of  noble  birth  ; 
Valiant  and  virtuous,  full  of  haughty  9  courage, 
Such  as  were  grown  to  credit  by  the  wars  ; 
Not  fearing  death,  nor  shrinking  for  distress. 
But  always  resolute  in  most  extremes. 
He  then,  that  is  not  furnish'd  in  this  sort. 
Doth  but  usurp  tlie  sacred  name  of  knight. 
Profaning  this  most  honourable  order ; 
And  should  (if  I  were  worthy  to  be  judge) 
Be  quite  degraded,  like  a  hedge-bom  swain 
That  doth  presume  to  boast  of  gentle  blood 
^  Cuofirmcd  in  opinion.  "  Rewarded.  *  High. 

H  h  3 


470 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  IV 


K.  Hen,   Stain  to  thy  countrymen  !  thou  hear'st 
thy  doom : 
Be  packing,  therefore,  thou  that  wast  a  knight ; 
Henceforth  we  banish  thee,  on  pain  of  death.  — 

[Exit  Fastolfe. 
And  now,  my  lord  protector,  view  the  letter 
Sent  f»'om  our  uncle  duke  of  Burgundy. 

Glo.  What  means  his  grace,  that  he  hath  chang'd 
his  style  ?  [  Viewing  the  superscription. 

No  more  but,  plain  and  bluntly,  —  To  the  king  ? 
Hath  he  forgot,  he  is  his  sovereign  ? 
Or  doth  this  churlish  superscription 
Pretend  some  alteration  in  good  will  ? 
What's  here  ?  —  /  have,  upon  especial  cause,  — 

[Reads. 

Movd  with  compassion  of  my  country's  wreck, 

Together  with  the  pitiful  complaints 

Of  siich  as  your  oppression  feeds  upon,  — 

Forsaken  your  pernicious  faction. 

And  join  d  with  Charles,  the  rightful  king  of  France. 

0  monstrous  treachery  !   Can  this  be  so  ; 
That  in  alliance,  amity,  and  oaths. 

There  should  be  found  such  false  dissembling  guile  ? 

JT.  Hen.  What !  doth  my  uncle  Burgundy  revolt  ? 

Glo.  He  doth,  my  lord ;  and  is  become  your  foe. 

IT.  Hen.  Is  that  the  worst,  this  letter  doth  contain  ? 

Glo.   It  is  the  worst,  and  all,  my  lord,  he  writes. 

JT.  Hen.    Why  then,  lord  Talbot  there  shall  talk 
with  him, 
And  give  him  chastisement  for  this  abuse  :  — 
My  lord,  how  say  you  ?  are  you  not  content  ? 

Tal.    Content,  my  liege  ?    Yes ;  but  that  I  am 
prevented  ^, 

1  should  have  begg'd  I  might  have  been  employed. 
JT.  Hen.   Then  gather  strength,  and  march  unto 

him  straight : 
Let  him  perceive,  how  ill  we  brook  his  treason ; 
And  what  offence  it  is,  to  flout  his  friends. 

Tal.   I  go,  my  lord  ;  in  heart  desiring  still. 
You  may  behold  confusion  of  your  foes.  [Exit. 

Enter  Vernon  and  Basset. 

Ver.    Grant  me  the  combat,  gracious  sovereign  ! 

Has.  And  me,  my  lord,  grant  me  the  combat  too ! 

York.  This  is  my  servant ;  Hear  him,  noble  prince ; 

Som.  And  this  is  mine  ;  Sweet  Henry,  favour  him! 

iT.  Hen.   Be  patient,  lords  ;  and  give  them  leave 
to  speak.  — 
Say,  gentlemen.  What  makes  you  thus  exclaim  ? 
And  wherefore  crave  you  combat  ?  or  with  whom  ? 

Ver.  With  him,my  lord ;  for  he  hath  done  me  wrong. 

Bas.  And  I  with  him ;  for  he  hath  done  me  wrong. 

A'.  Hen.   What  is  that  wrong  whereof  you  both 
complain  ? 
First  let  me  know,  and  then  I'll  answer  you. 

Bas.  Crossing  the  sea  from  England  into  France, 
This  fellow  here,  with  envious  carping  tongue. 
Upbraided  me  about  the  rose  I  wear  ; 
Saying  —  the  sanguine  colour  of  the  leaves 
Did  represent  my  master's  blushing  cheeks, 
When  stubbornly  he  did  repugn  9  the  truth. 
About  a  certain  question  in  the  law, 
Argu'd  betwixt  the  duke  of  York  and  him  ; 
With  other  vile  and  ignominious  terms : 
Jn  confutation  of  which  rude  reproach. 
And  in  defence  of  my  lord's  worthiness, 
I  crave  the  benefit  of  law  of  arms. 

Ver.    And  that  is  my  petition,  noble  lord  : 
For  though  he  seem,  with  forged  quaint  conceit, 
»  Anticipated  s  Resist. 


To  set  a  gloss  upon  his  bold  intent. 
Yet  know,  my  lord,  I  was  provok'd  by  him ; 
And  he  first  took  exceptions  at  this  badge. 
Pronouncing  —  that  the  paleness  of  this  flower 
Bev^'ray'd  the  faintness  of  my  master's  heart. 

York.  Will  not  this  malice,  Somerset,  be  left  ? 

Som.  Your  private  grudge,  my  lord  of  York,  will 
out. 
Though  ne'er  so  cunningly  you  smother  it. 

JT.  Hen.   Alas !  what  madness  rules  in  brain-sick 
men  ! 
When,  for  so  slight  and  frivolous  a  cause, 
Such  factious  emulations  shall  arise  ! 
Good  cousins  both,  of  York  and  Somerset, 
Quiet  yourselves,  I  pray,  and  be  at  peace. 

York.   Let  this  dissension  first  be  tried  by  fight ; 
And  then  your  highness  shall  command  a  peace. 

Som.   The  quarrel  toucheth  none  but  us  alone  ; 
Betwixt  ourselves  let  us  decide  it  then. 

York.  There  is  my  pledge ;  accept  it,  Somerset. 

Ver.   Nay,  let  it  rest  where  it  began  at  first. 

Bas.    Confirm  it  so,  mine  honourable  lord. 

Glo.   Confirm  it  so  ?  confounded  be  your  strife, 
And  perish  ye,  with  your  audacious  prate  ! 
Presumptuous  vassals  !  are  you  not  asham'd. 
With  this  immodest  clamorous  outrage 
To  trouble  and  disturb  the  king  and  us  ? 
And  you,  my  lords,  —  methinks,  you  do  not  well. 
To  bear  with  their  perverse  objections ; 
Much  less,  to  take  occasion  from  their  mouths 
To  raise  a  mutiny  betwixt  yourselves ; 
Let  me  persuade  you  take  a  better  course. 

Exe.   It  grieves  his  highness  ;  —  Good  my  lords, 
be  friends. 

£^.  Hen.   Come  hither,  you  that  would  be  com- 
batants : 
Henceforth,  I  charge  you,  as  you  love  our  favour. 
Quite  to  forget  this  quarrel,  and  the  cause.  — 
And  you,  my  lords,  remember  where  we  are ; 
In  France,  amongst  a  fickle  wavering  nation  : 
If  they  perceive  dissension  in  our  looks. 
And  that  within  ourselves  we  disagree, 
Hovv  will  their  grudging  stomachs  be  provok'd 
To  wilful  disobedience,  and  rebel  ? 
Beside,  what  infamy  will  there  arise. 
When  foreign  princes  shall  be  certified, 
That,  for  a  toy,  a  thing  of  no  regard. 
King  Henry's  peers,  and  chief  nobility, 
Destroy'd  themselves,  and  lost  the  realm  of  France  ? 
O,  think  upon  the  conquest  of  my  father. 
My  tender  years ;  and  let  us  not  forego 
That  for  a  trifle,  that  was  bought  with  blood  ! 
Let  me  be  umpire  in  this  doubtful  strife. 
I  see  no  reason,  if  I  wear  this  rose, 

[Putting  on  a  red  Rose. 
That  any  one  should  therefore  be  suspicious 
I  more  incline  to  Somerset,  than  York : 
Both  are  my  kinsmen,  and  I  love  them  both  : 
As  well  they  may  upbraid  me  with  my  crown. 
Because,  forsooth,  the  king  of  Scots  is  crown'd. 
But  your  discretions  better  can  persuade. 
Than  I  am  able  to  instruct  or  teach  : 
And  therefore,  as  we  hither  came  in  peace, 
So  let  us  still  continue  peace  and  love.  — 
Cousin  of  York,  we  institute  your  grace 
To  be  our  regent  in  these  parts  of  France  :  — 
And  good  my  lord  of  Somerset,  imite 
Your  troops  of  horsemen  with  his  bands  of  foot ;  — 
And,  like  true  subjects,  sons  of  your  progenitors. 
Go  cheerfully  together,  and  digest 


i 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


471 


Your  angry  choler  on  your  enemies. 
Ourself,  my  lord  protector,  and  the  rest, 
After  some  respite,  will  return  to  Calais ; 
From  thence  to  England ;  where  I  hope  ere  long 
To  be  presented,  by  your  victories. 
With  Charles,  Alen9on,  and  that  traitorous  rout. 
[Flourish.  Exeunt  King  Henry,  Glo.  Som. 
Win.  Suf.  and  Basset. 

War.  My  lord  of  York,  I  promise  you,  the  king 
Prettily,  raethought,  did  play  the  orator. 

York.    And  so  he  did  ;  but  yet  I  like  it  not, 
In  that  he  wears  the  badge  of  Somerset. 

War.  Tush !  that  was  but  his  fancy,  blame  him  not; 
I  dare  presume,  sweet  prince,  he  thought  no  harm. 

York.   And,  if  I  wist  he  did,  —  But  let  it  rest ; 
Other  affairs  must  now  be  managed. 

[Exeunt  York,  Warwick,  and  Vernon. 

Exe.   Well  didst  thou,  Richard,  to  suppress  thy 
voice ; 
For,  had  the  passions  of  thy  heart  burst  out, 
I  fear  we  should  have  seen  decipher'd  there 
More  rancorous  spite,  more  furious  raging  broils, 
Than  yet  can  be  imagin'd  or  suppos'd 
But  howsoe'er,  no  simple  man  that  sees 
This  jarring  discord  of  nobility. 
This  should 'ring  of  each  other  in  the  court, 
This  factious  bandying  of  their  favourites, 
But  that  it  doth  presage  some  ill  event. 
'Tis  much,  when  scepters  are  in  children's  hands ; 
But  more,  when  envy  breeds  unkind  division ; 
There  comes  the  ruin,  there  begins  confusion.   [Exit. 

SCENE  II France.     Before  Bourdeaux. 

Enter  Talbot,  with  his  Forces. 
Tal.   Go  to  the  gates  of  Bourdeaux,  trumpeter, 
Summon  their  general  unto  the  wall. 

Trumpet  sounds  a  Parley.     Enter,  on  the  Walls,  the 

General  of  the  French  Forces,  and  others. 
English  John  Talbot,  captains,  calls  you  forth. 
Servant  in  arms  to  Harry  king  of  England  ; 
And  thus  he  would,  —  Open  your  city  gates, 
Be  humble  to  us  ;  call  my  sovereign  yours. 
And  do  him  homage  as  obedient  subjects. 
And  I'll  withdraw  me  and  my  bloody  power : 
But,  if  you  frown  upon  this  proffer'd  peace. 
You  tempt  the  fury  of  my  three  attendants, 
Lean  famine,  quartering  steel,  and  climbing  fire  ; 
Who,  in  a  moment,  even  with  the  earth 
Shall  lay  your  stately  and  air-braving  towers, 
If  you  forsake  the  offer  of  their  love. 

Gen.   Thou  ominous  and  fearful  owl  of  death. 
Our  nation's  terror,  and  their  bloody  scourge  ! 
The  period  of  thy  tyranny  approacheth. 
On  us  thou  canst  not  enter  but  by  death  : 
For,  I  protest,  we  are  well  fortified, 
And  strong  enough  to  issue  out  and  fight : 
If  thou  retire,  the  dauphin,  well  appointed. 
Stands  with  the  snares  of  war  to  tangle  thee : 
On  either  hand  thee  there  are  squadrons  pitch'd. 
To  wall  thee  from  the  liberty  of  flight ; 
And  no  way  canst  thou  turn  thee  for  redress. 
But  death  doth  front  thee  with  apparent  spoil, 
And  pale  destruction  meets  thee  in  the  face. 
Ten  thousand  French  have  ta'en  the  sacrament. 
To  rive  thi'ir  dangerous  artillery 
Upon  no  Christian  soul  but  English  Talbot. 
Lo  !  tiierc  tliou  stand'st,  a  breathing  valiant  man, 
Of  an  invincible  unconqucr'd  spirit : 
This  is  the  latest  glory  of  thy  praise. 


That  I,  thy  enemy,  due  '  thee  withal ; 
For  ere  the  glass,  that  now  begins  to  run, 
Finish  the  process  of  this  sandy  hour. 
These  eyes,  that  see  thee  now  well  coloured, 
Shall  see  thee  wither' d,  bloody,  pale,  and  dead. 

[Drum  afar  off". 
Hark !  hark !  the  dauphin's  drum,  a  warning  bell, 
Sings  heavy  musick  to  thy  timorous  soul ; 
And  mine  shall  ring  thy  dire  departure  out. 

[Exeunt  General,  ^c.from  the  Walls. 
Tal.   He  fables  not,  I  hear  the  enemy  ;  — 
Out,  some  light  horsemen,  and  peruse  their  wings.  — 
O,  negligent  and  heedless  discipline  ! 
How  are  we  park'd,  and  bounded  in  a  pale  ; 
A  little  herd  of  England's  timorous  deer, 
Maz'd  with  a  yelping  kennel  of  French  curs  ! 
If  we  be  English  deer,  be  then  in  blood  3  : 
Not  rascal-like  *,  to  fall  down  with  a  pinch  ; 
But  rather  moody-mad,  and  desperate  stags. 
Turn  on  the  bloody  hounds  with  heads  of  steel, 
And  make  the  cowards  stand  aloof  at  bay  : 
Sell  every  man  his  life  as  dear  as  mine. 
And  they  shall  find  dear  deer  of  us,  my  friends.  — 
God,  and  saint  George !   Talbot,and  England's  right ! 
Prosper  our  colours  in  this  dangerous  fight ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  Plains  in  Gascony. 

Enter  York,  unih  Forces ;  to  him  a  Messenger. 

York.  Are  not  the  speedy  scouts  return 'd  again. 
That  dogg'd  the  mighty  army  of  the  dauphin  ? 

Mess.  They  are  return' d,  my  lord ;  and  give  it  out. 
That  he  is  march'd  to  Bourdeaux  with  his  power, 
To  fight  with  Talbot :    As  he  march'd  along. 
By  your  espials  ^  were  discovered 
Two  mightier  troops  than  that  the  dauphin  led ; 
Which  join'd  with  him,  and  made  their  march  for 
Bourdeaux. 

York.    A  plague  upon  that  villain  Somerset ; 
That  thus  delays  my  promised  supply 
Of  horsemen,  that  were  levied  for  this  siege  ! 
Renowned  Talbot  doth  expect  my  aid  ; 
And  I  am  lowted  6  by  a  traitor  villain, 
And  cannot  help  the  noble  chevalier  : 
God  comfort  him  in  his  necessity ! 
If  he  miscarry,  farewell  wars  in  France. 
Enter  Sir  William  Lucy. 

Lucy.  Thou  princely  leader  of  our  English  strength, 
Never  so  needful  on  the  earth  of  France, 
Spur  to  the  rescue  of  the  noble  Talbot ; 
Who  now  is  girdled  with  a  waist  of  iron. 
And  hemm'd  about  with  grim  destruction  : 
To  Bourdeaux,  warlike  duke !  to  Bourdeaux,  York  I 
Else,  farewell  Talbot,  France,  and  England's  honour. 

York.   O,  would  that  Somerset  —  who  in  proud 
heart 
Doth  stop  my  comets  —  were  in  Talbot's  place ! 
So  should  we  save  a  valiant  gentleman. 
By  forfeiting  a  traitor  and  a  coward. 
Mad  ire,  and  wrathful  fury,  makes  me  weep. 
That  thus  we  die,  while  remiss  traitors  sleep. 

iMcy.  0,send  some  succour  to  the  distress'd  lord  ! 

York.  He  dies,  we  lose  ;  I  break  my  warlike  word: 
We  mourn,  France  smiles  ;  we  lose,  they  daily  get ; 
All  'long  of  this  vile  traitor  Somerset. 

Lucy.  Then,  God  take  mercy  on  brave  Talbot's 
soul ! 

»  Endue,  honour.  '  In  high  spiriU 

*  A  rascal  deer  is  the  term  of  chase  for  lean  jkkif  deer. 

*  Spies.  «  Vanquished,  baffled. 

H  h  4 


472 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  IV 


And  on  his  son,  young  John;  whom  two  hours  since, 
I  met  in  travel  toward  his  warlike  father. 
These  seven  years  did  not  Talbot  see  his  son  ; 
And  now  they  meet  where  both  their  lives  are  done. 

York.  Alas  !  what  joy  shall  noble  Talbot  have, 
To  bid  his  young  son  welcome  to  his  grave  ? 
Away  !  vexation  almost  stops  my  breath, 
That  sunder'd  friends  greet  in  the  hour  of  death.  — 
Lucy,  farewell :   no  more  my  fortune  can, 
But  curse  the  cause  I  cannot  aid  the  man.  — 
Maine,  Blois,  Poictiers,  and  Tours,  are  won  away. 
'Long  all  of  Somerset,  and  his  delay.  [^Exit- 

Lucy.   Thus,  while  the  vulture  of  sedition 
Feeds  in  the  bosom  of  such  great  commanders. 
Sleeping  neglection  doth  betray  to  loss 
The  conquest  of  our  scarce-cold  conqueror, 
That  ever-living  man  of  memory, 
Henry  the  fifth :  —  Whiles  they  each  other  cross. 
Lives,  honours,  lands,  and  all,  hurry  to  loss.      \^Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Other  Plains  of  Gascony. 

Enter  Somerset,  with  his  Forces;    an  Officer  of 
Talbot's  with  him. 

Som.   It  is  too  late ;   I  cannot  send  them  now  : 
This  expedition  was  by  York,  and  Talbot, 
Too  rashly  plotted ;  all  our  general  force 
Might  with  a  sally  of  the  very  town 
Be  buckled  with  :   the  over-daring  Talbot 
Hath  sullied  all  his  gloss  of  former  honour. 
By  this  unheedful,  desperate,  wild  adventure  ; 
York  set  him  on  to  fight,  and  die  in  shame. 
That,  Talbot  dead,  great  York  might  bear  the  name. 

0^.    Here  is  sir  William  Lucy,  who  with  me 
Set  from  our  o'er-match'd  forces  forth  for  aid. 

Enter  Sir  William  Lucr. 

Som.   How  now,  sir  William  ?  whither  were  you 
sent? 

Eucy.  Whither,  my  lord?  from  bought  and  sold 
lord  Talbot ; 
Who,  ring'd  about  7  with  bold  adversity, 
Cries  out  for  noble  York  and  Somerset, 
To  beat  assailing  death  from  his  weak  legions. 
And  whiles  the  honourable  captain  there 
Drops  bloody  sweat  from  his  war-wearied  limbs. 
And,  in  advantage  ling'ring,  looks  for  rescue. 
You,  his  false  hopes,  the  trust  of  England's  honour, 
Keep  oflP  aloof  with  worthless  emulation. 
Let  not  your  private  discord  keep  away 
The  levied  succours  that  should  lend  him  aid, 
While  he,  renowned  noble  gentleman. 
Yields  up  his  life  unto  a  world  of  odds  : 
Orleans  the  Bastard,  Charles,  and  Burgundy, 
Alen^on,  Reignier,  compass  him  about. 
And  Talbot  perisheth  by  your  default. 

Som.   York  set  him  on,   York  should  have  sent 
him  aid. 

Eucy.  And  York  as  fast  upon  your  grace  exclaims  j 
Swearing  that  you  withhold  his  levied  horse. 
Collected  for  this  expedition. 

Som.  York  lies  ;  he  might  have  sent  and  had  the 
horse : 
I  owe  him  little  duty,  and  less  love ; 
And  take  foul  scorn,  to  fawn  on  him  by  sending. 

Eucy.   The  fraud  of  England,  not  the  force  of 
France, 
Hath  now  entrapp'd  the  noble-minded  Talbot : 
Never  to  England  shall  he  bear  his  life  ; 
But  dies,  betray'd  to  fortune  by  your  strife. 
7  Encircled. 


Som.    Come,  go ;  I  will  despatch  the  horsemen 

straight : 
Within  six  hours  they  will  be  at  his  aid. 

Lucy.  Too  late  comes  rescue  :  he  is  ta'en  or  slain  : 
For  fly  he  could  not,  if  he  would  have  fled ; 
And  fly  would  Talbot  never,  though  he  might. 

Som.    If  he  be  dead,  brave  Talbot  then  adieu  ! 

Lucy.  His  fame  lives  in  the  world,  his  shame  in  you. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  V.  —  The  English  Camp,near  Bourdeaux. 
Enter  Talbot,  and  John  his  Son. 

Tal.    O  young  John  Talbot !  I  did  send  for  thee, 
To  tutor  thee  in  stratagems  of  war ; 
That  Talbot's  name  might  be  in  thee  reviv'd. 
When  sapless  age,  and  weak  unable  limbs, 
Should  bring  thy  father  to  his  drooping  chair. 
But,  —  O  malignant  and  ill-boding  stars  !  — 
Now  thou  art  come  unto  a  feast  of  death, 
A  terrible  and  unavoided  ^^  danger  : 
Therefore,  dear  boy,  mount  on  my  swiftest  horse  ; 
And  I'll  direct  thee  how  thou  shalt  escape 
By  sudden  flight :   come,  dally  not ;  begone. 

John.  Is  my  name  Talbot  ?  and  am  I  your  son  ? 
And  shall  I  fly  ?   O,  if  you  love  my  mother, 
Dishonour  not  her  honourable  name. 
To  make  a  bastard,  and  a  slave  of  me : 
The  world  will  say  —  He  is  not  Talbot's  blood, 
Tliat  basely  fled,  when  noble  Talbot  stood. 

Tal.   Fly,  to  revenge  my  death,  if  I  be  slain. 

John.   He,  that  flies  so,  will  ne'er  return  again. 

Tal.   If  we  both  stay,  we  both  are  sure  to  die. 

John.   Then  let  me  stay  ;  and,  father,  do  you  fly  : 
Your  loss  is  great,  so  your  regard  9  should  be  ; 
My  worth  unknown,  no  loss  is  known  in  me. 
Upon  my  death  the  French  can  little  boast ; 
In  yours  they  will,  in  you  all  hopes  are  lost. 
Flight  cannot  stain  the  honour  you  have  won  ; 
But  mine  it  will,  that  no  exploit  have  done : 
You  fled  for  vantage  every  one  will  swear ; 
But,  if  I  bow,  they'll  say  —  it  was  for  fear. 
There  is  no  hope  that  ever  I  will  stay. 
If,  the  first  hour,  I  shrink,  and  run  away. 
Here,  on  my  knee,  I  beg  mortality. 
Rather  than  life  preserv'd  with  infamy. 

Tal.   Shall  all  thy  mother's  hopes  lie  in  one  tomb  ? 

John.  Ay,  rather  than  I'll  shame  my  mother's  womb. 

Tal.   Upon  my  blessing,  I  command  thee  go. 

John.   To  fight  I  will,  but  not  to  fly  the  foe. 

Tal.   Part  of  thy  father  may  be  sav'd  in  thee. 

John.    No  part  of  him,  but  will  be  shame  in  me. 

Tal.  Thou  never  hadst  renown,  nor  canst  not  lose  it. 

John.   Yes,  your  renowned  name;    Shall  flight 
abuse  it  ? 

Tal.  Thy  father's  charge  shall  clear  thee  from  that 
stain. 

John.   You  cannot  witness  for  me,  being  slain. 
If  death  be  so  apparent,  then  both  fly. 

Tal.  And  leave  my  followers  here,  to  fight  and  die? 
My  age  was  never  tainted  with  such  shame. 

John.  And  shall  my  youth  be  guilty  of  such  blame? 
No  more  can  I  be  severed  from  your  side, 
Than  can  yourself  yourself  in  twain  divide  : 
Stay,  go,  do  what  you  will,  the  hke  do  I  ; 
For  live  I  will  not,  if  my  father  die. 

Tal.   Then  here  I  take  my  leave  of  thee,  fair  son, 
Born  to  eclipse  thy  life  this  afternoon. 
Come,  side  by  side  together  live  and  die  ; 
And  soul  with  soul  from  France  to  heaven  fly. 

[Exeunt. 

8  For  unavoidable.  9  Your  care  of  your  own  safety. 


Scene  VI. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


473 


SCENE  VI.  _  A  Field  of  BattU. 
Alarum:  Excursions,  wherein  Talbot* sSonis hemmed 
about,  and  Talbot  rescues  him. 
Tal.  Saint  George  and  victory !  fight,  soldiers,  fight : 
The  regent  hath  with  Talbot  broke  his  word, 
And  left  us  to  the  rage  of  France's  sword. 
Wliere  is  John  Talbot? — pause,  and  take  thy  breath; 
I  gave  thee  life,  and  rescu'd  thee  from  death. 

John.    O  twice  my  father  !  twice  am  I  thy  son  : 
The  life  thou  gav'st  me  first,  was  lost  and  done ; 
Till  with  thy  warlike  sword,  despite  of  fate, 
To  my  deterrain'd '  time  thou  gav'st  new  date. 
Tal.   When  from  the  dauphin's  crest  thy  sword 
struck  fire. 
It  warm'd  thy  father's  heart  with  proud  desire 
Of  bold-fac'd  victory.      Then  leaden  age, 
Quicken'd  with  youthful  spleen,  and  warlike  rage, 
Beat  down  Alen9on,  Orleans,  Burgundy, 
And  from  the  pride  of  Gallia  rescu'd  thee. 
The  ireful  bastard  Orleans  —  that  drew  blood 
From  thee,  my  boy ;  and  had  the  maidenhood 
Of  thy  first  fight  —  I  soon  encountered ; 
And,  interchanging  blows,  I  quickly  shed 
Some  of  his  bastard  blood  ;  and,  in  disgrace, 
Bespoke  him  thus  :    Contaviinated,  base. 
And  misbegotten  blood  I  spill  of  thine, 
Mean  and  right  poor  ;  for  that  pure  blood  of  mine. 
Which  thou  didst  force frorn  Talbot,  my  brave  boy  :  — 
Here,  purposing  the  Bastard  to  destroy. 
Came  in  strong  rescue.      Speak  thy  father's  care ; 
Art  not  thou  weary,  John?     How  dost  thou  fare? 
Wilt  thou  yet  leave  the  battle,  boy,  and  fly, 
Now  thou  art  seal'd  tlie  son  of  chivalry? 
Fly,  to  revenge  my  death,  when  I  am  dead ; 
The  help  of  one  stands  me  in  little  stead. 
O,  too  much  folly  is  it,  well  I  wot. 
To  hazard  all  our  lives  in  one  small  boat. 
If  I  to-day  die  not  with  Frenchmen's  rage. 
To-morrow  I  shall  die  with  mickle  age  : 
By  me  they  nothing  gain,  and  if  I  stay, 
'Tis  but  the  short'ning  of  my  life  one  day  : 
In  thee  thy  mother  dies,  our  household's  name. 
My  death's  revenge,  thy  youth,  and  England's  fame : 
All  these,  and  more,  we  hazard  by  thy  stay ; 
All  these  are  sav'd,  if  thou  wilt  fly  away. 

John.   The  sword  of  Orleans  hath  not  made  me 
smart, 
These  words  of  yours  draw  life-blood  from  my  heart : 
On  that  advantage,  bought  with  such  a  shame, 
(To  save  a  paltry  Life,  and  slay  bright  fame,) 
Before  young  Talbot  from  old  Talbot  fly. 
The  coward  horse,  that  bears  me,  fall  and  die : 
And  like  ^  me  to  the  peasant  boys  of  France  ; 
To  be  shame's  scorn,  and  subject  of  mischance  ! 
Surely,  by  all  the  glory  you  have  won. 
An  if  I  fly,  I  am  not  Talbot's  son  : 
Then  talk  no  more  of  flight,  it  is  no  boot ; 
If  son  to  Talbot,  die  at  Talbot's  foot. 

Tal.  Then  follow  thou  thy  desperate  sire  of  Crete, 
Thou  Icarus ;  tliy  life  to  me  is  sweet : 
If  thou  wilt  fight,  fight  by  thy  father's  side  ; 
And,  commendable  prov'd,  let's  die  in  pride. 

{Exeunt. 
SCENE  VII.  —  Another  Part  of  the  same. 

Alarum :    Excursions.      Enter    Talbot    woundedt 
supported  by  a  Servant. 
Tal.  Whore  is  my  other  life?  mine  own  is  gone;  — 
O,  Where's  young  Talbot?  where  Is  valiant  John?  — 
•Ended.  »  Make  me  like. 


Triumphant  death,  smear'd  with  captivity  ! 
Young  Talbot's  valour  makes  me  smile  at  thee  :  — . 
When  he  perceiv'd  me  shrink,  and  on  my  knee. 
His  bloody  sword  he  brandish'd  over  me. 
And,  like  a  hungry  lion  did  commence 
Rough  deeds  of  rage,  and  stern  impatience  ; 
But  when  my  angry  guardant  stood  alone, 
Tend'ring  my  ruin  3,  and  assail'd  of  none, 
DIzzy-ey'd  fury,  and  great  rage  of  heart. 
Suddenly  made  him  from  my  side  to  start 
Into  the  clust'ring  battle  of  the  French  : 
And  in  that  sea  of  blood  my  boy  did  drench 
His  overmounting  spirit ;  and  there  died 
My  Icarus,  my  blossom,  in  his  pride. 

Enter  Soldiers,  bearing  t/ie  Body  o/"  JohnTalbot. 

Serv.   O,  my  dear  lord!  lo,  where  your  son  is 
borne ! 

Tal.  Thou  antick  death,  which  laugh'st  us  here  to 
scorn. 
Anon,  from  thy  insulting  tyranny, 
Coupled  in  bonds  of  perpetuity. 
Two.  Talbots,  winged  through  the  lither ''  sky. 
In  thy  despite,  shall  'scape  mortality.  — 
O  thou  whose  wounds  become  hard-favour'd  death. 
Speak  to  thy  father,  ere  thou  yield  thy  breath  : 
Brave  death  by  speaking,  whether  he  will,  or  no ; 
Imagine  him  a  Frenchman,  and  thy  foe.  — 
Poor  boy !  he  smiles,  methinks;  as  who  should  say — 
Had  death  been  French,  then  death  had  died  to-day. 
Come,  come,  and  lay  him  in  his  father's  arms ; 
My  spirit  can  no  longer  bear  these  harms. 
Soldiers,  adieu  !   I  have  what  I  would  have. 
Now  my  old  arms  are  young  John  Talbot's  grave. 

iDies. 
Alarums.     Exeunt  Soldiers  and  Servant,  leaving  the 

two  Bodies.     Enter  Charlks,    ALEN90N,  Bur- 
gundy, Bastard,  La  Pucellk,  and  Forces. 

Char.  Had  York  and  Somerset  brought  rescue  in. 
We  should  have  found  a  bloody  day  of  this. 

Bast.   How  the  young  whelp  of  Talbot's,  raging 
wood  *, 
Did  flesh  his  puny  sword  in  Frenchmen's  blood ! 

Puc.   Once  I  encounter'd  him,  and  thus  I  said, 
T/tou  maiden  youth,  be  vanquished  by  a  maid  : 
But  —  with  a  proud,  majestical,  high  scorn,  — 
He  answer'd  thus  ;    Young  Talbot  was  not  bom 
To  be  tfie  pillage  of  a  giglot  ^  wench  : 
So,  rushing  in  the  bowels  of  tlie  French, 
He  left  me  proudly,  as  unworthy  fight. 

Bur.  Doubtless,he  would  have  made  anoble  knight. 
See,  where  he  lies  inhersed  in  the  arms 
Of  the  most  bloody  nurser  of  his  harms. 

Bast.   Hew  them  to  pieces,  hack  their  bones  asun- 
der; 
Whose  life  was  England's  glory,  Gallia's  wonder. 

Char.  O,  no ;  forbear :  for  that  which  we  have  fled 
During  the  life,  let  us  not  wrong  it  dead. 

Enter  Sir  William  Lucy,  attended  s  a  Frendi 

Herald  preceding. 
Lucy.   Herald, 
Conduct  me  to  the  dauphin's  tent ;  to  know 
Who  hath  obtain'd  the  glory  of  the  day. 

Char.  On  what  submissive  message  art  thou  sent  ? 
Lucy.   Submission,  daupliin  ?  'tis  a  mere  French 
word ; 

3  «•  Watching  me  with  tenderness  in  my  ialL" 

*  Flexible,  yielding.  >  Raving  mad.  «  Wanton. 


474? 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  V. 


We  English  warriors  wot  not  what  it  means, 
I  come  to  know  what  prisoners  tliou  hast  ta'en, 
And  to  survey  the  bodies  of  the  dead. 

Char.  For  prisoners  ask'st  thou?  hell  our  prison  is. 
But  tell  me  whom  thou  seek'st. 

Lucy.   Where  is  the  great  Alcides  of  the  field, 
Valiant  lord  Talbot,  earl  of  Shrewsbury  ? 
Created,  for  his  rare  success  in  arms, 
Great  earl  of  Washford,  Waterford,  and  Valence  ; 
Lord  Talbot  of  Goodrig  and  Urchinfield, 
Lord  Strange  of  Blackmere,  lord  Verdun  of  Alton, 
Lord  Cromwell  of  Wingfield,  lord  Furnival  of  Shef- 
field, 
The  thrice  victorious  lord  of  Falconbridge ; 
Knight  of  the  noble  order  of  saint  George, 
Worthy  saint  Michael,  and  the  golden  fleece  ; 
Great  mareshal  to  Henry  the  sixth, 
Of  all  his  wars  within  the  realm  of  France  ? 

Puc.    Here  is  a  silly  stately  style  indeed  ! 
The  Turk,  that  two-and-fifty  kingdoms  hath, 
Writes  not  so  tedious  a  style  as  this.  — 
Him,  that  thou  magnifiest  with  all  these  titles. 
Bloody  and  breathless  lies  here  at  our  feet. 


Lucy.   Is   Talbot  slain;   the  Frenchmen's  only 
scourge, 
Your  kingdom's  terrour  and  black  Nemesis  ? 
O,  were  mine  eye-balls  into  bullets  turn'd, 
That  I,  in  rage,  might  shoot  them  at  your  faces  ! 
O,  that  I  could  but  call  these  dead  to  life ! 
It  were  enough  to  fright  the  realm  of  France  : 
Were  but  his  picture  left  among  you  here, 
It  would  amaze  the  proudest  of  you  all. 
Give  me  their  bodies ;  that  I  may  bear  them  hence, 
And  give  them  burial  as  beseems  their  worth. 

Puc.  I  think,  this  upstart  is  old  Talbot's  ghost. 
He  speaks  with  such  a  proud  commanding  spirit. 
But  let  him  have  'em. 

Char.   Take  their  bodies  hence. 

Lucy.  I'll  bear  them  hence  : 

But  from  their  ashes  shall  be  rear'd 
A  phoenix  that  shall  make  all  France  afeard. 

Char.   So  we  be  rid  of  them,  do  with  'em  what 
thou  wilt. 
And  now  to  Paris,  in  this  conquering  vein  ; 
All  will  be  ours,  now  bloody  Talbot's  slain. 

{^Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  and  Exeter. 

K.  Hen.   Have  you  perus'd  the  letters  from  the 
pope. 
The  emperor,  and  the  earl  of  Armagnac  ? 

Glo.  I  have,  my  lord  ;  and  their  intent  is  this,  — 
They  humbly  sue  unto  your  excellence, 
To  have  a  godly  peace  concluded  of, 
Between  the  realms  of  England  and  of  France. 

K.  Hen.  How  doth  your  grace  affect  their  motion  ? 

Glo.   Well,  my  good  lord ;  and  as  the  only  means 
To  stop  effusion  of  our  Christian  blood, 
And  'stablish  quietness  on  every  side. 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  marry,  uncle ;  for  I  always  thought, 
It  was  both  impious  and  unnatural. 
That  such  immanity  7  and  bloody  strife 
Should  reign  among  professors  of  one  faith. 

Glo.    Beside,  my  lord,  —  the  sooner  to  effect. 
And  surer  bind,  this  knot  of  amity, — 
The  earl  of  Armagnac  —  near  knit  to  Chailes, 
A  man  of  great  authority  in  France,  — 
Proffers  his  only  daughter  to  your  grace 
In  marriage,  with  a  large  and  sumptuous  dowry. 

K.  Hen.   Marriage,  uncle !    alas !   my  years  are 
young ; 
And  fitter  is  my  study  and  my  books. 
Than  wanton  dalliance  with  a  paramour. 
Yet,  call  the  ambassadors  ;  and,  as  you  please, 
So  let  them  have  their  answers  every  one  : 
I  shall  be  well  content  with  any  choice, 
Tends  to  God's  glory,  and  my  country's  weal. 

Enter  a  Legate,  and  two  Ambassadors,  with  Win- 
chester, in  a  CardinaVs  Habit. 

Exe.   What !  is  my  lord  of  Winchester  install'd. 
And  call'd  unto  a  cardinal's  degree  ! 
Then,  I  perceive,  that  will  be  verified, 
Henry  the  fifth  did  sometime  prophecy, — 

•  Inhumanity. 


If  once  he  came  to  be  a  cardinal, 

He'll  make  his  cap  co-equal  with  the  crown. 

K.  Hen.  My  lords  ambassadors,  your  several  suits 
Have  been  consider'd  and  debated  on. 
Your  purpose  is  both  good  and  reasonable  : 
And,  therefore,  are  we  certainly  resolv'd 
To  draw  conditions  of  a  friendly  peace ; 
Which,  by  my  lord  of  Winchester,  we  mean 
Shall  be  transported  presently  to  France. 

Glo.  And  for  the  proffer  of  my  lord  your  master, — 
I  have  inform'd  his  highness  so  at  large. 
As  —  liking  of  the  lady's  virtuous  gifts. 
Her  beauty,  and  the  value  of  her  dower, — 
He  doth  intend  she  shall  be  England's  queen. 

K.  Hen.  In  argumentand  proof  of  which  contract. 
Bear  her  this  jewel,   \Tq  the  Amb.}  pledge  of  my 

affection. 
And  so,  my  lord  protector,  see  them  guarded. 
And  safely  brought  to  Dover  ;  where,  inshipp'd. 
Commit  them  to  the  fortune  of  the  sea. 

[Exeu7it  King  Henry  and  Train;   Gloster, 
Exeter,  and  Ambassadors. 

Win.    Stay,  my  lord  legate  ;  you  shall  first  receive 
The  sum  of  money,  which  I  promised 
Should  be  deliver'd  to  his  holiness 
For  clothing  me  in  these  grave  ornaments. 

Leg.   I  will  attend  upon  your  lordship's  leisure. 

JFin.   Now,  Winchester  will  not  submit,  I  trow. 
Or  be  inferior  to  the  proudest  peer. 
Humphrey  of  Gloster,  thou  shalt  well  perceive, 
That,  neither  in  birth,  or  for  authority. 
The  bishop  will  be  overborne  by  thee  : 
I'll  either  make  thee  stoop,  and  bend  thy  knee, 
Or  sack  this  country  with  a  mutiny.  ^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL  — France.     Plains  in  Anjou. 

Enter  Charles,  Burgundy,  ALEN90N,  La  Pucelle, 
and  Forces,  marching. 
Char,    These   news,   my  lords,    may  cheer   oui 
drooping  spirits  : 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


475 


'Tis  said,  the  stout  Parisians  do  revolt, 
And  turn  again  unto  the  warlike  French. 

Alen.   Then  march   to  Paris,   royal  Charles   of 
France, 
And  keep  not  back  your  powers  in  dalliance. 

Puc.   Peace  be  amongst  them,  if  they  turn  to  us  ; 
Else,  ruin  combat  witli  their  palaces ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   Success  unto  our  valiant  general. 
And  happiness  to  his  accomplices! 

Char.   What  tidings  send  our  scouts  ?  I  pr'ythee, 
speak. 

Mess.   The  English  army,  that  divided  was 
Into  two  parts,  is  now  conjoin'd  in  one ; 
And  means  to  give  you  battle  presently. 

Cliar.    Somewhat  too  sudden,  sirs,  the  warning  is ; 
But  we  will  presently  provide  for  them. 

Bio'.   I  trust,  the  ghost  of  Talbot  is  not  there ; 
Now  he  is  gone,  my  lord,  you  need  not  fear. 

Puc.  Of  all  base  passions,  fear  is  most  accurs'd :  — 
Command  tlie  conquest,  Charles,  it  shall  be  thine ; 
Let  Henry  fret,  and  all  the  world  repine. 

Char.   Then  on,  my  lords ;  And  France  be  for- 
tunate !  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — jff^ore  Anglers. 

Alarums :  Excursions.     Enter  La  Pucelle. 

Puc.   The  regent  conquers,  and  the  Frenchmen 
fly.- 
Now  help,  ye  charming  spells,  and  periapts  8  ; 
And  ye  choice  spirits  that  admonish  me, 
And  give  me  signs  of  future  accidents  ! 
You  speedy  helpers,  that  are  substitutes 
Under  the  lordly  monarch  of  the  north  ^, 
Appear,  and  aid  me  in  this  enterprize  !  — 
No,  they  forsake  me.     Then  tlie  time  is  come. 
That  France  must  vail  •  her  lofty-plumed  crest. 
And  let  her  head  fall  into  England's  lap. 
My  ancient  incantations  are  too  weak. 
And  hell  too  strong  for  me  to  buckle  with  : 
Now,  France,  thy  glory  droopeth  to  the  dust. 

[EiU. 
Alarums.     Enter  French  and  "EngWsh  fighting.   La 

Pucelle  and  York  fight  hand  to  hand.     La  Pu- 
celle is  taken.      The  French  fiy. 

York.    Damsel  of  France,  I  think  I  have  you  fast : 
Unchain  your  spirits  now  with  spelling  charms, 
And  try  if  they  can  gain  your  liberty.  — 
See  how  the  ugly  witch  doth  bend  her  brows, 
As  if,  with  Circe,  she  would  change  my  shape. 

Puc.   Chang'd  to  a  worser  shape  thou  canst  not  be. 

York.   O,  Charles  the  dauphin  is  a  proper  man : 
No  shape  but  his  can  please  your  dainty  eye. 

Puc.   A  plaguing  mischief  light  on  Charles,  and 
thee ! 
And  may  ye  both  be  suddenly  surpriz'd 
By  bloody  hands,  in  sleeping  on  your  beds ! 

York.   Fell,  banning'Z  hag!  enchantress,  hold  thy 
tongue. 

Puc.   I  pr'ythee,  give  me  leave  to  curse  a  while. 

York.   Curse,  miscreant,  when  thou  coraest  to  the 
stake.  [Exeunt. 

Alarums.     Enter  Suffolk,  leading  in  Ladt 

Margaret. 

Suf.   Be  what  thou  wilt,  thou  art  my  prisoner. 

[Gazes  on  her. 

"  Charms  worn  about  the  person. 

'  Tlie  north  was  supposed  to  be  the  i>articular  habitation  of 
bad  sjiirits. 
'  Lower.  '  To  ban  is  to  curse. 


0  fairest  beauty,  do  not  fear,  nor  fly ; 

For  I  will  touch  thee  but  witli  reverent  hands, 
And  lay  them  gently  on  thy  tender  side. 

1  kiss  these  fingers  [ITissing  her  hand.'\  for  eternal 

peace : 
Who  art  thou  ?  say,  that  I  may  honour  thee. 

Mar.  Margaret  my  name;  and  daughter  to  a  king, 
The  king  of  Naples,  whosoe'er  thou  art. 

Suf.   And  earl  I  am,  and  Suffolk  am  I  call'd. 
Be  not  offended,  nature's  miracle, 
Thou  art  allotted  to  be  ta'en  by  me: 
So  doth  the  swan  her  downy  cygnets  save, 
Keeping  them  prisoners  underneath  her  wings, 
Yet,  if  this  servile  usage  once  offend, 
Go,  and  be  free  again  as  Suffolk's  friend. 

[She  turns  away  as  going. 
O,  stay!  —  I  have  no  power  to  let  her  pass; 
My  hand  would  free  her,  but  my  heart  says — no. 
As  plays  the  sun  upon  the  glassy  streams, 
Twinkling  another  counterfeited  beam. 
So  seems  this  gorgeous  beauty  to  mine  eyes. 
Fain  would  I  woo  her,  yet  I  dare  not  speak  : 
I'll  call  for  pen  and  ink,  and  write  my  mind : 
Fye,  De  la  Poole  !  disable  not  thyself  3  ; 
Hast  not  a  tongue  ?  is  she  not  here  thy  prisoner  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  daunted  at  a  woman's  sight? 
Ay ;  beauty's  princely  majesty  is  such. 
Confounds  the  tongue,  and  makes  the  senses  rough. 

Mar.   Say,  earl  of  Suffolk, — if  thy  name  be  sa» — 
What  ransome  must  I  pay  before  I  pass  ? 
For,  I  perceive,  I  am  thy  prisoner. 

Sufi  How  canst  thou  tell,  she  will  deny  thy  suit. 
Before  thou  make  a  trial  of  her  love  ?  [Aside. 

Mar.  Why  speak'st  thou   not?    what   ransome 
must  I  pay  ? 

Sufi   She's  beautiful ;  and  therefore  to  be  woo'd  : 
She  IS  a  woman ;  therefore  to  be  won.  [Aside. 

Mar.    Wilt  thou  accept  of  ransome,  yea,  or  no  ? 

Sufi.   Fond  man  !  remember  that  thou  hast  a  wife ; 
Then  how  can  Margaret  be  thy  paramour  ?    [Aside. 

Mar.   I  were  best  leave  him,  for  he  will  not  hear. 

Sifi.   There  all  is  marr'd ;  there  lies  a  cooling  card. 

Mar.   He  talks  at  random  ;  sure  the  man  is  mad. 

Siif.   And  yet  a  dispensation  may  be  had. 

Mar.   And  yet  I  would  that  you  would  answer  me, 

Sufi.   I'll  win  this  lady  Margaret  for  my  king, 
And  so  my  fancy"*  may  be  satisfied. 
And  peace  established  between  these  realms. 
But  there  remains  a  scruple  in  that  too  : 
For  though  her  father  be  the  king  of  Naples, 
Duke  of  Anjou  and  Maine,  yet  is  he  poor. 
And  our  nobility  will  scorn  the  match.  [Aside. 

Mar.   Hear  ye,  captain  ?  Are  you  not  at  leisure  ? 

Sufi.   It  shall  be  so,  disdain  they  near  so  much  : 
Henry  is  youtliful,  and  will  quickly  yield.  — 

[Aside. 
Madam,  I  have  a  secret  to  reveal. 

Mar.   What  though  I  be  enthrall'd  ?  he  seems  a 
knight. 
And  will  not  any  way  dishonour  me.  [Aside. 

Sufi.   Lady,  vouchsafe  to  listen  what  I  say. 

Mar.    Perhaps,  I  shall  be  rescued  by  the  French  ; 
And  then  I  need  not  crave  his  courtesy.         [Aside. 

Sufi.    Sweet  madam,  give  me  hearing  in  a  cause  — 

Mar.  Tush  !  women  have  been  captivate  ere  now. 

[Aside. 

Sufi.  Lady,  wherefore  talk  you  so  ? 

Mar.    I  cry  you  mercy,  'tis  but  quid  for  quo. 


3  "  Do  not  represent  thyself  so  weak." 


<  Lovfc 


476 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Act  V. 


Svf.   Say,  gentle  princess,  would  you  not  suppose 
Your  bondage  happy,  to  be  made  a  queen  ? 

Mar.   To  be  a  queen  in  bondage,  is  more  vile, 
Than  is  a  slave  in  base  servility  ; 
For  princes  should  be  free. 

Suf.  And  so  shall  you 

If  happy  England's  royal  king  be  free. 

Mar.   Why,  what  concerns  his  freedom  unto  me  ? 

Suf.   I'll  undertake  to  make  thee  Henry's  queen  j 
To  put  a  golden  scepter  in  thy  hand, 
And  set  a  precious  crown  upon  thy  head. 
If  tliou  wilt  condescend  to  be  my  — 

Mar.  What  ? 

Siif.   His  love. 

Mar.    I  am  unworthy  to  be  Henry's  wife. 

Suf.   No,  gentle  madam  ;   I  unworthy  am 
To  woo  so  fair  a  dame  to  be  his  wife, 
And  have  no  portion  in  the  choice  myself. 
How  say  you,  madam ;  are  you  so  content. 

Mar.   An  if  my  father  please,  I  am  content. 

Sif.  Then  call  our  captains,  and  our  colours,  forth : 
And,  madam,  at  your  father's  castle  walls 
We'll  crave  a  parley,  to  confer  with  him. 

[  Troops  come  forward. 
A  Varley  sounded.     Enter  Reignier,  on  the  Walls. 

Snf.   See,  Reignier,  see,  thy  daughter  prisoner. 

Jteig.   To  whom? 

Sif.  To  me. 

Rt^'  Suffolk,  what  remedy  ? 

I  am  a  soldier ;  and  unapt  to  weep. 
Or  to  exclaim  on  fortune's  fickleness. 

Sif.   Yes,  there  is  remedy  enough,  my  lord: 
Consent,  (and  for  thy  honour,  give  consent,) 
Thy  daughter  shall  be  wedded  to  my  king ; 
Whom  I  with  pain  have  woo'd  and  won  thereto ; 
And  this  her  easy  held  imprisonment 
Hath  gain'd  thy  daughter  princely  liberty. 

Beig.   Speaks  Suflfolk  as  he  thinks  ? 

Sif.  Fair  Margaret  knows, 

That  Suffolk  doth  not  flatter,  face^,  or  feign. 

Reig.   Upon  thy  princely  warrant,  I  descend. 
To  give  thee  answer  of  thy  just  demand. 

[Exit  from  the  Walls. 

Svf.   And  here  I  will  expect  thy  coming. 

Trumpets  sounded.     Enter  Reignier,  below. 

Reig.  Welcome,  brave  earl,  into  our  territories  ; 
Command  in  Anjou  what  your  honour  pleases. 

Svf  Thanks,  Reignier,  happy  for  so  sweet  a  child, 
Fit  to  be  made  companion  with  a  king : 
What  answer  makes  your  grace  unto  my  suit  ? 

Reig.  Since  thou  dost  deign  to  woo  her  little  worth, 
To  be  the  princely  bride  of  such  a  lord  j 
Upon  condition  I  may  quietly 
Enjoy  mine  own,  the  county  Maine,  and  Anjou, 
Free  from  oppression,  or  the  stroke  of  war, 
My  daughter  shall  be  Henry's  if  he  please. 

Suf.   That  is  her  ransome,  I  deliver  her ; 
And  those  two  counties,  I  will  undertake. 
Your  grace  shall  well  and  quietly  enjoy. 

Reig.    And  I  again,  —  in  Henry's  royal  name, 
As  deputy  unto  that  gracious  king. 
Give  thee  her  hand,  for  sign  of  plighted  faith. 

Suf  Reignier  of  France,  I  give  thee  kingly  thanks, 
Because  tliis  is  in  traffick  of  a  king: 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  could  be  well  content 
To  be  mine  own  attorney  in  this  case.  [Aside. 

I'll  over  then  to  England  with  this  news, 
*  Play  the  hypocrite. 


And  make  this  marriage  to  be  solemniz'd ; 
So,  farewell,  Reignier  !   Set  this  diamond  safe 
In  golden  palaces,  as  it  becomes. 

Reig.   I  do  embrace  thee,  as  I  would  embrace 
The  Christian  prince,  king  Henry,  were  he  here. 

Mar.   Farewell,  my  lord!   Good  wishes,  praise, 
and  prayers. 
Shall  Suffolk  ever  have  of  Margaret.  [Going. 

Sif.   Farewell,  sweet  madam  !     But  hark  you, 
Margaret ; 
No  princely  commendations  to  my  king? 

Mnr.  Such  commendations  as  become  a  maid, 
A  virgin,  and  his  servant,  say  to  him. 

Sif.  Words  sweetly  plac'd,  and  modestly  directed. 
But,  madam,  I  must  trouble  you  again,  — 
No  loving  token  to  his  majesty  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  my  good  lord ;  a  pure  unspotted  heart, 
Never  yet  taint  with  love,  I  send  the  king. 

Sif.   And  this  withal.  [Xisses  her. 

Mar.   That  for  thyself;  —  I  will  not  so  presume, 
To  send  such  peevish  ^  tokens  to  a  king. 

[Exeunt  Reignier  and  Margaret. 

Sif.  0,wert  thou  for  myself!  —  But,  Suffolk,  stay  j 
Thou  mayst  not  wander  in  that  labyrinth ; 
There  Minotaurs,  and  ugly  treasons,  lurk. 
Solicit  Henry  with  her  wond'rous  praise  : 
Bethink  thee  on  her  virtues  that  surmount ; 
Her  natural  graces  that  extinguish  art ; 
Repeat  their  semblance  often  on  the  seas, 
Tliat,  when  thou  com'st  to  kneel  at  Henry's  feet, 
Thou  mayst  bereave  him  of  his  wits  with  wonder. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Camp  of  the  Duke  of  York  in  Anjou. 

Enter  York,  Warwick,  and  Cardinal  Beaufort, 
attended. 

Car.  Lord  regent,  I  do  greet  your  excellence 
With  letters  of  commission  from  the  king. 
For  know,  my  lords,  the  states  of  Christendom, 
Mov'd  with  remorse  7  of  these  outrageous  broils. 
Have  earnestly  implor'd  a  general  peace 
Betwixt  our  nation  and  the  aspiring  French ; 
And  here  at  hand  the  dauphin,  and  his  train, 
Approacheth,  to  confer  about  some  matter. 

Yort.   Is  all  our  travail  turn'd  to  this  effect  ? 
After  the  slaughter  of  so  many  peers. 
So  many  captains,  gentlemen,  and  soldiers. 
That  in  this  quarrel  have  been  overthrown. 
And  sold  their  bodies  for  their  country's  benefit. 
Shall  we  at  last  conclude  effeminate  peace  ? 
Have  we  not  lost  most  part  of  all  the  towns. 
By  treason,  falsehood,  and  by  treachery, 
Our  great  progenitors  had  conquered?  — 
O,  Warwick,  Warwick  !   1  foresee  with  grief. 
The  utter  loss  of  all  the  realm  of  France. 

War.   Be  patient,  York  :  if  we  conclude  a  peace. 
It  shall  be  with  such  strict  and  severe  covenants. 
As  little  shall  the  Frenchmen  gain  thereby. 

Enter  Charles,  attended;  ALEN90N,  Bastard, 
Reignier,  and  others. 

Char.   Since,  lords  of  England,  it  is  thus  agreed. 
That  peaceful  truce  shall  be  proclaim'd  in  France, 
We  come  to  be  informed  by  yourselves 
What  the  conditions  of  that  league  must  be. 

York.  Speak,  Winchester;  for  boiling  choler  chokes 
The  hollow  passage  of  my  poison'd  voice, 
By  sight  of  these  our  baleful  enemies. 


Childish. 


7  Compassion. 


Scene  V. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


477 


Car.   Charles,  and  the  rest,  it  is  enacted  thus : 
That  —  in  regard  king  Henry  gives  consent, 
Of  mere  compassion,  and  of  lenity. 
To  ease  your  country  of  distressful  war, 
And  suffer  you  to  breathe  in  fruitful  peace,  — 
You  shall  become  true  liegemen  to  his  crown  : 
And  Charles,  upon  condition  thou  wilt  swear 
To  pay  him  tribute,  and  submit  thyself. 
Thou  shalt  be  plac'd  as  viceroy  under  him. 
And  still  enjoy  thy  regal  dignity. 

Alen.   Must  he  be  then  a  shadow  of  himself? 
Adorn  his  temples  with  a  coronet  8  ; 
And  yet,  in  substance  and  authority. 
Retain  but  privilege  of  a  private  man  ? 
This  proffer  is  absurd  and  reasonless. 

Char.  'Tis  known,  already  that  I  am  possess'd 
With  more  than  half  the  Gallian  territories, 
And  therein  reverenc'd  for  their  lawful  king  : 
Shall  I,  for  lucre  of  the  rest  unvanquish'd. 
Detract  so  much  from  that  prerogative. 
As  to  be  called  but  viceroy  of  the  whole  ? 
No,  lord  ambassador ;   I'll  rather  keep 
That  which  I  have,  than,  coveting  for  more. 
Be  cast  from  possibility  of  all. 

York.  Insulting  Charles!  hastthou  by  secret  means 
Used  intercession  to  obtain  a  league ; 
And,  now  the  matter  grows  to  compromise, 
Stand'st  thou  aloof  upon  comparison  ? 
Either  accept  the  title  thou  usurp'st. 
Of  benefits  proceeding  from  our  king. 
And  not  of  any  challenge  of  desert. 
Or  we  will  plague  thee  with  incessant  wars. 

Iteig.   My  lord,  you  do  not  well  in  obstinacy 
To  cavil  in  the  course  of  this  contract : 
If  once  it  be  neglected,  ten  to  one, 
We  shall  not  find  like  opportunity. 

Alen.   To  say  the  truth,  it  is  your  policy, 
To  save  your  subjects  from  such  massacre. 
And  ruthless  slaughters,  as  are  daily  seen 
By  our  proceeding  in  hostility  : 
And  therefore  take  this  compact  of  a  truce. 
Although  you  break  it  when  your  pleasure  serves. 
[Aside  to  Charles. 

War.   How  say'st  thou,  Charles  ?  shall  our  con- 
dition stand  ? 

C/iar.   It  shall  : 
Only  reserv'd,  you  claim  no  interest 
In  any  of  our  towns  of  garrison. 

York.   Then  swear  allegiance  to  his  majesty ; 
As  thou  art  knight  never  to  disobey, 
Nor  be  rebellious  to  the  crown  of  England, 
Thou  nor  thy  nobles,  to  the  crown  of  England.  — 
[Charles,  and  the  rest,  give  tokens  offefdty. 
So  now  dismiss  your  army  when  you  please ; 
Hang  up  your  ensigns,  let  your  drums  be  still. 
For  here  we  entertain  a  solemn  peace.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Kino  Henry  in  conference  mth  Siffolk  ; 

Gloster,  and  'ExETER,J'uUou-iiig. 
K.  Hen.   Your  wond'rous  rare  description,  noble 

earl. 
Of  beauteous  Margaret  liath  astonish'd  me  : 
Her  virtues,  graced  with  external  gifts. 
Do  breed  love's  settled  passions  in  my  heart : 
And  like  as  rigour  in  tempestuous  gusts 
Provokes  the  mightiest  hulk  against  the  tide  ; 

*  Coronet  is  here  used  for  crown. 

9  "  Be  content  to  live  M  the  beneficiary  of  our  king." 


So  am  I  driven,  by  breath  of  her  renown, 
Either  to  suffer  shipwreck,  or  arrive 
Where  I  may  have  fruition  of  her  love. 

Suf.   Tush  !  my  good  lord  !  this  superficial  tale 
Is  but  a  preface  of  her  worthy  praise  : 
The  chief  perfections  of  that  lovely  dame, 
(Had  I  sufficient  skill  to  utter  them,) 
Would  make  a  volume  of  enticing  lines. 
Able  to  ravish  any  dull  conceit. 
And,  which  is  more,  she  is  not  so  divine. 
So  full  replete  with  choice  of  all  delights. 
But,  with  as  humble  lowliness  of  mind. 
She  is  content  to  be  at  your  command ; 
Command,  I  mean,  of  virtuous  chaste  intents. 
To  love  and  honour  Henry  as  her  lord. 

K.  Hen.  And  otherwise  will  Henry  ne'er  presume. 
Therefore,  my  lord  protector,  give  consent. 
That  Margaret  may  be  England's  royal  queen. 

Glo.   So  should  I  give  consent  to  flatter  sin. 
You  know,  my  lord,  your  highness  is  betroth'd 
Unto  another  lady  of  esteem  ; 
How  shall  we  then  dispense  with  that  contr^t, 
And  not  deface  your  honour  with  reproach  ? 

Svf.   As  doth  a  ruler  with  unlawful  oaths  ; 
Or  one,  that,  at  a  triumph  '  having  vow'd 
To  try  his  strength,  forsaketh  yet  the  lists 
By  reason  of  his  adversary's  odds  : 
A  poor  earl's  daughter  is  unequal  odds. 
And  therefore  may  be  broke  without  offence. 

Glo.  Why,  what,  I  pray,  is  Margaret  more  than  that  ? 
Her  father  is  no  better  than  an  earl. 
Although  in  glorious  titles  he  excel. 

Suf.   Yes,  my  good  lord,  her  father  is  a  king, 
The  king  of  Naples,  and  Jerusalem ; 
And  of  such  great  authority  in  France, 
As  his  alliance  will  confirm  our  peace, 
And  keep  the  Frenchmen  in  allegiance. 

Glo.   And  so  the  earl  of  Armagnac  may  do. 
Because  he  is  near  kinsman  unto  Charles. 

Exe.  Beside,  his  wealth  doth  warrant  liberal  dower ; 
While  Reignier  sooner  will  receive,  than  give. 

S^f.  A  dower,  my  lords !  disgrace  not  so  your  king, 
That  he  should  be  so  abject,  base,  and  poor. 
To  choose  for  wealth,  and  not  for  perfect  love. 
Henry  is  able  to  enrich  his  queen. 
And  not  to  seek  a  queen  to  make  him  rich  : 
So  worthless  peasants  bargain  for  their  wives. 
As  market-men  for  oxen,  sheep,  or  horse, 
Marriage  is  a  matter  of  more  worth. 
Than  to  be  dealt  in  by  attorneyship  ; 
Not  whom  we  will,  but  whom  his  grace  affects, 
Must  be  companion  of  his  nuptial  bed  : 
And  therefore,  lords,  since  he  affects  her  most. 
It  most  of  all  these  reasons  bindeth  us. 
In  our  opinions  she  should  be  preferr'd. 
For  what  is  wedlock  forced,  but  a  hell. 
An  age  of  discord  and  continual  strife? 
Whereas  the  contrary  bringetli  forth  bliss. 
And  is  a  pattern  of  celestial  peace. 
Whom  should  we  match  with  Henry,  being  a  king. 
But  Margaret,  that  is  daughter  to  a  king  ? 
Her  peerless  feature,  joined  with  her  birth. 
Approves  her  fit  for  none,  but  for  a  king ; 
Her  valiant  courage,  and  undaunted  spirit, 
(More  tlian  in  women  commonly  is  seen,) 
Will  answer  our  hope  in  issue  of  a  king ; 
For  Henry,  son  unto  a  conqueror, 
Is  likely  to  beget  more  conquerors, 

I  A  triumph  then  (ignified  a  public  exhibition ;  such  as  a 
mask,  or  revel 


478 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


Act  V. 


If  with  a  lady  of  so  high  resolve, 
As  is  fair  Margaret,  he  be  link'd  in  love. 
Then  yield,  my  lords ;  and  here  conclude  with  me. 
That  Margaret  shall  be  queen,  and  none  but  she. 
K,  Hen.   Whether  it  be  through  force  of  your 
report, 
My  noble  lord  of  Suffolk  ;  or  for  that 
My  tender  youth  was  never  yet  attaint 
With  any  passion  of  inflaming  love, 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  this  I  am  assur'd, 
I  feel  such  sharp  dissension  in  my  breast, 
Such  fierce  alarums  both  of  hope  and  fear. 
As  I  am  sick  with  working  of  my  thoughts. 
Take,  therefore,  shipping;  post,  my  lord,  to  France; 
Agree  to  any  covenants ;  and  procure 
That  lady  Margaret  do  vouchsafe  to  come 
To  cross  the  seas  to  England,  and  be  crown'd 
King  Henry's  faithful  and  anointed  queen  : 
For  your  expenses  and  sufficient  charge, 


Among  the  people  gather  up  a  tenth. 

Begone,  I  say ;  for,  till  you  do  return, 

I  rest  perplexed  with  a  thousand  cares.  — 

And  you,  good  uncle,  banish  all  offence : 

If  you  do  censure'^  me  by  what  you  were, 

Not  what  you  are,  I  know  it  will  excuse 

This  sudden  execution  of  my  will. 

And  so  conduct  me,  where  from  company, 

I  may  revolve  and  ruminate  my  grief.  \Exit. 

Glo.   Ay,  grief,  I  fear  me,  both  at  first  and  last. 
\Exeunt  Glostek.  and  Exeter. 

Suf.  Thus  Suffolk  hath  prevail'd:  and  thus  he  goes. 
As  did  the  youthful  Paris  once  to  Greece ; 
With  hope  to  find  the  like  event  in  love. 
But  prosper  better  than  the  Trojan  did. 
Margaret  shall  now  be  queen,  and  rule  the  king ; 
But  I  will  rule  both  her,  the  king,  and  realm. 

2  Judge. 


a^ 


SECOND  PART  OF 

KING   HENRY   VL 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  Henry  the  Sixth. 

Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloster,  his  Uncle. 

Cardinal  Beaufort,  ^is/iop  o/"  Winchester,  great 

Uncle  to  the  King. 
Richard  Plantagenet,  Duke  of  York. 
Edward  and  Richard,  his  Sons. 
Duke  of  Somerset, 


^of  the  ITing's  Party. 


■  the  York  Faction. 


Duke  of  Suffolk, 

Duke  of  Buckingham, 

Lord  Clifford, 

Young  Clifford,  his  Son,^ 

Earl  of  Salisbury,  ")     ~ 

Earl  of  Warwick,    J  -^ 

Lord  Scales,  Governor  of  the  Tower. 

Lord  Say. 

Sir  Humphrey  Stafford,  and  his  Brother. 

Sir  John  Stanley. 

ul  Sea- Captain,    Master,   and   Masters   Mate, 

Walter  Whitmore. 
Two  Gentlemen,  Prisoners  with  Suffolk. 
^  Herald, 
Vaux. 


aJid 


Hume  and  Southwell, ^u>o  Priests. 

BoLiNGBROKE,  a  ConjurcT. 

A  Sjnrit  raised  by  him. 

Thomas  Horner,  an  Armourer. 

Peter,  his  Man. 

Clerk  of  Chatham. 

Mayor  of  Saint  Alban's. 

SiMPCox,  an  Impostor. 

Two  Murderers. 

Jack  Cade,  a  Rebel. 

George,  John,  Dick,  Smith  the  Weaver,  Michael, 

^c.  his  Followers. 
Alexander  Iden,  a  Kentish  Gentleman. 

Margaret,  Queen  to  King  Henry. 
Eleanor,  Duchess  of  Gloster. 
Margery  Jourdain,  a  Witch. 
Wife  to  Simpcox. 

Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants;  Petitioners,  Alder- 
men, a  Beadle,  Sheriff",  and  Officers,  Citizens,  Pren- 
tices, Falconers,  Guards,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  c^c 


SCENE,  dispersedly  in  various  Parts  of  England . 


w 


n 


^ 


HKNCIt    WJLI,   I    DRAO    THBK    HKAULONO    BY    IHE    BtKIM. 

SECOND   PART  OF 

KING    HENRY    VI, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I. —  London.     ^  Room  of  Stale  in  the 
Palace. 

FUnivish  of  Truntpets;  then  Hautboys.  Enter,  on 
one  side.  King  Henry,  Duke  or  Gloster,  Salis- 
bury, Warwick,  and  Cardinal  Beaufort;  on 
t/ie  other.  Queen  Margaret,  led  in  hy  Suffolk  ; 
York,  Somerset,  Buckingham,  and  others,  fol- 
lowing. 

Suff.    As  hy  your  high  imperial  majesty 
I  had  in  charge,  at  my  depart  for  France, 
As  procunitor  to  your  excellence. 
To  marry  ])rincess  IVIargiu-et  for  your  grace ; 
vSo  in  the  famous  ancient  city.  Tours,  — 
In  presence  of  the  kings  of  France  and  Sicil, 
The  dukes  of  Orleans,  Calaher,  Bretaigne,  Alen(;on, 
Seven  earls,twel ve  harons,  twenty  reverend hishops, — 
I  have  perform'd  my  task,  and  was  espous'd  : 
And  humhly  now  upon  my  hended  knee. 
In  sight  of  England,  and  her  lordly  peers. 


Deliver  up  my  title  in  the  queen 

To  your  most  gracious  hands,  that  are  the  substance 

Of  that  great  shadow  I  did  represent ; 

The  happiest  gift  that  ever  marquess  gave, 

The  fairest  queen  that  ever  king  receiv'd. 

K.  Hen.  Suffolk,  arise.  —  Welcome,  queen  Mar- 
garet : 
I  can  express  no  kinder  sign  of  love. 
Than  this  kind  kiss.  —  O  Lord,  that  lends  me  life, 
I^end  me  a  heart  replete  with  thankfulness ! 
For  thou  hast  given  me,  in  this  l>eauteous  face, 
A  world  of  earthly  blessings  to  my  soul. 
If  sympathy  of  love  unite  our  thoughts. 

Q.  Mar.  Great  king  of  England,  and  my  gracious 
lord; 
The  mutual  conference  tliat  my  mind  hath  liad  — 
By  day,  by  night,  waking,  and  in  my  dreams ; 
In  courtly  company,  or  at  my  beads, — 
With  you,  mine  alder-liefest  '  sovereign, 

'    Holovot)  abovi'  nil  thin^. 


480 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  1. 


Makes  me  the  bolder  to  salute  my  king 
With  ruder  terms  ;  such  as  my  wit  affords, 
And  over-joy  of  heart  doth  minister. 

K.  Hen.   Her  sight  did  ravish  :  but  her  grace  in 
speech, 
Her  words  y-clad  with  wisdom's  majesty, 
Makes  me,  from  wondering,  fall  to  weeping  joys  ; 
Such  is  the  fulness  of  my  heart's  content.  — 
Lords  with  one  cheerful  voice  welcome  my  love. 
All.   Long  live  queen  Margaret,  England's  hap- 
piness ! 
Q..  Mar.   We  thank  you  all.  \^Flourish. 

Suf.   My  lord  protector,  so  it  please  your  grace. 
Here  are  the  articles  of  contracted  peace, 
Between  our  sovereign  and  the  French  king  Charles, 
For  eighteen  months  concluded  by  consent. 

Glo.  [Reads.]  Imprimh,  It  is  agreed,  between  the 
French  king,  Charles,  and  Willi'im  de  la  Poole,  mar- 
quess of  Stiff'olk,  ambassador  for  Henry  king  of  Eng- 
land, —  that  the  said  Henry  shall  espouse  the  lady 
Margaret,  daughter  unto  Reignier  king  of  Naples, 
Sicilia,  and  Jerusalem  ;  and  crown  her  queen  of  Eng- 
land, ere  the  thirtieth  of  May  next   ensuing. 

Item,  —  That  the  duchy  of  Anjou  and  the  county  of 
Maine,  shall  he  released  and  delivered  to  the  king  her 

father 

K.  Hen.   Uncle,  how  now  ? 

Glo.  Pardon  me,  gracious  lord  ; 

Some  sudden  qualm  hath  struck  me  at  the  heart, 
And  dimm'd  mine  eyes,  that  I  can  read  no  furtlier. 
K.  Hen.  Uncle  of  Winchester,  I  pray  read  on. 
Car.  Itein,  —  It  is  further  agreed  between  them,  — 
that  the  duchies  of  Anjou  and  Maine  shall  be  released 
and  delivered  over  to  the  king  her  father ;  and  she  sent 
over  of  the  king  of  England's  own  proper  cost  and 
charges,  without  having  dowry. 

K.  Hen.   They  please  us  well.  —  Lord  marquess 
kneel  down ; 
We  here  create  thee  the  first  duke  of  Suffolk, 
And  girt  thee  with  the  sword.  — 
Cousin  of  York,  we  here  discharge  your  grace 
From  being  regent  in  the  parts  of  France, 
Till  term  of  eighteen  months  be  full  expir'd.  — 
Thanks,    uncle    Winchester,    Gloster,    York,    and 

Buckingham, 
Somerset,  Salisbury,  and  Warwick  ; 
We  thank  you  all  for  this  great  favour  done. 
In  entertainment  to  my  princely  queen. 
Come,  let  us  in,  and  with  all  speed  provide 
To  see  her  coronation  be  perform'd. 

[Exeunt  King,  Queen,  aiid  Suffolk. 
Glo.  Brave  peers  of  England,  pillars  of  the  state, 
To  you  duke  Humphrey  must  unload  his  grief, 
Your  grief,  the  common  grief  of  all  the  land. 
What !  did  my  brother  Henry  spend  his  youth. 
His  valour,  coin,  and  people  in  the  wars  ? 
Did  he  so  often  lodge  in  open  field. 
In  winter's  cold,  and  summer's  parching  heat, 
To  conquer  France,  his  true  inheritance  ? 
And  did  my  brother  Bedford  toil  his  wits. 
To  keep  by  policy  what  Henry  got  ? 
Have  you  yourselves,  Somerset,  Buckingham, 
Brave  York,  Salisbury,  and  victorious  Warwick, 
Receiv'd  deep  scars  in  France  and  Normandy  ? 
Or  hath  my  uncle  Beaufort,  and  myself. 
With  all  the  learned  council  of  the  realm, 
Studied  so  long,  sat  in  the  council-house, 
Early  and  late,  debating  to  and  fro 
How  France  and  Frenchmen  might  be  kept  in  awe  ? 
And  hath  his  highness  in  his  infancy 


Been  crown'd  in  Paris,  in  despite  of  foes  ? 
And  shall  these  labours,  and  these  honours,  die? 
Shall  Henry's  conquest,  Bedford's  vigilance, 
Your  deeds  of  war,  and  all  our  counsel,  die  ? 

0  peers  of  England,  shameful  is  this  league  ! 
Fatal  this  marriage,  cancelling  your  tame  : 
Blotting  your  names  from  books  of  memory  : 
Razing  the  characters  of  your  renown  ; 
Defacing  monuments  of  conquer'd  France  ; 
Undoing  all,  as  all  had  never  been  ! 

Car,   Nephew,  what  means  this  passionate  dis- 
course ? 
This  peroration  with  such  circumstance  ?  '^ 
For  France,  'tis  ours ;  and  we  will  keep  it  still. 

Glo.   Ay,  uncle,  we  will  keep  it,  if  we  can  ; 
But  now  it  is  impossible  we  should  : 
Suflfblk,  the  new-made  duke  that  rules  the  roast. 
Hath  given  the  duchies  of  Anjou  and  Maine, 
Unto  the  poor  king  Reignier,  whose  large  style 
Agrees  not  with  the  leanness  of  his  purse. 

Sal.  Now,  by  the  death  of  him  that  died  for  all. 
These  counties  were  the  keys  of  Normandy :  — 
But  wherefore  weeps  Warwick,  my  valiant  son  ? 

War,   For  grief,  that  they  are  past  recovery : 
For,  were  there  hope  to  conquer  them  again. 
My  sword  should  shed  hot  blood,  mine  eyes  no  tears, 
Anjou  and  Maine,  myself  did  win  them  both  ; 
Those  provinces  these  arms  of  mine  did  conquer : 
And  are  the  cities,  that  I  got  with  wounds, 
Deliver'd  up  again  with  peaceful  words  ? 

York.  For  Suffolk's  duke  —  may  he  be  suffocate, 
That  dims  the  honour  of  this  warlike  isle  ! 
France  should  have  torn  and  rent  my  very  heart. 
Before  I  would  have  yielded  to  this  league. 

1  never  read  but  England's  kings  have  had 
Large  sums  of  gold,  and  dowries,  with  their  wives  : 
And  our  king  Henry  gives  away  his  own. 

To  match  with  with  her  that  brings  no  vantages. 

Glo.    A  proper  jest,  and  never  heard  before. 
That  Suffolk  should  demand  a  whole  fifteenth. 
For  cost  and  charges  in  transporting  her  ! 
She   should  have  staid  in   France,  and  starv'd  in 

France, 
Before 

Car.   My  lord  of  Gloster,  now  you  grow  too  hot ; 
It  was  the  pleasure  of  my  lord  the  king. 

Glo.   My  lord  of  Winchester,  I  know  your  mind  ; 
'Tis  not  my  speeches  that  you  do  mislike. 
But  'tis  my  presence  that  doth  trouble  you. 
Rancour  will  out :    Proud  prelate,  in  thy  face 
I  see  thy  fury  :   if  1  longer  stay. 
We  shall  begin  our  ancient  bickerings.  3  — 
Lordings  farewell ;  and  say,  when  I  am  gone, 
I  prophesied  —  France  will  be  lost  ere  long.     [  Exit. 

Car.    So,  there  goes  our  protector  in  a  rage. 
'Tis  known  to  you,  he  is  mine  enemy  : 
Nay,  more,  an  enemy  unto  you  all ; 
And  no  great  friend,  I  fear  me,  to  the  king. 
Consider,  lords,  he  is  the  next  of  blood, 
And  heir  apparent  to  the  English  crown  ; 
Had  Henry  got  an  empire  by  his  marriage. 
And  all  the  wealthy  kingdoms  of  the  west. 
There's  reason  he  should  be  displeas'd  at  it. 
Look  to  it,  lords  !  let  not  his  smoothing  words-^ 
Bewitch  your  hearts ;  be  wise,  and  circumspect. ' 
What  though  the  common  people  favour  him. 
Calling  him  —  Humphrey,  the  good  duke  of  Gloster; 
Clapping  their  hands,  and  crying  with  loud  voice  — 

2  This  speech,  crowded  with  so  many  circumstances  ol 
aggravation.  ^  Skirmishings. 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


481 


May  lieaven  preserve  the  good  duke  Humphrey  / 
I  fear  me,  lords,  for  all  this  flattering  gloss, 
He  will  be  found  a  dangerous  protector. 

Buck.  Why  should  he  then  protect  our  sovereign. 
He  being  of  age  to  govern  of  himself? 
Cousin  of  Somerset,  join  you  with  me, 
And  all  together —  with  the  duke  of  Suffolk,  — 
We'll  quickly  hoise  duke  Humphrey  from  his  seat. 

Car.  This  weighty  business  will  not  brook  delay  ; 
I'll  to  tlie  duke  of  Suflblk  presently.  [Exit. 

Som.  Cousin  of  Buckingham,  though  Humphrey's 
pride, 
And  greatness  of  his  place,  be  grief  to  us, 
Yet  let  us  watch  the  haughty  cardinal ; 
His  insolence  is  more  intolerable 
Than  all  princes  in  the  land  beside  ; 
If  Gloster  be  displac'd,  he'll  be  protector. 

Buck.  Or  thou,  or  I,  Somerset,  will  be  protector, 
Despite  duke  Humphrey,  or  the  cardinal. 

[Exeunt  Buckingham  and  Somerset. 

Sal.    Pride  went  before,  ambition  follows  him. 
While  these  do  labour  for  their  own  preferment. 
Behoves  it  us  to  labour  for  the  realm. 
I  never  saw  but  Humphrey  duke  of  Gloster 
Did  bear  him  like  a  noble  gentleman. 
Oft  have  I  seen  the  haughty  cardinal  — 
More  like  a  soldier,  than  a  man  o'the  church. 
As  stout,  and  proud,  as  he  were  lord  of  all,  — 
Swear  like  a  ruflSan,  and  demean  liimself 
Unlike  the  ruler  of  a  commonweal.  — 
Warwick,  my  son,  the  comfort  of  my  age  ! 
Thy  deeds,  thy  plainness,  and  thy  house-keeping, 
Hath  won  the  greatest  favour  of  the  commons, 
Excepting  none  but  good  duke  Humphrey.  — 
And,  brother  York,  thy  acts  in  Ireland, 
In  bringing  them  to  civil  discipline  ; 
Thy  late  exploits,  done  in  the  heart  of  France, 
When  thou  wert  regent  for  our  sovereign, 
Have  made  thee  fear'd,  and  honour'd,  of  the  peo- 
ple :  — 
Join  we  together,  for  the  public  good  ; 
In  what  we  can  to  bridle  and  suppress 
The  pride  of  Suffolk,  and  the  cardinal, 
With  Somerset's  and  Buckingham's  ambition  ; 
And,  as  we  may,  cherish  duke  Humphrey's  deeds, 
While  they  do  tend  the  profit  of  the  land. 

]\^ar.  So  God  help  Warwick,  as  he  loves  the  land, 
And  common  profit  of  his  country  ! 

York,  A  nd  so  says  York,  for  he  hath  greatest  cause. 

Sal.   Then  let's  make  haste  away,  and  look  unto 
the  main. 

[Exeunt  Warwick  and  Salisbury. 

York.   Anjou  and  Maine  are  given  to  the  French  ; 
Paris  is  lost ;  the  state  of  Normandy 
Stands  on  a  tickle  •*  point,  now  they  are  gone  : 
Suffolk  concluded  on  the  articles  ; 
The  peers  agreed  ;  and  Henry  was  well  pleas'd. 
To  change  two  dukedoms  for  a  duke's  fair  daughter. 
I  cannot  blame  them  all ;  What  is't  to  them  ? 
'Tis  thine  they  give  away,  and  not  their  own. 
I'irates  may  make  cheap  penny  worths  of  their  pillage. 
And  purchase  friends,  and  give  to  courtezans. 
Still  revelling,  like  lords,  till  all  be  gone; 
While  as  the  silly  owner  of  the  goods 
Weeps  over  them,  and  wrings  his  hapless  hands. 
And  shakes  his  head,  and  trembling  stands  aloof, 
While  all  is  shar'd,  and  all  is  borne  away  ; 
Ready  to  starve,  and  dare  not  touch  his  own. 
So  York  must  sit,  and  fret,  and  bite  his  tongue, 
*  For  ticklish. 


While  his  own  lands  are  bargain'd  for,  and  sold. 
Methinks,  the  realms  of  England,  France,  and  Ire- 
land, 
Bear  that  proportion  to  my  flesh  and  blood, 
As  did  the  fatal  brand  Althea  burn'd, 
Unto  tlie  prince's  heart  of  Calydon.^ 
Anjou  and  Maine,  both  given  unto  the  French! 
Cold  news  for  me ;  for  I  had  hope  of  France, 
Even  as  I  have  of  fertile  England's  soil. 
A  day  will  come,  when  York  shall  claim  his  own  ; 
And  therefore  I  will  take  the  Nevils'  paits. 
And  make  a  show  of  love  to  proud  duke  Humphrey, 
And,  when  I  spy  advantage,  claim  the  crown. 
For  that's  the  golden  mark  I  seek  to  hit : 
Nor  shall  proud  Lancaster  usurp  my  right, 
Nor  hold  his  scepter  in  his  childish  fist, 
Nor  wear  the  diadem  upon  his  head. 
Whose  church-like  humours  fit  not  for  a  crown. 
Then,  York,  be  still  awhile,  till  time  do  serve  : 
W^atch  thou,  and  wake,  when  others  be  asleep. 
To  pry  into  the  secrets  of  the  state  ; 
Till  Henry,  surfeiting  in  joys  of  love, 
With  his  new  bride,  and  England's  dear-bought  queen, 
And  Humphrey  with  the  peers  be  fall'n  at  jars : 
Then  will  I  raise  aloft  the  milk-white  rose, 
With  whose  sweet  smell  the  air  shall  be  perfum'd  ; 
And  in  my  standard  bear  the  arms  of  York, 
To  grapple  with  the  house  of  Lancaster  ; 
And,  force  perforce,  I'll  make  him  yield  the  crown. 
Whose  bookish  rule  hath  puU'd  fair  England  down. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  ^  Room  in  the  Duke  of  Gloster'* 
House. 

Enter  Gloster  and  the  Duchess. 

Duch.  Why  droops  my  lord,  like  over-ripen'd  corn, 
Hanging  the  head  at  Ceres'  plenteous  load  ? 
Why  doth  the  great  duke  Humphrey  knit  his  brows, 
As  frowning  at  the  favours  of  the  world  ? 
Why  are  thine  eyes  fix'd  to  the  sullen  earth. 
Gazing  on  that  which  seems  to  dim  thy  sight  ? 
What  scest  thou  there  ?  king  Henry's  diadem, 
Enchas'd  with  all  the  honours  of  the  world  ? 
If  so,  gaze  on,  and  grovel  on  thy  face. 
Until  thy  head  be  circled  with  the  same. 
Put  forth  thy  hand,  reach  at  the  glorious  gold  :  — 
What,  is't  too  short?  I'll  lengthen  it  with  mine  : 
And,  having  both  together  heav'd  it  up. 
We'll  both  together  lift  our  heads  to  heaven  ; 
And  never  more  abase  our  sight  so  low, 
As  to  vouchsafe  one  glance  unto  the  ground. 

Glo.  O  Nell,  sweet  Nell,  if  thou  dost  love  thy  lord, 
Banish  the  canker  of  ambitious  thoughts  : 
And  may  that  thought,  when  I  imagine  ill 
Against  my  king  and  nephew,  virtuous  Henry, 
Be  my  last  breathing  in  this  mortal  world ! 
My  troublous  dream  this  night  doth  make  me  sad. 

Duch.   What  dream'd  my  lord  ?  tell  me,  and  I'll 
requite  it 
With  sweet  rehearsal  of  my  morning's  dream. 

Glo.   Methought,  tlus  staflT,  mine  office-badge  in 
court. 
Was  broke  in  twain,  by  whom,  I  have  forgot. 
But,  as  I  think,  it  was  by  the  cardinal ; 
And  on  the  pieces  of  the  broken  wand 
Were  plac'd  the  heads  of  Edmond  duke  of  Somerset, 
And  William  de  la  Poole  first  duke  of  Suffolk. 

>  Meleager ;  whose  life  was  to  continue  only  so  long  as  a 
certain  firebrand  should  last.  His  mother  Althea  having 
thrown  it  into  the  fire,  he  expired  in  torment. 


482 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


This  was  my  dream ;  what  it  doth  bode,  Heaven 
knows. 

Duch.   Tut,  this  was  nothing  but  an  argument, 
That  he  that  breaks  a  stick  of  Gloster's  grove, 
Shall  lose  his  head  for  his  presumption. 
But  list  to  me,  my  Humphrey,  my  sweet  duke : 
Methought,  I  sat  in  seat  of  majesty, 
In  the  cathedral  church  of  Westminster, 
And  in  that  chair  where  kings  and  queens  are  crown'd; 
Where  Henry,  and  dame  Margaret,  kneel'd  to  me. 
And  on  my  head  did  set  the  diadem. 

Glo.   Nay,  Eleanor,  then  must  1  chide  outright : 
Presumptuous  dame,  ill-nurtur'd  Eleanor  ! 
Art  thou  not  second  woman  in  the  realm ; 
And  the  protector's  wife,  belov'd  of  him? 
Hast  thou  not  worldly  pleasure  at  command, 
Above  the  reach  or  compass  of  thy  thought  ? 
And  wilt  thou  still  be  hammering  treachery, 
To  tumble  down  thy  husband,  and  thyself. 
From  top  of  honour  to  disgrace's  feet  ? 
Away  from  me,  and  let  me  hear  no  more. 

Duch.  What,  what,  my  lord !  are  you  so  choleric 
With  Eleanor  for  telling  but  her  dream? 
Next  time,  I'll  keep  my  dreams  unto  myself. 
And  not  be  check'd. 

Glo.   Nay,  be  not  angry,  I  am  pleas'd  again. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord  protector,  'tis  his  highness'  pleasure. 
You  do  prepare  to  ride  unto  Saint  Alban's, 
Whereas  ^  the  king  and  queen  do  mean  to  hawk. 

Glo.   I  go.  —  Come,  Nell,  thou  wilt  ride  with  us  ? 

Duch.    Yes,  good  my  lord,  I'll  follow  presently. 
[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Messenger. 
Follow  I  must,  I  cannot  go  before. 
While  Gloster  bears  this  base  and  humble  mind. 
Were  I  a  man,  a  duke,  and  next  of  blood, 
I  would  remove  these  tedious  stumbling-blocks, 
And  smooth  my  way  upon  their  headless  necks  : 
And,  being  a  woman,  I  would  not  be  slack 
To  play  my  part  in  fortune's  pageant. 
Where  are  you  there?  sir  John !  ^  nay,  fear  not,  man, 
We  are  alone  ;  here's  none  but  thee,  and  I. 

Enter  Hume. 
Hume.  May  Heaven  preserve  your  royal  majesty ! 
Duch.  What  say'st  thou,  majesty !  I  am  but  grace. 
Hume.  But,  by  the  grace  of  Heaven,  and  Hume's 
advice, 
Your  grace's  title  shall  be  multiplied. 

Duch.   What  say'st  thou,  man  ?  hast  thou  as  yet 
conferr'd 
With  Margery  Jourdain,  the  cunning  witch ; 
And  Roger  Boiingbroke,  the  conjurer  ? 
And  will  they  undertake  to  do  me  good? 

Hume.  This  they  have  promised, — to  show  your 
highness 
A  spirit  rais'd  from  depth  of  under  ground. 
That  shall  make  answer  to  such  questions, 
As  by  your  grace  shall  be  propounded  him. 

Duch.  It  is  enough  ;  I'll  think  upon  the  questions : 
When  from  Saint  Alban's  we  do  make  return. 
We'll  see  these  things  effected  to  the  full. 
Here,  Hume,  take  this  reward  ;  make  merry,  man. 
With  thy  confederates  in  this  weighty  cause. 

\^Exit  DccHEss. 
Hume.  Hume  must  make  merry  with  the  duchess' 
gold; 
Marry,  and  shall.     But  how  now,  sir  John  Hume? 

6  Where.        7  A  title  frequently  bestowed  on  the  clergy. 


Seal  up  your  lips,  and  give  no  words  but  —  mum  ! 

I'he  business  asketh  silent  secrecy. 

Dame  Eleanor  gives  gold,  to  bring  the  witch  : 

Gold  cannot  come  amiss,  were  she  a  devil. 

Yet  have  I  gold,  flies  from  another  coast : 

I  dare  not  say  from  the  rich  cardinal. 

And  from  tlie  great  and  new-made  duke  of  Suffolk  j 

Yet  I  do  find  it  so  :   for,  to  be  plain. 

They,  knowing  Eleanor's  aspiring  humour, 

Have  hired  me  to  undermine  the  duchess. 

And  buz  these  conjurations  in  her  brain. 

They  say,  a  crafty  knave  does  need  no  broker ; 

Yet  am  I  Suffolk  and  the  cardinal's  broker. 

Hume,  if  you  take  not  heed,  you  shall  go  near 

To  call  them  both  a  pair  of  crafty  knaves. 

Well,  so  it  stands  :    And  thus,  I  fear,  at  last, 

Hume's  knavery,  will  be  the  duchess'  wreck  ; 

And  her  attainture  will  be  Humphrey's  fall : 

Sort  8  how  it  will,  I  shall  have  gold  for  all.     \_Exit* 

SCENE  II I.  —  ^  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Peter,  and  others,  with  Petitions. 

1  Pet.  My  masters,  let's  stand  close ;  my  lord 
protector  will  come  this  way  by-and-by,  and  then 
we  may  deliver  our  supplications  in  the  quill.  9 

2  Pet.  Marry,  the  lord  protect  him,  for  he's  a 
good  man  !   Heaven  bless  him ! 

Enter  Suffolk,  and  Queen  Margaret. 

1  Pet.  Here  'a  comes,  methinks,  and  the  queen 
with  him  :    I'll  be  the  first,  sure. 

2  Pet.  Come  back,  fool ;  this  is  the  duke  of 
Suffolk,  and  not  my  lord  protector. 

Suf.  How  now,  fellow?  wouldst  any  thing  with  me? 

1  Pet.  I  pray  my  lord,  pardon  me  !  1  took  ye  for 
my  lord  protector. 

Q.  Mar.  [Reading  the  superscription.]  To  my 
lord  protector !  are  your  supplications  to  his  lord- 
ship ?     Let  me  see  them  :   What  is  thine  ? 

1  Pet.  Mine  is,  an't  please  your  grace,  against 
John  Goodman,  my  lord  cardinal's  man,  for  keep- 
ing my  house,  and  lands,  and  wife  and  all,  from  me. 

Suf.  Thy  wife  too?  that  is  some  wrong,  indeed.  — 
What's  yours? — What's  here!  [Reads.']  Against  tlie 
duke  of  Suffolk,  for  enclosing  the  commons  of  Melford. 
—  How  now,  sir  knave  ? 

2  Pet.  Alas,  sir,  I  am  but  a  poor  petitioner  of  our 
whole  township. 

Peter.  [Presenting  his  petition.}  Against  my 
master,  Thomas  Horner,  for  saying,  That  the  duke 
of  York  was  rightful  heir  to  the  crown. 

Q.  Mar.  What  say'st  thou?  Did  the  duke  of 
York  say,  he  was  rightful  heir  to  the  crown  ? 

Peter.  That  my  master  was  ?  No,  forsooth  :  my 
master  said,  That  he  was  ;  and  that  the  king  was  an 
usurper. 

Suf.  Who  is  there?  [Enter  Servants.}  —  Take 
this  fellow  in,  and  send  for  his  master  with  a  pur- 
suivant presently  :  —  we'll  hear  more  of  your  matter 
before  the  king.  [Exeunt  Servants,  with  Peter. 

Q.  Mar.  And  as  for  you,  that  love  to  be  protected 
Under  the  wings  of  our  protector's  grace, 
Begin  your  suits  anew,  and  sue  to  him. 

[Tears  the  Petition. 
Away,  base  cullions  !  '    Suffolk,  let  them  go. 

All.    Come,  let's  be  gone.      [Exeunt  Petitioners. 

^  Happen. 

9  With  great  exactness  and  observance  of  form 

1  Scoundrels. 


I 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


iS3 


Q.  Mar.  My  lord  of  Suffolk,  say,  is  this  the  guise, 
Is  this  the  fashion  in  tlie  court  of  England  ? 
Is  this  the  government  of  Britain's  isle. 
And  this  the  royalty  of  Albion's  king? 
What,  shall  king  Henry  be  a  pupil  still. 
Under  the  surly  Gloster's  governance  ? 
Am  I  a  queen  in  title  and  in  style. 
And  must  be  made  a  subject  to  a  duke? 
I  tell  thee,  Poole,  when  in  the  city  Tours 
Thou  ran'st  a  tilt  in  honour  of  my  love, 
And  stol'st  away  the  ladies'  hearts  of  France  ; 
I  thought  king  Henry  had  resembled  thee. 
In  courage,  courtsliip,  and  proportion  : 
But  all  his  mind  is  bent  to  holiness, 
To  number  Ave-Maries  on  his  beads ; 
His  cham])ions  are  —  the  prophets  and  apostles  : 
His  weapons,  holy  saws  "^  of  sacred  writ ; 
His  study  is  his  tilt-yard,  and  his  loves 
Are  brazen  images  of  canonized  saints. 
I  would,  the  college  of  cardinals 
Would  choose  him  pope,  and  carry  him  to  Rome, 
And  set  tJie  triple  crown  upon  his  head; 
Tliat  were  a  state  fit  for  his  holiness. 

Suf.   Madam,  be  patient :  as  I  was  cause 
Your  highness  came  to  England,  so  will  I 
In  England  work  your  grace's  full  content. 

Q.  Mar.   Beside  the  haught  protector,  have  we 
Beaufort, 
Tlie  imperious  churchman;  Somerset,  Buckingham, 
And  grumbling  York  :   and  not  the  least  of  these. 
But  can  do  more  in  England  than  the  king. 

Suf.   And  ho  of  these  that  can  do  most  of  all, 
Cannot  do  more  in  England  than  the  Nevils : 
Salisbury,  and  Warwick,  are  no  simple  peers. 

Q.  Mar.  Notall  these  lords  dovex  me  half  so  much. 
As  that  proud  dame,  the  lord  protector's  wife. 
She  sweeps  it  through  the  court  with  troops  of  ladies, 
More  like  an  empress  than  duke  Humphrey's  wife ; 
Strangers  in  court  do  take  her  for  the  queen  : 
She  bears  a  duke's  revenues  on  her  back, 
And  in  her  heart  she  scorns  her  poverty: 
Shall  I  not  live  to  be  aveng'd  on  her? 
She  vaunted  'mongst  her  minions  t'other  day, 
The  very  train  of  her  worst  wearing-gown 
Was  better  worth  than  all  my  father's  lands, 
Till  Suffolk  gave  two  dukedoms  for  his  daughter. 

Suf.  Madam,  myself  have  lim'd  a  bush  for  her  ; 
And  plac'd  a  quire  of  such  enticing  birds, 
That  she  will  light  to  listen  to  the  lays. 
And  never  mount  to  trouble  you  again. 
So,  let  her  rest :   and,  madam,  list  to  me  ; 
For  I  am  bold  to  counsel  you  in  this. 
Although  we  fancy  not  the  cardinal, 
Yet  must  we  join  with  him,  and  with  the  lords. 
Till  we  have  brought  duke  Humphrey  in  disgrace. 
As  for  the  duke  of  York,  —  this  late  complaint  » 
Will  make  but  little  for  his  benefit: 
So,  one  by  one,  we'll  weed  them  all  at  last. 
And  you  yourself  shall  steer  the  happy  helm. 

Enter  King    Henry,   York,   and    Somkrset,  con- 
versing with  him  ;  Duke  and  Duchkss  of  Glostf.r, 
Cardinal  Beaufort,  Buckingham,  Salisbury, 
and  Warwick. 
K.  Hen.  For  ray  part,  noble  lords,  I  care  not  which ; 

Or  vSomerset,  or  York,  all's  one  to  me. 

York.  If  York  have  ill  demean'd  himself  in  France, 

Tlien  let  him  be  denay'd  *  the  regentsbip. 

«  Sayings. 

3  I.  e.  The  complaint  of  Peter,  the  armourer's  man,  against 
his  master.  <  Denied. 


Som,   If  Somerset  be  unworthy  of  the  place, 
Let  York  be  regent,  I  will  yield  to  him. 

War.  Whether  your  grace  be  worthy,  yea,  or  no, 
Dispute  not  that :    York  is  the  wortliier. 

Car.    Ambitious  Warwick,  let  thy  betters  speak. 

War.   The  cardinal's  not  my  better  in  the  field. 

Buck.  All  in  this  presence,  are  thy  betters,  Warwick. 

War.  Warwick  may  live  to  be  the  best  of  all. 

Sal.    Peace,  son ;  and  show  some  reason, 

Buckingham, 
Why  Somerset  should  be  preferr'd  in  this. 

Q.  Mar.  Because  the  king,  forsooth,  will  have  it  so. 

Glo.   Madam,  the  king  is  old  enough  himself 
To  give  his  censure  ^ ;  these  are  no  woman's  matters. 

Q.  Mar.  If  he  be  old  enough,  what  needs  your  grace 
To  be  protector  of  his  excellence? 

Glo.   Madam,  I  am  protector  of  the  realm  ; 
And,  at  his  pleasure,  will  resign  my  place. 

Suf.    Resign  it  then,  and  leave  thine  insolence. 
Since  thou  wert  king,  (as  who  is  king  but  thou  ?) 
The  commonwealth  hath  daily  run  to  wreck  : 
The  dauphin  hath  prevail'd  beyond  the  seas  ; 
And  all  the  peers  and  nobles  of  the  realm 
Have  been  as  bondmen  to  thy  sovereignty. 

Car.  The  commons  hast  thou  rack'd ;  the  clergy's 
bags 
Are  lank  and  lean  with  thy  extortions. 

Som.  Thy  sumptuous  buildings,   and   thy  wife's 
attire. 
Have  cost  a  mass  of  public  treasury. 

Buck.  Thy  cruelty  in  execution. 
Upon  offenders,  hath  exceeded  law. 
And  left  thee  to  the  mercy  of  the  law. 

Q.  Mar.  Thy  sale  of  offices,  and  towns  in  France, — 
If  they  were  known,  as  the  suspect  is  great,  — 
Would  make  thee  quickly  hop  without  thy  head. 

[Exit  Gloster.      Tne  Queen  drops  her  fan. 
Give  me  my  fan  :  what,  minion  !  can  you  not  ? 

\_Gives  tfte  Duchess  a  box  on  the  ear. 
I  cry  you  mercy,  madam  ;  Was  it  you  ? 

Duch.  Was't  I  ?  yea,  I  it  was,  proud  Frenchwoman ! 

IT.  Hen.  Sweetaunt,  be  quiet:  'twas  against  her  will. 

Duch.   Against  her  will !  Good  king,  look  to't  in 
time; 
She'll  hamper  thee,  and  dandle  thee  like  a  baby : 
But  shall  not  strike  dame  Eleanor  unreveng'd. 

[Exit  Duchess. 

Buck.   Lord  Cardinal,  I  will  follow  Eleanor, 
And  listen  after  Humphrey,  how  he  proceeds : 
She's  tickled  now ;  her  fume  can  need  no  spurs. 
She'll  gallop  fast  enough  to  her  destruction. 

[Exit  Buckingham. 

lie-enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Now,  lords,  my  choler  being  over-blown, 
With  walking  once  about  the  quadrangle, 
I  come  to  talk  of  commonwealth  aflTairs. 
As  for  your  spiteful  false  objections. 
Prove  them,  and  I  lie  open  to  the  law: 
But  Heaven  in  mercy  so  deal  with  my  soul. 
As  I  in  duty  love  my  king  and  country  ! 
But,  to  tlie  matter  that  we  liave  in  hand :  — 
I  say,  my  sovereign,  York  is  meetest  man 
To  be  your  regent  in  the  realm  of  France. 

Suf.   Before  we  make  election,  give  me  leave 
To  show  some  reason,  of  no  little  force. 
That  York  is  most  unmeet  of  any  man. 

York.  I'll  tell  thee,  Suflblk,  why  I  am  unmeet. 
First,  for  I  cannot  flatter  tliee  in  pride : 

^  Censure  here  means  simple  judgment  or  opinioa 
I  i  2 


4.8-i 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


Next,  if  I  be  appointed  for  tlie  place, 
My  lord  of  Somerset  will  keep  me  here, 
Without  discharge,  money,  or  furniture, 
Till  France  be  won  into  the  dauphin's  hands. 
Last  time,  I  danc'd  attendance  on  his  will, 
Till  Paris  was  besieg'd,  famish'd,  and  lost. 

War.   Tliat  I  can  witness,  and  a  fouler  fact 
Did  never  traitor  in  the  land  commit. 

Svf.   Peace,  head-strong  Warwick  ! 

War.   Image   of  pride,  why  should  I  hold  my 
peace  ? 

Enter  Servants  of  Suffolk,  bringing  in  Horner 
and  Peter. 

Suf.   Because  here  is  a  man  accus'd  of  treason  : 
Pray  heaven  the  duke  of  York  excuse  himself ! 

York.    Doth  any  one  accuse  York  for  a  traitor  ? 

A".  Hen.   What  mean'st  thou,  Suffolk  ?  tell  me : 
What  are  these  ? 

Suf.   Please  it  your  majesty,  this  is  the  man 
That  doth  accuse  his  master  of  high  treason  : 
His  words  were  these  ; — that  Richard,  duke  of  York, 
Was  rightful  heir  unto  the  English  crown  ; 
And  that  your  majesty  was  an  usurper. 

JT.  Hen.   Say,  man,  were  these  thy  words  ? 

Hor.  An't  shall  please  your  majesty,  I  never  said 
nor  thought  any  such  matter :  I  am  falsely  accused 
by  the  villain. 

Pet.  By  these  ten  bones,  my  lords,  [Holding  up 
his  hands.'}  he  did  speak  them  to  me  in  the  garret 
one  night,  as  we  were  scouring  my  lord  of  York's 
armour. 

York.    Base  dunghill  villain,  and  mechanical, 
I'll  have  thy  head  for  this  thy  traitor's  speech :  — 
I  do  beseech  your  royal  majesty, 
Let  him  have  all  the  rigour  of  the  law. 

Hor.  Alas,  my  lord,  hang  me,  if  ever  I  spake  the 
words.  My  accuser  is  my  prentice  :  and  when  I 
did  correct  him  for  his  fault  the  other  day,  he  did 
vow  upon  his  knees  he  would  be  even  with  me  : 
I  have  good  witness  of  this ;  therefore,  I  beseech 
your  majesty,  do  not  cast  away  an  honest  man  for 
a  villain's  accusation. 

K.  Hen.    Uncle,  what  shall  we  say  to  this  in  law  ? 

Glo.   This  doom,  my  lord,  if  I  may  judge  :  — 
Let  Somerset  be  regent  o'er  the  French, 
Because  in  York  this  breeds  suspicion  : 
And  let  these  have  a  day  appointed  them 
For  single  combat  in  convenient  place  ; 
For  he  hath  witness  of  his  servant's  malice  : 
This  is  the  law,  and  this  duke  Humphrey's  doom. 

X.  Hen.   Then  be  it  so.      My  lord  of  Somerset, 
We  make  your  grace  lord  regent  o'er  the  French. 

Som.   I  humbly  thank  your  royal  majesty. 

Hor.    And  I  accept  the  combat  willingly. 

Pet.  Alas,  my  lord,  I  cannot  fight ;  for  heaven's 
sake,  pity  my  case  !  the  spite  of  man  prevaileth 
against  me.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  fight  a  blow  : 
O  my  heart ! 

Glo.    Sirrah,  or  you  must  fight,  or  else  be  hang'd. 

A".  Hen.    Away  with  them  to  prison,  and  the  day 
Of  combat  shall  be  the  last  of  the  next  month.  — 
Come,  Somerset,  we'll  see  thee  sent  away. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   IV.  _  The  Duke  of  Gloster's  Garden. 

Elder    Maugery  Jourdain,   Hume,    Southwell, 

and  BOLINGBROKE. 

Hume.  Come,  my  masters ;  the  duchess,  I  tell 
you,  expects  performance  of  your  promises. 


Baling.  Master  Hume,  we  are  therefore  pro- 
vided: will  your  ladyship  behold  and  hear  our 
exorcisms  ?  ^ 

Hume.  Ay;  What  else?  fear  you  not  her  courage. 

Baling.  I  have  heard  her  reported  to  be  a  woman 
of  an  invincible  spirit :  But  it  shall  be  convenient, 
master  Hume,  that  you  be  by  her  aloft,  while  we  be 
busy  below ;  and  so,  I  pray  you,  go,  and  leave  us. 
[Exit  Hume.]  Mother  Jourdain,  be  you  prostrate, 
and  grovel  on  the  earth: — John  Southwell,  read 
you  ;  and  let  us  to  our  work. 

Enter  Duchess,  above. 

Duch.  Well  said,  my  masters  ;  and  welcome  all. 
To  this  geer  7  ;  the  sooner  the  better. 

Baling.    Patience,  good  lady ;  wizards  know  their 
times : 
Deep  night,  dark  night,  the  silent  of  the  night. 
The  time  of  night,  when  Troy  was  set  on  fire  j 
The  time  when  screech-owls  cry,  and  ban-dogs  8 

howl. 
And  spirits  walk,  and  ghosts  break  up  their  graves, 
That  time  best  fits  the  work  we  have  in  hand. 
Madam,  sit  you,  and  fear  not ;  whom  we  raise, 
We  will  make  fast  within  a  hallow'd  verge. 

[Here  they  perform  the  ceremonies  appertainingy 
and  make  the  circle  ;   Bolingbroke,  or  South- 
well, reads,  Conjuro  te,  &c.     It  thunders  and 
lightens  terribly  ;  then  the  Spirit  riseth.} 
Spir.   Adsum. 

M.  Jourd.   Asmath,  answer  that  I  shall  ask  ; 
For,  till  thou  speak,  thou  shalt  not  pass  from  hence. 
Spir.   Ask  what  thou  wilt :  — That  I  had  said  and 

done ! 
Boling.   First,  of  the   king.      What  shaU  of  him 
become  9  [Reading  out  of  a  pajjer. 

Spir.  The  duke  yet  lives  that  Henry  shall  depose ; 
But  him  outlive,  and  die  a  violent  death. 

[As  the  Spirit  speaks,  Southwell  writes  the 
answer. 
Boling.    What  fate  awaits  the  duke  of  Suffolk  ? 
Spir.    By  water  shall  he  die,  and  take  his  end. 
Boling.    What  shall  befall  the  duke  of  Somerset  ? 
Spir.   Let  him  shun  castles  ; 
Safer  shall  he  be  upon  the  sandy  plains, 
i'han  where  castles  mounted  stand. 
Have  done  !  for  more  I  hardly  can  endure. 
Boling.    False  fiend,  avoid ! 

[Thunder  and  lightning.      Spirit  descends. 

Enter  York  and  Buckingham,  hastily,  with  tlieir 
Guards,  and  others. 
York.   Lay  bands  upon  these  traitors,  and  their 
trash. 
Beldame,  I  think,  we  watch'd  you  at  an  inch.  — 
What,  madam,  are  you  there?  the  king  and  com- 
monweal 
Are  deeply  indebted  for  this  piece  of  pains : 
My  lord  protector  will,  I  doubt  it  not. 
See  you  well  guerdon 'd  9  for  these  good  deserts. 

Duch.   Not  half  so  bad  as  thine  to  England's  king. 
Injurious  duke  ;  that  threat'st  where  is  no  cause. 
Buck.  True,  madam,  none  at  all.    What  call  you 
this  ?  [Showing  her  the  papers. 

Away  with  them;  let  them  be  clapp'd  up  close, 

6  By  exorcise,  Shakspeare  invariably  means  to  raise  spirits, 
and  not  to  lay  them. 

7  Matter  or  business.  «  Watch-dog& 
5  Rewarded. 


I 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


485 


And  kept  asunder :  —  You,  nnadam,  shall  with  us :  — 
StatFord,  take  her  to  thee.  — 

[Exit  DvcuKss  Jrom  above. 
We'll  see  your  trinkets  here  all  forth-coming ; 
All.  —  Away ! 

[Exeunt  Guards,  with  Southwell,  Boling- 
BROKE,  tj-c. 

York.  Lord  Buckingham,  metliinks,  you  watch'd 
her  well : 
A  pretty  plot,  well  chosen  to  build  upon  ! 
Now  pray,  my  lord,  let's  see  the  devil's  writ. 
What  have  we  here?  [Reads. 

The  duke  yet  lives,  that  Henry  shall  depose  : 
But  hijn  outlive,  and  die  a  violent  death. 
Why,  this  is  just, 

Aio  te,  ^acida,  Romanes  vincere  posse. 
Well,  to  the  rest : 

TeU  me,  what  fate  awaits  the  duke  of  Siiffblk  f 
By  water  shall  he  die,  and  take  his  end.  — 
What  shall  betide  the  duke  of  Somerset  ? 


Let  him  shun  castles  ; 

Safer  shall  he  be  upon  the  sandy  plains, 

Than  where  castles  mounted  stand* 

Come,  come,  my  lords  ; 

These  oracles  are  hardily  attain'd, 

And  hardly  understood. 

The  king  is  now  in  progress  towards  Saint  Alban's, 

With  him,  the  husband  of  this  lovely  lady  : 

Thither  go  these  news,  as  fast  as  horse  can  carry  them ; 

A  sorry  breakfast  for  my  lord  protector. 

Buck.  Your  grace  shall  give  me  leave,  my  lord  of 
York, 
To  be  the  post,  in  hope  of  his  reward. 

York.  At  your  pleasure,  my  good  lord.  —  Who's 
witliin  there,  ho  ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Invite  my  lords  of  Salisbury,  and  Warwick, 
To  sup  with  me  to-morrow  nigh(.  —  Away  ! 

[Exetint. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE   I.  —  Saint  Alban's. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Queen  Margaret,  Gloster, 
Cardinal,  and  Suffolk,  with  Falconers  hollaing. 

Q.Mar.  Believe  me,  lords,  for  flying  at  the  brook  ', 
I  saw  not  better  sport  these  seven  years'  day  :   - 
Yet,  by  your  leave,  the  wind  was  very  high ; 
And,  ten  to  one,  old  Joan  had  not  gone  out. 

IT.  Hen.   But  what  a  point,  my  lord,  your  falcon 
made. 
And  what  a  pitch  she  flew  above  the  rest !  — 
To  see  how  God  in  all  his  creatures  works  ! 
Yea,  man  and  birds,  are  fain  ^  of  climbing  high. 

Suf.   No  marvel,  an  it  like  your  majesty, 
My  lord  protector's  hawks  do  tower  so  well  j 
They  know  their  master  loves  to  be  aloft. 
And  bears  his  thoughts  above  his  falcon's  pitch. 

Glo.   My  lord,  'tis  but  a  base  ignoble  mind 
That  mounts  no  higher  than  a  bird  can  soar. 

Car.  I  thought  as  much  ;  he'd  be  above  the  clouds. 

Glo.  Ay,  my  lord  cardinal;  How  think  you  by  that? 
Were  it  not  good,  your  grace  could  fly  to  heaven? 

IT.  Hen.   The  treasury  of  everlasting  joy  ! 

Car.  Thy  heaven  is  on  earth ;  thine  eyesand  thoughts 
Beat  on  a  crown,  the  treasure  of  thy  heart ; 
Pernicious  protector,  dangerous  peer. 
That  smooth's!  it  so  with  king  and  commonweal ! 

Glo.  What,  cardinal,  is  your  priesthood  grown 
peremptory  ? 
Tantame  animis  ccelestibus  ins? 
Churchmen  so  hot  ?  good  uncle,  hide  such  malice ; 
With  such  holiness  can  you  do  it? 

Suf.   No  malice,  sir ;  no  more  than  well  becomes 
So  good  a  quarrel,  and  so  bad  a  peer. 

Glo.   As  who,  my  lord  ? 

Siif.  Why,  as  you,  my  lord  ; 

An't  like  your  lordly  lord-protectorship. 

(7/o.  Why,  Suflblk,  England  knows  thine  insolence. 

Q.  Mar.    And  thy  ambition,  Gloster. 

A'.  Hen.  I  pr'ythec,  i>eacc. 

Good  queen  ;  and  whet  not  on  these  furious  peers. 
For  blessed  are  the  peacemakers  on  eartii. 

'  The  falconer's  term  fur  hawking  «t  water-fowl. 
•  Fond 


Car.   Let  me  blessed  for  the  peace  I  make. 
Against  this  proud  protector  with  my  sword ! 

Glo.   'Faith,  holy  uncje,  'would  'twere  come  to 
that !  [Aside  to  the  Cardinal. 

Car.   Marry,  when  thou  dar'st.  [Aside. 

Glo.  Make  up  no  factious  numbers  for  the  matter. 
In  thine  own  person  answer  thy  abuse.  [Aside. 

Car.  Ay,  where  thou  dar'st  not  peep  :   an  if  thou 
dar'st. 
This  eveni  ng  on  the  east  side  of  the  grove.       [Aside. 

K.  Hen.   How  now,  my  lords  ? 

Car.  Believe  me,  cousin  Gloster, 

Had  not  your  man  put  up  the  fowl  so  suddenly. 
We  had  had  more  sport  —  Come  with  thy  two- hand 
sword.  [Aside  to  Gloster. 

Glo.   True,  uncle. 

Car.  A  re  you  advis'd  ? — the  east  side  of  the  grove  ? 

Glo.   Cardinal,  I  am  with  you.  [Aside. 

IT.  Hen.  Why,  how  now,  uncle  Gloster  ? 

Glo.  Talking  of  hawking ;  nothing  else,  my  lord. — 

£".  Hen.   The  winds  grow  high ;  so  do  your  sto- 
machs, lords. 
How  irksome  is  this  musick  to  my  heart ! 
When  such  strings  jar,  what  hope  of  harmony  ? 
I  pray,  my  lords,  let  me  compound  this  strife. 

Enter  an  Inhabitant  of  Saint  Alban's,  crying^ 

A  Miracle ! 
Glo.  What  means  this  noise  ? 
Fellow,  what  miracle  dost  thou  proclaim  ? 
Inhab.    A  miracle  !  a  miracle  ! 
Suf.  Come  to  the  king,  and  tell  him  what  miracle. 
Inhab.    Forsooth,  a  blind  man  at  Saint  Alban's 
shrine. 
Within  this  half  hour,  hath  receiv'd  his  sight ; 
A  man,  that  ne'er  saw  in  his  life  before. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  God  be  prais'd !  that  to  believing 
souls 
Gives  light  in  darkness,  comfort  in  despair ! 
Enter  the  Mayor  of  Saint  Alban'x,  and  his  Brethren  ; 
and  SiMrcox,  borne  betweeti  two  Persons  in  a 
Chair :  his  Wife,  and  a  great  Mv'lit  tide  following. 
Car.    Here  come  the  townsmen  on  procession, 
To  present  your  highness  witli  the  man. 
I  i  3 


486 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


K.  Hen.  Great  is  his  comfort  in  this  earthly  vale, 
Although  by  his  sight  his  sin  be  multiplied. 

GUu  Stand  by,  my  masters,  bring  him  near  the  king. 
His  highness'  pleasure  is  to  talk  with  him. 

K.  Hen.  Good  fellow,  tell  us  here  the  circumstance, 
That  we  for  thee  may  glorify  the  Lord. 
What,  hast  thou  been  long  blind,  and  now  restor'd  ? 
Simp.   Born  blind,  an't  please  your  grace. 
Wife.   Ay,  indeed  was  he. 
Siif.   What  woman  is  this  ? 
Wife.   His  wife,  an't  like  your  worship. 
Glo.   Hadst  thou  been  his  mother,  thou  couldst 

have  better  told. 
jr.  Hen.   Where  wert  thou  born  ? 
Simp.  At  Berwickin  the  north,  an't  like  your  grace. 
IT.  Hen.   Poor  soul !    God's  goodness  hath  been 
great  to  thee : 
Let  never  day  nor  night  unhallow'd  pass, 
But  still  remember  what  the  Lord  hath  done. 
Q.  Mar.   Tell  me,  good  fellow,  cam'st  thou  here 
by  chance. 
Or  of  devotion,  to  this  holy  shrine  ? 

Simp.  God  knows,  of  pure  devotion  ;  being  call'd 
A  hundred  times,  and  oft'ner,  in  my  sleep 
By  good  saint  Alban  ;  who  said,  —  Simpcox  come  ; 
Come,  offer  at  my  shrine,  and  I  will  help  thee. 

Wife.  Most  true,  forsooth ;  and  many  time  and  oft 
Myself  have  heard  a  voice  to  call  him  so. 
Car.   What,  art  thou  lame  ? 

Si7np.  Ay,  God  Almighty  help  me  ! 

Siif.   How  cam'st  thou  so  ? 
Simp.  A  fall  off  a  tree. 

Wife.   A  plum-tree,  master. 
Glo.  How  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ? 

Simp.   O,  born  so,  master. 

Glo.  What,  and  wouldst  climb  a  tree  ? 

Simp.  But  that  in  all  my  life,  when  I  was  a  youth. 
Wife.  Too  true;  and  bought  his  climbing  very  dear. 
Glo.  'Mass,  thou  lov'dst  plums  well,  that  wouldst 

venture  so. 
Simp.  Alas,  good  master,  my  wife  desir'd  some 
damsons. 
And  made  me  climb,  with  danger  of  my  life. 

Glo.  A  subtle  knave  !  but  yet  it  shall  not  serve.  — 
Let  me  see  thine  eyes  :  —  wink  now  ;  —  now  open 

them  :  — 
In  my  opinion  yet  thou  seest  not  well. 

Simp.   Yes,  master,  clear  as  day ;   I  thank  God, 

and  saint  Alban. 
Glo.  Say'st  thou  me  so  ?   What  colour  is  this  cloak 

of? 
Simp.   Red,  master  ;  red  as  blood. 
Glo.   Why,  that's  well  said  :   What  colour  is  my 

gown  of? 
Simp.   Black,  forsooth  ;  coal-black,  as  jet. 
JC.  Hen.  Why  then,  thou  know'st  what  colour  jet 

is  of? 
Siif.   And  yet,  I  think,  jet  did  he  never  see. 
Glo.  But  cloaks,  and  gowns,  before  this  day,  a  many. 
Wife.   Never,  before  this  day,  in  all  his  life. 
Glo.   Tell  me,  sirrah,  what's  my  name  ? 
Simp.   Alas,  master,  1  know  not. 
Glo.   What's  his  name  ? 
Simp.   I  know  not. 
Glo.   Nor  his? 
Simp.   No,  indeed,  master. 
Glo.   What's  thine  own  name  ? 
Simp.  Saunder  Simpcox,  an  if  it  please  you,  master. 
Glo.   Then,  Saunder,  sit  thou  there,  the  lyingest 
knave 


In  Christendom.      If  thou  hadst  been  born  blind, 
Thou  mightst  as  well  have  known  our  names,  as  thus 
To  name  the  several  colours  we  do  wear. 
Sight  may  distinguish  of  colours ;  but  suddenly 
To  nominate  them  all  's  impossible.  ■ 

My  lords,  saint  Alban  here  hath  done  a  miracle  •, 
And  would  ye  not  think  that  cunning  to  be  great 
That  could  restore  this  cripple  to  his  legs  ? 

Simp.    O,  master,  that  you  could  ! 

Glo.  My  masters  of  Saint  Alban's,  have  you  not 
beadles  in  your  town,  and  things  called  whips  ? 

Mai/.   Yes,  my  lord,  if  it  please  your  grace. 

Glo.   Then  send  for  one  presently. 

May.  Sirrah,  go  fetch  the  beadle  hither  straight. 
lExit  an  Attendant. 

Glo.  Now  fetch  me  a  stool  hither  by-and-by.  [A 
stool  brought  out.  ]  Now,  sirrah,  if  you  mean  to  save 
yourself  from  whipping,  leap  me  over  this  stool,  and 
run  away. 

Simp.  Alas,  master,  I  am  not  able  to  stand  alone  : 
You  go  about  to  torture  me  in  vain. 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  the  Beadle. 
Glo.   Well,  sir,  we  must  have  you  find  your  legs. 
Sirrah  beadle,  whip  him  till  he  leap  over  that  same 
stool. 

Bead.  I  will,  my  lord.  —  Come  on,  sirrah  ;  off 
with  your  doublet  quickly. 

Simp.  Alas,  master,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  am  not 
able  to  stand. 

[_After  the  Beadle  hath  hit  him  once,  he  leaps 
over  the  stool,  and  runs  away ;  and  the 
People  follow,  and  cry,  A  Miracle  ! 
K.Hen.  O  God,seestthou  this,  and  bear'st  so  long? 
Q.  Mar.  It  made  me  laugh  to  see  the  villain  run. 
Glo.  Follow  the  knave  ;  and  take  this  drab  away. 
Wife.    Alas,  sir,  we  did  it  for  pure  need. 
Glo.  Let  them  be  whipped  through  every  market 
town,  till  they  come  to  Berwick,  whence  they  came. 
^Exeunt  Mayor,  Beadle,  Wife,  ^c. 
Car.  Duke  Humphrey  has  done  a  miracle  to-day. 
Suf.  True  ;  made  the  lame  to  leap,  and  fly  away. 
Glo.    But  you  have  done  more  miracles  than  1  j 
You  made,  in  a  day,  my  lord,  whole  towns  to  fly. 

Enter  Buckingham. 

K.  Hen.  What  tidings  with  our  cousin  Bucking- 
ham? 

Buck.   Such  as  my  heart  doth  tremble  to  unfold. 
A  sort  3  of  naughty  persons,  vilely  bent,  — 
Under  the  countenance  and  confederacy 
Of  lady  Eleanor,  the  protector's  wife, 
The  ring-leader  and  head  of  all  this  rout,  — 
Have  practis'd  dangerously  against  your  state. 
Dealing  with  witches ;  and  with  conjurers  : 
Whom  we  have  apprehended  in  the  fact ; 
Raising  up  wicked  spirits  from  under  ground. 
Demanding  of  king  Henry's  life  and  death. 
And  other  of  your  highness'  privy  council. 
As  more  at  large  your  grace  shall  understand. 

Car.   And  so,  my  lord  protector,  by  this  means 
Your  lady  is  forthcoming  yet  at  London. 
This  news,  I  think,  hath  turn'd  your  weapon's  edge ; 
'Tis  like,  my  lord,  you  will  not  keep  your  hour. 

[Aside  to  Gloster. 

Glo.   Ambitious  churchman,  leave  to  afflict  my 
heart ! 
Sorrow  and  grief  have  vanquish'd  all  my  powers  : 
And,  vanquish'd  as  I  am,  I  yield  to  thee, 
Or  to  the  meanest  groom. 

3  A  company. 


I 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


487 


K.  Hen.   Alas,  what  mischiefs  work  the  wicked 
ones  ; 
Heaping  confusion  on  their  own  heads  thereby  ! 

Q.  Mar.   Gloster,  see  here  the  taintureof  thy  nest ; 
And,  look,  thyself  be  faultless,  thou  wert  best. 

Glo.   Madam,  for  myself,  to  heaven  I  do  appeal. 
How  I  have  lov'd  my  king,  and  commonweal. 
And,  for  my  wife,  I  know  not  how  it  stands  ; 
Sorry  I  am  to  hear  what  I  have  heard : 
Noble  she  is ;  but  if  she  have  forgot 
Honour,  and  virtue,  and  convers'd  with  such 
As,  like  to  pitch,  defile  nobility, 
I  banish  her  my  bed  and  company  ; 
And  give  her,  as  a  prey,  to  law,  and  shame, 
That  hath  dishonour'd  Gloster's  honest  name. 

A".  Hen.  Well,  for  this  night,  we  will  repose  us  here : 
To-morrow,  toward  London,  back  again. 
To  look  into  tliis  business  thoroughly, 
And  call  these  foul  offenders  to  their  answers; 
And  poise"*  the  cause  injustice'  equal  scales, 
Whose  beam  stands  sure,  whose  rightful  cause  pre- 
vails. [Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  London.     Tfie  Duke  of  York'* 
Garden. 

Enter  York,  Salisbury,  and  Warwick. 

York.   Now,    my  good  lords  of   Salisbury  and 
Warwick, 
Our  simple  supper  ended,  give  me  leave, 
In  this  close  walk,  to  satisfy  myself, 
In  craving  your  opinion  of  my  title. 
Which  is  infallible  to  England's  crown. 

Sal.   My  lord,  I  long  to  hear  it  at  full. 

Ifar.  Sweet  York,  begin :  and  if  thy  claim  be  good, 
The  Nevils  are  thy  subjects  to  command. 

York.   Then  thus:  — 
Edward  the  Third,  my  lords,  had  seven  sons : 
The  first,  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  prince  of  Wales; 
The  second,  William  of  Hatfield  ;  and  the  tliird, 
Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence ;  next  to  whom. 
Was  John  of  Gaunt,  the  duke  of  Lancaster  : 
The  fifth,  was  Edmund  Langley,  duke  of  York ; 
The  sixth,  was  Thomas   of  Woodstock,  duke  of 

Gloster ; 
William  of  Windsor  was  the  seventh,  and  last. 
Edward,  the  Black  Prince,  died  before  his  father  ; 
And  left  behind  him  Richard,  his  only  son. 
Who,  after  Edward  the  Third's  death,  reign'd  as  king ; 
Till  Henry  Bolingbroke,  duke  of  Lancaster, 
The  eldest  son  and  heir  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
Crown'd  by  the  name  of  Henry  the  Fourth, 
Seiz'd  on  the  realm  ;  depos'd  the  rightful  king  ; 
Sent  his  poor  queen  to  France,  from  whence  she  came. 
And  him  to  Pomfret;  where,  as  all  you  know. 
Harmless  Richard  was  murder'd  traitorously. 

ff'ar.    Father,  the  duke  hath  told  the  truth  ; 
Tluis  got  the  house  of  Lancaster  the  crown. 

York.   Which  now  they  hold  by  force,  and  not  by 
right ; 
For  Richard,  the  first  son's  heir  being  dead. 
The  issue  of  the  next  son  should  have  reign'd. 

Sal.  But  William  of  Hatfielddied  without  an  heir. 

York.   The  third  son,  duke  of   Clarence,  (from 
whose  line 
I  claim  the  crown,)  had  issue  —  Philippe,  a  daughter. 
Who  married  Edmund  Mortimer,  earl  of  March  : 
Edmund  had  issue —  Roger,  earl  of  March  : 
Roger  had  issue  —  Edmund,  Anne,  and  Eleanor. 

*  Weigh. 


Sal.   This  Edmund,  in  the  reign  of  Bolingbroke 
As  I  have  read,  laid  claim  unto  the  crown  ; 
And,  but  for  Owen  Glendower,  had  been  king. 
Who  kept  him  in  captivity  till  he  died. 
But,  to  the  rest. 

York.  His  eldest  sister,  Anne, 

My  mother,  being  heir  unto  the  crown. 
Married  Richard,  earl  of  Cambridge ;  who  was  son 
To  Edmund  Langley,  Edward  the  Third's  fiftli  son. 
By  her  I  claim  the  kingdom :   she  was  heir 
To  Roger,  earl  of  March ;  who  was  the  son 
Of  Edmund  Mortimer  ;  who  married  Philippe, 
Sole  daughter  unto  Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence : 
So,  if  the  issue  of  the  elder  son 
Succeed  before  the  younger,  1  am  king. 

fyar.   What   plain    proceedings  are  more  plain 
tlian  this? 
Henry  doth  claim  the  crown  from  John  of  Gaunt, 
The  fourth  son  ;   York  claims  it  from  the  third. 
Till  Lionel's  issue  fails,  his  should  not  reign  : 
It  fails  not  yet ;  but  flourishes  in  thee, 
And  in  thy  sons,  fair  slips  of  such  a  stock.  — 
Then,  father  Salisbury,  kneel  we  both  together ; 
And,  in  this  private  plot  *,  be  we  the  first, 
That  shall  salute  our  rightful  sovereign 
With  honour  of  his  birthright  to  the  crown. 

Both.   Long  live  our  sovereign   Richard,   Eng- 
land's king ! 

York.   We  thank  you,  lords.     But  1  am  not  your 
king 
Till  I  be  crown'd :  and  that  my  sword  be  stain'd 
With  heart-blood  of  the  house  of  Lancaster. 
W^nd  that's  not  suddenly  to  be  perform'd; 
But  with  advice,  and  silent  secrecy. 
Do  you,  as  I  do,  in  these  dangerous  days. 
Wink  at  the  duke  of  Suffolk's  insolence. 
At  Beaufort's  pride,  at  Somerset's  ambition, 
At  Buckingham,  and  all  the  crew  of  them, 
Till  they  have  snar'd  the  shepherd  of  the  flock. 
That  virtuous  prince,  the  good  duke  Humphrey  : 
'Tis  that  they  seek  ;  and  they,  in  seeking  that. 
Shall  find  tlieir  deaths,  if  York  can  prophesy. 

Sal.   My  lord,  break  we  off;  we  know  your  mind 
at  full. 

War.   My  heart  assures  me,  that  the  earl  of  War- 
wick 
Shall  one  day  make  the  duke  of  York  a  king. 

York.  And,  Nevil,  this  I  do  assure  myself,  — 
Richard  shall  live  to  make  the  earl  of  Warwick 
The  greatest  man  in  England,  but  tlie  king. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IIL  —  ^  Hall, f  Justice. 

Trumpets  sotmded.  Enter  King  Henry,  Queen 
Margaret,  Gloster,  York,  Suffolk,  and 
Salisbury;  the  Duchess  of  Gloster,  Margery 
JouRDAiN,  Southwell,  Hume,  and  Boling- 
broke, undei- guard. 

K.  Hen.   Stand    forth,    dame    Eleanor  Cobham, 
Gloster's  wife  : 

In  sight  of  God,  and  us  your  guilt  is  great ; 

Receive  the  sentence  of  the  law  for  sin.  — 

You  four,  from  hence  to  prison  back  again  ; 

[To  JoURDAIN,  ^e* 

From  thence  unto  the  place  of  execution  : 
The  witch  in  Smithfield  shall  l)e  bum'd  to  aslies. 
And  you  three  shall  l>e  strangled  on  the  gallows.  .~m 
You,  madam,  for  you  are  more  nobly  bom, 
Despoiled  of  your  honour  in  your  life, 
>  Sequestered  spot 
I  i  4 


488 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


Shall,  after  three  days'  open  penance  done, 
Live  in  your  country  here,  in  banishment. 
With  sir  John  Stanley,  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Duch.  Welcome  is  banishment,  welcome  were  my 
death. 

Glo.  Eleanor,  the  law,  thou  seest,  hath  judged  thee ; 
I  cannot  justify  whom  the  law  condemns.  — 

[Exeunt  the  Duchess,  and  the  otlier  Prisoners, 
guarded. 
Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  grief. 
Ah,  Humphrey,  this  dishonour  in  thine  age 
Will  bring  thy  head  with  sorrow  to  the  ground ! 
I  beseech  your  majesty,  give  me  leave  to  go ; 
SoiTow  would  6  solace,  and  mine  age  would  ease. 

K.  Hen.   Stay,  Humphrey  duke  of  Gloster  :   ere 
thou  go. 
Give  up  thy  staff' ;   Henry  will  to  himself 
Protector  be  ;  and  God  shall  be  my  hope. 
My  stay,  my  guide,  and  lantern  to  my  feet ; 
And  go  in  peace,  Humphrey  ;  no  less  belov'd, 
Than  when  thou  wert  protector  to  thy  king. 

Q.  Mar.   I  see  no  reason  why  a  king  of  years 
Should  be  to  be  protected  like  a  child.  — 
God  and  king  Henry  govern  England's  helm  : 
Give  up  your  staff",  sir,  and  the  king  his  realm. 

Glo.   My  staff"?  —  here,  noble  Henry,  is  my  staff"; 
As  willingly  do  I  the  same  resign. 
As  e'er  thy  father  Henry  made  it  mine  ; 
And  even  as  willingly  at  thy  feet  I  leave  it, 
As  others  would  ambitiously  receive  it. 
Farewell,  good  king  :    When  I  am  dead  and  gone. 
May  honourable  peace  attend  thy  throne  !        \^Exit. 

Q.  Mar.   Why,  now  is  Henry  king,  and  Margaret 
queen ; 
And  Humphrey,  duke  of  Gloster,  scarce  himself. 
That  bears  so  shrewd  a  main  ;  two  pulls  at  once,  — 
His  lady  banish'd,  and  a  limb  lopp'd  off"; 
This  staff"  of  honour  raught  7  :  —  There  let  it  stand, 
Where  it  best  fits  to  be,  in  Henry's  hand. 

Suf.   Thus  droops  this  lofty  pine,  and  hangs  his 
sprays ; 
Thus  Eleanor's  pride  dies  in  her  youngest  days. 

York.  Lords,  let  him  go.  —  Please  it  your  majesty, 
This  is  the  day  appointed  for  the  combat ; 
And  ready  are  the  appellant  and  defendant. 
The  armourer  and  his  man,  to  enter  the  lists, 
So  please  your  highness  to  behold  the  fight. 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  good  my  lord  ;  for  purposely  therefore 
Left  I  the  court,  to  see  this  quarrel  tried. 

X.  Hen.  Then  let  us  see  the  lists  and  all  things  fit ; 
Here  let  them  end  it,  God  defend  the  right ! 

York.   I  never  saw  a  fellow  worse  bested  ^, 
Or  more  afraid  to  fight,  than  is  the  appellant. 
The  servant  of  this  armourer,  my  lords. 
Enter,  on  one  side,  Horner,  and  his  Neighbours, 

drinking  to  him  so  much  that  he  is  drunk;  and  he 

enters  bearing  his  staff  with  a  sand-bag  fastened  to 

it ;  a  drum  before  him :   at  the  other  side,  Peter, 

tdlh  a  drum  and  a  similar  staff;  accompanied  by 

Prentices  drinking  to  him. 

1  Neigh.  Here,  neighbour  Horner,  I  drink  to 
you  in  a  cup  of  sack  ;  And  fear  not,  neighbour,  you 
shall  do  well  enough. 

2  Neigh.  And  here,  neighbour,  here's  a  cup  of 
chameco.  9 

3  Neigh.  And  here's  a  pot  of  good  double  beer, 
neighbour  :   drink,  and  fear  not  your  man. 


•5  Wishes  for 

s  In  a  worse  plight. 


7  Reached. 

9  A  sort  of  sweet  wine. 


Hor.  Let  it  come,  i'faith,  and  I'll  pledge  you 
all ;   And  a  fig  for  Peter  ! 

1  Fren.  Here,  Peter,  I  drink  to  thee;  and  be 
not  afraid. 

2  Pren.  Be  merry,  Peter,  and  fear  not  thy  mas- 
ter ;  fight  for  credit  of  the  prentices. 

Peter.  I  thank  you  all  :  drink,  and  pray  for  me, 
I  pray  you ;  for,  I  think,  I  have  taken  my  last 
draught  in  this  world.  —  Here,  Robin,  an  if  I  die, 
I  give  thee  my  apron  ;  and.  Will,  thou  shalt  have 
my  hammer:  —  and  here,  Tom,  take  all  the  money 
that  I  have.  O  Lord,  bless  me ;  I  am  never  able 
to  deal  with  my  master,  he  hath  learnt  so  much 
fence  already. 

Sal.  Come,  leave  your  drinking,  and  fall  to  blows. 
—  Sirrah,  what's  thy  name  ?  - 

Peter.   Peter,  forsooth, 

Sal.   Peter  !  what  more  ? 

Peter.   Thump. 

Sal.  Thump!  then  see  thou  thump  thy  master 
well. 

Hor.  Masters,  I  am  come  hither,  as  it  were,  upon 
my  man's  instigation,  to  prove  him  a  knave,  and 
myself  an  honest  man :  and  touching  the  duke  of 
York,  —  will  take  my  death,  I  never  meant  him  any 
ill,  nor  the  king,  nor  the  queen :  And,  therefore, 
Peter,  have  at  thee  with  a  downright  blow,  as  Bevis 
of  Southampton  fell  upon  Ascapart. 

York.   Despatch  :  —  this  knave's  tongue  begins 
to  double. 
Sound  trumpets,  alarum  to  the  combatants. 

[Alarum.      Theyjight,  and  Peter  strikes 
down  his  Master. 

Hor.  Hold,  Peter,  hold!  I  confess,  I  confess 
treason.  [Dies. 

York.  Take  away  his  weapon  :  —  Fellow,  thank 
the  good  wine  in  thy  master's  way. 

Peter.  O  Heaven !  have  I  overcome  mine  ene- 
mies in  this  presence  ?  O  Peter,  thou  hast  prevailed 
in  right ! 

K.  Hen.  Go,  take  hence  that  traitor  from  our  sight ; 
For,  by  his  death,  we  do  perceive  his  guilt : 
And  heaven  injustice,  hath  reveal'd  to  us 
The  truth  and  innocence  of  this  poor  fellow. 
Which  he  had  thought  to  have  murder'd  wrong- 
fully. — 
Come,  fellow,  follow  us  for  thy  reward.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. —^  Street. 
Enter  Gloster  and  Servants,  in  mourning  Cloaks. 

Glo.   Thus,  sometimes,  hath  the  brightest  day  a 
cloud ; 
And,  after  summer,  ever  more  succeeds 
Barren  winter,  with  his  wrathful  nipping  cold  : 
So  cares  and  joys  abound  as  seasons  fleet.  — 
Sirs,  what's  o'clock  ? 

Serv.  Ten,  my  lord. 

Glo.   Ten  is  the  hour  that  was  appointed  me. 
To  watch  the  coming  of  my  punish 'd  duchess : 
Uneath  •  may  she  endure  the  flinty  streets. 
To  tread  them  with  her  tender-feeling  feet. 
Sweet  Nell,  ill  can  thy  noble  mind  abrook 
The  abject  people,  gazing  on  thy  face. 
With  envious  looks,  still  laughing  at  thy  shame  j 
That  erst  did  follow  thy  proud  chariot  wheels, 
When  thou  didst  ride  in  triumph  through  the  streets. 
But,  soft !   I  think,  she  comes  ;  and  I'll  prepare 
My  tear-stain'd  eyes  to  see  her  miseries. 
'  Not  easily. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


489 


Enter  the  Duchess  of  Gloster,  in  a  ivhite  shed, 
with  pajyers  pinrCd  upon  her  back,  her  feet  bare, 
and  a  taper  burniTig  in  her  hand;  Sir  John 
Stanley,  a  Sheriff,  and  Officers. 

Serv.   So  please  your  grace,  we'll  take  her  from 
the  sheriff. 

Glo.  No,  stir  not,  for  your  lives ;  let  her  pass  by. 

Duch.  Come  you,  my  lord,  to  see  my  open  shame? 
Now  thou  dost  penance  too.    Look,  how  tliey  gaze  ! 
See,  how  the  giddy  multitude  do  point, 
And  nod  their  heads,  and  throw  their  eyes  on  thee  ! 
Ah,  Gloster,  hide  thee  from  their  hateful  looks : 
And,  in  thy  closet  pent  up,  rue  my  shame, 
And  ban  2  thine  enemies,  both  mine  and  thine. 

Glo.   Be  patient,  gentle  Nell ;  forget  this  grief. 

Duch.   Ah,  Gloster,  teach  me  to  forget  myself: 
For,  whilst  I  think  I  am  thy  married  wife, 
And  thou  a  prince,  protector  of  this  land, 
Methinks,  I  should  not  thus  be  led  along, 
Mail'd  up- in  shame,  with  papers  on  my  back ; 
And  follow'd  with  a  rabble,  that  rejoice 
To  see  my  tears,  and  here  my  deep-fet  3  groans. 
The  ruthless  flint  doth  cut  my  tender  feet : 
And,  when  I  start,  the  envious  people  laugh, 
And  bid  me  be  advised  how  I  tread. 
Ah,  Humphrey,  can  I  bear  this  shameful  yoke  ? 
Trow'st  thou,  that  e'er  I'll  look  upon  the  world ; 
Or  count  them  happy,  that  enjoy  the  sun  ? 
No  ;  dark  shall  be  my  light,  and  night  my  day ; 
To  think  upon  my  pomp,  shall  be  my  hell. 
Sometime  I'll  say,  I  am  duke  Humphrey's  wife ; 
And  he  a  prince,  and  ruler  of  the  land : 
Yet  so  he  rul'd,  and  such  a  prince  he  was, 
As  he  stood  by,  whilst  I,  his  forlorn  duchess, 
Was  made  a  wonder,  and  a  pointing-stock. 
To  every  idle  rascal  follower. 
But  be  thou  mild,  and  blush  not  at  my  shame  ; 
Nor  stir  at  nothing,  till  the  axe  of  death 
Hang  over  thee,  as,  sure,  it  shortly  will. 
For  Suffolk,  —  he  that  can  do  all  in  all 
With  her,  that  hateth  thee,  and  hates  us  all,  — 
And  York,  and  impious  Beaufort,  that  false  priest, 
Have  all  lim'd  bushes  to  betray  thy  wings, 
And,  fly  thou  how  thou  canst,  they'll  tangle  thee  : 
But  fear  not  tliou,  until  thy  foot  be  snar'd, 
Nor  ever  seek  prevention  of  thy  foes. 

Glo.   Ah,  Nell,  forbear  ;  thou  aimest  all  awry  ; 
I  must  offend,  before  I  be  attainted : 
And  had  I  twenty  times  so  many  foes. 
And  each  of  them  had  twenty  times  their  power. 
All  these  could  not  procure  me  any  scathe  "», 
So  long  as  I  am  loyal,  true,  and  crimeless. 
Wouldst  have  me  rescue  thee  from  this  reproach  ? 
Why,  yet  thy  scandal  were  not  wip'd  away, 
But  I  in  danger  for  the  breach  of  law. 
Thy  greatest  help  is  quiet,  gentle  Nell : 


»  Curse. 


Deep- fetched 


*  Harm,  mischieC 


I  pray  thee,  sort  thy  heart  to  patience  ! 
These  few  days'  wonder  will  be  quickly  worn. 

Enter  a  Herald. 
Her.    I    summon    your   grace   to  his   majesty's 
parliament,  holden  at  Bury  tlie  first  of  this  next 
month. 

Glo.   And  my  consent  ne'er  ask'd  herein  before  ! 
This  is  close  dealing.  —  Well,  I  will  be  there. 

[Exit  Herald. 
My  Nell,  I  take  my  leave  :  —  and,  master  sheriff. 
Let  not  her  penance  exceed  the  king's  commission. 
Sher.   An't  please  your  grace,  here  my  commis- 
sion stays : 
And  sir  John  Stanley  is  appointed  now. 
To  take  her  with  him  to  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Glo.   Must  you,  sir  John,  protect  my  lady  here  ? 
Stan.  So  am  I  given  iu  charge,  may't  please  your 

grace. 
Glo.   Entreat  her  not  the  worse,  in  that  I  pray 
You  use  her  well :   the  world  may  laugh  again  ; 
And  I  may  live  to  do  you  kindness,  if 
You  do  it  her.     And  so,  sir  John,  farewell. 

Duch.   What,  gone,  my  lordj  and  bid  me  not 

farewell  ? 
Gfo.  Witness  my  tears,  I  cannot  stay  to  speak. 

[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Servants. 
Duch.  Art  thou  gone  too  ?  All  comfort  go  with 
thee! 
For  none  abides  with  me  :  my  joy  is  death  ; 
Death,  at  whose  name  I  oft  have  been  afear'd. 
Because  I  wish'd  this  world's  eternity.  — 
Stanley,  I  pr'ythee,  go,  and  take  me  hence ; 
I  care  not  whither,  for  I  beg  no  favour. 
Only  convey  me  where  thou  art  commanded. 

Stan.  Why,  madam,  that  is  to  tlie  Isle  of  Man ; 
There  to  be  used  according  to  your  state. 

Duch.  That's  bad  enough,  for  I  am  but  reproach  : 
And  shall  I  then  be  used  reproachfully  ? 

Stan.   Like  to  a  duchess,  and  duke  Humphrey's 
lady. 
According  to  that  state  you  shall  be  used. 

Duch.  Sheriff,  farewell,  and  better  tlian  I  fare ; 
Although  thou  hast  been  conduct  *  of  my  shame  ! 
Sher,    It  is  my  office,  madam,  pardon  me. 
Duch.  Ay,  ay,  farewell,  thy  office  is  discharg'd.  — 
Come,  Stanley,  shall  we  go? 

Stan.  Madam,  your  penance  done,  throw  off  this 
sheet, 
And  go  we  to  attire  you  for  our  journey. 

Duch.  My  shame  will  not  be  shifted  with  my 
sheet: 
No,  it  will  hang  upon  my  richest  robes. 
And  show  itself,  attire  me  how  I  can. 
Go,  lead  the  way ;   I  long  to  see  my  prison. 

[Exeunt, 

*  Conductor. 


490 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


ACT  III, 


SCENE  I The  Abbey  at  Bury. 

Etiler  to  the  Parliament,  Km G  Henry,  Queen  Mar- 
garet, Cardinal  Beaufort,  Suffolk,  York, 
Buckingham,  a7ul  others. 

K.  Hen.  I  muse  6,  my  lord  of  Gloster  is  not  come : 
'Tis  not  his  wont  to  be  the  hindmost  man, 
Whate'er  occasion  keeps  him  from  us  now. 

Q    Mar.    Can  you  not  see  ?  or  will  you  not  ob- 
serve 
The  strangeness  of  his  alter'd  countenance  ? 
With  what  a  majesty  he  bears  himself; 
How  insolent  of  late  he  is  become, 
How  proud,  peremptory,  and  unlike  himself? 
We  know  the  time  since  he  was  mild  and  affable ; 
And,  if  we  did  but  glance  a  far-off  look. 
Immediately  he  was  upon  his  knee, 
That  all  the  court  admir'd  him  for  submission  : 
But  meet  him  now,  and,  be  it  in  the  mom, 
When  every  one  will  give  the  time  of  day. 
He  knits  his  brow,  and  shows  an  angry  eye, 
And  passeth  by  with  stiff  unbowed  knee. 
Disdaining  duty  that  to  us  belongs. 
Small  curs  are  not  regarded,  when  they  grin ; 
But  great  men  tremble  when  the  lion  roars  ; 
And  Humphrey  is  no  little  man  in  England. 
First,  note,  that  he  is  near  you  in  descent ; 
And  should  you  fall,  he  is  the  next  will  mount. 
Me  seemeth,  then,  it  is  no  policy,^ 
Respecting  what  a  rancorous  mind  he  bears, 
And  his  advantage  following  your  decease, — 
That  he  should  come  about  your  royal  person, 
Or  be  admitted  to  your  highness'  council. 
By  flattery  hath  he  won  the  commons'  heart ; 
And,  when  he  please  to  make  commotion, 
'Tis  to  be  fear'd,  they  all  will  follow  him. 
Now  'tis  the  spring,  and  weeds  are  shallow-rooted  ; 
Suffer  them  now,  and  they'll  o'ergrow  the  garden. 
And  choke  the  herbs  for  want  of  husbandry. 
The  reverent  care,  I  bear  unto  my  lord. 
Made  me  collect  7  these  dangers  in  the  duke. 
If  it  be  fond  ^,  call  it  a  woman's  fear ; 
Which  fear,  if  better  reasons  can  supplant, 
I  will  subscribe  and  say,  —  I  wrong'd  the  duke. 
My  lord  of  Suffolk,—  Buckingham,  —  and  York, — 
Reprove  my  allegation,  if  you  can  ; 
Or  else  conclude  my  words  effectual. 

Siif.  Well  hath  your  highness  seen  into  this  duke  ; 
And,  had  I  first  been  put  to  speak  my  mind, 
I  think,  I  should  have  told  your  grace's  tale. 
The  duchess,  by  his  subornation, 
Upon  my  life,  began  her  devilish  practices : 
Or  if  he  were  not  privy  to  those  faults. 
Yet  by  reputing  of  his  high  descent  9, 
(As  next  the  king,  he  was  successive  heir,) 
And  such  high  vaunts  of  his  nobility. 
Did  instigate  the  bedlam  brain-sick  duchess. 
By  wicked  means  to  frame  our  sovereign's  fall. 
Smooth  runs  the  water  where  the  brook  is  deep  ; 
And  in  his  simple  show  he  harbours  treason. 
The  fox  barks  not,  when  he  would  steal  the  lamb. 
No,  no,  my  sovereign  ;   Gloster  is  a  man 
Unsounded  yet,  and  full  of  deep  deceit. 

"  Wonder.  7  i.  e.  Observe.  »  Foolish. 

^  i.  e.  Valuing  himself  on  his  high  descent. 


Car.  Did  he  not,  contrary  to  form  of  law, 
Devise  strange  deaths  for  small  offences  done  ? 

York.  And  did  he  not,  in  his  protectorship, 
Levy  great  sums  of  money  through  the  realm. 
For  soldiers'  pay  in  France,  and  never  sent  it  ? 
By  means  whereof,  the  towns  each  day  revolted. 

Buck.    Tut !  these  are  petty  faults  to  faults  un- 
known. 
Which  time  will   bring  to  light  in  smooth   duke 
Humphrey. 

JC.  Hen.  My  lords,  at  once :  The  care  you  have 
of  us, 
To  mow  down  thorns  that  would  annoy  our  foot. 
Is  worthy  praise :    But  shall  I  speak  my  conscience  ? 
Our  kinsman  Gloster  is  as  innocent 
From  meaning  treason  to  our  royal  person, 
As  is  the  sucking  lamb,  or  harmless  dove  : 
The  duke  is  virtuous,  mild ;  and  too  well  given. 
To  dream  on  evil,  or  to  work  my  downfall. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah,  what's  more  dangerous  than  this  fond 
affiance ! 
Seems  he  a  dove  ?  his  feathers  are  but  borrow'd, 
For  he's  disposed  as  the  hateful  raven. 
Is  he  a  lamb  ?  his  skin  is  surely  lent  him. 
For  he's  inclin'd  as  are  the  ravenous  wolves. 
Who  cannot  steal  a  shape,  that  means  deceit  ? 
Take  heed,  my  lord  ;  the  welfare  of  us  all 
Hangs  on  the  cutting  short  that  fraudful  man. 

Enter  Somerset. 
Som.   All  health  unto  my  gracious  sovereign  ! 
K.  Hen.  Welcome,  lord  Somerset.     What  news 

from  France? 
Som.   That  all  your  interest  in  those  territories 
Is  utterly  bereft  you ;  all  is  lost. 

K.  Hen.  Cold  news,  lord  Somerset:   But  God's 

will  be  done ! 
York.  Cold   news  for  me;  for  I  had   hope  of 
France, 
As  firmly  as  I  hope  for  fertile  England. 
Thus  are  my  blossoms  blasted  in  the  bud, 
And  caterpillars  eat  my  leaves  away ; 
But  I  will  remedy  this  gear  '  ere  long, 
Or  sell  my  title  for  a  glorious  grave.  \^Aside. 

Enter  Gloster. 
Glo.    All  happiness  unto  my  lord  the  king  ! 
Pardon,  my  liege,  that  I  have  staid  so  long. 

Suf.   Nay,  Gloster,  know,  that  thou  art  come  too 
soon. 
Unless  thou  wert  more  loyal  than  thou  art : 
I  do  arrest  thee  of  high  treason  here. 

Glo.   Well,  Suffolk,  yet  thou  shalt  not  see  me 
blush, 
Nor  change  my  countenance  for  tliis  arrest ; 
A  heart  unspotted  is  not  easily  daunted. 
The  purest  spring  is  not  so  free  from  mud, 
As  I  am  clear  fi-om  treason  to  my  sovereign  : 
Who  can  accuse  me  ?  wherein  am  I  guilty  ? 

York.   'Tis  tliought,  my  lord,  that  you  took  bribes 
of  France, 
And,  being  protector,  stayed  the  soldiers'  pay : 
By  means  whereof,  his  highness  hath  lost  France. 
Glo.   Is  it  but  thought  so  ?   What  are  they  that 
think  it? 

'  Gear  was  a  general  word  for  things  or  matters. 


I 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


491 


I  never  robb'd  the  soldiers  of  their  pay, 

Nor  ever  had  one  penny  bribe  from  France. 

So  help  me  God,  as  I  have  watch'd  the  night, — 

Ay,  night  by  night, — in  studying  good  for  England  ! 

Tliat  doit  that  e'er  I  wrested  from  the  king, 

Or  any  groat  I  hoarded  to  my  use. 

Be  brought  against  me  at  my  trial  day ! 

No !  many  a  pound  of  mine  own  proper  store, 

Because  I  would  not  tax  the  needy  commons. 

Have  I  disbursed  to  the  garrisons, 

And  never  ask'd  for  restitution. 

Car.  It  serves  you  well,  my  lord,  to  say  so  much. 

do.  I  say  no  more  than  truth,  so  help  me  God  ! 

York.  In  your  protectorship,  you  did  devise 
Strange  tortures  for  offenders,  never  heard  of. 
That  England  was  defam'd  by  tyranny. 

Glo.  Why,  'tis  well  known,  that  wliiles  I  was  pro- 
tector. 
Pity  was  all  the  fault  that  was  in  me ; 
For  I  sliould  melt  at  an  offender's  tears. 
And  lowly  words  were  ransome  for  their  fault. 
Unless  it  were  a  bloody  murderer. 
Or  foul  felonious  thief  that  fleec'd  poor  passengers, 
I  never  gave  them  condign  punishment : 
Murder,  indeed,  that  bloody  sin,  I  tortur'd 
Above  the  felon,  or  what  trespass  else. 

Suf.  My  lord,  these  faults  are  easy  '^y  quickly  an- 
swer'd : 
But  mightier  crimes  are  laid  unto  your  charge. 
Whereof  you  cannot  easily  purge  yourself. 
I  do  arrest  you  in  his  highness'  name ; 
And  here  commit  you  to  my  lord  cardinal 
To  keep,  until  your  further  time  of  trial. 

A".  Hen.  My  lord  of  Gloster,  'tis  my  special  hope, 
That  you  will  clear  yourself  from  all  suspects ; 
My  conscience  tells  me,  you  are  innocent. 

Glo.  Ah,  gracious  lord,  these  days  are  dangerous  ! 
Virtue  is  chok'd  with  foul  ambition, 
.\nd  charity  chas'd  hence  by  rancour's  hand  ; 
Foul  subornation  is  predominant. 
And  equity  exil'd  your  highness'  land. 
I  know,  their  complot  is  to  have  my  life  ; 
And,  if  my  death  might  make  this  island  happy. 
And  prove  the  period  of  their  tjrranny, 
I  would  expend  it  with  all  willingness  : 
But  mine  is  made  the  prologue  to  their  play : 
For  thousands  more,  that  yet  suspect  no  peril. 
Will  not  conclude  their  plotted  tragedy. 
Beaufort's  red  sparkling  eyes  blab  his  heart's  malice. 
And  Suffolk's  cloudy  brow  his  stormy  hate ; 
Sharp  Buckingham  unburdens  with  his  tongue 
The  envious  load  that  lies  upon  his  heart ; 
And  dogged  York,  that  reaches  at  the  moon, 
Whose  overweening  arm  I  have  pluck'd  back. 
By  false  accuse  doth  level  at  my  life  :  — 
And  you,  my  sovereign  lady,  with  the  rest. 
Causeless  have  laid  disgraces  on  my  head  ? 
And,  with  your  best  endeavour,  have  stirr'd  up 
My  liefest  3  liege  to  be  mine  enemy  ;  — 
Ay,  all  of  you  have  laid  your  heads  together. 
Myself  had  notice  of  your  conventicles. 
I  shall  not  want  false  witness  to  condemn  me, 
Nor  store  of  treasons  to  augment  my  guilt ; 
The  ancient  proverb  will  be  well  affected,  — 
A  staff  is  quickly  found  to  beat  a  dog. 

Car.   My  liege,  his  railing  is  intolerable  : 
If  those  tliat  care  to  keep  your  royal  person 
From  treason's  secret  knife,  and  traitors'  rage, 
Be  tlius  upbraided,  chid,  and  rated  at, 

«  E«uly.  5  Dearest 


And  the  offender  granted  scope  of  speech, 
'Twill  make  them  cool  in  zeal  unto  your  grace. 

Suf.    Hath  he  not  twit  our  sovereign  lady  here, 
With  ignominious  words,  though  clerkly  couch'd. 
As  if  she  had  suborned  some  to  swear 
False  allegations  to  o'erthrow  his  state  ? 

Q.  Mar.  But  I  can  give  the  loser  leave  to  chide. 

Glo.  Far  truer  spoke,  than  meant :  I  lose,  indeed  ; — 
Beshrew  the  winners,  for  they  played  me  false ! 
And  well  such  losers  may  have  leave  to  speak. 

Buck.  He'll  wrest  the  sense,  and  hold  us  here  all 
day  :  — 
Lord  cardinal,  he  is  your  prisoner. 

Car.  Sirs,  take  away  the  duke,  and  guard  him  sure. 

Glo.  Ah,  thus  king  Henry  throws  away  his  crutch, 
Before  his  legs  be  firm  to  bear  his  body  : 
Thus  is  the  shepherd  beaten  from  thy  side, 
And  wolves  are  gnarling  who  shall  gnaw  thee  first. 
Ah,  that  my  fear  were  false  !  ah,  that  it  were  ! 
For,  good  king  Henry,  thy  decay  I  fear. 

\^Exeunt  Attendants,  with  Glosteb. 

K.  Hen.  My  lords,  what  to  your  wisdoms  seemetli 
best. 
Do,  or  undo,  as  if  ourself  were  here. 

Q.  Mar.  What,  will  your  highness  leave  the  par- 
liament ? 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  Margaret ;  my  heart  is  drown'd  with 
grief. 
Whose  flood  begins  to  flow  within  mine  eyes ; 
My  body  round  engirt  with  misery  ; 
For  what's  more  miserable  than  discontent  ? 
Ah,  uncle  Humphrey !  in  thy  face  I  see 
The  map  of  honour,  truth,  and  loyalty  ; 
And  yet,  good  Humphrey,  is  the  hour  to  come, 
That  e'er  I  prove  thee  false,  or  fear'd  thy  faith. 
What  low'ring  star  now  envies  thy  estate. 
That  these  great  lords,  and  Margaret  our  queen. 
Do  seek  subversion  of  thy  harmless  life  ? 
Thou  never  didst  them  wrong,  nor  no  man  wrong  ; 
And  as  the  butcher  takes  away  the  calf. 
And  binds  the  wretch,  and  beats  it  when  it  strays, 
Bearing  it  to  the  bloody  slaughter-house  ; 
Even  so  remorseless,  have  they  borne  him  hence. 
And  as  the  dam  runs  lowing  up  and  down. 
Looking  the  way  her  harmless  young  one  went. 
And  can  do  nought  but  wail  her  darling's  loss ; 
Even  so  myself  bewails  good  Gloster's  case. 
With  sad  unhelpful  tears ;  and  with  dimm'd  eyes 
Look  after  him,  and  cannot  do  him  good ; 
So  mighty  are  his  vowed  enemies. 
His  fortunes  I  will  weep ;  and,  'twixt  each  groan, 
Say,  —  Who's  a  traitor,  Gloster  he  is  none.         [EjtU. 

Q.  Mar.  Free  lords,  cold  snow  melts  with  the  sun's 
hot  beams. 
Henry  my  lord  is  cold  in  great  affairs. 
Too  full  of  foolish  pity  ;  and  Gloster's  show 
Beguiles  him  as  the  mournful  crocodile 
With  sorrow  snares  relenting  passengers  ; 
Or  as  the  snake,  roU'd  in  a  flowering  bank. 
With  shining  checker'd  slough^,  doth  sting  a  child, 
Tliat,  for  the  beauty,  thinks  it  excellent. 
Believe  me,  lords,  were  none  more  wise  than  I, 
(And  yet,  herein,  I  judge  mine  own  wit  good,) 
This  Gloster  should  be  quickly  rid  the  world. 
To  rid  us  from  the  fear  we  have  of  him. 

Car.   That  he  sliould  die,  is  worthy  policy : 
But  yet  we  want  a  colour  for  his  death  : 
*Tis  meet  he  be  condomn'd  by  course  of  law. 

Suf.   But,  in  my  mind,  that  were  no  policy  : 
4  Skin. 


4.92 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  III 


The  king  will  labour  still  to  save  his  life, 

The  commons  haply  rise  to  save  his  life ; 

And  yet  w^e  have  but  trivial  argument, 

More  than  mistrust,  that  shows  him  wortliy  death. 

York.  So  that,  by  this,  you  would  not  have  him  die. 

Snf.    Ah,  York,  no  man  alive  so  fain  as  I. 

York.   'Tis  York  that  hath  more  reason  for  his 
death.  — 
But,  my  lord  cardinal,  and  you,  my  lord  of  Suffolk, — 
Say  as  you  think,  and  speak  it  from  your  souls,  — 
Wer't  not  all  one,  an  empty  eagle  were  set 
To  guard  the  cliicken  from  a  hungry  kite, 
As  place  duke  Humphrey  for  the  king's  protector  ? 

Q.  Mar.  So  the  poor  chicken  should  be  sure  of  death. 

Suf.  Madam,  'tis  true ;   And  wer't  not  madness 
then. 
To  make  the  fox  surveyor  of  the  fold  ? 
"Who  being  accus'd  a  crafty  murderer. 
His  guilt  should  be  but  idly  posted  over. 
Because  his  purpose  is  not  executed. 
No ;  let  him  die,  in  that  he  is  a  fox. 
By  nature  prov'd  an  enemy  to  the  flock, 
Before  his  chaps  be  stain'd  with  crimson  blood  ; 
As  Humphrey,  prov'd  by  reasons,  to  my  liege. 
And  do  not  stand  on  quillets  how  to  slay  him  : 
Be  it  by  gins,  by  snares,  by  subtilty, 
Sleeping  or  waking,  'tis  no  matter  how, 
So  he  be  dead ;  for  that  is  good  deceit 
Which  mates  &  him  first,  that  first  intends  deceit. 

Q.Mar.  Thrice-noble  Suffolk, 'tis  resolutely  spoke. 

Stif.   Not  resolute,  except  so  much  were  done  ; 
For  things  are  often  spoke,  and  seldom  meant : 
But,  that  my  heart  accordeth  with  my  tongue,  — 
Seeing  the  deed  is  meritorious, 
And  to  preserve  my  sovereign  from  his  foe,  — 
Say  but  the  word,  and  I  will  be  his  priest. 

Car.  But  I  would  have  him  dead,  my  lord  of  Suf- 
folk, 
Ere  you  can  take  due  orders  for  a  priest : 
Say,  you  consent,  and  censure  well  the  deed. 
And  I'll  provide  his  executioner, 
I  tender  so  the  safety  of  my  liege. 

Svf.  Here  is  my  hand,  the  deed  is  worthy  doing. 

Q.  Mar.    And  so  say  I. 

York.  And  I  :   and  now  we  three  have  spoke  it. 
It  skills  not  greatly  6  who  impugns  our  doom. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Great  lords,  from  Ireland  am  I  corae  amain, 
To  signify  —  that  rebels  there  are  up, 
And  put  the  Englishmen  unto  the  sword  : 
Send  succours,  lords,  and  stop  the  rage  betime, 
Before  the  wound  do  grow  incurable  ; 
For,  being  green,  there  is  great  hope  of  help. 

Car.  A  breach,  that  craves  a  quick  expedient  7  stop ! 
What  counsel  give  you  in  this  weighty  cause  ? 

York.   That  Somerset  be  sent  as  regent  thither  : 
'Tis  meet,  that  lucky  ruler  be  employ'd  ; 
Witness  the  fortune  he  hath  had  in  France. 

Som.   If  York,  with  all  his  far-fet  ^  policy, 
Had  been  the  regent  there  instead  of  me. 
He  never  would  have  staid  in  France  so  long. 

York.   No,  not  to  lose  it  all,  as  thou  hast  done  : 
I  rather  would  have  lost  my  life  betimes. 
Than  bring  a  burden  of  dishonour  home. 
By  staying  there  so  long,  till  all  were  lost. 
Show  me  one  scar  character'd  on  thy  skin  : 
Men's  flesh  preserv'd  so  whole,  do  seldom  win. 


'•'  Matches. 
7  Expeditioug. 


<>  It  is  of  no  importance. 
»  Far-fetched. 


Q.  Mar  Nay  then,  this  spark  will  prove  a  raging  fire, 
If  wind  and  fuel  be  brought  to  feed  it  with :  — 
No  more,  good  York  ;  —  sweet  Somerset,  be  still ;  — 
Thy  fortune,  York,  hadst  thou  been  regent  there. 
Might  happily  have  prov'd  far  worse  than  his. 

York.   What  worse  than  naught?    nay,   then  a 
shame  take  all ! 

Som.  And,  in  the  number,  thee,  that  wishest  shame ! 

Car.   My  lord  of  York,  try  what  your  fortune  is. 
The  uncivil  kernes  9  of  Ireland  are  in  arms. 
And  temper  clay  with  blood  of  Englishmen  : 
To  Ireland  will  you  lead  a  band  of  men. 
Collected  choicely,  from  each  county  some. 
And  try  your  hap  against  the  Irishmen  ? 

York.   I  will,  my  lord,  so  please  his  majesty. 

Siif.   Why,  our  authority  is  his  consent ; 
And,  what  we  do  establish,  he  confirms : 
Then,  noble  York,  take  thou  this  task  in  hand. 

York.   I  am  content :    Provide  me  soldiers,  lords. 
Whiles  I  take  order  for  mine  own  affairs. 

Siif.  A  charge,  lord  York,  that  I  will  see  perform'd. 
But  now  return  we  to  the  false  duke  Humphrey. 

Car.  No  more  of  him  ;  for  I  will  deal  with  him. 
That,  henceforth,  he  shall  trouble  us  no  more. 
And  so  break  off ;  the  day  is  almost  spent : 
Lord  Suffolk,  you  and  I  must  talk  of  that  event. 

York.  My  lord  of  Suflfblk,  within  fourteen  days. 
At  Bristol  I  expect  my  soldiers ; 
For  there  I'll  ship  them  all  for  Ireland. 

Suf.   I'll  see  it  truly  done,  my  lord  of  York. 

[Exeunt  oil  but  York. 

York.    Now,   York,   or  never,  steel  thy  fearful 
thoughts, 
And  change  misdoubt  to  resolution : 
Be  that  thou  hop'st  to  be ;  or  what  thou  art 
Resign  to  death,  it  is  not  worth  the  enjoying : 
Let  pale-fac'd  fear  keep  with  the  mean-born  man. 
And  find  no  harbour  in  a  royal  heart. 
Faster  than  spring-time  showers,  comes  thought  on 

thought ; 
And  not  a  thought,  but  thinks  on  dignity. 
My  brain,  more  busy  than  the  labouring  spider. 
Weaves  tedious  snares  to  trap  mine  enemies. 
Well,  nobles,  well,  'tis  politickly  done. 
To  send  me  packing  with  an  host  of  men : 
I  fear  me,  you  but  warm  the  starved  snake, 
Who,  cherish'd  in  your  breasts,  will  sting  your  hearts. 
'Twas  men  I  lack'd,  and  you  will  give  them  me  : 
I  take  it  kindly ;  yet,  be  well  assur'd 
You  put  sharp  weapons  in  a  madman's  hands. 
Whiles  I  in  Ireland  nourish  a  mighty  band, 
I  will  stir  up  in  England  some  black  storm. 
And  this  fell  tempest  shall  not  cease  to  rage 
Until  the  golden  circuit  on  my  head. 
Like  to  the  glorious  sun's  transparent  beams. 
Do  calm  the  fury  of  this  mad-bred  flaw.  • 
And  for  a  minister  of  my  intent, 
I  have  seduc'd  a  head-strong  Kentishman, 
John  Cade  of  Ashford, 
To  make  commotion,  as  full  well  he  can, 
Under  the  title  of  John  Mortimer. 
In  Ireland  have  I  seen  this  stubborn  Cade 
Oppose  himself  against  a  troop  of  kernes  ; 
And  fought  so  long,  till  that  his  thighs  with  darts 
Were  almost  like  a  sharp-quill'd  porcupine  ; 
And,  in  the  end  being  rescu'd,  I  have  seen  him 
Caper  upright  like  a  wild  Morisco  S 

9  Irish  foot-soldiers,  light-armed. 
'  A  violent  gust  of  wind. 
3  A  Moor  in  a  morris  dance. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


493 


Shaking  the  bloody  darts,  as  he  his  bells. 

Full  often,  like  a  shag-hair'd  crafty  kerne, 

Hath  he  conversed  with  the  enemy : 

And  undiscover'd  come  to  me  again. 

And  given  me  notice  of  their  villainies. 

This  devil  here  shall  be  my  substitute ; 

For  that  John  Mortimer,  which  now  is  dead, 

In  face,  in  gait,  in  speech,  he  doth  resemble : 

Uy  this  I  shall  perceive  the  commons'  mind. 

How  they  affect  the  house  and  claim  of  York. 

Say,  he  be  taken,  rack'd,  and  tortured  : 

1  know,  no  pain,  they  can  inflict  upon  him, 

Will  make  him  say — I  mov'd  Ijim  to  tliose  arms. 

Say,  that  he  thrive,  (as  'tis  great  like  he  will,) 

Why  then  from  Ireland  come  I  with  my  strength, 

And  reap  the  harvest  which  that  rascal  sow'd : 

For  Humphrey  being  dead,  as  he  shall  be, 

An<l  Henry  put  apart,  the  next  for  me.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  — Bury.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  certain  Murderers,  hastily. 

1  Mur.   Run    to   my  lord   of  Suffolk ;   let    him 

know. 
We  have  despatch'd  the  duke  as  he  commanded. 

2  Mur.   O,  that  it  were  to  do  !  — What  have  we 

done  ? 
Didst  ever  hear  a  man  so  penitent  ? 

Enter  Suffolk. 

1  Mur.  Here  comes  my  lord. 

Suf.  Now,  sirs,  have  you 

Despatch'd  this  thing  ? 

1  Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  he's  dead. 

Suf.   Why,  that's  well  said.      Go,  get  you  to  my 
house ; 
I  will  reward  you  for  this  venturous  deed. 
The  king  and  all  the  peers  are  here  at  hand  :  — 
Have  you  laid  fair  the  bed  ?  are  all  things  well. 
According  as  I  gave  directions  ? 

1  Mur.   'Tis,  my  good  lord. 

Svf.  Away,  be  gone  !  {^Exeunt  Murderers. 

Enter  Kino  Henry,  Queen  Margaret,  Cardinal 
Beaufort,  Somerset,  Lords,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.   Go,   call   our   uncle   to   our   presence 
straight : 
Say,  we  intend  to  try  his  grace  to-day, 
If  he  be  guilty,  as  'tis  published. 

Suf.VW  call  him  presently,  my  noble  lord.  \^Exit. 

K.  Hen.   Lords,  take  your  places ;  —  And,  I  pray 
you  all, 
Proceed  no  straiter  'gainst  our  uncle  Gloster, 
Than  from  true  evidence,  of  good  esteem, 
He  be  approv'd  in  practice  culpable. 

Q.  Mar.  Heaven  forbid  any  malice  should  prevail. 
That  faultless  may  condemn  a  nobleman  ! 
Pray  God,  he  may  acquit  him  of  suspicion  ! 

K.  Hen.   I  thank   thee,   Margaret;  these  words 
content  me  much.  — 

Re-enter  Suffolk. 
How  now  ?  why  look'st  thou  pale  ?  why  tremblest 

thou? 
Where  is  our  uncle  ?  what  is  tlie  matter,  Suffolk  ? 
Suf.    Dead  in  his  bed,  my  lord  :    Gloster  is  dead. 
Q.  Mar.    Marrj',  God  fort-fend  ! 
Car.    Heaven's  secret  judgment :  —  I  did  dream 
to-night. 
The  duke  was  dumb,  and  could  not  speak  a  wonl. 
\^The  Kino  swoons. 


Q  Mar.  How  fares  my  lord  ? — Help,  lords  !  the 
king  is  dead. 

Som.    Hear  up  his  body. 

Q.  Mar.    Run,  go,  help,  help  !  —  O,  Henry,  ope 
thine  eyes ! 

Suf.  He  doth  revive  again  ;  —  Madam,  be  patient. 

K.  Hen.   O  heavenly  God ! 

Q.  Mar.    How  fares  my  gracious  lord? 

Suf.    Comfort,    my  sovereign !   gracious  Henry, 
comfort ! 

IT.  Hen.   What,  doth  my  lord  of  Suffolk  comfort 
me? 
Came  he  right  now  to  sing  a  raven's  note. 
Whose  dismal  tune  bereft  my  vital  powers  ; 
And  thinks  he,  that  the  chirping  of  a  wren, 
By  crying  comfort  from  a  hollow  breast. 
Can  chase  away  the  first-conceived  sound? 
Hide  not  thy  poison  with  such  sugar'd  words. 
Lay  not  thy  hands  on  me  ;  forbear,  I  say ; 
Their  touch  affrights  me,  as  a  serpent's  sting. 
Thou  baleful  messenger,  out  of  my  sight ! 
Upon  thy  eye-balls  murderous  tyranny 
Sits  in  grim  majesty,  to  fright  the  world. 
Look  not  upon  me,  for  thine  eyes  are  wounding :  — 
Yet  do  not  go  away  i —  Come,  basilisk. 
And  kill  the  innocent  gazer  with  thy  sight : 
For  in  the  shade  of  death  I  shall  find  joy  ! 
In  life,  but  double  death  now  Gloster's  dead. 

Q.  Mar.   Why  do  you  rate  my  lord  of  Suffolk 
thus? 
Although  the  duke  was  enemy  to  him. 
Yet  he,  most  christian-like,  laments  his  death  : 
And  for  myself,  —  foe  as  he  was  to  me. 
Might  liquid  tears,  or  heart- offending  groans, 
Or  blood-consuming  sighs  recall  his  life, 
I  would  be  blind  with  weeping,  sick  with  groans. 
Look  pale  as  primrose,  with  blood-drinking  sighs. 
And  all  to  have  the  noble  duke  alive. 
What  know  I  how  the  world  may  deem  of  me  ? 
For  it  is  known,  we  were  but  hollow  friends ; 
It  may  be  judg'd,  I  made  the  duke  away ; 
So  shall  my  name  with  slander's  tongue  be  wounded, 
And  princes'  courts  be  fill'd  with  my  reproach. 
This  get  I  by  his  death  :    Ah  me,  unhappy ! 
To  be  a  queen,  and  crown'd  with  infamy  ! 

IC.  Hen.    Ah,  woe  is  me  for  Gloster,  wretched 
man ! 

Q.  Mar.   Be  woe  for  me,  more  wretched  tlian 
he  is. 
What,  dost  thou  turn  away,  and  hide  thy  face  ? 
Is  all  thy  comfort  shut  in  Gloster's  tomb  ? 
Why,  then  dame  Margaret  was  ne'er  thy  joy ; 
Erect  his  statue  then,  and  worship  it. 
And  make  my  image  but  an  alehouse  sign. 
Was  I  for  this,  nigh  wreck'd  upon  the  sea ; 
And  twice  by  awkward  wind  from  England's  bank 
Drove  back  again  unto  my  native  clime  ? 
What  boded  this,  but  well-forewarning  wind 
Did  seem  to  say,  —  Seek  not  a  scorpion's  nest. 
Nor  set  no  footing  on  this  unkind  shore  ? 
What  did  I  then,  but  curs'd  the  gentle  gusts, 
And  he  that  loos'd  tliem  from  their  brazen  caves ; 
And  bid  them  blow  towards  England's  blessed  shore 
Or  turn  our  stem  upon  a  dreadful  rock  ? 
Yet  /Eolus  woidd  not  be  a  murderer, 
But  left  that  hateful  office  unto  thee  : 
The  pretty  vaulting  sea  refus'd  to  drown  me : 
Knowing,  that  thou  wouldst  ha%'e  me  drown'd  on 

shore, 
With  tears  as  salt  as  sea  through  thy  unkindness : 


494. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


The  splitting  rocks  cow'r'd  in  the  sinking  sands, 

And  would  not  dash  me  witli  tlieir  ragged  sides  ; 

liecause  tliy  flinty  lieart,  more  hard  than  they, 

IMight  in  thy  palace  perish  Margaret. 

As  far  as  I  could  ken  tliy  chalky  cliffs, 

When  from  the  shore  the  tempest  beat  us  back 

I  stood  upon  the  hatches  in  the  storm ; 

And  when  the  dusky  sky  began  to  rob 

My  earnest-gaping  sight  of  thy  land's  view, 

I  took  a  costly  jewel  from  my  neck, — 

A  heart  it  was,  bound  in  with  diamonds. 

And  threw  it  towards  thy  land ; — the  sea  receiv'd  it ; 

And  so,  I  wish'd,  thy  body  might  my  heart ; 

And  even  with  this,  I  lost  fair  England's  view. 

And  bid  mine  eyes  be  packing  with  my  heart ; 

And  call'd  them  blind  and  dusky  spectacles. 

For  losing  ken  of  Albion's  wished  coast. 

How  often  have  I  tempted  Suffolk's  tongue 

(The  agent  of  thy  foul  inconstancy,) 

To  sit  and  witch  me,  as  Ascanius  did. 

When  he  to  madding  Dido  would  unfold 

His  father's  acts,  commenc'd  in  burning  Troy  ? 

Am  I  not  witch'd  like  her  ?  or  thou  not  false  like 

him? 
A  h  me,  I  can  no  more  !   Die,  Margaret ! 
For  Henry  weeps,  that  thou  dost  live  so  long. 

Noise  within.     Enter  Warwick  and  Salisbury. 
The  Commons  press  to  the  door. 

War.   It  is  reported,  mighty  sovereign. 
That  good  duke  Humphrey  traitorously  is  murder'd 
By  Suffolk  and  the  cardinal  Beaufort's  means. 
The  commons,  like  an  angry  hive  of  bees. 
That  want  their  leader,  scatter  up  and  down, 
And  care  not  who  they  sting  in  his  revenge. 
Myself  have  calm'd  their  spleenful  mutiny, 
Until  they  hear  the  order  of  his  death. 

K.  Hen.   That  he  is  dead,  good  Warwick,  'tis  too 
true; 
But  how  he  died,  God  knows,  not  Henry : 
Enter  his  chamber,  view  his  breathless  corpse. 
And  comment  then  upon  his  sudden  death. 

War.  That  I  shall  do,  my  liege  :  —  Stay,  Salisbury, 
With  the  rude  multitude,  till  I  return. 

[Warwick  goes  into  an  inner  Room,  and 
Salisbury  retires. 

K.  Hen.    O  thou  that  judgest  all  things,  stay  my 
thoughts  : 
My  thoughts,  that  labour  to  persuade  my  soul, 
Some  violent  hands  were  laid  on  Humphrey's  life  ! 
If  my  suspect  be  false,  forgive  me,  God; 
For  judgment  only  doth  belong  to  thee  ! 
Fain  would  I  go  to  chafe  his  paly  lips 
With  twenty  thousand  kisses,  and  to  drain 
Upon  his  face  an  ocean  of  salt  tears ; 
To  tell  my  love  unto  his  dumb  deaf  trunk. 
And  with  my  fingers  feel  his  hand  unfeeling  : 
But  all  in  vain  are  these  mean  obsequies ; 
And,  to  survey  his  dead  and  earthy  image. 
What  were  it  but  to  make  my  sorrow  greater  ? 

The  folding  doors   of  an  inner  chamber  are  throivn 
open,  and  Gloster  is  discovered  dead  in  his  bed : 
Warwick  and  others  standing  by  it. 
War.   Come  hither,  gracious  sovereign,  view  this 

body. 
jr.  Hen.   That  is  to  see  how  deep  my  grave  is 
made : 
For,  with  his  soul  fled  all  my  worldly  solace ; 
For  seeing  him,  I  see  my  life  in  death.  3 

^  e.  e.  I  see  my  life  endangered  by  his  death. 


War.   As  surely  as  my  soul  intends  to  live 
With  that  dread  King  tliat  took  our  state  upon  hira 
To  free  us  from  his  Father's  wrathful  curse, 
I  do  believe  that  violent  hands  were  laid 
Upon  the  life  of  this  thrice-famed  duke. 

Suf.  A  dreadful  oath,  sworn  with  a  solemn  tongue ! 
What  instance  gives  lord  Warwick  for  his  vow  ? 
War.   See  how  the  blood  is  settled  in  his  face  I 
Oft  have  I  seen  a  timely-parted  ghost  "♦, 
Of  ashy  semblance,  meagre,  pale,  and  bloodless, 
Being  all  descended  to  the  labouring  heart ; 
Who,  in  the  conflict  that  it  holds  with  death. 
Attracts  the  same  for  aidance  'gainst  the  enemy ; 
Which  with  the  heart  there  cools  and  ne'er  returneth 
To  blush  and  beautify  the  cheek  again. 
But,  see,  his  face  is  black,  and  full  of  blood  ; 
His  eye-balls  further  out  than  when  he  liv'd. 
Staring  full  ghastly  like  a  strangled  man : 
His  hair  uprear'd,  his  nostrils  stretch'd  witn  strug- 
gling ; 
His  hands  abroad  display'd,  as  one  that  grasp'd 
And  tugg'd  for  life,  and  was  by  strength  subdu'd. 
Look  on  the  sheets,  his  hair,  you  see,  is  sticking ; 
His  well-proportioned  beard  made  rough  and  rugged, 
Like  to  the  summer's  corn  by  tempest  lodg'd. 
It  cannot  be,  but  he  was  murder'd  here ; 
The  least  of  all  these  signs  were  probable. 

Suf.   Why,  Warwick,  who  should  do  the  duke  to 
death? 
Myself,  and  Beaufort,  had  him  in  protection ; 
And  we,  I  hope,  sir,  are  no  murderers. 

M'^ar.   But  both  of  you  were  vow'd  duke  Hum- 
phrey's foes ; 
And  you,  forsooth,  had  the  good  duke  to  keep  : 
'Tis  like,  you  would  not  feast  him  like  a  friend ; 
And  'tis  well  seen  he  found  an  enemy. 

Q.  Mar.  Then  you,  belike,  suspect  these  noblemen 
As  guilty  of  duke  Humphrey's  timeless  death. 
War.   Who  finds  the  heifer  dead,  and  bleeding 
fresh. 
And  sees  fast  by  a  butcher  with  an  axe. 
But  will  suspect,  'twas  he  that  made  the  slaughter  ? 
Who  finds  the  partridge  in  the  puttock's  nest. 
But  may  imagine  how  the  bird  was  dead. 
Although  the  kite  soar  with  unbloodied  beak  ? 
Even  so  suspicious  is  this  tragedy. 

Q.  Mar.   Are  you  the  butcher,  Suffolk  ;  where's 
your  knife? 
Is  Beaufort  term'd  a  kite  ?  where  are  his  talons  ? 

Suf.   I  wear  no  knife,  to  slaughter  sleeping  men  ; 
But  here's  a  vengeful  sword,  rusted  with  ease. 
That  shall  be  scoured  in  his  rancorous  heart. 
That  slanders  me  with  murder's  crimson  badge  :  — 
Say,  if  thou  dar'st,  proud  lord  of  Warwickshire, 
That  I  am  faulty  in  duke  Humphrey's  death. 

[Exeunt  Cardinal,  Som.  and  others. 
War.   What  dares  not  Warwick,  if  false  Suffolk 

dare  him  ? 
Q-  Mar.   He   dares   not  calm  his  contumelious 
spirit. 
Nor  cease  to  be  an  arrogant  controller. 
Though  Suffolk  dare  him  twenty  thousand  times. 

War.  Madam,  be  still ;  with  reverence  may  I  say ; 
For  every  word,  you  speak  in  his  behalf. 
Is  slander  to  your  royal  dignity. 

Svf.   Blunt-witted  lord,  ignoble  in  demeanour  ! 
If  ever  lady  wrong'd  her  lord  so  much. 
Thy  mother  took  into  her  blameful  bed 
Some  stem  untutor'd  churl,  and  noble  stock 
4  The  body  of  one  who  had  died  a  natural  death. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


495 


Was  graft  with  crab-tree  slip ;  whose  fruit  thou  art, 
And  never  of  the  Nevils'  noble  race. 

War.   But  that  the  guilt  of  murder  bucklers  thee, 
And  I  should  rob  the  deathsmaa  of  his  fee, 
Quitting  thee  thereby  of  ten  thousand  shames, 
And  that  my  sovereign's  presence  makes  me  mild, 
1  would,  false  murderous  coward,  on  thy  knee 
Make  thee  beg  pardon  for  tliy  passed  speech. 
And  say —  it  was  thy  mother  that  thou  mean'st, 
That  thou  thyself  wast  born  in  bastardy  ; 
And,  after  all  this  fearful  homage  done. 
Give  thee  thy  hire,  and  send  thy  soul  to  hell, 
Pernicious  bloodsucker  of  sleeping  men  ! 

Siif.  Thou  shalt  be  waking,  while  I  shed  thy  blood. 
If  from  this  presence  thou  dar'st  go  with  me. 

IFar.    Away  even  now,  or  I  will  drag  thee  hence  : 
Unworthy  though  thou  art,  I'll  cope  witli  thee. 
And  do  some  service  to  duke  Humphrey's  ghost. 
[^Exeunt  ScFFOLK  and  Warwick. 

A".  Hen.   What  stronger  breast-plate  than  a  heart 
untainted  ? 
Thrice  is  he  arm'd,  that  hath  his  quarrel  just ; 
And  he  but  naked,  though  lock'd  up  in  steel. 
Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted. 

[^  noise  within. 

Q.  Mar.  What  noise  is  this  ? 

Re-enter  Suffolk  and  Warwick,  with  their  loea- 
pons  drawn. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  how  now,  lords  ?   your  wrathful 
weapons  drawn 
Here  in  our  presence  ?  dare  you  be  so  bold  ?  — 
Why,  what  tumultuous  clamour  have  we  here  ? 
Suf.    The  traitorous  Warwick,  with  the  men  of 
Bury, 
Set  all  upon  me,  mighty  sovereign. 

Noise  of  a  Crowd  within.      Re-enter  Salisbury. 

Sal.   Sirs,  stand  apart ;  the  king  shall  know  your 
mind.  —  {Speaking  to  those  within. 

Dread  lord,  the  commons  send  you  word  by  me. 
Unless  false  Suffolk  straight  be  done  to  death, 
Or  banished  fair  England's  territories. 
They  will  by  violence  tear  him  from  your  palace, 
And  torture  him  with  grievous  ling'ring  death. 
Tliey  say,  by  him  the  good  duke  Humphrey  died  ; 
They  say,  in  him  they  fear  your  highness'  death ; 
And  mere  instinct  of  love,  and  loyalty,  — 
Free  from  a  stubborn  opposite  intent. 
As  being  thought  to  contradict  your  liking,  — 
Makes  them  thus  forward  in  his  banishment. 
They  say,  in  care  of  your  most  royal  person. 
That,  if  your  highness  should  intend  to  sleep, 
And  charge  —  that  no  man  should  disturb  your  rest. 
In  pain  of  your  dislike,  or  pain  of  death  ; 
Yet  notwithstanding  such  a  strait  edict. 
Were  there  a  serpent  seen,  with  forked  tongue. 
That  slily  glided  towards  your  majesty. 
It  were  but  necessary,  you  were  wak'd ; 
I^est,  being  suffer'd,  in  that  harmful  slumlier, 
The  mortal  worm  might  make  the  sleep  eternal : 
And  therefore  do  they  cry,  though  you  forl)id, 
That  they  will  guard  you,  whe'r  you  will,  or  no. 
From  such  fell  serpents  as  false  Suffolk  is ; 
With  whose  envenomed  and  fatal  sting, 
Your  loving  uncle,  twenty  times  his  worth, 
They  say,  is  shamefully  bereft  of  life. 

Commons.    [U'iihin.]    An  answer  from  llie  king, 
my  lord  of  Salisbury. 

Suf.  'Tis  like  the  commons,  rude  unpolishM  hinds, 


Could  send  such  message  to  their  sovereign  : 
But  you,  my  lord,  were  glad  to  be  employ 'd, 
To  show  how  quaint  ^  an  orator  you  are : 
But  all  the  honour  Salisbury  hath  won. 
Is  —  that  he  was  the  lord  ambassador, 
Sent  from  a  sort^  of  tinkers  to  the  king. 

Commons.    [Within.]    An  answer  from  the  king, 
or  we'll  break  in. 

jr.  Hen.  Go,  Salisbury,  and  tell  them  all  from  me, 
I  thank  them  for  their  tender  loving  care  : 
And  had  I  not  been  'cited  so  by  them, 
Yet  did  I  purpose  as  they  do  entreat ; 
For  sure,  my  thoughts  do  hourly  prophesy 
Mischance  unto  my  state  by  Suffolk's  means. 
And  therefore  —  by  His  Majesty  I  swear, 
Whose  far  unworthy  deputy  I  am,  — 
He  shall  not  breathe  infection  in  this  air 
But  three  days  longer,  on  the  pain  of  death. 

[Exit  Salisburt. 

Q.  Mar.  O  Henry,  let  me  plead  for  gentle  Suffolk. 

IT.  Hen.   Ungentle  queen,  to  call  him  gentle  Suf- 
folk. 
No  more,  I  say ;  if  thou  dost  plead  for  him, 
Thou  wilt  but  add  increase  unto  my  wrath. 
Had  I  but  said,  I  would  have  kept  my  word  ; 
But,  when  I  swear,  it  is  irrevocable :  — 
If,  after  three  days'  space,  thou  here  be'st  found 
On  any  ground  that  I  am  ruler  of. 
The  world  shall  not  be  ransome  for  thy  life.  — 
Come,  Warwick,  come  good  Warwick,  go  with  nie  { 
I  have  great  matters  to  impart  to  thee. 

[Exeunt  K.  Henry,  Warwick,  Lords,  ^c. 

Q.  Mar.   Mischance,  and  sorrow,  go  along  with 
you  ! 
Heart's  discontent,  and  sour  affliction, 
Be  playfellows  to  keep  you  company  ! 

Suf.   Cease,  gentle  queen,  these  execrations. 
And  let  thy  Suffolk  take  his  heavy  leave. 

Q.  Mar.    Fye,  coward  woman,  and  soft-hearted 
wretch  ! 
Hast  thou  not  spirit  to  curse  thine  enemies  ? 

Suf.   A  plague  upon  them  !  wherefore  should  I 
curse  them  ? 
Would  curses  kill,  as  doth  the  mandrake's  groan, 
I  would  invent  as  bitter-searching  terms, 
As  curst,  as  harsh,  and  horrible  to  hear, 
Deliver'd  strongly  through  my  fixed  teeth, 
With  full  as  many  signs  of  deadly  hate. 
As  lean-fac'd  Envy  in  her  loathsome  cave  : 
My  tongue  should  stumble  in  mine  earnest  words  : 
Mine  eyes  should  sparkle  like  the  beaten  flint ; 
My  hair  be  fix'd  on  end,  as  one  distract ; 
Ay,  every  joint  should  seem  to  curse  and  ban  : 
And  even  now  my  burden'd  heart  would  break. 
Should  I  not  curse  them.      Poison  be  their  drink ! 
Gall,  worse  than  gall,  the  daintiest  that  they  taste ! 
Their  sweetest  shade,  a  grove  of  cypress  trees  ! 
Their  chiefest  prospect,  murdering  basilisks  ! 
Their  softest  touch,  as  smart  as  lizards'  stings  ! 
Tlieir  musick,  frightful  as  the  serpent's  hiss  ; 
And  boding  screech-owls  make  the  concert  full  ! 

Q.  Mar.  Enough,  sweet  Suffolk  ;  thou  torment'at 
thyself; 
And  these  dread  curses  —  like  the  sun  'gainst  glass. 
Or  like  an  overcharged  gun,  —  recoil. 
And  turn  the  force  of  them  upon  thyself. 

Suf.  You  bade  me  ban  7,  and  will  you  bid  me  leave? 
Now,  by  the  ground  that  I  am  banisli'd  from. 
Well  could  I  curse  away  a  winter's  night, 
»  Dextefx>Ufl.  •  A  company.  ?  Curse. 


496 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  III, 


Though  standing  naked  on  a  mountain  top, 
Where  biting  cold  would  never  let  grass  grow, 
And  think  it  but  a  minute  spent  in  sport. 

Q.  Mar.   O  let  me  entreat  thee,  cease !    Give  me 
thy  hand, 
That  I  may  dew  it  with  my  mournful  tears  j 
Nor  let  the  rain  of  heaven  wet  this  place. 
To  wash  away  my  woeful  monuments. 
O,  could  this  kiss  be  printed  in  thy  hand ; 

[JCisses  his  hand. 
That  thou  mightst  think  upon  these  by  the  seal, 
Through  whom  a  thousand  sighs  are  breath'd  for 

thee ! 
So,  get  thee  gone,  that  I  may  know  my  grief; 
'Tis  but  surmis'd  whilst  thou  art  standing  by, 
I  will  repeal  thee,  or,  be  well  assur'd, 
Adventure  to  be  banished  myself : 
And  banished  I  am,  if  but  from  thee. 
Go,  speak  not  to  me  ;  even  now  be  gone.  — 
(),  go  not  yet !  —  Even  thus  two  friends  condemn'd 
Embrace,  and  kiss,  and  take  ten  thousand  leaves. 
Leather  a  hundred  times  to  part  than  die. 
Yet  now  farewell ;  and  farewell  life  with  thee  ! 

Suf.   Thus  is  poor  Suffolk  ten  times  banished. 
Once  by  the  king,  and  three  times  thrice  by  thee. 
'Tis  not  the  land  I  care  for,  wert  thou  hence ; 
A  wilderness  is  populous  enough. 
So  Suffolk  had  thy  heavenly  company  : 
For  where  thou  art,  there  is  the  world  itself. 
With  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world  j 
And  where  thou  art  not,  desolation. 
I  can  no  more :  —  live  thou  to  joy  thy  life  ; 
Myself  no  joy  in  nought,  but  that  thou  liv'st. 

Enter  Vaux. 

Q.  Mar.  Whither  goes  Vaux  so  fast  ?  what  news 
I  pr'ythee  ? 

Vaux.   To  signify  unto  his  majesty, 
That  cardinal  Beaufort  is  at  point  of  death  : 
For  suddenly  a  grievous  sickness  took  him. 
That  makes  him  gasp,  and  stare,  and  catch  the  air, 
Blaspheming  God,  and  cursing  men  on  earth. 
Sometime,  he  talks  as  if  duke  Humphrey's  ghost 
Were  by  his  side ;  sometime,  he  calls  the  king, 
And  whispers  to  his  pillow,  as  to  him, 
The  secret  of  his  overcharged  soul : 
And  I  am  sent  to  tell  his  majesty. 
That  even  now  he  cries  aloud  for  him. 

Q.  Mar.    Go,  tell  this  heavy  message  to  the  king. 

[Exit  Vaux. 
Ah  me  !  what  is  this  world?   what  news  are  these  ? 
But  wherefore  grieve  I  at  an  hour's  poor  loss, 
Omitting  Suffolk's  exile,  my  soul's  treasure  ? 
Why  only,  Suffolk,  mourn  I  not  for  thee, 
A  nd  with  the  southern  clouds  contend  in  tears ; 
Theirs  for  the  earth's  increase,  mine  for  my  sorrows  ? 
Now,  get  thee  hence :    The  king,  thou  know'st,  is 

coming  : 
If  thou  be  found  by  me,  thou  art  but  dead. 

Suf.    If  I  depart  from  thee,  I  cannot  live  : 
And  in  thy  sight  to  die,  what  were  it  else, 
But  like  a  pleasant  slumber  in  thy  lap  ? 
Here  could  I  breathe  my  soul  into  the  air, 
As  mild  and  gentle  as  the  cradle-babe, 
Dying  with  mother's  teat  between  its  lips : 
Where  «,  from  thy  sight,  I  should  be  raging  mad, 

8  Whereas, 


And  cry  out  for  thee  to  close  up  mine  eyes. 
To  have  thee  with  thy  lips  to  stop  my  mouth  ; 
So  shouldst  thou  either  turn  my  flying  soul, 
Or  I  should  breathe  it  so  unto  thy  body, 
And  then  it  liv'd  in  sweet  Elysium. 
To  die  by  thee,  were  but  to  die  in  jest ; 
From  thee  to  die,  were  torture  more  than  death  : 
O,  let  me  stay,  befall  what  may  befall. 

Q.  Mar.  Away  !  though  parting  be  a  fretful  cor- 
rosive. 
It  is  applied  to  a  deathful  wound. 
To  France,  sweet  Suffolk :   let  me  hear  from  thee  ; 
For  wheresoe'er  thou  art  in  this  world's  globe, 
I'll  have  an  Iris  that  shall  find  thee  out. 

Suf.   I  go. 

Q.  Mar.         And  take  my  heart  with  thee. 

Suf.    A  jewel,  lock'd  into  the  woeful'st  cask 
That  ever  did  contain  a  thing  of  worth. 
Even  as  a  splitted  bark,  so  sunder  we ; 
I'his  way  fall  I  to  death. 

Q.  Mar.  This  way  for  me. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE    III.  —  London.       Cardinal    Beaufort'* 
Bed-chamber. 

Enter  King  Henry,   Salisbury,    Warwick,  and 
others.  J%e  Cardinal  in  bed;  Attendants  uith  him. 

jr.  Hen.   How  fares  my  lord  ?    speak,  Beaufort, 
to  thy  sovereign. 

Car.   If  thou  be'st  death,  I'll  give  thee  England's 
treasure. 
Enough  to  purchase  such  another  island. 
So  thou  wilt  let  me  live,  and  feel  no  pain. 

A".  Hen.   Ah,  what  a  sign  it  is  of  evil  life. 
When  death's  approach  is  seen  so  terrible  ! 

War.   Beaufort,  it  is  thy  sovereign  speaks  to  thee. 

Car.   Bring  me  unto  my  trial  when  you  will. 
Died  he  not  in  his  bed  ?  where  should  he  die  ? 
Can  I  make  men  live,  whe'r  they  will  or  no  ?  — 
O  !  torture  me  no  more,  I  will  confess.  — 
Alive  again  ?  then  show  me  where  he  is  ;^ 
I'll  give  a  thousand  pound  to  look  upon  him.  — 
He  hath  no  eyes,  the  dust  hath  blinded  them.  — 
Comb  down  his  hair !  look  !  look  !  it  stands  upright. 
Like  lime-twigs  set  to  catch  my  winged  soul !  — 
Give  me  some  drink  ;  and  bid  the  apothecary 
Bring  the  strong  poison  that  I  bought  of  him. 

JT.  Hen.   O  thou  eternal  Mover  of  the  heavens. 
Look  with  a  gentle  eye  upon  this  wretch  ! 
O,  beat  away  the  busy  meddling  fiend, 
That  lays  strong  siege  unto  this  wretch's  soul. 
And  from  his  bosom  purge  this  black  despair ! 

War.   See  how  the  pangs  of  death  do  make  him 
grin. 

Sal.   Disturb  him  not,  let  him  pass  peaceably. 

IT.  Hen.   Peace  to  his  soul,  if  God's  good  plea- 
sure be  ! 
Lord  cardinal,  if  thou  think'st  on  heaven's  bliss, 
Hold  up  thy  hand,  make  signal  of  thy  hope.  — 
He  dies,  and  makes  no  sign  ;   O  God,  forgive  him  ! 

War.   So  bad  a  death  argues  a  monstrous  life. 

JT.  Hen.    Forbear  to  judge,   for  we  are  sinners 
all. — 
Close  up  his  eyes,  and  draw  the  curtain  close  ; 
And  let  us  all  to  meditation.  [Exeunt. 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


497 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  — Kent.      The  Sea-shore  near  Dover. 

Firing,  heard  at  Sea.      Then  enter  from  a  Boat  a 
Captain,  a  Master,  a  Master's   Mate,  Walter 
Whitmore,  and  others ;  with  t/tem  Suffolk  arid 
other  Gentlemen,  Prisoners. 
Cap.   The  gaudy,  blal)bing,  and  remorseful  9  day 
Is  crept  into  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ; 
And  now  loud-howling  wolves  arouse  the  jades 
That  drag  the  tragick  melancholy  night ; 
Who  with  their  drowsy,  slow,  and  flagging  wings 
Clip  dead  men's  graves,  and  from  their  misty  jaws 
Breathe  foul  contagious  darkness  in  the  air. 
Therefore,  bring  forth  the  soldiers  of  our  prize ; 
For,  whilst  our  pinnace  anchors  in  the  Downs, 
Here  shall  they  make  their  ransome  on  the  sand, 
Or  with  their  blood  stain  this  discolour'd  shore.  — 
Master,  this  prisoner  freely  give  I  thee ;  — 
And  thou  that  art  his  mate,  make  boot  of  this ;  — 
The  other,   [PoirUing  to  Suffolk.]   Walter   Whit- 
more, is  thy  share. 
1  Gent.  What  is  my  ransome,  master  ?  let  me  know. 
Mast.   A  thousand  crowns,  or  else  lay  down  your 

head. 
Mate.  Andsomuchshall  you  give,  or  ofTgoes yours. 
Cap.    What,  think  you  much  to  pay  two  thousand 
crowns, 
And  bear  the  name  and  port  of  gentlemen  ?  — 
Cut  botli  the  villains'  throats  ;  —  for  die  you  shall : 
The  lives  of  those  which  we  have  lost  in  fight, 
Cannot  be  counterpois'd  with  such  a  petty  sum. 

1  Gent.  I'll  give  it  sir;  and  therefore  spare  my  life. 

2  Gent.  Andsovdll  I,and  write  home  foritstraight. 
Whit.   I  lost  mine  eye  in  laying  the  prize  aboard, 

And  therefore  to  revenge  it,  shalt  thou  die ; 

[To  Suffolk. 
And  so  should  these,  if  I  might  have  my  will. 
Cap.    Be  not  so  rash  ;  take  ransome,  let  him  live. 
Suf.   Look  on  my  George,  I  am  a  gentleman  ; 
Rate  me  at  what  thou  wilt,  tliou  shalt  be  paid. 
JFhit.   And  so  am  I;  —  my  name  is— Walter 
Whitmore. 
How  now?  why  start'st  thou?   what,  doth  death 
affright? 
Suf.  Thy  name  affrights  me,in  whose  sound  is  death. 
A  cunning  man  did  calculate  my  birth. 
And  told  me  —  that  by  Water  I  should  die  : 
Yet  let  not  this  make  thee  be  bloody  minded  ; 
Thy  name  is  —  Gnaltier,  being  rightly  sounded. 

Whit.  Gualder,  or  Walter,  which  it  is,  I  care  not ; 
Ne'er  yet  did  base  dishonour  blur  our  name, 
But  with  our  sword  we  wip'd  away  the  blot ; 
Therefore,  when  merchant-like  I  sell  revenge, 
Broke  be  my  sword,  my  anns  torn  and  defac'd, 
And  I  proclaim'd  a  coward  through  the  world  ! 

[Lays  hold  on  Suffolk. 
Suf.  Stay,  Whitmore  ;  for  thy  prisoner  is  a  prince, 
Tlie  duke  of  Suffolk,  William  de  la  Pole. 

WhU.   The  duke  of  Suffolk,  muffled  up  in  rags ! 
Sxf.    Ay,  but  these  rags  are  no  part  of  the  duke ; 
Jove  sometime  went  disguis'd.  And  why  not  I? 
Cap.    But  Jove  was  never  slain,  as  thou  shalt  be. 
Suf.  Obscureand  lowly  swain,  king  Henry 'sblood, 
The  honourable  blood  of  Lancaster, 
Must  not  he  shed  by  such  a  jaded  groom,  i 

»  PitiAiL  '  A  low  fellow. 


Hast  thou  not  kiss'd  thy  hand,  and  held  my  stirrup  ? 
Bare-headed  plodded  by  my  foot-cloth  mule. 
And  thought  thee  happy  when  I  shook  my  head  ? 
How  often  hast  tliou  waited  at  my  cup, 
Fed  from  my  trencher,  kneel'd  down  at  the  board, 
When  I  have  feasted  with  queen  Margaret  ? 
Remember  it,  and  let  it  make  thee  crest-fallen  ; 
Ay,  and  allay  this  thy  abortive  pride  : 
How  in  our  voiding  lobby  hast  thou  stood, 
And  duly  waited  for  my  coming  forth  ? 
This  hand  of  mine  hath  writ  in  tliy  behalf. 
And  therefore  shall  it  charm  thy  riotous  tongue. 
Whit.    Speak,  captain,  shall  I  stab  the   forlorn 

swain? 
Cap.  First  let  my  words  stab  him,  as  he  hath  me. 
Suf.   Base  slave  !  thy  words  are  blunt,  and  so  art 

thou. 
Cap.   Convey  him  hence,  and  on  our  long-boat's 
side 
Strike  off  his  head. 

Suf.  Thou  dar'st  net  for  thy  own. 

Cop.   Yes,  Poole. 
Suf.  Poole  ? 

Cap.  Poole?  sir  Poole? 

Whose  filth  and  dirt 

Troubles  the  silver  spring  where  England  drinks. 
Now  will  I  dam  up  this  thy  yawning  mouth, 
For  swallowing  the  treasure  of  the  realm  ; 
Thy  lips,  that  kiss'd  the  queen,  shall  sweep  the  ground ; 
And  thou,  that  smil'dst  at  good  duke  Humphrey's 

death. 
Against  the  senseless  winds  shall  grin  in  vain, 
Who,  in  contempt,  shall  hiss  at  thee  again  : 
And  wedded  be  thou  to  the  hags  of  hell. 
For  daring  to  affy  "^  a  mighty  lord 
Unto  the  daughter  of  a  worthless  king. 
Having  neither  subject,  wealth,  nor  diadem. 
By  thee  Anjou  and  Maine  were  sold  to  France  : 
The  false  revolting  Normans,  thorough  thee, 
Disdain  to  call  us  lord  ;  and  Picardy 
Hath  slain  their  governors,  surpriz'd  our  forts, 
And  sent  the  ragged  soldiers  wounded  home. 
The  princely  W^arwick,  and  the  Nevils  all,  — 
Whose  dreadful  swords  were  never  drawn  in  vain. 
As  hating  thee,  are  rising  up  in  arms : 
And  now  the  house  of  York  —  thrust  from  the  crown, 
By  shameful  murder  of  a  guiltless  king. 
And  lofty  proud  encroaching  tyranny  — 
Burns  with  revenging  fire  ;  whose  hopeful  colours 
Advance  our  half-fac'd  sun,  striving  to  shine, 
Under  the  which  is  writ  —  itivitis  nubibus. 
The  commons  here  in  Kent  are  up  in  arms  : 
And,  to  conclude,  reproach  and  beggary 
Is  crept  into  the  palace  of  our  king. 
And  all  by  thee :  —  Away  ;  convey  him  hence. 

Suf   O  that  I  were  a  god,  to  shoot  forth  thunder 
Upon  tliese  paltry,  servile,  abject  drudges ! 
Small  things  make  base  men  proud:  this  villain  here, 
Being  captain  of  a  pinnace  \  threatens  more 
nian  Bargulus  the  strong  Illyrian  pirate. 
Drones  suck  not  eagles'  bloo<l,  but  rob  bee-hives. 
It  is  impossible,  that  I  should  die 
By  such  a  lowly  vassal  as  thyself. 
Thy  words  move  rage,  and  not  remorse,  in  me  : 

«  To  betroth  in  marriage.  '  A  ship  of  small  burden. 

K  k 


498 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


I  go  of  message  from  the  queen  to  France ; 
I  charge  thee,  waft  me  safely  cross  the  channel. 

Cap.   Walter, 

WMt.  Come,  Suffolk,  I  must  waft  thee  to  thy  death. 

Suf.  Gelidus  timor  occupat  artus  :  'tis  thee  I  fear. 

Whit.  Thou  shalt  have  cause  to  fear,  before  I  leave 
thee. 
What,  are  ye  daunted  now  ?  now  will  ye  stoop  ? 

1  Gent.  My  gracious  lord,  entreat  him,  speak  him 
fair. 

S^^f.  Suffolk's  imperial  tongue  is  stern  and  rough, 
Us'd  to  command,  untaught  to  plead  for  favour. 
Far  be  it,  we  should  honour  such  as  these 
With  humble  suit :   no,  rather  let  my  head 
Stoop  to  the  block,  than  these  knees  bow  to  any 
Save  to  the  God  of  heaven,  and  to  my  king  ; 
And  sooner  dance  upon  a  bloody  pole, 
Than  stand  uncover'd  to  the  vulgar  groom. 
True  nobility  is  exempt  from  fear  :  — 
More  can  I  bear,  than  you  dare  execute. 

Cap.  Hale  him  away,  and  let  liim  talk  no  more. 

Suf.   Come,  soldiers,  show  what  cruelty  ye  can. 
That  this  my  death  may  never  be  forgot !  — 
Great  men  oft  die  by  vile  bezonians  "* : 
A  Roman  sworder  and  banditto  slave, 
Murder'd  sweet  TuUy  ;   Brutus'  bastard  hand 
Stabb'd  Julius  Caesar ;  savage  islanders, 
Pompey  the  great :  and  Suffolk  dies  by  pirates. 

{Exit  Suf.  with  Whit,  and  others. 

Cap.  And  as  for  these  whose  ransome  we  have  set, 
It  is  our  pleasure  one  of  them  depart :  — 
Therefore  come  you  with  us,  and  let  him  go. 

{Exeunt  all  but  the  first  Gentleman. 

Re-enter  Whitmore,  with  Suffolk's  Body. 

Whit.   There  let  his  head  and  lifeless  body  lie, 

Until  the  queen  his  mistress  bury  it.  {Exit. 

1  Gent.    O  barbarous  and  bloody  spectacle  ! 
His  body  will  I  bear  unto  the  king  : 
If  he  revenge  it  not,  yet  will  his  friends ; 
So  will  the  queen,  that  living  held  him  dear. 

{Exit,  with  the  Body. 

SCENE  II.  —  Blackheath. 
Enter  George  Bevis  and  John  Holland. 

Geo.  Come,  and  get  thee  a  sword,  though  made 
of  a  lath  ;  they  have  been  up  these  two  days. 

John.  They  have  the  more  need  to  sleep  now  then. 

Geo.  I  tell  thee,  Jack  Cade  the  clothier  means  to 
dress  the  commonwealth,  and  turn  it,  and  set  a  new 
nap  upon  it. 

John.  So  he  had  need,  for  'tis  threadbare.  Well, 
I  say,  it  was  never  merry  world  in  England,  since 
gentlemen  came  up. 

Geo.  O  miserable  age  !  Virtue  is  not  regarded  in 
handycrafts-men. 

John.  Tlie  nobility  think  scorn  to  go  in  leather 
aprons. 

Geo.  Nay  more,  the  king's  council  are  no  good 
workmen. 

John.  True  ;  And  yet  it  is  said,  —  Labour  in  thy 
vocation  :  which  is  as  much  to  say,  as,  —  let  the 
magistrates  be  labouring  men ;  and  therefore  should 
we  be  magistrates. 

Geo.  Thou  hast  hit  it ;  for  there's  no  better  sign 
of  a  brave  mind,  than  a  hard  hand. 

John.   I  see  them  !   I  see  them  !      There's  Best's 

son,  the  tanner  of  Wingham  ; 

*  Low  mea 


Geo.  He  shall  have  the  skins  of  our  enemies,  to 
make  dog's  leather  of. 

John.   And  Dick  the  butcher, 

Geo.  Then  is  sin  struck  down  like  an  ox,  and 
iniquity's  throat  cut  like  a  calf. 

John.    And  Smith  the  weaver. 

Geo.   jirgo,  their  thread  of  life  is  spun. 

John.   Come,  come,  let's  fall  in  with  them. 

Drum.     Enter  Cade,  Dick  the  BtUcher,  Smith  the 
Weaver^  and  others  in  great  number. 

Cade.  We,  John  Cade,  so  termed  of  our  supposed 
father,  -^— 

JDick.   Or  rather  of  stealing  a  cade  of  herrings.  * 

{J  side. 

Cade.  —  for  our  enemies  shall  fall  before  us,  in- 
spired with  the  spirit  of  putting  down  kings  and 
princes.  —  Command  silence. 

Dick.   Silence! 

Cade.   My  father  was  a  Mortimer,  — 

Dick.  He  was  an  honest  man,  and  a  good  brick 
layer.  [Aside. 

Cade.   My  mother  a  Plantagenet,  — 

Dick.   I  knew  her  well ;  she  was  a  midwife. 

{Aside. 

Cade.   My  wife  descended  of  the  Lacies,  — 

Dick.  She  was,  indeed,  a  pedlar's  daughter,  and 
sold  many  laces.  {Aside. 

Smith.  But,  now  of  late,  not  able  to  travel  with 
her  furred  pack,  she  washes  bucks  here  at  home. 

{Aside. 

Cade.   Therefore  am  I  of  an  honourable  house. 

Dick.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  the  field  is  honourable  ; 
And  there  was  he  born,  under  a  hedge  ;  for  his 
father  had  never  a  house,  but  the  cage.  {Aside. 

Cade.   Valiant  I  am. 

Smith.   'A  must  needs  ;  for  beggary  is  valiant. 

[Aside. 

Cade.    I  am  able  to  to  endure  much. 

Dick.  No  question  of  that ;  for  I  have  seen  him 
whipped  three  market  days  together.  [Aside. 

Cade.   I  fear  neither  sword  nor  fire. 

Smith.  He  need  not  fear  the  sword,  for  his  coat 
is  of  proof.  [Aside. 

Dick.  But,  methinks  he  should  stand  in  fear  of 
fire,  being  burnt  i'the  hand  for  stealing  of  sheep. 

{Aside. 

Cade.  Be  brave,  then ;  for  your  captain  is  brave, 
and  vows  reformation.  There  shall  be,  in  England, 
seven  halfpenny  loaves  sold  for  a  penny :  the  three- 
hooped  pot  shall  have  ten  hoops  ;  and  I  will  make 
it  felony,  to  drink  small  beer  ;  all  the  realm  shall  be 
in  common,  and  in  Cheapside  shall  my  palfry  go 
to  grass.      And,  when  I  am  king,  (as  king  I  will 

All.    God  save  your  majesty  ! 

Cade.  I  thank  you,  good  people  :  —  there  shall 
be  no  money  ;  all  shall  eat  and  drink  on  my  score ; 
and  I  will  apparel  them  all  in  one  livery,  that  they 
may  agree  like  brothers. 

Dick.  The  first  thing  we  do,  let's  kill  all  the 
lawyers. 

Cade.  Nay,  that  I  mean  to  do.  Is  not  this  a 
lamentable  thing,  that  of  the  skin  of  an  innocent 
lamb  should  be  made  parchment  ?  that  parchment, 
being  scribbled  o'er,  should  undo  a  man  ?  Some 
say,  the  bee  stings :  but  I  say,  'tis  the  bee's  wax  ; 
for  I  did  but  seal  once  to  a  thing,  and  I  was  never 
mine  own  man  since.  How  now  ;  who's  there? 
5  A  barrel  of  herrings. 


I 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


499 


Enter  somcy  bringing  in  the  Clerk  of  Chatham. 

Smith.  The  clerk  of  Chatham  :  he  can  write  and 
read,  and  cast  accompt. 

Cade.   O  monstrous  ! 

Smith.   We  took  him  setting  of  boys'  copies. 

Ca4e.    Here's  a  villain  ! 

Smith.  H'as  a  book  in  his  pocket,  with  red  letters 
in't. 

Cade.   Nay,  then  he  is  a  conjurer. 

Dick.  Nay,  he  can  make  obligations,  and  write 
court-hand. 

Cade.  I  am  sorry  for't :  the  man  is  a  proper  man, 
on  mine  honour  ;  unless  I  find  him  guilty,  he  shall 
not  die,  —  Come  hither,  sirrali ;  I  must  examine 
thee  :    What  is  thy  name  ? 

Clerk.   Emmanuel. 

Dick.  They  use  to  write  it  on  the  top  of  letters  ; 
'Twill  go  hard  with  you. 

Cade.  Let  me  alone  :  —  Dost  thou  use  to  write 
thy  name  ?  or  hast  thou  a  mark  to  thyself,  like  an 
honest  plain-dealing  man  ? 

Clerk.  Sir,  I  thank  Heaven,  I  have  been  so  well 
brought  up,  that  I  can  write  my  name. 

All.  He  hath  confessed :  away  with  him  ;  he's  a 
villain,  and  a  traitor. 

Cade.  Away  with  him,  I  say  :  hang  him  with  his 
pen  and  inkhom  about  his  neck. 

\^Exeunt  some  with  the  Clerk. 

Enter  Michael. 

JkFich.    Where's  our  general  ? 

Cade.    Here  I  am,  thou  particular  fellow. 

Mich.  Fly,  fly,  fly  !  sir  Humphrey  StafTord  and 
his  brotlier  are  hard  by,  with  the  king's  forces. 

Cade.  Stand,  villain,  stand,  or  I'll  fell  thee  down  ; 
He  shall  be  encountered  with  a  man  as  good  as 
himself :   he  is  but  a  knight,  is  'a  ? 

Mich.   No. 

Cade.  To  equal  him,  I  will  make  myself  a  knight 
presently  ;  —  Rise  up  sir  John  Mortimer.  Now 
have  at  him. 

Enter  Sib  Humphrey  Stafford  and  William  his 
brother,  with  Drum  and  Forces. 

Staf.  Rebellious  hinds,  the  filth  and  scum  of  Kent, 
Mark'd  for  the  gallows,  —  lay  your  weapons  down. 
Home  to  your  cottages,  forsake  this  groom  ;  — 
The  king  is  merciful,  if  you  revolt. 

W.  Staf.  Butangry,  wrathful,  and  inclin'd  toblood, 
Jf  you  go  forward  :   therefore  yield,  or  die. 

Cade.  As  for  these  silken-coated  slaves,  I  pass  not  ^j 
It  is  to  you,  good  people,  that  I  speak. 
O'er  whom,  in  time  to  come,  I  hope  to  reign ; 
For  I  am  rightful  heir  unto  the  crown. 

Staf.    Villain,  thy  father  was  a  plasterer  ; 
And  thou  thyself  a  shearman.  Art  thou  not  ? 

Cade.   And  Adam  was  a  gardener. 

W.  Staf.   And  what  of  that? 

Cade.  Marry,  tliis :  —  Edmund  Mortimer,  earl  of 
March, 
Married  the  duke  of  Clarence*  daughter;  Did  he  not? 

Slaf.    Ay,  sir. 

Cade.   By  her,  he  had  two  children  at  one  birth. 

IV.  Staf.    That's  false. 

Cade.  Ay,  there's  the  question,  but,  I  say,  'tis  true : 
The  elder  of  them,  being  put  to  nurse, 
Was  by  a  beggar-woman  stol'n  away  ; 
And  ignorant  of  his  birth  and  parentage, 

•  I  p*y  them  no  regard. 


Became  a  bricklayer,  when  he  came  to  age  : 
His  son  am  I ;  deny  it,  if  you  can.  • 

Dick.  Nay,  'tis  too  true ;  therefore  he  shall  be  king. 

Smith.  Sir,  he  made  a  chimney  in  my  father's 
house,  and  the  bricks  are  alive  at  this  day  to  testify 
it ;  therefore  deny  it  not. 

Staf  And  will  you  credit  this  base  drudge's  words, 
That  speaks  he  knows  not  what  ? 

All.  Ay,  marry,  will  we ;  therefore  get  ye  gone. 

JV.  Staf  Jack  Cade,  the  duke  of  York  hatli  taught 
you  this. 

Cade.  He  lies  ;  for  I  invented  it  myself.  [Aside. 
—  Go  to,  sirrah.  Tell  the  king  from  me,  that  — 
for  his  father's  sake,  Henry  the  fifth,  in  whose  time 
boys  went  to  span-counter  for  French  crowns  —  I 
am  content  he  shall  reign  ;  but  I'U  be  protector  over 
him. 

Dick.  And,  furthermore,  we'll  have  the  lord  Say's 
head  for  selling  the  dukedom  of  Maine. 

Cade.  And  good  reason  ;  for  thereby  is  England 
maimed,  and  fain  to  go  with  a  staff,  but  that  my 
puissance  holds  it  up.  Fellow  kings,  I  tell  you, 
that  that  lord  Say  hath  maimed  the  commonwealth, 
and  more  than  that,  he  can  speak  French,  and  there- 
fore he  is  a  traitor. 

Staf.   O  gross  and  miserable  ignorance  ! 

Cade.  Nay,  answer  if  you  can  :  The  Frenchmen 
are  our  enemies  :  go  to,  then,  I  ask  but  this  ;  Can 
he,  that  speaks  with  the  tongue  of  an  enemy,  be  a 
good  counsellor,  or  no  ? 

All.   No,  no ;  and  therefore  we'll  have  his  head. 

W.  Staf.  Well,  seeing  gentle  words  will  not  prevail. 
Assail  them  with  the  army  of  the  king. 

Staf.  Herald,  away  ;  and,  throughout  every  town. 
Proclaim  them  traitors  that  are  up  with  Cade  j 
That  those,  which  fly  before  the  battle  ends. 
May,  even  in  their  wives'  and  children's  sight. 
Be  hang'd  up  for  example  at  their  doors  : 
And  you,  that  be  the  king's  friends,  follow  me. 

[Exeunt  the  two  Staffords,  a7id  Forces. 

Cade.   And  you,  that  love  the  commons,  follow 
me.  — 
Now  show  yourselves  men,  'tis  for  liberty. 
We  will  not  leave  one  lord,  one  gentleman : 
Spare  none,  but  such  as  go  in  clouted  shoon  7 ; 
For  they  are  thrifty  honest  men,  and  such 
As  would  (but  that  they  dare  not,)  take  our  parts. 

Dick.  They  are  all  in  order,  and  march  toward  us. 

Cade.  But  then  are  we  in  order,  when  we  are  most 
out  of  order.    Come,  march  forward.  [ExeuTit. 

SCENE  III.  —  Another  part  of  Blackheath. 

Alarums.  The  two  Parties  enter  andf^ht,  and  both 
the  Staffords  are  slain. 

Cade.   Where's  Dick,  the  butcher  of  Ashford  ? 

Dick.   Here,  sir. 

Cade.  They  fell  before  thee  like  sheep  and  oxen, 
and  thou  behavedst  thyself  as  if  thou  hadst  been  in 
thine  own  slaughter-house :  therefore  thus  will  I 
reward  thee,  —  The  Lent  shall  be  as  long  again  as 
it  is ;  and  thou  shalt  have  a  license  to  kill  for  a 
hundred  lacking  one. 

Dick.   I  desire  no  more. 

Cade.  And,  to  speak  truth,  thou  deservest  no  less. 
This  monument  of  the  victory  will  I  bear  ;  and  tiie 
bodies  shall  be  dragged  at  my  horse'  heels,  till  I  do 
come  to  London,  where  we  will  have  the  mayor's 
sword  borne  before  us. 


Kk  9 


500 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


Dick.  If  wc  mean  to  thrive  and  do  good,  break 
opentthe  gaols,  and  let  out  the  prisoners. 

Cade.  Fear  not  that,  I  warrant  thee.  Come,  let's 
march  towards  London.  \_Exeu7it. 

SCENE  IV.  —  London.     A  Room  m  the  Palace. 

Enter  King   Henry,   reading  a  Supplication;   the 

Duke  of  Buckingham  and  Lord  Say  with  him: 

at  a  distance,  Queen  Margaret,  mourning  over 

Suffolk's  Head. 

Q.  Mar.  Oft  have  I  heard  —  that  grief  softens  the 
mind, 
And  makes  it  fearful  and  degenerate  ; 
Think  therefore  on  revenge,  and  cease  to  weep. 
But  who  can  cease  to  weep,  and  look  on  this  ? 
Here  may  his  head  lie  on  my  throbbing  breast : 
But  where's  the  body  that  I  should  embrace  ? 

Buck.  What  answer  makes  your  grace  to  the 
rebels'  supplication  ? 

A'.  Hen.   I'll  send  some  holy  bishop  to  ei\treat : 
For  God  forbid,  so  many  simple  souls 
Should  perish  by  the  sword  !   And  I  myself. 
Rather  than  bloody  war  should  cut  them  short. 
Will  parley  with  Jack  Cade  their  general.  — 
But  stay,  I'll  read  it  over  once  again. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah,  barbarous  villains  !  hath  this  lovely 
face 
Rul'd  like  a  wandering  planet,  over  me  ; 
And  could  it  not  enforce  them  to  relent, 
That  were  unworthy  to  behold  the  same  ? 

IT.  Hen.  Lord  Say,  Jack  Cade  hath  sworn  to  have 

thy  head. 
Say.  Ay,  but  I  hope,  your  highness  shall  have  his. 
JC.  Hen.    How  now,  madam  ?   Still 
Lamenting,  and  mourning  for  Suffolk's  death  ; 
I  fear,  my  love,  if  that  I  had  been  dead, 
Thou  wouldest  not  have  mourn'd  so  much  for  me. 
Q.  Mar.  My  love,  I  should  not  mourn,  but  die  for 
thee. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Ji.  Hen.  How  now  !  what  news  ?  why  com'st  thou 

in  such  haste  ? 
Mess.  The  rebels  are  in  Southwark ;  Fly,  my  lord ! 
Jack  Cade  proclaims  himself  lord  Mortimer, 
Descended  from  the  duke  of  Clarence'  house  : 
And  calls  your  grace  usurper,  openly. 
And  vows  to  crown  himself  in  Westminster. 
His  army  is  a  ragged  multitude 
Of  hinds  and  peasants,  rude  and  merciless  ; 
Sir  Humphrey  Stafford  and  his  brother's  death 
Hath  given  them  heart  and  courage  to  proceed  : 
All  scholars,  lawyers,  courtiers,  gentlemen, 
They  call  —  false  caterpillars,  and  intend  their  death. 
JT.  Hen.   O  graceless  men  !  they  know  not  what 

they  do. 
Buck.   My  gracious  lord,  retire  to  Kenelworth, 
Until  a  power  be  rais'd  to  put  them  down. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah  !  were  the  duke  of  Sufiblk  now  alive. 
These  Kentish  rebels  would  be  soon  appeas'd. 

KHen.   Lord  Say,  the  traitors  hate  thee. 
Therefore  away  with  us  to  Kenelworth. 

Say.  So  might  your  grace's  person  be  in  danger  ; 
The  sight  of  me  is  odious  in  their  eyes  : 
And  therefore  in  this  city  will  I  stay, 
And  live  alone  as  secret  as  I  may. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 
2  Mess.  Jack  Cade  hath  gotten  London-bridge  ; 
the  citizens 
Fly  and  forsake  their  houses  : 


The  rascal  people,  thirsting  after  prey, 

Join  with  the  traitor  ;  and  they  jointly  swear, 

To  spoil  the  city,  and  your  royal  court. 

Buck.  Then  linger  not,  my  lord  ;  away,  take  horse. 

K.  Hen.   Come,  Margaret ;    God,  our  hope,  will 
succour  us. 

Q.  Mar.  My  hope  is  gone,  now  Suffolk  is  deceas'd. 

K.  Hen.   F'arewell,  my    lord  ;    [  To  Lord  Say.] 
trust  not  the  Kentish  rebels. 

Buck.   Trust  no  body,  for  fear  you  be  betray'd. 

Say.   The  trust  I  have  is  in  mine  innocence. 
And  therefore  am  I  bold  and  resolute.        [Exeu7it. 

SCENE  Y.—  The  Tower. 

Enter  Lord  Scales,  and  others,  on  the  Walls.    Then 
enter  certain  Citizens,  below. 

Scales.   How  now  ?  is  Jack  Cade  slain  ? 

1  Cit.  No,  my  lord,  nor  likely  to  be  slain ;  for 
they  have  won  the  bridge,  killing  all  those  that 
withstand  them  :  The  lord  mayor  craves  aid  of  your 
honour  from  the  Tower,  to  defend  the  city  from  tlie 
rebels. 

Scales.  Such  aid  as  I  can  spare,  you  shall  command; 
But  I  am  troubled  here  with  them  myself; 
The  rebels  have  assay'd  to  win  the  Tower. 
But  get  you  to  Smithfield,  and  gather  head, 
And  thither  I  will  send  you  Matthew  Gough  : 
Fight  for  your  king,  your  country,  and  your  lives  ; 
And  so  farewell,  for  I  must  hence  again.    \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  Cannon  Street. 

Enter  Jack  Cade,  and  his  Followers.     He  strikes  his 
Staff  on  London-stone. 

Cade.  Now  is  Mortimer  lord  of  this  city.  And 
here,  sitting  upon  London-stone,  I  charge  and  com- 
mand, that  of  the  city's  cost,  the  conduit  run  nothing 
but  claret  wine  this  first  year  of  our  reign.  And 
now,  henceforward,  it  shall  be  treason  for  any  that 
calls  me  other  than  —  lord  Mortimer. 
Enter  a  Soldier,  running. 

Sold.  Jack  Cade !  Jack  Cade ! 

Cade.   Knock  him  down  there.       [They  kill  him. 

Smith.  If  this  fellow  be  wise,  he'll  never  call  you 
Jack  Cade  more ;  I  think  he  hath  a  very  fair  warn- 
ing. 

Dick.  My  lord,  there's  an  army  gathered  together 
in  Smithfield. 

Cade.  Come  then,  let's  go  fight  with  them  :  But, 
first,  go  and  set  London-bridge  on  fire ;  and  if  you 
can,  burn  down  the  Tower  too.     Come,  let's  away. 

[Exeunt 
SCENE  VI L— Smithfield. 

Alarum.      Enter,  on  one  side.  Cade  and  his  Com-  ih 

pany ;  on  the  other,  Citizeiis,  and  the  King^s  Forces,  J^^  \ 

headed  by  Matthew  Gough.      They  jight ;   the  ^B 
Citizens  are  routed,  and  Matthew  Gough  is  slain. 

Cade.  So,  sirs :  —  Now  go  some  and  pull  down 
the  Savoy ;  others  to  the  inns  of  court ;  down  with 
them  all. 

Dick.    I  have  a  suit  unto  your  lordship. 

Cade.  Be  it  a  lordship,  thou  shalt  have  it  for  that 
word. 

Dick.  Only  that  the  laws  of  England  may  come 
out  of  your  mouth. 

John.  'Twill  be  sore  law,  then  ;  for  he  was  thrust 
in  the  mouth  with  a  spear,  and  'tis  not  whole  yet. 

[Aside. 


^1 


Scene  VII. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


501 


Cade.  I  have  thought  upon  it  j  it  shall  be  so. 
Away,  burn  all  the  records  of  the  realm  ;  my  mouth 
shall  be  the  parliament  of  England. 

John.  Then  we  are  like  to  have  biting  statutes, 
unless  his  teeth  be  pulled  out.  \_Aside. 

Cade.  And  henceforward  all  things  shall  be  in 
common. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  a  prize,  a  prize  !  here's  the  lord 
Say,  which  sold  the  towns  in  France;  he  that  made 
us  pay  one  and  twenty  fifteens  «,  and  one  shilling  to 
the  pound,  the  last  subsidy. 

Enter  George  Bevis,  udth  the  Lord  Sat. 

Cade.  Well,  he  shall  be  beheaded  for  it  ten  times. 
—  Ah,  thou  say  9,  thou  serge,  nay,  thou  buckram 
lord !  now  art  thou  within  point-blank  of  our  juris- 
diction regal.  What  canst  thou  answer  to  my  ma- 
jesty, for  giving  up  of  Normandy  unto  the  dauphin 
of  France  ?  Be  it  known  unto  thee  by  these  pre- 
sence, even  the  presence  of  lord  Mortimer,  that  I 
am  the  besom  that  must  sweep  the  court  clean  of 
such  filth  as  thou  art.  Thou  hast  most  traitorously 
corrupted  the  youth  of  the  realm,  in  erecting  a 
grammar-school :  and  whereas,  before,  our  fore- 
fathers had  no  other  books  but  the  score  and  the 
tally,  thou  hast  caused  printing  to  be  used;  and, 
contrary  to  the  king,  his  crown  and  dignity,  thou 
hast  built  a  paper-mill.  It  will  be  proved  to  thy 
face,  that  thou  hast  men  about  thee,  that  usually 
talk  of  a  noun,  and  a  verb ;  and  such  abominable 
words,  as  no  Christian  ear  can  endure  to  hear. 
Tliou  hast  appointed  justices  of  peace,  to  call  poor 
men  before  them  about  matters  they  were  not  able 
to  answer.  Moreover,  thou  hast  put  thern  in  prison, 
and  because  they  could  not  read  >,  thou  hast  hanged 
them,  when,  indeed,  only  for  that  causfe  they  have 
been  most  worthy  to  live.  Thou  dost  ride  on  a 
foot-cloth  2,  dost  thou  not  ? 

Sat/.   What  of  that? 

Cade.  Marry,  thou  oughtest  not  to  let  thy  horse 
wear  a  cloak,  when  honester  men  than  thou  go  in 
their  hose  and  doublets. 

Dick.  And  work  in  their  shirt  too;  as  myself, 
for  example,  that  am  a  butcher. 

Sat/    You  men  of  Kent.  — 

Dick.   What  say  you  of  Kent  ? 

Sai/.  Nothing  but  this:  'Tis  bona  terra,  mala  gens. 

Cade.  Away  with  bim,  away  with  him !  he  speaks 
Latin. 

Sat/.  Hear  me  but  speak,  and  bear  me  where  you 
will. 
Kent,  in  the  commentaries  Caesar  writ, 
Is  term'd  the  civil'st  place  of  all  this  isle : 
Sweet  is  the  country,  because  full  of  riches ; 
The  people  liberal,  valiant,  active,  wealthy ; 
Wliich  makes  me  hope  you  are  not  void  of  pity. 
I  sold  not  Maine,  I  lost  not  Normandy ; 
Yet,  to  recover  them,  would  lose  my  life. 
Justice  with  favour  have  I  always  done ; 
Prayers  and  tears  have  mov'd  me,  git^  could  never. 
When  have  I  aught  exacted  at  your  hands, 
Kent  to  maintain,  tiie  king,  the  realm,  and  you  ? 
Large  git\s  have  I  bestow'd  on  learned  clerks, 
Because  my  l)Ook  prefcrr'd  me  to  the  king : 
And  —  seeing  ignorance  is  the  curse  of  Heaven, 

"  A  finecn  W.18  the  fifteenth  part  of  all  the  movables  or 
personal  property  of  each  subject 
^  Say  was  a  kind  of  mtkc. 

'  i.  e.  Ilccause  they  could  not  rlaim  the  benefit  of  clergy. 
•  A  kind  of  housing,  which  covered  the  body  of  the  horbc. 


Knowledge  the  wing  wherewith  we  fly  to  it.  — 
Unless  you  be  possess'd  with  devilish  spirits, 
You  cannot  but  forbear  to  murder  me. 
This  tongue  hath  parley'd  unto  foreign  kings 
For  your  behoof,  — 

Cade.  Tut !  when  struck'st  tliou  one  blow  in  tlie 
field? 

Say.   Great  men  have  reaching  hands :  oft  have  I 
struck 
Those  that  I  never  saw,  and  struck  them  dead. 

Geo.  O  monstrous  coward  !  what,  to  come  behind 
folks? 

Say.  These  cheeks  are  pale  for  watching  for  your 
good. 

Cajde.  Give  him  a  box  o'  the  ear,  and  that  will 
make  'em  red  again. 

Say.  Long  sitting  to  determine  poor  men's  causes 
Hath  made  me  full  of  sickness  and  diseases. 

Cade.  Ye  shall  have  a  hempen  caudle  then,  and 
the  pap  of  a  hatchet. 

Dick.   Why  dost  thou  quiver,  man  ? 

Say.   The  palsy,  and  not  fear,  provoketh  me. 

Cade.  Nay,  he  nods  at  us  ;  as  who  should  say,  — 
I'll  be  even  witli  you.  I'll  see  if  his  head  will  stand 
steadier  on  a  pole,  or  no :  Take  him  away,  and 
behead  him. 

Say.   Tell  me,  wherein  I  have  offended  most  ? 
Have  I  affected  wealth,  or  honour  ;  speak  ? 
Are  my  chests  fill'd  up  witli  extorted  goUl  ? 
Is  my  apparel  sumptuous  to  behold? 
Whom  have  I  injur'd,  that  ye  seek  my.  death  ? 
These  hands  are  free  from  guiltless  blood-shedding  3, 
This  breast  from  harbouring  foul  deceitful  thoughts. 
O,  let  me  live  ! 

Cade.  I  feel  remorse  in  myself  witli  his  words : 
but  I'll  bridle  it;  he  shall  die,  an  it  be  but  for 
pleading  so  well  for  liis  life.  Away  with  him !  he 
has  a  familiar*  under  his  tongue;  Go,  take  him 
away,  1  say,  and  strike  olF  his  head  presently  ;  and 
then  break  into  his  son-in-law's  house,  sir  James 
Cromer,  and  strike  off  his  head,  and  bring  them  both 
upon  two  poles  hither. 

All.    It  shall  be  done. 

Say.   Ah,  countrymen !  if  when  you  make  your 
prayers, 
God  should  be  so  obdurate  as  yourselves, 
How  would  it  fare  with  your  departed  souls? 
And  therefore  yet  relent,  and  save  my  life. 

Cade.  Away  with  him,  and  do  as  I  connnand  ye. 
\_Exeunt  some  with  Lord  Say. 
The  proudest  peer  in  the  realm  shall  not  wear  a 
head  on  his  shoulders,  unless  he  pay  me  tribute ; 
men  shall  hold  of  me  m  capitei  and  we  charge  and 
command,  that  their  wives  be  as  free  as  heart  can 
wish,  or  tongue  can  tell. 

Dick.  My  lord,  when  shall  we  go  to  Clieapside, 
and  take  up  commodities  upon  our  bills  ? 

Cade.    Marry,  presently. 

AU.   O  brave  ! 

Re-enter  Rebdh  V'ith  the  Heads  of  Lokd  Say  and  his 
Son-in-law. 
Cade.  But  is  not  this  braver  ?  —  I^t  them  kiss 
one  another,  for  they  loved  well,  when  tliey  were 
alive.  Now  part  them  again,  lest  they  consult  about 
the  giving  up  of  some  more  towns  in  France.  Sol- 
diers defer  the  s)>oil  of  tiie  city  until  night :  for  with 
these  borne  before  us,  instead  of  maces,  will  wc  lide 

'  (.  r.  Shedding  guiltles*  blood 
*  A  dsmou  who  wat  sup{MWOct  to  attend  at  call. 
Kk  3 


502 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


through  the  streets ;  and,  at  every  corner,  have  them 
kiss.  —  Away !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.  —  Southwark. 

Alarum.     Enter  Cade,  and  all  his  Rahhlement. 

Cade.  Up  Fish-street !  down  Saint  Magnus'  cor- 
ner !  kill  and  knock  down !  throw  them  into 
Thames!— [^  Parley  sounded,  then  a  Retreat.'] 
What  noise  is  this  I  hear  ?  Dare  any  be  so  bold  to 
sound  retreat  or  parley,  when  I  command  them  kill  ? 

Enter  Buckingham,  and  old  Clifford,  with  Forces. 

Buck.  Ay,  here  they  be  that  dare  and  will  disturb 
thee : 
Know,  Cade,  we  come  ambassadors  from  the  king 
Unto  the  commons,  whom  thou  hast  misled ; 
And  here  pronounce  free  pardon  to  them  all. 
That  will  forsake  thee,  and  go  home  in  peace. 

Clif.   What  say  ye,  countrymen  ?  will  ye  relent. 
And  yield  to  mercy,  whilst  'tis  oflfer'd  you ; 
Or  let  a  rabble  lead  you  to  your  deaths? 
Who  loves  the  king,  and  will  embrace  his  pardon. 
Fling  up  his  cap,  and  say  —  God  save  his  majesty  ! 
Who  hateth  him,  and  honours  not  his  father, 
Henry  the  fifth,  that  made  all  France  to  quake. 
Shake  he  his  weapon  at  us,  and  pass  by. 

All.   God  save  the  king  !   God  save  the  king  ! 

Cade.  What,  Buckingham,  and  Clifford,  are  ye 
so  brave  ?  —  And  you,  base  peasants,  do  ye  believe 
him  ?  will  you  needs  be  hanged  with  your  pardons 
about  your  necks  ?  Hath  my  sword  therefore  broke 
through  London  gates,  that  you  should  leave  me 
at  the  White  Hart  in  Southwark  ?  I  thought,  ye 
would  never  have  given  out  these  arms,  till  you  had 
recovered  your  ancient  freedom ;  but  you  are  all 
recreants,  and  dastards;  and  delight  to  live  in 
slavery  to  the  nobility.  Let  them  break  your  backs 
with  burdens,  take  your  houses  over  your  heads, 
ravish  your  wives  and  daughters  before  your  faces : 
For  me,  —  I  will  make  shift  for  one ;  and  so  —  A 
curse  'light  upon  you  all ! 

AIL   We'll  follow  Cade,  we'll  follow  Cade. 

Clif.   Is  Cade  the  son  of  Henry  the  fifth, 
That  thus  you  do  exclaim  —  you'll  go  with  him  ? 
Will  he  conduct  you  through  the  heart  of  France, 
And  make  the  meanest  of  you  earls  and  dukes  ? 
Alas,  he  hath  no  home,  no  place  to  fly  to ; 
Nor  knows  he  how  to  live,  but  by  the  spoil, 
Unless  by  robbing  of  your  friends,  and  us. 
Wer't  not  a  shame,  that  whilst  you  live  at  jar. 
The  fearful  French,  whom  you  late  vanquished. 
Should  make  a  start  o'er  seas  and  vanquish  you  ? 
Methinks,  already,  in  this  civil  broil, 
I  see  them  lording  it  in  London  streets. 
Crying  —  Villageois  !  unto  all  they  meet. 
Better,  ten  thousand  base-born  Cades  miscarry. 
Than  you  should  stoop  unto  a  Frenchman's  mercy. 
To  France,  to  France,  and  get  what  you  have  lost ; 
Spare  England,  for  it  is  your  native  coast ; 
Henry  hath  money,  you  are  strong  and  manly : 
God  on  our  side,  doubt  not  of  victory. 

All.  A  Clifford!  a  Clifford!  we'll  follow  the 
king,  and  Clifford. 

Cade.  Was  ever  feather  so  lightly  blown  to  and 
fro,  as  this  multitude  ?  the  name  of  Henry  the  fifth 
hales  them  to  an  hundred  mischiefs,  and  makes  them 
leave  me  desolate.  I  see  them  lay  their  heads  toge- 
ther, to  surprize  me :  my  sword  make  way  for  me, 
for  here  is  no  staying.  —  Have  through  the  very 


midst  of  you  !  and  honour  be  witness,  that  no  want 
of  resolution  in  me,  but  only  my  followers'  base  and 
ignominious  treasons,  makes  me  betake  me  to  my 
heels.  [Exit. 

Buck.  What,  is  he  fled  ?  go,  some  and  follow  him  ; 
And  he,  that  brings  his  head  unto  the  king. 

Shall  have  a  thousand  crowns  for  his  reward 

[Exeunt  some  of  them. 
Follow  me,  soldiers ;  we'll  devise  a  mean 
To  reconcile  you  all  unto  the  king.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IX 


Kenel  worth  Castle. 


Enter  King   Henry,   Queen   Margaret,  and 
Somerset,  on  the  Terrace  of  the  Castle. 
K.  Hen.   Was  ever  king  that  joy'd  an  earthly 
throne. 
And  could  command  no  more  content  than  I  ? 
No  sooner  was  I  crept  out  of  my  cradle. 
But  I  was  made  a  king  at  nine  months  old : 
Was  never  subject  long'd  to  be  a  king, 
As  I  do  long  and  wish  to  be  a  subject. 

Enter  Buckingham  and  Clifford. 
Buck.  Health,  and  glad  tidings,  to  your  majesty  ! 
K.  Hen.  Why,  Buckingham,  is  the  traitor.  Cade, 
surpriz'd  ? 
Or  is  he  but  retir'd  to  make  him  strong  ? 

Enter,  below,  a  great  number  of  Cade's  Followers, 
with  Halters  about  their  Necks. 

Clif.   He's  fled,  my  lord,  and  all  his  powers  do 
yield ; 
And  humbly  thus,  with  halters  on  their  necks. 
Expect  your  highness'  doom  of  life,  or  death. 

K.  Hen.  Then, heaven, setope  thy everlastinggates. 
To  entertain  my  vows  of  thanks  and  praise  ! 
Soldiers,  this  day  have  you  redeem'd  your  lives, 
And  show'd  how  well  you  love  your  prince  and 

country : 
Continue  still  in  this  so  good  a  mind. 
And  Henry,  though  he  be  infortunate. 
Assure  yourselves,  will  never  be  unkind : 
And  so,  with  thanks  and  pardon  to  you  all, 
I  do  dismiss  you  to  your  several  countries. 

AU.    God  save  the  king !   God  save  the  king  ! 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   Please  it  your  grace  to  be  advertised. 
The  duke  of  York  is  newly  come  from  Ireland : 
And  with  a  puissant,  and  a  mighty  power. 
Of  gallowglasses,  and  stout  kernes  ^, 
Is  marching  hitherward  in  proud  array  ; 
And  still  proclaimeth,  as  he  comes  along. 
His  arms  are  only  to  remove  from  thee 
The  duke  of  Somerset,  whom  he  terms  a  traitor. 

K.  Hen.    Thus  stands  my  state,  'twixt  Cade  and 
York  distress'd ; 
Like  to  a  ship,  that,  having  'scap'd  a  tempest. 
Is  straightway  calm'd  and  boarded  with  a  pirate  : 
But  now  6  is  Cade  driven  back,  his  men  dispers'd  ; 
And  now  is  York  in  arms  to  second  him.  — 
I  pray  thee,  Buckingham,  go  forth  and  meet  him ; 
And  ask  him,  what's  the  reason  of  these  arms. 
Tell  him,  I'll  send  duke  Edmund  to  the  Tower ;  — 
And,  Somerset,  we  will  commit  thee  thither, 
Until  his  army  be  dismiss'd  from  him. 

Som.   My  lord, 
I'll  yield  myself  to  prison  willingly. 
Or  unto  death,  to  do  my  country  good. 

*  Two  orders  of  foot-soldiers  among  the  Insh. 
6  Only  just  now. 


I 


I 


Scene  X. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


503 


K.  Hen.   In  any  case,  be  not  too  rough  in  terms ; 
For  he  is  fierce,  and  cannot  brook  hard  language. 

Buck.  I  will,  my  lord  ;  and  doubt  not  so  to  deal. 
As  all  things  should  redound  unto  your  good. 

K.  Hen.  Come,  wife,  let's  in,  and  learn  to  govern 
better ; 
For  yet  may  England  curse  my  wretched  reign. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  X.  —  Kent     Iden'5  Garden. 
Enter  Cade. 

Cade.  Fye  on  ambition !  fye  on  myself;  that 
have  a  sword,  and  yet  am  ready  to  famish  !  These 
five  days  have  I  hid  me  in  these  woods ;  and  durst 
not  peep  out,  for  all  the  country  is  lay'd  for  me ; 
but  now  am  I  so  hungry,  that  if  I  might  have  a 
lease  of  my  life  for  a  thousand  years,  I  could  stay 
no  longer.  Wherefore,  on  a  brick-wall  have  I 
climbed  into  this  garden  ;  to  see  if  I  can  eat  grass, 
or  pick  a  sallet  another  while,  which  is  not  amiss 
to  cool  a  man's  stomach  this  hot  weather.  And,  I 
think,  this  word  sallet  was  bom  to  do  me  good : 
for.,  many  a  time,  but  for  a  sallet',  my  brain-pan 
had  been  cleft  with  a  brown  bill;  and,  many  a 
time,  when  I  have  been  dry,  and  bravely  march- 
ing, it  hath  served  me  instead  of  a  quart-pot  to 
drink  in  ;  and  now  the  word  sallet  must  serve  me 
to  feed  on. 

Enter  I  den,  with  Servants. 

Iden.  Lord,  who  would  live  turmoiled  in  the  court, 
And  may  enjoy  such  quiet  walks  as  these  ? 
This  small  inheritance,  my  father  left  me, 
Contenteth  me,  and  is  worth  a  monarchy. 
I  seek  not  to  wax  great  by  others'  waning ; 
Or  gather  wealth,  I  care  not  with  what  envy ; 
Sufficeth,  that  I  have  maintains  my  state, 
And  sends  the  poor  well  pleased  from  my  gate. 

Cade.  Here's  the  lord  of  the  soil  come  to  seize 
me  for  a  stray,  for  entering  his  fee-simple  without 
leave.  Ah,  villain,  thou  wilt  betray  me,  and  get 
a  thousand  crowns  of  the  king  for  carrying  my 
head  to  him  ;  but  I'll  make  thee  eat  iron  like  an 
ostrich,  and  swallow  my  sword  like  a  great  pin,  ere 
thou  and  I  part. 

Iden.   Why,  rude  companion,  whatsoe'er  thou  be, 
I  know  thee  not ;  Why  then  should  I  betray  thee  ? 
Is't  not  enough,  to  break  into  my  garden. 
And,  like  a  thief,  to  come  to  rob  my  grounds. 
Climbing  my  walls  in  spite  of  me,  the  owner. 
But  thou  wilt  brave  me  with  these  saucy  terms  ? 


Cade.  Brave  thee  ?  ay,  by  the  best  blood  that  ever 
was  broached,  and  beard  thee  too.  Look  on  me  well : 
I  have  eat  no  meat  these  five  days  ;  yet,  come  thou 
and  thy  five  men,  and  if  I  do  not  leave  you  all  as 
dead  as  a  door-nail,  may  I  never  eat  grass  more. 

Iden.    Nay,  it  shall  ne'er  be  said  while  England 
stands. 
That  Alexander  Iden,  an  esquire  of  Kent, 
Took  odds  to  combat  a  poor  famish'd  man. 
Oppose  thy  steadfast-gazing  eyes  to  mine, 
See  if  thou  canst  outface  me  with  thy  looks. 
Set  limb  to  limb,  and  thou  art  far  the  lesser ; 
Thy  hand  is  but  a  finger  to  my  fist ; 
Thy  leg  a  stick  compared  with  this  truncheon  ; 
My  foot  shall  fight  with  all  the  strength  thou  hast ; 
And  if  mine  arm  be  heaved  in  the  air, 
Thy  grave  is  digg'd  already  in  the  earth. 
As  for  more  words,  whose  greatness  answers  words, 
Let  this  my  sword  report  what  speech  forbears. 

Cade.  By  my  valour,  the  most  complete  champion 
that  ever  I  heard.  —  St«el,  if  thou  turn  the  edge,  or 
cut  not  out  the  burly-boned  clown  in  chines  of  l)eef 
ere  thou  sleep  in  thy  sheath,  mayest  thou  be  turned 
to  hobnails.  [^They  fight.  Cxnzfalls.]  O,  I  am  slain! 
famine,  and  no  other,  hath  slain  me  ;  let  ten  thou- 
sand devils  come  against  me,  and  give  me  but  the 
ten  meals  I  have  lost,  and  I'd  defy  them  all. 
Wither,  garden  :  and  be  henceforth  a  burying- 
place  to  all  that  do  dwell  in  this  house,  because  the 
unconquered  soul  of  Cade  is  fled. 

Iden.   Is't  Cade  that  I  have  slain,  that  monstrous 
traitor  ? 
Sword,  I  will  hallow  thee  for  this  thy  deed. 
And  hang  thee  o'er  my  tomb  when  1  am  dead  : 
Ne'er  shall  this  blood  be  wiped  from  thy  point ; 
But  thou  shalt  wear  it  as  a  herald's  coat, 
To  emblaze  the  honour  that  thy  master  got. 

Cade.  Iden,  farewell  ;  and  be  proud  of  thy  vic- 
tory :  Tell  Kent  from  me,  she  hath  lost  her  best 
man,  and  exhort  all  the  world  to  be  cowards ;  for 
I,  that  never  feared  any,  am  vanquish'd  by  famine, 
not  by  valour.  [Dies. 

Iden.  How  much  thou  wrong'st  me,  heaven  be  my 
judge. 
Hence  will  I  drag  thee  headlong  by  the  heels 
Unto  a  dunghill,  which  shall  be  thy  grave. 
And  there  cut  oflTthy  most  ungracious  head  ; 
Which  I  will  bear  in  triumph  to  the  king. 

[Exit,  dragging  out  the  Body. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE.  I.  —  Near  Saint  Alban'5. 

The  King'5  Camp  on  one  side.  On  the  other,  enter 
York  attended^  with  Drum  and  Colours:  his 
Forces  at  some  distance. 

York.   From  Ireland  thus  comes  York,  to  claim 
his  right. 
And  pluck  the  crown  from  feeble  Henry's  head: 
Ring,  bells,  aloud  ;  bum,  bonfires,  clear  and  bright. 
To  entertain  great  England's  lawful  king. 
Ah,  sancta  mqjestas  I  who  would  not  buy  thee  dear  ? 
Let  them  obey,  that  know  not  how  to  rule  ! 
^  A  kind  of  helmet 


This  hand  was  made  to  handle  nought  but  gold  : 

I  cannot  give  due  action  to  my  words. 

Except  a  sword,  or  scepter,  balance  it. 

A  scepter  shall  it  have,  have  I  a  soul ; 

On  which  I'll  toss  the  flower-de-luce  of  France. 

Enter  Buckingham. 

Whom  have  we  here  ?  Buckingham,  to  disturb  me. 
The  king  hath  sent  him,  sure  ;   I  must  dissemble. 
Buck.  York,  if  thou  meanest  well,  I  greet  thee  well. 
York.   Humphrey  of  Buckingham,  I  accept  tliy 
greeting. 
Art  thou  a  messenger,  or  come  of  pleasure  ? 
K  k  4 


504. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Act  V. 


Buck.   A  messenger  from  Henry,  our  dread  liege, 
To  know  the  reason  of  these  arms  in  peace ; 
Or  why,  thou  —  being  a  subject  as  I  am,  — 
Against  thy  oath  and  true  allegiance  sworn, 
Shouldst  raise  so  great  a  power  without  his  leave 
Or  dare  to  bring  thy  force  so  near  the  court. 

York.   Scarce  can  I  speak,  my  choler  is" 
so  great. 
O,  I  could  hew  up  rocks,  and  fight  with 

flint, 
I  am  so  angry  at  these  abject  terms ; 
And  now,  like  Ajax  Telamonius, 
On  sheep  or  oxen  could  1  spend  my  fury  !   ^  Aside. 
I  am  far  better  born  than  is  the  king  ; 
More    like   a   king,   more   kingly   in   my 

thoughts  : 
But  I  must  make  fair  weather  yet  a  while. 
Till  Henry  be  more  weak,  and  I  more 

strong.  — 
O  Buckingham,  I  pr'ythee,  pardon  me. 
That  I  have  given  no  answer  all  this  while ; 
My  mind  was  troubled  with  deep  melancholy. 
The  cause  why  I  have  brought  this  army  hither, 
Is  —  to  remove  proud  Somerset  from  the  king. 
Seditious  to  his  grace,  and  to  the  state. 

Btick.  That  is  too  much  presumption  on  thy  part : 
But  if  thy  arms  be  to  no  other  end. 
The  king  hath  yielded  unto  thy  demand ; 
The  duke  of  Somerset  is  in  the  Tower. 

York.    Upon  thine  honour,  is  he  prisoner  ? 

Buck.   Upon  mine  honour,  he  is  prisoner. 

York.     Then    Buckingham,    I    do    dismiss    my 
powers.  — 
Soldiers,  I  thank  you  all :   disperse  yourselves ; 
Meet  me  to-morrow  in  Saint  George's  field. 
You  shall  have  pay,  and  every  thing  you  wish. 
And  let  my  sovereign,  virtuous  Henry, 
Command  my  eldest  son,  —  nay,  all  my  sons, 
As  pledges  of  my  fealty  and  love, 
I'll  send  them  all  as  willing  as  1  live  ; 
Lands,  goods,  horse,  armour,  any  thing  1  have 
Is  his  to  use,  so  Somerset  may  die. 

Buck.   York,  I  commend  this  kind  submission  ; 
We  twain  will  go  into  his  highness'  tent. 

Enter  King  Henrt,  attended. 

IT.  Hen.  Buckingham,  doth  York  intend  no  harm 
to  us. 
That  thus  he  marcheth  with  thee  arm  in  arm  ? 

Yoi'k.   In  all  submission  and  humility, 
York  doth  present  himself  unto  your  highness. 

j/T.  Hen.   Then   what   intend   these  forces  thou 
dost  bring  ? 

York.  To  heave  the  traitor  Somerset  from  hence  ; 
And  fight  against  that  monstrous  rebel.  Cade, 
Who  since  I  heard  to  be  discomfited. 

Enter  Iden,  with  Cade's  Head. 
Men.   If  one  so  rude,  and  of  so  mean  condition. 
May  pass  into  the  presence  of  a  king, 
Lo,  I  present  your  grace  a  traitor's  head. 
The  head  of  Cade,  whom  I  in  combat  slew. 

K.  Hen.   The  head  of  Cade  ?  —  Great  God,  how 
just  art  thou  !  — 
O,  let  me  view  his  visage  being  dead. 
That  living  wrought  me  such  exceeding  trouble. 
Tell  me,  my  friend,  art  thou  the  man  that  slew  him  ? 
Iden.   I  was,  an't  like  your  majesty. 
K.  Hen.   How  art  thou  call'd  ?  and  what  is  thy 
degree  ? 


Iden.    Alexander  Iden,  that's  my  name  ; 
A  poor  esquire  of  Kent,  that  loves  his  king. 

Buck.    So  please  it  you,  my  lord,  'twere  not  amiss 
He  were  created  knight  for  his  good  service. 

K.  Hen.   Iden,  kneel  down ;   [^He  kneels.'\   Rise 
up  a  knight. 
We  give  thee  for  reward  a  thousand  marks  ; 
And  will,  that  thou  henceforth  attend  on  us. 

Iden.   May  Iden  live  to  merit  such  a  bounty. 
And  never  live  but  true  unto  his  liege  ! 

K.  Hen.  See,  Buckingham  !  Somerset  comes  with 
the  queen  ; 
Go,  bid  her  hide  him  quickly  from  the  duke. 

Enter  Queen  Margarkt  and  Somerset. 

Q.  Mar.   For  thousand  Yorks  he  shall  not  hide 
his  head. 
But  boldly  stand,  and  front  him  to  his  face. 

York.   How  now  !   Is  Somerset  at  liberty  ? 
Tlien,  York,  unloose  thy  long-imprison'd  thoughts. 
And  let  thy  tongue  be  equal  with  thy  heart. 
Sljall  I  endure  the  sight  of  Somerset  ?  — 
False  king  !  why  hast  thou  broken  faith  with  me. 
Knowing  how  hardly  I  can  brook  abuse  ? 
King  did  I  call  thee  ?  no,  thou  art  not  king  ; 
Not  fit  to  govern  and  rule  multitudes. 
Which  dar'st  not,  no,  nor  canst  not  rule  a  traitor. 
That  head  of  thine  doth  not  become  a  crown ; 
Thy  hand  is  made  to  grasp  a  palmer's  staff. 
And  not  to  grace  an  awful  princely  scepter. 
That  gold  must  round  engirt  these  brows  of  mine  ; 
Whose  smile  and  frown,  like  to  Achilles'  spear. 
Is  able  with  the  change  to  kill  and  cure. 
Here  is  a  hand  to  hold  a  scepter  up. 
And  with  the  same  to  act  controlling  laws. 
Give  place  ;  by  heaven,  thou  shalt  rule  no  more 
O'er  him,  whom  heaven  created  for  thy  ruler. 

Sam.   O  monstrous  traitor  !  —  I  arrest  thee,  York, 
Of  capital  treason  'gainst  the  king  and  crown  : 
Obey,  audacious  traitor ;  kneel  for  grace. 

York.   Wouldst  have  me  kneel  ?  first  let  me  ask 
of  these. 
If  they  can  brook  I  bow  a  knee  to  man.  — 
Sirrah,  call  in  my  sons  to  be  my  bail ; 

[^Ent  an  Attendant. 
I  know,  ere  they  will  have  me  go  to  ward  8, 
They'll  pawn  their  swords  for  my  enfranchisement. 

Q.  Mar.   Call    hither   Clifford ;    bid    him   come 
amain, 
To  say,  if  that  the  bastard  boys  of  York 
Shall  be  the  surety  for  their  traitor  father. 

York.   O  blood-bespotted  Neapolitan, 
Outcast  of  Naples,  England's  bloody  scourge  ! 
The  sons  of  York,  thy  betters  in  their  birth. 
Shall  be  their  father's  bail ;    and  bane  to  those 
That  for  my  surety  will  refuse  the  boys. 

Enter  Edward  and  Richard  Plantagenet,  with 

Forces,  at  one  side  ;  at  the  other,  tvith  Forces  also, 

old  Clifford,  and  his  Son. 

See,  where  they  come;    I'll  warrant  they'll  make 

it  good. 

Q.  Mar.   And  here  comes  Cliflford,  to  deny  their 

bail. 
Clif.   Health  and  all  happiness  to  my  lord  the 
king !  [ICneels. 

York.    I  thank  thee,  Cliflford :     Say,  what  news 
with  thee? 
Nay,  do  not  fright  us  with  an  angry  look : 

8  Custody,  confinement 


I 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


505 


We  are  thy  sovereign,  Clifford,  kneel  again ; 
For  thy  mistaking  so,  we  pardon  thee. 

Clif.   Tliis  is  my  king,  York,  I  do  not  mistake ; 
But  thou  mistak'st  me  much,  to  think  I  do  :  — 
To  Bedlam  with  him  !  is  the  man  grown  mad  ? 

K.  Hen,   Ay,  Clifford ;  a  bedlam  and  ambitious 
humour 
Makes  him  oppose  himself  against  his  king. 

Clif.   He  is  a  traitor ;  let  him  to  the  Tower, 
And  chop  away  that  factious  pate  of  his. 

Q.  Mar.   He  is  arrested,  but  will  not  obey ; 
His  sons,  he  says,  shall  give  their  words  for  him. 

York,   Will  you  not,  sons  ? 

Edw.   Ay,  noble  father,  if  our  words  will  serve. 

Rich,   And  if  words  will  not,  then  our  weapons 
shall. 

Clif.  Why,  what  a  brood  of  traitors  have  we  here  ! 

York.   Look  in  a  glass,  and  call  thy  image  so ; 
I  am  thy  king,  and  thou  a  false-heart  traitor.  — 
Call  hither  to  the  stake  my  two  brave  bears  », 
That,  with  the  very  shaking  of  their  chains, 
They  may  astonish  these  fell  lurking  curs ; 
Bid  Salisbury,  and  Warwick,  come  to  me. 

Drums.      Enter    Warwick   and   Salisburt,  with 
Forces, 

Clif   Are  these  thy  bears  ?  we'll  bait  thy  bears  to 
death, 
And  manacle  the  bear- ward  '  in  their  chains, 
If  tliou  dar'st  bring  them  to  the  baiting-place. 

Rich,   Oft  have  I  seen  a  hot  o'erweening  cur 
Run  back  and  bite,  because  he  was  withheld ; 
Who,  being  suffer'd  with  the  bear's  fell  paw. 
Hath  clapp'd  his  tail  beween  his  legs,  and  cry'd : 
And  such  a  piece  of  service  will  you  do. 
If  you  oppose  yourselves  to  match  lord  Warwick. 

Clif.  Hence,  heap  of  wrath,  foul  indigested  lump. 
As  crooked  in  thy  manners  as  thy  shape  ! 

York,   Nay,  we  shall  heat  you  thoroughly  anon. 

Clif.   Take   heed,   lest   by  your  heat  you.  bum 
yourselves. 

K.  Hen,  Why,  Warwick,  hath  thy  knee  forgot  to 
bow  ?  — 
Old  Salisbury,  —  shame  to  thy  silver  hair, 
lliou  mad  misleader  of  thy  brain-sick  son  !  — 
What,  wilt  thou  on  thy  death-bed  play  the  ruffian, 
And  seek  for  sorrow  with  thy  spectacles? 
O,  where  is  faith  ?    O,  where  is  loyilty  ? 
If  it  be  banish'd  from  the  frostj  i;   id, 
Where  shall  it  find  a  harbour  in  the  earth  ?  — 
Wilt  thou  go  dig  a  grave  to  find  out  war. 
And  shame  thine  honourable  age  with  blood  ? 
Why  art  thou  old,  and  want'st  experience  ? 
Or  wherefore  dost  abuse  it,  if  thou  hast  it  ? 
For  shame  !  in  duty  bend  thy  knee  to  me. 
That  bows  unto  the  grave  with  mickle  age. 

Sal.   My  lord,  I  have  consider'd  with  myself 
The  title  of  this  most  renowned  duke ; 
And  in  my  conscience  do  repute  his  grace 
The  rightful  heir  to  England's  royal  seat. 

K,  Hen,  Hast  thou  not  sworn  allegiance  unto  rae  ? 

Sal,    I  have. 

K.  Hen,  Canst  thou  dispense  with  heaven  for  such 
an  oath? 

Sal.    It  is  great  sin,  to  swear  unto  a  sin  ; 
But  greater  sin,  to  keep  a  sinful  oath. 
Who  can  be  bound  by  any  solemn  vow 
To  do  a  murderous  deed,  to  rob  a  man, 

'  The  Nevils,  carb  of  Warwick,  had  a  bear  and  ragged  (taff 
for  their  crest  '  Bear-keeper. 


To  force  a  spotless  virgin's  chastity. 

To  reave  the  orphan  of  his  patrimony, 

To  wring  the  widow  from  her  custora'd  right;' 

And  have  no  other  reason  for  this  wrong. 

But  that  he  was  bound  by  a  solemn  oath  ? 

Q.  Mar,   A  subtle  traitor  needs  no  sophister. 

K.  Hen,  Call  Buckingham,  and  bid  him  arm  him- 
self. 

York.   Call  Buckingham,  and  all  the  friends  thou 
hast, 
I  am  resolv'd  for  death  or  dignity. 

Clif,  The  first  I  warrant  thee,  if  dreams  prove  true. 

War,  You  were  best  to  go  to  bed,  and  dream  again, 
To  keep  thee  from  the  tempest  of  the  field. 

Clif.   I  am  resolv'd  to  bear  a  greater  storm, 
Than  any  thou  canst  conjure  up  to-day  ; 
And  that  I'll  write  upon  thy  burgonet. 
Might  I  but  know  thee  by  thy  household  badge. 

War,  Now,  by  my  father's  badge,  old  Nevil's  crest, 
The  rampant  bear  chain'd  to  the  ragged  staff, 
This  day  I'll  wear  aloft  my  burgonet  *,         ' 
(As  on  a  moutain-top  the  cedar  shows. 
That  keeps  his  leaves  in  spite  of  any  storm,) 
Even  to  affright  thee  with  the  view  thereof. 

Clif,   And  from  thy  burgonet  I'll  rend  thy  bear, 
And  tread  it  underfoot  with  all  contempt, 
Despight  the  bear- ward  that  protects  the  bear. 

Y.  Clif.    And  so  to  arms,  victorious  father. 
To  quell  tlie  rebels,  and  their  'complices. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II.  —  Saint  Alban'5. 

Alarums  :  Excursions.     Enter  Warwick. 

War.  Clifford  of  Cumberland,  'tis  Warwick  calls ! 
And  if  thou  dost  not  hide  thee  from  the  bear, 
Now,  —  when  the  angry  trumpet  sounds  alarm. 
And  dead  men's  cries  do  fill  the  empty  air, 
Clifford,  I  say,  come  forth  and  fight  with  mc ! 
Proud  northern  lord,  Clifford  of  Cumberland, 
Warwick  is  hoarse  with  calling  tliee  to  arms. 

Enter  York. 

How  now,  my  noble  lord  ?  what,  all  a  foot  ? 

York.  The  deadly-handed  Clifford  slew  my  steed  ; 
But  match  to  match  I  have  encountered  him. 
And  made  a  prey  for  carrion  kites  and  crows. 
Even  of  the  bonny  beast  he  lov'd  so  well. 

Enter  Clifford. 

War,   Of  one  or  both  of  us  the  time  is  come. 
York,   Hold,  Warwick,  seek  thee  out  some  other 
chase. 
For  I  myself  must  hunt  this  deer  to  death. 

War,   Then,  nobly,  York  ;   'tis  for  a  crown  thou 
fight'st.  — 
As  I  intend,  Clifford,  to  thrive  to-day. 
It  grieves  my  soul  to  leave  tliee  unassail'd. 

[Exit  Warwick. 
CUf.  What  seest  thou  in  mc,   York?    why  dost 

thou  pause  ? 
York.   With  thy  brave  bearing  should  I  be  in  love. 
But  that  thou  art  so  fast  mine  enemy. 

Clf.    Nor  should  thy  prowess  want  praise  and 
esteem. 
But  that  'ds  shown  ignobly,  and  in  treason. 

York.    So  let  it  help  me  now  against  thy  sword. 
As  I  in  justice  and  true  right  express  it ! 

Clif,   My  soul  and  body  on  the  action  both  !  — 
2  Hehnct 


506 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


Acr  V. 


York.  A  dreadful  lay  !  3  —  address  thee  instantly. 
[Thei/Jlght,  and  Clifford  falls. 

Clif.   La  fin  couronne  les  ceuvres.  [Dies. 

York.   Thus  war  hath  given  thee  peace,  for  thou 
art  still. 
Peace  with  his  soul,  heaven,  if  it  be  thy  will ! 

[Exit. 
Enter  Young  Clifford. 

Y.  Clif.    Shame  and  confusion  !  all  is  on  the  rout ! 
Fear  frames  disorder,  and  disorder  wounds 
Wliere  it  should  guard.      O  war,  thou  son  of  hell. 
Whom  angry  heavens  do  make  their  minister. 
Throw  in  the  frozen  bosoms  of  our  part 
Hot  coals  of  vengeance  ;  —  Let  no  soldier  fly  : 
He  that  is  truly  dedicate  to  war. 
Hath  no  self-love  ;  nor  he  that  loves  himself. 
Hath  not  essentially,  but  by  circumstance, 
The  name  of  valour.  —  O,  let  the  vile  world  end. 

[Seeing  his  dead  Father. 
And  the  premised  4  flames  of  the  last  day 
Knit  earth  and  heaven  together ! 
Now  let  the  general  trumpet  blow  his  blast. 
Particularities  and  petty  sounds 
To  cease  !  —  Wast  thou  ordain'd,  dear  father. 
To  lose  thy  youth  in  peace,  and  to  achieve 
The  silver  livery  of  advised  age  ; 
And  in  thy  reverence,  and  thy  chair-days,  thus 
To  die  in  ruffian  battle  ?  —  Even  at  this  sight, 
My  heart  is  turn'd  to  stone ;  and,  while  'tis  mine, 
It  shall  be  stony.     York  not  our  old  men  spares  ; 
No  more  will  I  their  babes :  tears  virginal 
Shall  be  to  me  even  as  the  dew  to  fire ; 
And  beauty,  that  the  tyrant  oft  reclaims, 
Shall  to  my  flaming  wrath  be  oil  and  flax. 
Henceforth,  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  pity  : 
Meet  I  an  infant  of  the  house  of  York, 
Into  as  many  gobbets  will  I  cut  it, 
As  wild  Medea  young  Absyrtus  did : 
In  cruelty  will  I  seek  out  my  fame. 
Come,  thou  new  ruin  of  old  Clifford's  house ; 

[  Taking  up  the  Body. 
As  did  ^neas  old  Anchises  bear. 
So  bear  I  thee  upon  my  manly  shoulders ; 
But  then  JEneas  bare  a  living  load. 
Nothing  so  heavy  as  these  woes  of  mine.         [Exit. 

Enter   Richard   Plantagenet  and   Somerset, 
fighting,  and  Somerset  is  killed. 
Rich.   So,  lie  thou  there  ;  — 
For,  underneath  an  alehouse'  paltry  sign, 
The  Castle  in  Saint  Alban's,  Somerset 
Hath  made  the  vnzard  famous  in  his  death.  — 
Sword,  hold  thy  temper :  heart,  be  wrathful  still : 
Priests  pray  for  enemies,  but  princes  kill.       [Exit. 

Alarums :  Excursions.  Enter  King  Henry,  Queen 
Margaret,  and  others,  retreating. 
Q.  Mar.    Away,    my  lord !    you  are  slow ;   for 

shame,  away ! 
IT.  Hen.  Can  we  outrun  the  heavens?  good  Mar- 
garet, stay. 
Q.  Mar.  What  are  you  made  of?  you'll  not  fight, 
nor  fly : 
Now  is  it  manhood,  wisdom,  and  defence, 

'  A  dreadful  wager,  a  tremendous  stake. 
<  Sent  before  their  time. 


To  give  the  enemy  way :   and  to  secure  us 
By  what  we  can,  which  can  no  more  but  fly. 

[Alarum  afar  off. 
If  you  be  ta'en,  we  then  should  see  the  bottom 
Of  all  our  fortunes  ;   but  if  we  haply  scape, 
(As  well  we  may,  if  not  through  your  neglect,) 
We  shall  to  London  get  j  where  you  are  lov'd  ; 
And  where  this  breach,  now  in  our  fortunes  made, 
May  readily  be  stopp'd. 

Enter  Young  Clifford. 
Y.  Clif  But  that  my  heart's  on  future  mischief  set,] 
I  would  speak  blasphemy  ere  bid  you  fly ; 
But  fly  you  must ;  uncurable  discomfit 
Reigns  in  the  hearts  of  all  our  present  parts.* 
Away,  for  your  relief!  and  we  will  live 
To  see  their  day,  and  them  our  fortune  give  : 
Away,  my  lord,  away  !  [Exeunt*  j 

SCENE  III.  —  Fields  near  Saint  Alban's. 

Alarum:    Retreat.       Flourish;    then  enter   York, 

Richard  Plantagenet,  Warwick,  and  Soldiers,  \ 

with  Drum  and  Colours. 

York.   Of  Salisbury,  who  can  report  of  him ; 
That  winter  lion,  who,  in  rage,  forgets 
Aged  contusions  and  all  brush  of  time  6  ; 
And,  like  a  gallant  in  the  brow  of  youth  7, 
Repairs  him  with  occasion  ?  this  happy  day 
Is  not  itself,  nor  have  we  won  one  foot, 
If  Salisbury  be  lost. 

Rich.  My  noble  father. 

Three  times  to-day  I  holp  him  to  his  horse. 
Three  times  bestrid  him,  thrice  I  led  him  off, 
Persuaded  him  from  any  further  act : 
But  still,  where  danger  was,  still  there  I  met  him  ; 
And  like  rich  hangings  in  a  homely  house. 
So  was  his  will  in  his  old  feeble  body. 
But,  noble  as  he  is,  look,  where  he  comes. 

Enter  Salisbury. 

Sal.   Now,  by  my  sword,  well  hast  thou  fought " 
to-day ; 
By  the  mass,  so  did  we  all.  —  I  thank  you,  Richard : 
God  knows,  how  long  it  is  I  have  to  live  ; 
And  it  hath  pleas'd  him,  that  three  times  to-day 
You  have  defended  me  from  imminent  death.  — 
Well,  lords,  we  have  not  got  that  which  we  have  8  ■ 
'Tis  not  enough  our  foes  are  this  time  fled. 
Being  opposites  of  such  repairing  nature.  9 

York.   I  know,  our  safety  is  to  follow  them  ; 
For,  as  I  hear,  the  king  is  fled  to  London, 
To  call  a  present  court  of  parliament. 
Let  us  pursue  him,  ere  the  writs  go  forth :  — 
What  says  lord  Warwick  ?  shall  we  after  them  r 

War.   After  them  !  nay,  before  them,  if  we  can. 
Now  by  my  faith,  lords,  'twas  a  glorious  day  : 
Saint  Alban's  battle,  won  by  famous  York, 
Shall  be  eterniz'd  in  all  age  to  come.  — 
Sound,  drums  and  trumpets :  — and  to  London  all : 
And  more  such  days  as  these  to  us  befall !    [Exeunt. 

^  For  parties.  6  le.  The  gradual  detrition  of  time. 

7  i.  e.  The  height  of  youth ;  the  brow  of  a  hill  is  its  summit 

8  t.  e.  We  have  not  secured  that  which  we  have  acquired, 

9  I.  e.  Being  enemies  that  are  likely  so  soon  to  rally  and  re- 
cover  themselves  from  this  defeat. 


THIRD  PART  OF 

KING     HENRY     VI. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Lords  on  Kiv^ 
Henry's  side. 


Kino  Henry  the  Sixth. 

EnwARD,  Prince  of  Wales,  his  Son. 

Lewis  the  Eleventh,  King  of  France. 

Duke  of  Somerset, 

Duke  of  Exeter, 

Earl  of  Oxford 

Earl  of  Northumberland. 

Earl  of  Westmoreland, 

Lord  Clifford, 

Richard  Plantagenet,  Duke  of  York 

Edward,  Earl  of  March,   afterwards. 

King  Edward  the  Fourth, 
Edmund,  Earl  o/"  Rutland, 
George,  afterwards  Duke  of  Clarence, 
Richard,  afterwards  Duke  of  Gloster, 
Duke  of  Norfolk,  "^ 

Marquis  of  Montague, 
Earl  of  Warwick, 
Earl  of  Pembroke, 
Lord  Hastings, 
Lord  Stafford, 

SCENE,  during  part  of  the  third  act 


his  Sons. 


of  the  Duke  of  York's 
Party. 


Sir  John  Mortimer,    "|   __    ,    ,   ^.    -r.   ,      /.v    i 

Sir  Hugh  Mortimer,  |  ^'^'^^*'«  ^^^"^"^"^  "f^'''^' 

Henry,  Earl  of  Richmond,  a  Youth. 

Lord  Rivers,  Brother  to  Lady  Grey. 

Sir  William  Stanley. 

Sir  John  Montgomery. 

Sir  John  Somerville, 

Tutor  to  Rutland. 

Mayor  of  York. 

Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 

A  Nobleman. 

Two  Keepers. 

A  Huntsman. 

A  Son  that  has  killed  his  Father. 

A  Father  that  has  killed  his  Son. 

Queen  Margaret. 

Lady  Grey,  afterwards  Queen  to  Edward  the  Fotcrth. 
Bona,  sister  to  the  French  Queen. 
Soldiers,  and  other  Attendants  on  King  Henry  and 
King  Edward,  Messengers,  Watchmen,  ^c 
in  France  ;  during  all  the  rest  of  the  play,  in  England. 


TARI    THAT.  THE    LIKENESS    OF    lOlS    RAILER   HKUK. 


THIRD   PART  OF 


KING    HENRY    VL 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.— Londc 


The  Parliament  House. 


Drunu.  Some  Soldiers  o/*  York's  Parti/  break  in. 
Then,  enter  the  Dukk  OFYoRK,EnwARD,RiCHARD, 
Norfolk,  Montague,  Warwick,  and  others,  with 
white  Hoses  in  their  Hats. 

War.    I  wonder,  how  the  king  escap'd  our  liands. 

York.   While  we  pursu'd  tlie  horsemen    of  the 
north, 
lie  slily  stole  away,  and  left  his  men  : 
Whereat  the  great  lord  of  Northumberland, 
Wliose  warlike  ears  could  never  brook  retreat, 
Cheer'd  up  tJie  drooping  army  ;  and  himself, 
I>ord  Cliflbrd,  and  lord  StaflTord,  all  a-breast, 
Charg'd  our  inain  battle's  front,  and,  breaking  in. 
Were  by  the  swords  of  common  soldiers  slain. 

Ediv.   Lord  Stafford's  father,  duke  of  Bucking- 
ham, 
Is  either  slain,  or  wounded  dangerous  : 


I  cleft  his  beaver  with  a  downright  blow ; 
That  this  is  true,  father,  behold  his  bloml. 

\_Showing  his  bloody  Su<ord. 
MoiU.    And,  brother,   here's   the   earl   of  Wilt- 
shire's blood,  f  To  York,  shomng  his. 
Whom  I  encounter'd  as  the  battles  join'd. 

liich.  Speak  thou  for  me,  and  tell  tliem  what  I  did. 

[Throudng  down  the  Duke  of  Somerset's  Head. 

York.  Richard  hath  l)est  deserv'd  of  all  my  sons.  — 

What,  is  your  grace  dead,  my  lord  of  Somerset  ? 

Norf.    Such  hope  have  all   tJie   line  of  John  of 

Gaunt ! 
Rich,    nuis  do  I    hope  to  shake  king  Henry's 

head. 
War.    And  so  do  I.  — Victorious  prince  of  York, 
Before  I  see  thee  seated  in  that  throne 
Which  now  the  house  of  Lancaster  usurps, 
I  vow  by  heaven,  these  eyes  shall  never  close. 
This  is  the  palace  of  the  fearful  king, 


508 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


And  this  the  regal  seat :   possess  it,  York  : 
For  this  is  thine,  and  not  king  Henry's  heirs'. 

York.  Assist  me  then,  sweet  Warwick,  and  I  will ; 
For  hither  we  have  broken  in  by  force. 

Norf.   We'll  all  assist  you  ;  he  that  flies,  shall  die. 
York.  Thanks,  gentle  Norfolk, —  Stay  by  me,  my 
lords ;  — 
.And,  soldiers,  stay,  and  lodge  by  me  this  night. 
/         War,   And,  when  the  king  comes,  offer  him  no 
violence. 
Unless  he  seek  to  thrust  you  out  by  force. 

[  They  retire. 
York.   The  queen,  this  day,  here  holds  her  par- 
liament. 
But  little  thinks  we  shall  be  of  her  council : 
By  words,  or  blows,  here  let  us  win  our  right. 
Rich.  Arm'd  as  we  are,  let's  stay  within  this  house. 
War.   The  bloody  parliament  shall  this  be  call'd, 
Unless  Plantagenet,  duke  of  York,  be  king  : 
And  bashful  Henry  depos'd,  whose  cowardice 
Hath  made  us  by-words  to  our  enemies. 

York.   Then  leave  me  not,  my  lords;  be  resolute ; 
I  mean  to  take  possession  of  my  right. 

War.  Neither  the  king,  nor  he  that  loves  him  best. 
The  proudest  he  that  holds  up  Lancaster, 
Dares  stir  a  wing,  if  Warwick  shake  his  bells.  ' 
I'll  plant  Plantagenet,  root  him  up  who  dares :  — 
Resolve  thee,  Richard ;  claim  the  English  crown. 
[Warwick  leads  York  to  the  Throne,  who 
seats  himself. 

Flourish.  Enter  King  Henry,  Clifford,  North- 
umberland, Westmoreland,  Exeter,  and  others, 
with  red  Roses  in  their  Hats. 

K.  Hen.   My  lords,  look  where  the  sturdy  rebel 
sits. 
Even  in  the  chair  of  state  !  belike,  he  means, 
(Back'd  by  the  power  of  Warwick,  that  false  peer,) 
To  aspire  unto  the  crown,  and  reign  as  king.  — 
Earl  of  Northuinberland,  he  slew  thy  father ;  — 
And  thine,  lord  Cliflbrd  ;  and  you  both  have  vow'd 

revenge 
On  him,  his  sons,  his  favourites,  and  his  friends. 
North.   If  I  be  not,  heavens  be  reveng'd  on  me  ! 
Clif.  The  hope  thereof  makes  Cliflbrd  mourn  in 

steel. 
West.   What,  shall  we  suffer  this?  let's  pluck  him 
down : 
My  heart  for  anger  burns,  I  cannot  brook  it. 
K.  Hen.  Be  patient,  gentle  earl  of  Westmoreland. 
Clif.  Patience  is  for  poltroons,  and  such  as  he  ; 
He  durst  not  sit  there  had  your  father  liv'd. 
My  gracious  lord,  here  in  the  parliament 
Let  us  assail  the  family  of  York. 

North.   Well  hast  thou  spoken,  cousin,  be  it  so. 
K.  Hen.  Ah,  know  you  not,  the  city  favours  them. 
And  they  have  troops  of  soldiers  at  their  beck  ? 
Exe.   But  when  the  duke  is  slain,  they'll  quickly 

fly. 
K.  Hen.   Far  be  the  thought  of  this  from  Henry's 
heart 
To  make  a  shambles  of  the  parliament-house  ! 
Cousin  of  Exeter,  frowns,  words,  and  threats. 
Shall  be  the  war  that  Henry  means  to  use.  — 

{^Tliey  advance  to  the  Duke. 
Thou  factious  duke  of  York,  descend  my  throne. 
And  kneel  for  grace  and  mercy  at  my  feet ; 
I  am  thy  sovereign. 

1  Hawks  had  sometimes  little  bells  hung  on  them,  perliaps 
to  dare  the  birds ;  that  is,  to  fright  them  from  rising. 


York.  Thou  art  deceiv'd,  I  am  thine. 

Exe.   For  shame,  come  down  ;  he  made  thee  duke 
of  York. 

York.  'Twas  my  inheritance,  as  the  earldom  was. 

Exe.  Thy  father  was  a  traitor  to  the  crown. 

War.   Exeter,  thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  crown. 
In  following  this  usurping  Henry. 

Clif.   Whom  should  he  follow,  but  his  natural 
king? 

War.   True,  Clifford ;  and  that's  Richard,  duke  of 
York. 

K.  Hen.  And  shall  I  stand,  and  thou  sit  in  my 
throne  ? 

York.   It  must  and  shall  be  so.     Content  thyself. 

War.   Be  duke  of  Lancaster,  let  him  be  king. 

West.   He  is  both  king  and  duke  of  Lancaster  ; 
And  that  the  lord  of  Westmoreland  shall  maintain. 

War.  And  Warwick  shall  disprove  it.   You  forget. 
That  we  are  those,  which  chas'd  you  from  the  field, 
And  slew  your  fathers,  and  with  colours  spread 
March'd  through  the  city  to  the  palace  gates. 

North.   Yes,  Warwick,  I  remember  it  to  my  grief; 
And,  by  his  soul,  thou  and  thy  house  shall  rue  it. 

West.   Plantagenet,  of  thee,  and  these  thy  sons 
Thy  kinsmen,  and  thy  friends  I'll  have  more  lives. 
Than  drops  of  blood  were  in  my  father's  veins. 

Clif.  Urge  it  no  more ;  lest  that,  instead  of  words, 
I  send  thee,  Warwick,  such  a  messenger. 
As  shall  revenge  his  death,  before  I  stir. 

War.   Poor  Clifford  !  how  I  scorn  his  worthless 
threats ! 

York.   Will  you,  we  show  our  title  to  the  crown  ? 
If  not,  our  swords  shall  plead  it  in  the  field. 

K.  Hen.   What  title   hast  thou,   traitor,  to   the 
crown  ? 
Thy  father  was,  as  thou  art,  duke  of  York ; 
Thy  grandfather,  Roger  Mortimer,  earl  of  March  ; 
I  am  the  son  of  Henry  the  fifth. 
Who  made  the  dauphin  and  the  French  to  stoop, 
And  seiz'd  upon  their  towns  and  provinces. 

War.  Talk  not  of  France,  sith  thou  hast  lost  it  all. 

K.  Hen.   The  lord  protector  lost  it,  and  not  I ; 
When  I  was  crown'd,  I  was  but  nine  months  old. 

Rich.   You  are  old  enough  now,  and  yet  methinks 
you  lose  :  . — 
Father,  tear  the  crown  from  the  usurper's  head. 

Edw.   Sweet  father,  do  so ;  set  it  on  your  head. 

Mont.    Good  brother,  [To  York.]  as  thou  lov'st 
and  honour'st  arms. 
Let's  fight  it  out,  and  not  stand  cavilling  thus. 

Rich.    Sound  drums  and  trumpets,  and  the  king 
will  fly. 

York.    Sons,  peace ! 

K.  Hen.   Peace  thou  !  and  give  king  Henry  leave 
to  speak. 

War.    Plantagenet  shall  speak  first:  — hear  him, 
lords ; 
And  be  you  silent  and  attentive  too. 
For  he,  that  interrupts  him,  shall  not  live. 

K.  Hen.   Think'st   thou,  that   I  will   leave   my 
kingly  throne, 
Wherein  my  grandsire,  and  my  father,  sat? 
No  :   first  shall  war  unpeople  this  my  realm  ; 
Ay,  and  their  colours  —  often  borne  in  France  ; 
And  now  in  England,  to  our  heart's  great  sorrow 
Shall  be  my  winding  sheet.  — Why  faint  you,  lords  T 
My  title's  good,  and  better  far  than  this. 

War.  But  prove  it,  Henry,  and  thou  shalt  be  king. 

K.  Hen.   Henry  the  Fourth  by  conquest  got  tlie 


I 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


509 


York,   'Twas  by  rebellion  against  his  king. 

K.  Hen.  I  know  not  what  to  say;  my  title's  weak. 
Tell  me,  may  not  a  king  adopt  an  heir  ? 

York.    What  then? 

K.  Hen.   An  if  he  may,  then  am  I  lawful  king: 
For  Richard,  in  the  view  of  many  lords, 
Ilesign'd  the  crown  to  Henry  the  Fourth ; 
Whose  heir  my  father  was,  and  I  am  his. 

York.   He  rose  against  him,  being  his  sovereign, 
And  made  him  to  resign  his  crown  perforce. 

War.   Suppose,  my  lords,  he  did  it  unconstrain'd, 
Think  you,  'twere  prejudicial  to  his  crown  ? 

Ejce.    No ;  for  he  could  not  so  resign  his  crown, 
But  tliat  the  next  heir  should  succeed  and  reign. 

K.  Hen.   Art  thou  against  us,  duke  of  Exeter  ? 

Exe.   His  is  the  right,  and  therefore  pardon  me. 

York.   Why  whisper  you,  my  lords,  and  answer 
not? 

Exe.   My  conscience  tells  me,  he  is  lawful  king. 

K.  Hen.  All  will  revolt  from  me,  and  turn  to  him. 

North.    Plantagenet,  for  all  the  claim  thou  lay'st, 
Think  not,  that  Henry  shall  be  so  depos'd. 

War.   Depos'd  he  shall  be,  in  despite  of  all. 

North.   Thou  art  deceiv'd :   'tis  not  thy  southern 
power, 
Of  Essex,  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  nor  of  Kent,— 
Which  makes  thee  thus  presumptuous  and  proud,  — 
Can  set  the  duke  up  in  despite  of  me. 

Clif.   King  Henry,  be  thy  title  right  or  wrong, 
Lord  Clifford  vows  to  fight  in  thy  defence  : 
May  that  ground  gape,  and  swallow  me  alive. 
Where  I  shall  kneel  to  him  that  slew  my  father ! 

K.  Hen.   O  Clifford,  how  thy  words  revive  my 
heart! 

York.   Henry  of  Lancaster,  resign  thy  crown  :  — 
What  mutter  you,  or  what  conspire  you,  lords  ? 

War.    Do  right  unto  this  princely  duke  of  York  : 
Or  I  will  fill  the  house  with  armed  men. 
And  o'er  the  chair  of  state  where  now  he  sits, 
Write  up  his  title  with  usurping  blood. 

\^He  stamps,  and  the  Soldiers  show  themselves. 

K.  Hen.   My  lord  of  Warwick,  hear  me  but  one 
word; 
Let  me,  for  this  my  life-time,  reign  as  king. 

York.   Confirm  the  crown  to  me,  and  to  mine 
heirs, 
And  thou  shalt  reign  in  quiet  while  thou  liv'st. 

K.  Hen.    I  am  content :    Richard  Plantagenet, 
Enjoy  the  kingdom  after  my  decease. 

Clif.  What  wrong  is  this  unto  the  prince  your  son  ? 

War.   What  good  is  this  to  England  and  himself? 

West.    Base,  fearful,  and  despairing  Henry  ! 

Clif.    How  hast  thou  injur'd  both  thyself  and  us  ? 

West.    I  cannot  stay  to  hear  these  articles. 

North.    Nor  L 

Clif.   Come,  cousin,  let  us  tell  the  queen  these 
news. 

West.  Farewell,  faint-hearted  and  degenerate  king. 
In  whose  cold  blood  no  spark  of  honour  bides  ' 

North.    Be  thou  a  prey  unto  the  house  of  York, 
And  die  in  bands  for  this  unmanly  deed ! 

Cltf.    In  dreadful  war  mayst  thou  be  overcome  ! 
Or  live  in  peace,  abandon 'd  and  despis'd  ! 

[^Exeunt  Northumberland,  Clifford,  and 
Westmoreland. 

War.  Turn  this  way,  Henry,  and  regard  them  not. 

Exe.   They  seek  revenge,  and  therefore  will  not 
yield. 

K.  Hen.   Ah,  Exeter  ! 

War.  Why  should  you  sigh,  my  lord  ? 


A".  Hen.   Not  for  myself,  lord  Warwick,  but  my 
son. 
Whom  I  unnaturally  shall  disinherit. 
But,  be  it  as  it  may :  —  I  here  entail 
The  crown  to  thee,  and  to  thine  heirs  for  ever ; 
Conditionally,  that  here  thou  take  an  oath 
To  cease  this  civil  war,  and,  whilst  I  live. 
To  honour  me  as  thy  king  and  sovereign  ; 
And  neither  by  treason,  nor  hostility, 
To  seek  to  put  me  down,  and  reign  thyself. 

York.   This  oath  I  willingly  take,  and  will  per- 
form. [Coming from  the  Throne. 
War.   Long  live  king  Henry  !  —  Plantagenet  em- 
brace him. 
K.  Hen.  And  long  live  thou,  and  these  thy  for- 
ward sons ! 
York.  Now  York  and  Lancaster  are  reconcil'd. 
Exe.   Accurs'd  be  he,  that  seeks  to  make  them 
foes  !  [  The  Lords  come  forward. 
York.    Farewell,  my  gracious  lord ;  I'll  to  my 

castle. 
War.   And  I'll  keep  London,  with  my  soldiers. 
Norf.   And  I  to  Norfolk,  with  my  followers. 
Mont.   And  I  unto  the  sea,  from  whence  I  came. 
[Exeunt  York,  and  his  Sons,  Warwick, 
Norfolk,  Montague,  Soldiers,  and 
Attendants. 
K.  Hen.   And  I,  with  grief  and  sorrow,  to  the 
court. 

Enier  Queen  Margaret,  and  the  Prikce  of  Wales. 

Exe.   Here  comes  the  queen,  whose  looks  bewray 
her  anger : 
I'll  steal  away. 

K.  Hen.  Exeter  so  will  I.  [Going. 

Q.  Mar.    Nay,  go  not  from  me,  I  will  follow  thee. 

IT.  Hen.  Be  patient,  gentle  queen,  and  I  will  stay, 

Q.  Mar.  Who  can  be  patient  in  such  extremes  ? 
Ah,  wretched  man  !   'would  I  had  died  a  maid, 
And  never  seen  thee,  never  borne  thee  son. 
Seeing  thou  hast  prov'd  so  unnatural  a  father ! 
Hath  he  deserv'd  to  lose  his  birthright  tlius? 
Hadst  thou  but  lov'd  him  half  so  well  as  I ; 
Or  felt  that  pain,  which  I  did  for  him  once ; 
Or  nourish'd  him,  as  I  did  with  my  blood ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  left  thy  dearest  heart-blood  there. 
Rather  than  made  that  savage  duke  thine  heir. 
And  disinherited  thine  only  son. 

Prince.    Father,  you  cannot  disinherit  me  : 
If  you  be  king,  why  should  not  I  succeed  ? 

iT.  Hen.   Pardon  me,  Margaret ;  —  pardon  mc, 
sweet  son  ;  — 
The  earl  of  Warwick  and  the  duke  enforc'd  me. 

Q.  Mar.   Enforc'd  thee !  art  thou  king,  and  wilt 
be  forc'd  ? 
I  shame  to  hear  thee  speak.      Ah,  timorous  wretch ! 
Thou  hast  undone  thyself,  thy  son,  and  me ; 
And  given  unto  the  house  of  York  such  head, 
As  thou  shalt  reign  but  by  their  sufferance. 
To  entail  him  and  his  heirs  unto  the  crown, 
What  is  it,  but  to  make  tliy  sepulchre. 
And  creep  into  it  far  before  thy  time? 
Warwick  is  chancellor,  and  the  lord  of  Calais ; 
Stern  Falconbridge  commands  the  narrow  seas ; 
The  duke  is  made  protector  of  the  realm  ; 
A  nd  yet  shalt  thou  be  safe  ?  such  safety  finds 
The  trembling  lamb,  environed  with  wolves. 
Had  1  been  there,  which  am  a  silly  woman. 
The  soldiers  should  have  toss'd  me  on  their  pikes. 
Before  I  would  have  granted  to  that  act. 


510 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


But  thou  preferr*st  thy  life  before  thine  honour : 

And  seeing  thou  dost,  I  here  divorce  myself, 

Both  from  thy  table,  Henry,  and  thy  bed, 

Until  that  act  of  parliament  be  repeal'd. 

Whereby  my  son  is  disinherited. 

The  northern  lords,  that  have  forsworn  thy  colours, 

Will  follow  mine,  if  once  they  see  them  spread  : 

And  spread  they  shall  be ;  to  thy  foul  disgrace. 

And  utter  ruin  of  the  house  of  York. 

Thus  do  I  leave  thee  :  —  Come,  son,  let's  away ; 

Our  army's  ready ;  come,  we'll  after  them. 

K.  Hen.   Stay,   gentle   Margaret,  and  hear   me 
speak. 

Q.  Mar.   Thou  hast  spoke  too  much  already ;  get 
thee  gone. 

K.  Hen.   Gentle  son  Edward,  thou  wilt  stay  with 
me? 

Q.  Mar.   Ay,  to  be  murder'd  by  his  enemies. 

Prince.   When  I  return  with  victory  from  the  field, 
I'll  see  your  grace  :  till  then,  I'll  follow  her. 

Q.  Mar  Come,  son,  away ;  we  may  not  linger  thus. 
{Exeunt  Queen  Margaret  and  tlie  Prince. 

IT. Hen.  Poor  queen  !  how  love  to  me,  and  to  her 
son. 
Hath  made  her  break  out  into  terms  of  rage  ! 
Reveng'd  may  she  be  on  that  hateful  duke ; 
Whose  haughty  spirit,  winged  with  desire. 
Will  cost  my  crown,  and,  like  an  empty  eagle. 
Tire  *  on  the  flesh  of  me,  and  of  my  son  ! 
The  loss  of  those  three  lords  torments  my  heart ; 
I'll  write  unto  them,  and  entreat  them  fair ;  — 
Come,  cousin,  you  shall  be  the  messenger. 

Exe.   And  I,  I  hope,  shall  reconcile  them  all. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — ^  Room  in  Sandal  Castle,  near 
Wakefield,  in  Yorkshire. 

Enter  Edward,  Richard,  and  Montague. 

Rich.   Brother,  though  I  be  youngest,  give  me 

leave. 
Edw.  No,  I  can  better  play  the  orator. 
Mont.   But  I  have  reasons  strong  and  forcible. 

Enter  York. 
York.  Why,  how  now,  sons  and  brother,  at  a 
strife? 
What  is  your  quarrel  ?  how  began  it  first  ? 
Edw.   No  quarrel,  but  a  slight  contention. 
York.   About  what  ? 

Rich.   About   that  which    concerns  your  grace, 
and  us; 
The  crown  of  England,  father,  which  is  yours, 
York.   Mine,  boy  ?  not  till  king  Henry  be  dead. 
Rich.  Your  right  depends  not  on  his  life,  or  death. 
Edw.    Now  you  are  heir,  therefore  enjoy  it  now  : 
By  giving  the  house  of  Lancaster  leave  to  breathe, 
It  will  outrun  you,  father  in  the  end. 

York-  I  took  an  oath  that  he  should  quietly  reign. 
Edw.  I'd  break  a  thousand  oaths,  to  reign  one  year. 
Rich.   No ;   God  forbid,  your  grace  should  be  for- 
sworn. 
York.   I  shall  be,  if  I  claim  by  open  war. 
Rich-   I'll  prove  the  contrary,  if  you'll  hear  me 

speak. 
York.   Thou  canst  not,  son  ;  it  is  impossible. 
Rich.   An  oath  is  of  no  moment,  being  not  took 
Before  a  true  and  lawful  magistrate. 
That  hath  authority  over  him  that  swears  : 
Henry  had  none,  but  did  usurp  the  place ; 
2  Peck. 


Then,  seeing  'twas  he  that  made  you  to  depose, 
Your  oath,  my  lord,  is  vain  and  frivolous. 
Therefore,  to  arms.    And,  father,  do  but  think, 
How  sweet  a  thing  it  is  to  wear  a  crown  ; 
Within  whose  circuit  is  Elysium, 
And  all  that  poets  feign  of  bliss  and  joy. 
Why  do  we  linger  thus  ?  I  cannot  rest. 
Until  the  white  rose,  that  I  wear,  be  dyed 
Even  in  the  lukewarm  blood  of  Henry's  heart. 

York.  Richard,  enough  ;  I  will  be  king,  or  die.  — 
Brother,  thou  shalt  to  London  presently, 
And  whet  on  Warwick  to  this  enterprize.  — 
Thou,  Richard,  shalt  unto  the  duke  of  Norfolk, 
And  tell  him  privily  of  our  intent.  — 
You,  Edward,  shall  unto  my  lord  Cobham, 
With  whom  the  Kentishmen  will  willingly  rise  : 
In  them  I  trust ;  for  they  are  soldiers. 
Witty  3  and  courteous,  liberal,  full  of  spirit.  — 
While  you  are  thus  employ 'd,  what  resteth  more, 
But  that  I  seek  occasion  how  to  rise ; 
And  yet  the  king  not  privy  to  my  drift, 
Nor  any  of  the  house  of  Lancaster  ? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
But,  stay  ;   What  news  ?   Why  com'st  thou  in  such 
post? 
Mess.  The  queen,  with  all  the  northern  earls  and 
lords. 
Intend  here  to  besiege  you  in  your  castle : 
She  is  hard  by  with  twenty  thousand  men  ; 
And  therefore  fortify  your  hold,  my  lord. 

York.  Ay,  with  my  sword.   What !  think'st  thou, 
that  we  fear  them?  — 
Edward  and  Richard,  you  shall  stay  with  me ;  — 
My  brother  Montague  shall  post  to  London  : 
Let  noble  Warwick,  Cobham,  and  the  rest. 
Whom  we  have  left  protectors  of  the  king. 
With  powerful  policy  strengthen  themselves. 
And  trust  not  simple  Henry,  nor  his  oaths. 

Mont.   Brother,  I  go  ;   I'll  win  them,  fear  it  not : 
And  thus  most  humbly  I  do  take  my  leave.     [Ent. 

Enter  Sir  John  and  Sir  Hugh  Mortimer. 

York.   Sir  John,  and  sir  Hugh  Mortimer,  mine 
uncles  ! 
You  are  come  to  Sandal  in  a  happy  hour ; 
The  army  of  the  queen  mean  to  besiege  us. 

Sir  John.  She  shall  not  need,  we'll  meet  her  in  the 

field. 
York.   What,  with  five  thousand  men  ? 
Rich.   Ay,  with  five  hundred,  father,  for  a  need. 
A  woman's  general ;  What  should  we  fear  ? 

[A  March  afar  off.     ^ 
Edw.   I  hear  their  drums ;  let's  set  our  men  in  -'^m  j 
order ;  V|  I 

And  issue  forth,  and  bid  them  battle  straight. 

York.  Five  men  to  twenty  !  —  though  the  odds  be 
great, 
I  doubt  not,  uncle,  of  our  victory. 
Many  a  battle  have  I  won  in  France, 
When  as  the  enemy  hath  been  ten  to  one  ; 
Why  should  I  not  now  have  the  like  success  ? 

\Alarum.     Exeunt, 
SCENE  \\\.—Tlaim  near  Sandal  Castle. 

Alarums :    Excursions.     Enter  Rutland,  and  his 
Tutor. 
Rut.  Ah,  whither  shall  I  fly  to  'scape  their  hands  ! 
Ah,  tutor !  look,  where  bloody  Clifford  comes  ! 

3  Of  sound  judgment. 


d 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


511 


Enter  Clifford,  and  Soldiers. 

Clif.  Chaplain,  away !  thy  priesthood  saves  thy  life. 
As  for  the  brat  of  tliis  accursed  duke, 
Whose  father  slew  my  father,  —  he  shall  die. 
Tut.   And  I,  my  lord,  will  bear  him  company. 

Clif.    Soldiers,  away  with  him. 
Tut.  Ah,  Clifford !  murder  not  tliis  innocent  child, 
Lest  thou  bo  hated  both  of  God  and  man. 

{Exit,  forced  off  by  Soldiers. 

Clif.  How  now !  is  he  dead  already  ?  Or,  is  it  fear, 
That  makes  him  close  his  eyes  ?  —  I'll  open  them. 

Rut.    So  looks  the  pent-up  lion  o'er  the  wretch 
That  trembles  under  his  devouring  paws : 
And  so  he  walks,  insulting  o'er  his  prey  ; 
And  so  he  comes  to  rend  his  limbs  asunder.  — 
Ah,  gentle  Clifford,  kill  me  with  thy  sword. 
And  not  with  such  a  cruel  threat'ning  look. 
Sweet  Clifford,  hear  me  speak  before  I  die ;  — 
I  am  too  mean  a  subject  for  thy  wrath. 
Be  thou  reveng'd  on  men,  and  let  me  live. 

Clif.  In  vain  thou  speak'st,  poor  boy ;  my  father's 
blood 
Hath  stopp'd  the  passage  where  thy  words'  should 
enter. 

Rul.   Then  let  my  father's  blood  open  it  again  ; 
He  is  a  man,  and,  Clifford,  cope  with  him. 

Clif.  Had  I  thy  brethren  here,  their  lives  and  thine, 
Were  not  revenge  sufficient  for  me ; 
No,  if  I  digg'd  up  thy  forefathers'  graves, 
And  hung  their  rotten  coffins  up  in  chains, 
It  could  not  slake  mine  ire,  nor  ease  my  heart. 
The  sight  of  any  of  the  house  of  York 
Is  as  a  fury  to  torment  my  soul ; 
And  till  I  root  out  their  accursed  line, 
And  leave  not  one  alive,  I  live  in  hell. 
Therefore  —  [Lifting  his  Hand. 

Rut.    O,  let  me  pray  before  I  take  my  death :  — 
To  thee  I  pray  ;   Sweet  Clifford,  pity  me  ! 

Clf.    Such  pity  as  my  rapier's  point  affords. 

Rut.  I  never  did  thee  harm ;  Why  wilt  thou  slay 
me? 

Clif.  Thy  father  hath. 

Rut.  But  'twas  ere  I  was  born. 

Thou  hast  one  son,  for  his  sake  pity  me ; 
Lest,  in  revenge  thereof,  —  sith  God  is  just,  — 
He  be  as  miserably  slain  as  I. 
Ah,  let  me  live  in  prison  all  my  days ; 
And  when  I  give  occasion  of  offence. 
Then  let  me  die,  for  now  thou  hast  no  cause. 

Clif.   No  cause  ? 
Thy  father  slew  my  father ;  therefore,  die. 

[Clifford  stabs  him. 

Rut.  DiifaciarUy  laudis  siimma  sit  ista  tuts  f  * 

[Dies 

Clif.   Plantagenet !   I  come,  Plantagenet ! 
And  this  thy  son's  blood  cleaving  to  my  blade. 
Shall  rust  upon  my  weapon,  till  thy  blood, 
Congeal'd  with  this,  do  make  me  wipe  off  both. 

[ExU. 

SCENE  IW.  — The  same. 

Alarum.     Enter  YoaK. 

York.  The  army  of  the  queen  hath  got  the  field  : 
My  uncles  both  are  slain  in  rescuing  me  ; 
And  all  my  folK)wers  to  the  eager  foe 
Turn  back,  and  fly,  like  ships  before  the  wind. 
Or  lambs  pursu'd  by  hunger-starved  wolves. 

<  Heaven  grant  that  this  may  be  your  greatest  boast ! 

Ovid.  Epitt. 


My  sons  —  Heaven  knows,  what  hath  bechanced 

them  : 
But  this  I  know  —  they  have  demean'd  themselves 
Like  men  bom  to  renown,  by  life,  or  death. 
Three  times  did  Richard  make  a  lane  to  me ; 
And  thrice  cried,  —  Courage,  father  !  Jight  it  out  ! 
And  full  as  ofl  came  Edward  to  my  side. 
With  purple  faulchion,  painted  to  the  hilt. 
In  blood  of  those  that  had  encounter 'd  him  : 
And  when  the  hardiest  warriors  did  retire, 
Richard  cried,  —  Charge  !  and  give  no  foot  of  ground  I 
And  cried,  —  A  crowih  or  else  a  glorious  tomb  / 
A  scepter,  or  an  earthly  sepidchre  ! 
With  this,  we  charg'd  again  :  but,  out,  alas  ! 
We  bodg'd  ^  again  ;  as  I  have  seen  a  swan 
With  bootless  labour  swim  against  the  tide. 
And  spend  her  strength  witli  overmatching  waves. 
[A  short  Alarum  tuithin, 
Ah,  hark  !  the  fatal  followers  do  pursue  : 
And  I  am  faint,  and  cannot  fly  their  fury : 
And,  were  I  strong,  I  would  not  shun  their  fury  : 
The  sands  are  number'd  that  make  up  my  life  : 
Here  must  I  stay,  and  here  my  life  must  end. 

Enter  Queen  Margaret,  Clifford,  Northumber- 
land, and  Soldiers. 
Come,  bloody  Cliffiard,  -  rough  Northumberland^  — 
I  dare  your  quenchless  fury  to  more  rage  j 
I  am  your  butt,  and  I  abide  your  shot. 

North.  Yield  to  our  mercy,  proud  Plantagenet. 

Clif.   Ay,  to  such  mercy,  as  his  ruthless  arm. 
With  downright  payment  show'd  unto  my  father. 
Now  Phaeton  hath  tumbled  from  his  car, 
And  made  an  evening  at  the  noontide  point. 

York.  My  ashes,  as  the  Phoenix,  may  bring  forth 
A  bird  that  will  revenge  upon  you  all  : 
And,  in  that  hope,  I  throw  mine  eyes  to  heaven. 
Scorning  whate'er  you  can  affiict  me  with. 
Why  come  you  not  ?  what !  multitudes,  and  fear  ? 

Clif.  So  cowards  fight,  when  they  can  fly  no  further ; 
So  doves  do  peck  the  falcon's  piercing  talons  ; 
So  desperate  thieves,  all  hopeless  of  their  lives. 
Breathe  out  invectives  'gainst  the  officers. 

York.   O  Cliffijrd,  but  bethink  thee  once  again, 
And  in  thy  thought  o'er-run  my  former  time  : 
And,  if  thou  canst  for  blushing,  view  this  face  ; 
And  bite  thy  tongue,  that  slanders  him  with  cowardice, 
Whose  frown  hath  made  thee  faint  and  fly  ere  this. 

Cltf.    I  will  not  bandy  with  thee  word  for  word  ; 
But  buckle  with  thee  blows  twice  two  for  one. 

[Dravs. 

Q.  Mar.   Hold,  valiant  Clifford  !  for  a  thousand 
causes, 
I  would  prolong  awhile  the  traitor's  life :  — 
Wrath  makes  him  deaf:  speak  thou,  Northumberland. 

North.  Hold,  Clifford ;  do  not  honour  him  so  much 
To  prick  thy  finger,  though  to  wound  his  heart : 
What  valour  were  it,  when  a  cur  doth  grin. 
For  one  to  thrust  his  hand- between  liis  teeth, 
When  he  might  spurn  him  with  his  foot  away? 
It  is  war's  prize  to  take  all  vantages ; 
And  ten  to  one  is  no  impeach  of  valour. 

[They  lay  haiuls  on  YoiiK,  who  struggles. 

Clif  Ay,  ay,  so  strives  the  woodcock  with  the  gin. 

North.  So  dotli  the  coney  struggle  in  the  net. 

[York  is  taken  prisoner. 

York.   So  triumph  thieves  upon  their  conquer 'd 
booty ; 
So  true  men  yield,  with  robbers  so  o'er'^match'd. 

*  t.  If.  We  boggled,  faUed. 


512 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  I. 


North.  What  would  your  grace  have  done  unto 
him  now  ? 

Q.  Mar.    Brave  warriors,  Cliflford  and  Northum- 
berland, 
Come  make  him  stand  upon  this  molehill  here, 
That  raught  ^  at  mountains  with  outstretched  arms, 

Yet  parted  but  the  shadow  with  his  hand 

What !  was  it  you  that  would  be  England's  king  ? 
Was't  you  that  revell'd  in  our  parliament. 
And  made  a  preachment  of  your  high  descent? 
Where  are  your  mess  of  sons  to  back  you  now  ? 
The  wanton  Edward,  and  the  lusty  George  ? 
And  Where's  that  valiant  crook-back  prodigy, 
Dicky  your  boy,  that,  with  his  grumbling  voice. 
Was  wont  to  cheer  his  dad  in  mutinies  ? 
Or,  with  the  rest,  where  is  your  darling  Rutland  ? 
Look,  York ;   I  stain'd  this  napkin  with  the  blood 
That  valiant  Clifford,  with  his  rapier's  point, 
Made  issue  from  the  bosom  of  the  boy : 
And,  if  thine  eyes  can  water  for  his  death, 
I  give  thee  this  to  dry  thy  cheeks  withal. 
Alas,  poor  York  !  but  that  I  hate  thee  deadly, 
I  should  lament  thy  miserable  state. 
I  pr'ythee,  grieve,  to  make  me  merry,  York ; 
Stamp,  rave,  and  fret,  that  I  may  sing  and  dance. 
What,  hath  thy  fiery  heart  so  parch'd  thine  entrails. 
That  not  a  tear  can  fall  for  Rutland's  death  ? 
Why  art  thou  patient,  man?  thou  shouldst  be  mad ; 
And  I,  to  make  thee  mad,  do  mock  thee  thus. 
Thou  wouldst  be  fee'd,  T  see,  to  make  me  sport ; 
York  cannot  speak,  unless  he  wear  a  crown.  — 
A  crown  for  York  ;  —  and,  lords,  bow  low  to  him.  — 
Hold  you  his  hands,  whilst  T  do  set  it  on.  — 

[Putting  a  pape?'  Crown  on  his  Head. 
Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  looks  he  like  a  king  ! 
Ay,  this  is  he  that  took  king  Henry's  chair ; 
And  this  is  he  was  his  adopted  heir.  — 
But  how  is  it  that  great  Plantagenet 
Is  crown'd  so  soon,  and  broke  his  solemn  oath? 
As  I  bethink  me,  you  should  not  be  king. 
Till  our  king  Henry  had  shook  hands  with  death. 
And  will  you  pale  7  your  head  in  Henry's  glory, 
And  rob  his  temples  of  the  diadem. 
Now  in  his  life,  against  your  holy  oath  ? 
O,  'tis  a  fault  too,  too  unpardonable  !  — 
Off  with  the  crown  ;  and,  with  the  crown,  his  head  ; 
And,  whilst  we  breathe,  take  time  to  do  him  dead. 

Clif.    That  is  my  office,  for  my  father's  sake. 

Q.  Mar.  Nay,  stay ;  let's  hear  the  orisons  he  makes. 

York.  She-wolf  of  France,  but  worse  than  wolves 
of  France, 
Whose  tongue  more  poisons  than  the  adder's  tooth  ! 
How  ill-beseeming  is  it  in  thy  sex. 
To  triumph  like  an  Amazonian  trull. 
Upon  their  woes,  whom  fortune  captivates  ? 
But  that  thy  face  is,  visor-like,  unchanging, 
Made  impudent  with  use  of  evil  deeds, 
I  would  assay,  proud  queen,  to  make  thee  blush  : 
To  tell  thee  whence  thou  cam'st,  of  whom  deriv'd. 
Were  shame  enough  to  shame  thee,  wert  thou  not 

shameless. 
Thy  father  bears  the  type  8  of  king  of  Naples, 
Of  both  the  Sicils,  and  Jerusalem ; 
Yet  not  so  wealthy  as  an  English  yeoman. 

6  Reached.  7  Impale,  encircle. 

»  The  distinguishing  mark. 


Hath  that  poor  monarch  taught  thee  to  insult? 
It  needs  not,  nor  it  boots  thee  not,  proud  queen ; 
Unless  the  adage  must  be  verified,  — 
That  beggars,  mounted,  run  their  horse  to  death. 
'Tis  beauty,  that  doth  oft  make  women  proud ; 
But  heaven  knows,  thy  share  thereof  is  small : 
'Tis  virtue  that  doth  make  them  most  admir'd; 
The  contrary  doth  make  thee  wonder'd  at : 
'Tis  government?,  that  makes  them  seem  divine 
The  want  thereof  makes  thee  abominable  : 
Thou  art  as  opposite  to  every  good, 
As  the  Antipodes  are  unto  us. 
Or  as  the  south  to  the  septentrion. ' 
O,  tiger's  heart,  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hide  ! 
How  couldst  thou  drain  the  life-blood  of  the  child, 
To  bid  the  father  wipe  his  eyes  withal. 
And  yet  be  seen  to  bear  a  woman's  face  ? 
Women  are  soft,  mild,  pitiful,  and  flexible ; 
Thou  stern,  obdurate,  flinty,  rough,  remorseless. 
Bidst  thou  me  rage  ?  why,  now  thou  hast  thy  wish  : 
Wouldst  have  me  weep?  why,  now  thou  hast  thy  will : 
For  raging  wind  blows  up  incessant  showers, 
And,  when  the  rage  allays,  the  rain  begins. 
These  tears  are  my  sweet  Rutland's  obsequies  ; 
And  every  drop  cries  vengeance  for  his  death,  — 
'Gainst  thee,  fell  Clifford,  —  and  thee,  false  French- 
woman. 

North.  Beshrew  me,  but  his  passions '-  move  me  so. 
That  hardly  can  I  check  my  eyes  from  tears. 

York.   That  face  of  his  the  hungry  cannibals 
Would  not  have  touch'd,  would  not  have  stain'd 

with  blood  : 
But  you  are  more  inhuman,  more  inexorable,  — 
O,  ten  times  more,  —  than  tigers  of  Hyrcania. 
See,  ruthless  queen,  a  hapless  father's  tears  : 
This  cloth  thou  dipp'dst  in  blood  of  my  sweet  boy, 
And  I  with  tears  do  wash  the  blood  away. 
Keep  thou  the  napkin,  and  go  boast  of  this : 

[He  gives  back  the  Handkerchief. 
And  if  thou  tell'st  the  heavy  story  right. 
Upon  my  soul,  the  hearers  will  shed  tears ; 
Yea,  even  my  foes  will  shed  fast-falling  tears. 
And  say,  —  Alas,  it  was  a  piteous  deed  ! 
There,  take  the  crown,  and  with  the  crown,  my  curse ; 
And,  in  thy  need,  such  comfort  come  to  thee. 
As  now  I  reap  at  thy  too  cruel  hand !  — 
Hard-hearted  Clifford,  take  me  from  the  world  ; 
My  soul  to  heaven,  my  blood  upon  your  heads  ! 

North.  Had  he  been  slaughter-man  to  all  my  kin, 
I  should  not  for  my  life  but  weep  with  him. 
To  see  how  inly  sorrow  gripes  his  soul. 

Q.  Mar.   What,  weeping-ripe,  my  lord  Northum- 
berland ? 
Think  but  upon  the  wrong  he  did  us  all. 
And  that  will  quickly  dry  thy  melting  tears. 

Clif.   Here's  for  my  oath,  here's  for  my  father's 
death.  [Stabbing  him. 

Q.  Mar.    And  here's  to  right  our  gentle-hearted 
king.  [Stabbing  him- 

York.   Open  thy  gate  of  mercy,  gracious  God  ! 
My  soul  flies  through  these  wounds  to  seek  out  thee. 

[Dies. 

Q.  Mar.  Off  with  his  head,  and  set  it  on  York  gates ; 
So  York  may  overlook  the  town  of  York.      [Exeunt. 


I 


Regularity  of  behaviour. 


The  north.       2  Sufferings. 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


513 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I. — A  Plain  nearMortimer's  Cross  mllere- 
fordshire. 

Drums.     Enter  Edward  and  Richard,  with  their 
Forces,  marching. 

Edw.  I  wonder,  how  our  princely  father  'scaped ; 
Or  whether  he  be  'scap'd  away  or  no, 
From  CUfford's  and  Nortliumberland's  pursuit ; 
Had  he  been  ta'en,  we  should  have  heard  the  news  ; 
Had  he  been  slain,  we  should  have  heard  the  news  ; 
Or,  had  he  'scap'd,  methinks,  we  should  have  heard 
The  happy  tidings  of  his  good  escape.  — 
How  fares  my  brother  ?  why  is  he  so  sad  ? 

Rich.    I  cannot  joy,  until  I  be  resolv'd 
Where  our  right  valiant  father  is  become. 
I  saw  him  in  tJie  battle  range  about ; 
And  watch'd  him  how  he  singled  Clifford  forth. 
Methought,  he  bore  him  in  the  thickest  troop, 
As  doth  a  lion  in  a  herd  of  neat  3  : 
Or  as  a  bear,  encompass'd  round  with  dogs ; 
Who  having  pinch'd  a  few,  and  made  them  cry. 
The  rest  stand  all  aloof,  and  bark  at  him. 
So  far'd  our  father  with  his  enemies ; 
So  fled  his  enemies  my  warlike  father ; 
Metliinks,  'tis  prize  enough  to  be  his  son. 
See  how  the  morning  opes  her  golden  gates. 
And  takes  her  farewell  of  the  glorious  sun  ! 
How  well  resembles  it  the  prime  of  youth, 
Trimm'd  like  a  younker,  prancing  to  his  love  ! 

Edtu.    Dazzle  mine  eyes,  or  do  I  see  three  suns  ? 

Rich.  Three  glorious  suns,  each  one  a  perfect  sun  ? 
Not  separated  with  the  racking  clouds  •*, 
But  sever'd  in  a  pale  clear-shining  sky. 
See,  see  !  they  join,  embrace,  and  seem  to  kiss. 
As  if  they  vow'd  some  league  inviolable  : 
Now  are  they  but  one  lamp,  one  light,  one  sun. 
In  this  the  heaven  figures  some  event. 

Edw.  'Tis  wondrous  strange,  the  like  yet  never 
heard  of. 
I  think,  it  cites  us,  brother,  to  the  field ; 
That  we,  the  sons  of  brave  Plan tage  net, 
Each  one  already  blazing  by  our  meeds  ', 
Should,  notwithstanding,  join  our  lights  together, 
And  over-shine  the  earth,  as  this  the  world. 
Whate'er  it  bodes,  henceforward  will  I  bear 
Upon  my  target  three  fair  shining  suns. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
But  what  art  thou,  whose  heavy  looks  foretell 
Some  dreadful  story  hanging  on  thy  tongue  ? 

Mess.   Ah,  one  that  was  a  woful  looker  on. 
When  as  the  noble  duke  of  York  was  slain, 
Your  princely  father,  and  my  loving  lord. 

Edw.  O,  speak  no  more!  for  I  have  heard  too  much. 

Rich.   Say  how  he  died,  for  I  will  hear  it  all. 

Mess.   Environed  he  was  with  many  foes ; 
And  stood  against  them  as  the  hope  of  Troy'' 
Against  the  Greeks  that  would  have  enter'd  Troy. 
But  Hercules  himself  must  yield  to  odds  ; 
And  many  strokes,  though  with  a  little  axe 
Hew  down  and  fell  the  hardest-timber'd  oak. 
By  many  hands  your  father  was  subdu'd  ; 
But  only  slaughtcr'd  by  the  ireful  arm 

'  Neat  cattle,  cows,  oxen,  &c. 

*  t.  e.  Tlie  rlouds  in  rapid  tumultuary  motion. 

»  Merit  «  Hector. 


Of  unrelenting  Clifford,  and  the  queen : 

Who  crown'd  the  gracious  duke  in  high  despite  ; 

Laugh'd  in  his  face ;  and,  when  with  grief  he  wept, 

The  ruthless  queen  gave  him,  to  dry  his  cheeks, 

A  napkin  steeped  in  the  harmless  blood 

Of  sweet  young  Rutland,  by  rough  Clifford  slain  : 

And,  after  many  scorns,  many  foul  taunts, 

They  took  his  head,  and  on  the  gates  of  York 

They  set  the  same ;  and  there  it  doth  remain. 

The  saddest  spectacle  that  e'er  I  view'd. 

Edio.  Sweet  duke  of  York,  our  prop  to  lean  upon ; 
Now  thou  art  gone,  we  have  no  staff,  no  stay  !  — 
O  Clifford,  boist'rous  Clifford,  thou  liast  slain 
The  flower  of  Europe  for  his  chivalry  ; 
And  treacherously  hast  thou  vanquish'd  him, 
For, hand  to  hand,  he  would  have  vanquish'd  thee!  — 
Now  my  soul's  palace  is  become  a  prison  : 
Ah,  would  she  break  from  hence  !  that  this  my  body 
Might  in  the  ground  be  closed  up  in  rest : 
For  never  henceforth  shall  I  joy  again. 
Never,  O  never,  shall  I  see  more  joy. 

Rich.    I  cannot  weep  :   for  all  my  body's  moisture 
Scarce  serves  to  quench  my  furnace-burning  heart : 
Nor  can  my  tongue  unload  my  heart's  great  burden, 
For  self-same  wind,  that  1  should  speak  withal. 
Is  kindling  coals,  that  fire  all  my  breast, 
And  bum  me  up  with  flames,  that  tears  would  quench. 
To  weep,  is  to  make  less  the  depth  of  grief : 
Tears,  then,  for  babes  ;  blows,  and  revenge  for  me !  — 
Richard,  I  bear  thy  name,  I'll  venge  thy  death. 
Or  die  renowned  by  attempting  it. 

Edio.   His  name  that  valiant  duke  hath  left  with 
thee; 
His  dukedom  and  his  chair  with  me  is  left. 

Rich.    Nay,  if  thou  be  that  princely  eagle's  bird, 
Show  thy  descent  by  gazing  'gainst  the  sun  : 
For  chair  and  dukedom,  throne  and  kingdom  say ; 
Or  that  is  thine,  or  else  thou  wert  not  his. 

March.      Enter  Warwick   and   Montague,    with 
Forces. 
War.   How  now,  fair  lords?   What  fare?  what 

news  abroad  ? 
Rich.  Great  lord  of  Warwick,  if  we  should  recount 
Our  baleful  news,  and,  at  each  word's  deliverance, 
Stab  poniards  in  our  flesh  till  all  were  told. 
The  words  would  add  more  anguish  than  the  wounds. 

0  valiant  lord,  the  duke  of  York  is  slain. 

Ediv.    O  Warwick  !   Warwick  !  that  Plantagenet 
Which  held  thee  dearly,  as  his  very  soul. 
Is  by  the  stern  lord  Clifford  done  to  death. 

War.  Ten  days  ago  I  drown'd  these  news  in  tears : 
And  now,  to  add  more  measure  to  your  woes, 

1  come  to  tell  you  things  since  then  befall'n. 
After  the  bloody  fray  at  Wakefield  fought^ 
Where  your  brave  father  breath 'd  his  latest  gasp, 
Tidings,  as  swiftly  as  the  posts  could  run. 
Were  brought  me  of  your  loss,  and  his  depart. 

I  then  in  London,  keeper  of  the  king, 
Muster'd  my  soldiers,  gather'd  flocks  of  friends. 
And  very  well  appointed,  as  I  thought, 
March 'd  towards  Saint  Alban'sto  intercept  the  queen. 
Bearing  the  king  in  my  behalf  along  : 
For  by  my  scouts  1  was  advertised. 
That  she  was  coming  with  a  full  intent 
LI 


514 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


To  dash  our  late  decree  in  parliament, 
Touching  king  Henry's  oath,  and  your  succession. 
Short  tale  to  make,  — we  at  Saint  Alban's  met, 
Our  battles  join'd,  and  both  sides  fiercely  fought : 
But,  whether  'twas  the  coldness  of  the  king. 
Who  look'd  full  gently  on  his  warlike  queen. 
That  robb'd  my  soldiers  of  their  hated  spleen  ; 
Or  whether  'twas  report  of  her  success ; 
Or  more  than  common  fear  of  Clifford's  rigour. 
Who  tliunders  to  his  captives  —  blood  and  death, 
I  cannot  judge  :   but,  to  conclude  with  truth. 
Their  weapons  like  to  lightning  came  and  went ; 
Our  soldiers  —  like  the  night-owl's  lazy  flight, 
Or  like  a  lazy  thrasher  with  a  flail,  — 
Fell  gently  down,  as  if  they  struck  their  friends. 
I  cheer'd  them  up  with  justice  of  our  cause. 
With  promise  of  high  pay,  and  great  rewards  : 
But  all  in  vain ;  they  had  no  heart  to  fight. 
And  we,  in  them  no  hope  to  win  the  day. 
So  that  we  fled ;  the  king  unto  the  queen  ; 
Lord  George  your  brother,  Norfolk,  and  myself, 
In  haste,  post-haste,  are  come  to  join  with  you ; 
For  in  the  marches  here,  we  heard  you  were, 
Making  another  head  to  fight  again. 

Edw.   Where  is  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  gentle  War- 
wick? 
And  when  came  George  from  Burgundy  to  Eng- 
land? 

War.    Some  six   miles  off  the  duke  is  with  the 
soldiers ; 
And  for  your  brother,  —  he  was  lately  sent 
From  your  kind  aunt,  duchess  of  Burgundy, 
With  aid  of  soldiers  to  this  needful  waR 

Rich  'Twas  odds,  belike,  when  valiant  Warwick 
fled: 
Oft  have  I  heard  his  praises  in  pursuit, 
But  ne'er,  till  now,  his  scandal  of  retire. 

War.   Nor  now  my  scandal,    Richard,  dost  thou 
hear  : 
For  thou  shalt  know  this  strong  right  hand  of  mine 
Can  pluck  the  diadem  from  faint  Henry's  head, 
And  wring  the  awful  scepter  from  his  fist ; 
Were  he  as  famous  and  as  bold  in  war. 
As  he  is  fam'd  for  mildness,  peace  and  prayer. 

Rich.  I  know  it  well, lord  Warwick :  blame  me  not; 
*Tis  love,  I  bear  thy  glories,  makes  me  speak. 
But,  in  this  troublous  time,  what's  to  be  done  ? 
Shall  we  go  throw  away  our  coats  of  steel. 
And  wrap  our  bodies  in  black  mourning-gowns, 
Numb'ring  our  Ave- Maries  with  our  beads  ? 
Or  shall  we  on  the  helmets  of  our  foes 
Tell  our  devotion  with  revengeful  arms? 
If  for  the  last,  say  —  Ay,  and  to  it,  lords. 

War.   Why,  therefore  Warwick  came  to  seek  you 
out; 
And  therefore  comes  my  brother  Montague. 
Attend  me,  lords.      The  proud  insulting  queen, 
With  Clifford,  and  the  haught  Northumberland, 
And  of  their  feather  many  more  proud  birds, 
Have  wrought  the  easy  melting  king  like  wax. 
He  swore  consent  to  your  succession. 
His  oath  enrolled  in  the  parliament ; 
And  now  to  London  all  the  crew  are  gone. 
To  frustrate  both  his  oath,  and  what  beside 
May  make  against  the  house  of  Lancaster. 
Their  power,  I  think,  is  thirty  thousand  strong  : 
Now,  if  the  help  of  Norfolk,  and  myself. 
With  all  the  friends  that  thou,  brave  earl  of  March, 
Amongst  the  loving  Welshmen  canst  procure. 
Will  but  amount  to  five  and  twenty  thousand. 


Why,  Via  !  to  London  will  we  march  amain  ; 
And  once  again  bestride  our  foaming  steeds, 
And  once  again  cry  —  Charge  upon  our  foes  ! 
But  never  once  again  turn  back  and  fly. 

Rich.   Ay,  now,  metliinks,  I  hear  great  Warwick 
speak : 
Ne'er  may  he  live  to  see  a  sunshine  day. 
That  cries  —  Retire,  if  Warwick  bid  him  stay. 

Edw.  Lord  Warwick,  on  thy  shoulder  will  I  lean ; 
And  when  thou  fall'st,  (as  heaven  forbid  the  hour  !) 
Must  Edward  fall,  which  peril  heaven  forefend  ! 

War.    No  longer  earl  of  March,  but  duke  of  York ; 
The  next  degree  is,  England's  royal  throne  : 
For  king  of  England  shalt  thou  be  proclaim'd 
In  every  borough  as  we  pass  along : 
And  he  that  throws  not  up  his  cap  for  joy. 
Shall  for  the  fault  make  forfeit  of  his  head. 
King  Edward,  —  valiant  Richard,  —  Montague,— 
Stay  we  no  longer  dreaming  of  renown. 
But  sound  the  trumpets,  and  about  our  task. 

Rich.  Then,  Clifford,  werethyheartashardas  steel, 
(As  thou  hast  shown  it  flinty  by  thy  deeds,) 
I  come  to  pierce  it,  or  to  give  thee  mine. 

Edw.   Tlien  strike  up,  drums ;  —  God,  and  saint 
George,  for  us  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

War.   How  now  ?  what  news  ? 

Me&s.  The  duke  of  Norfolk  sends  you  word  by  me. 
The  queen  is  coming  with  a  puissant  host ; 
And  craves  your  company  for  speedy  counsel. 

War.   Why  then  it  sorts  7,  brave  warriors :   Let's 
away.  {E3:eunU 

SCENE  \\.— Before  York. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Queen  Margaret,  the  Prince 
OF    Wales,   Clifford,  and  Northumberland, 

with  Forces. 

Q.  Mar.    Welcome,  my  lord,  to  this  brave  town 
of  York. 
Yonder's  the  head  of  that  arch-enemy, 
That  sought  to  be  encompass'd  with  your  crown  : 
Doth  not  the  object  cheer  your  heart,  my  lord  ? 

IT.  Hen.  Ay,  as  the  rocks  cheer  them  that  fear 
their  wreck : 
To  see  this  sight,  it  irks  my  very  soul.  — 
Withhold  revenge,  great  God  !   'tis  not  my  fault. 
Not  wittingly  have  I  infring'd  my  vow. 

Clif.   My  gracious  liege,  this  too  much  lenity 
And  harmful  pity,  must  be  laid  aside. 
To  whom  do  lions  cast  their  gentle  looks  ? 
Not  to  the  beast  that  would  usurp  their  den. 
Whose  hand  is  that  the  forest  bear  doth  lick  ? 
Not  his,  that  spoils  her  young  before  her  face. 
Who  'scapes  the  lurking  serpent's  mortal  sting  ? 
Not  he,  that  sets  his  foot  upon  her  back. 
The  smallest  worm  will  turn,  being  trodden  on  ; 
And  doves  will  peck,  in  safeguard  of  their  brood, 
Ambitious  York  did  level  at  thy  crown. 
Thou  smiling,  while  he  knit  his  angry  brows  : 
He  but  a  duke,  would  have  his  son  a  king, 
And  raise  his  issue,  like  a  loving  sire  ; 
Tliou,  being  a  king,  bless'd  with  a  goodly  son. 
Didst  yield  consent  to  disinherit  him, 
Which  argued  thee  a  most  unloving  father. 
Unreasonable  creatures  feed  their  young  : 
And  though  man's  face  be  fearful  to  their  eyes. 
Yet  in  protection  of  their  tender  ones, 

7  Why  then  things  are  as  they  should  be. 


I 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


515 


L 


Who  hath  not  seen  them   (even  with  those  wings 

Which  sometime  they  have  us'd  with  fearful  flight,) 

Make  war  with  him  that  climb'd  unto  their  nest, 

Offering  their  own  lives  in  their  young's  defence  ? 

For  shame,  my  liege,  make  them  your  precedent ! 

Were  it  not  pity  that  this  goodly  boy 

Should  lose  his  birthright  by  l)is  father's  fault ; 

And  long  hereafter,  say  unto  his  child,  — 

What  my  great-grnn(\father  and  grandsire  got. 

My  careless  father  fondly^  gave  away  ? 

Ah,  what  a  shame  were  this  !   Look  on  tlie  boy  ; 

And  let  his  manly  face,  which  promiseth 

Successful  fortune,  steel  thy  melting  heart, 

To  hold  thine  own,  and  leave  thine  own  with  him. 

K.  Hen.    Full  well  hath  Cliflbrd  play'd  Ihe  orator. 
Inferring  arguments  of  mighty  force. 
But,  Clifford,  tell  me,  didst  tliou  never  hear,  — 
That  things  ill  got  had  ever  bad  success  ? 
I'll  leave  my  son  my  virtuous  deeds  behind  ; 
And  would,  my  father  had  left  me  no  more  ! 
For  all  the  rest  is  held  at  such  a  rate, 
As  brings  a  thousand-fold  more  care  to  keep, 
Than  in  possession  any  jot  of  pleasure. 
Ah,  cousin  York  !  'would  thy  best  friends  did  know, 
How  it  doth  grieve  me  that  thy  head  is  here ! 

Q,.  Mar.   My  lord,  cheer  up  your  spirits ;  our  foes 
are  nigh, 
And  this  soft  courage  makes  your  followers  faint. 
You  promis'd  knighthood  to  our  forward  son  ; 
Unsheath  your  sword,  and  dub  liim  presently.  — 
Kdward,  kneel  down. 

A'.  Hen.   Edward  Plantagenet,  arise  a  knight ; 
And  learn  this  lesson,  —  Draw  thy  sword  in  right. 

Prince.   My  gracious  father,  by  your  kingly  leave, 
I'll  draw  it  as  apparent  to  the  crown, 
And  in  that  quarrel  use  it  to  the  death. 

Clif.  Why,  that  is  spoken  like  a  toward  prince. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.    Royal  commanders,  be  in  readiness : 
For,  with  a  band  of  thirty  thousand  men. 
Comes  Warwick,  backing  of  the  duke  of  York  ; 
And,  in  the  towns  as  they  do  march  along. 
Proclaims  him  king,  and  many  fly  to  him : 
Darraign  your  battle  9,-  for  they  are  at  hand. 

Clif.  I  would  your  highness  would  depart  the  field ; 
The  queen  hath  best  success  when  you  are  absent. 

Q.  Mar.   Ay,  good  my  lord,  and  leave  us  to  our 
fortune. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  that's  my  fortune  too  ;  therefore 
I'll  stay. 

North.   Be  it  with  resolution,  then,  to  fight. 

Prince.   My  royal  father,  cheer  these  noble  lords, 
And  hearten  those  that  fight  in  your  defence  : 
Unsheath  your  sword,  good  father;  cry,  Saint  George/ 

March.    Enter  Edward,  George,  Richard,  W^ar- 
wicK,  Norfolk,  Montague,  a7id  Soldiers. 

Edw.   Now,  perjur'd  Henry  !  wilt  thou  kneel  for 
grace, 
And  set  thy  diadem  upon  my  hrtid ; 
Or  bide  the  mortal  fortune  of  tlie  field  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Go,  rate  thy  minions,  proud  insultingboy ! 
Becomes  it  tliee  to  be  tlius  bold  in  terms, 
Before  thy  sovereign,  and  thy  lawful  king  ? 

Edw.  I  am  his  king,  and  he  should  bow  his  knee  ; 
I  was  adopted  heir  by  his  consent : 
Since  when,  his  oath  is  broke  :  for,  as  I  hear, 
You  —  that    are   king,    though    he    do    wear    the 
crown,  — 

«  Foolishly.  »  f,  g.  Arrange  your  order  of  battle 


Have  caus'd  him,  by  new  act  of  parliament, 
To  blot  out  me,  and  put  his  own  son  in. 

Clif.   And  reason  too  ; 
Who  should  succeed  the  father,  but  the  son  ? 

Rich.  Areyou there, butcher? — O,  Icannotspeak! 

CliJ".    Ay,  crook-back ;  here  I  stand  to  answer  thee. 
Or  any  he  the  proudest  of  thy  sort. 

Rich.   'Twas  you  that  kill'd  young  Rutland,  was 
it  not  ? 

Clif.    Ay,  and  old  York,  and  yet  not  satisfied. 

Rich.   For  heaven's  sake,  lords,  give  signal  to  the 
fight. 

War,   What  say*st  thou,  Henry,  wilt  thou  yield 
the  crown? 

Q.  Mar.  Why,  how  now,  long-tongu'd  Warwick  ? 
dare  you  speak  ? 
When  you  and  I  met  at  Saint  Alban's  last, 
Your  legs  did  better  service  than  your  hands. 

War.  Then  'twas  my  turn  to  fly,  and  now  'tis  thine. 

Clif.    You  said  so  much  before,  and  yet  you  fled. 

War.   'Twas  not  your  valour,  Clifford,  drove  me 
thence. 

North.    No,  nor  your  manhood,  that  durst  make 
you  stay. 

Rich.  Northumberland,  I  hold  thee  reverently;  — 
Break  off  the  parle :   for  scarce  I  can  refrain 
The  execution  of  my  big-swoln  heart 
Upon  that  Clifford,  that  cruel  child-killer. 

Clif.   I  slew  thy  father  :  Call'st  thou  him  a  child? 

Rich.  Ay ,  like  a  dastard,  and  a  treacherous  coward. 
As  thou  didst  kill  our  tender  brother  Rutland  ; 
But,  ere  sun-set,  I'll  make  thee  curse  the  deed. 

K.  Hen.   Have  done  with  words,  my  lords,  and 
hear  me  speak. 

Q.  Mar.  Defy  them  then,  or  else  hold  close  thy  lips. 

K.  Hen.  I  pr'ythee,  give  no  limits  to  my  tongue ; 
I  am  a  king,  and  privileg'd  to  speak. 

Clif.  My  liege,  tlie  wound,  that  bred  tliis  meeting 
here, 
Cannot  be  cur'd  by  words ;  therefore  be  still. 

Rich.   Then,  executioner,  unsheath  thy  sword : 
By  Him  that  made  us  all,  I  am  resolv'd  ', 
That  Clifford's  manhood  lies  upon  his  tongue. 

Edw.   Say,  Henry,  shall  I  have  my  right,  or  no  ? 
A  thousand  men  have  broke  their  fasts  to-day. 
That  ne'er  shall  dine,  unless  thou  yield  the  crown. 

War.   If  thou  deny,  their  blood  upon  thy  head  ; 
For  York  in  justice  puts  his  armour  on. 

Prince.   If  that  be  right,  which  Warwick  says  is 
right, 
There  is  no  wrong,  but  every  thing  is  right. 

Rich.  Whoever  got  thee,  there  thy  mother  stands  ; 
For,  well  I  wot,  thou  hast  thy  mother's  tongue. 

Q.  Mar.  But  thou  art  neitlier  like  thy  sire,  nor  dam ; 
But  like  a  foul  mis-shapen  stigmatick, 
Mark'd  by  the  destinies  to  be  avoided, 
As  venom  toads,  or  lizards'  dreadful  stings. 

Rich.   Iron  of  Naples,  hid  with  English  gilt^ 
Whose  father  bears  the  title  of  a  king, 
(  As  if  a  channel  should  be  call'd  the  sea,) 
Sham'st    thou  not,  knowing   whence  tliou  art  ex- 

traught, 
To  let  thy  tongue  detect  thy  base-born  heart  ? 

Edw.  Helen  of  Greece  was  fairer  far  than  thou, 
Altliough  thy  husband  may  be  Menelaus  ; 
And  ne'er  was  Agamemnon's  brother  wrong'd 
By  that  false  woman,  as  this  king  by  tliee. 
His  father  revell'd  in  the  heart  of  France, 
And  tam'd  the  king,  and  made  the  dauphin  stoop ; 
I  It  U  my  firm  persuasion.  >  Gilding. 

LI  2 


516 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


And,  had  he  match'd  accordhig  to  his  state, 

He  might  have  kept  that  glory  to  this  day  : 

But,  when  he  took  a  beggar  to  liis  bed, 

And  grac'd  thy  poor  sire  with  his  bridal  day ; 

Even  then  that  sunshine  brew'd  a  shower  for  him, 

That  wash'd  his  father's  fortunes  forth  of  France, 

And  heap'd  sedition  on  his  crown  at  home. 

For  what  hath  broach'd  this  tumult,  but  thy  pride  ? 

Hadst  thou  been  meek,  our  title  still  had  slept ; 

And  we,  in  pity  of  the  gentle  king, 

Had  slipp'd  our  claim  until  another  age. 

Geo.    But,  when  we  saw  our  sunshine  made  thy 
spring, 
And  that  thy  summer  bred  us  no  increase. 
We  set  the  axe  to  thy  usurping  root : 
And  though  the  edge  hath  something  hit  ourselves, 
Yet,  know  thou,  since  we  have  begun  to  strike, 
We'll  never  leave,  till  we  have  hewn  thee  down. 
Or  bath'd  thy  growing  with  our  heated  bloods. 

Ediv.    And,  in  this  resolution,  I  defy  thee  ; 
Not  willing  any  longer  conference, 
Since  thou  deny'st  the  gentle  king  to  speak.  — 
Sound  trumpets  !  —  let  our  bloody  colours  wave !  — 
And  either  victory,  or  else  a  grave. 

Q.  Mar.    Stay,  Edward. 

Edw.  No,  wrangling  woman ;  we'll  no  longer  stay ; 
These  words  will  cost  ten  thousand  lives  to-day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Field  of  Battle  between  Towton 
and  Sax  ton  in  Yorkshire. 

Alarums  :  Excursions,      Enter  Warwick. 

War.   Forspent  with  toil,  as  runners  with  a  race, 
I  lay  me  down  a  little  while  to  breathe  : 
For  strokes  receiv'd,  and  many  blows  repaid. 
Have  robb'd  my  strong-knit  sinews  of  their  strength, 
And,  spite  of  spite,  needs  must  I  rest  a  while. 

Enter  Edward,  running. 
Edw.   Smile,  gentle  heaven  !  or  strike,  ungentle 
death : 
For  this  world  frowns,  and  Edward's  sun  is  clouded. 
War.   How  now,  my  lord  ?  what  hap  ?  what  hope 
of  good  ? 

Enter  George. 

Geo.   Our  hap  is  loss,  our  hope  but  sad  despair ; 
Our  ranks  are  broke,  and  ruin  follows  us : 
What  counsel  give  you,  whither  shall  we  fly  ? 

Edw.  Bootless  is  flight,  they  follow  us  with  wings; 
And  weak  we  are,  and  cannot  shun  pursuit. 

Enter  Richard. 

Rich.   Ah,  Warwick,  why  hast  thou  withdrawn 
thyself? 
Thy  brother's  blood  the  thirsty  earth  hath  drunk, 
Broach'd  with  the  steely  point  of  Clifford's  lance  : 
And  in  the  very  pangs  of  death,  he  cried,  — 
Like  to  a  dismal  clangor  heard  from  far,  — 
Warwick,  revenge  !    brother,  rewnu,e  my  death  ! 
So  underneath  the  belly  of  their  steeds. 
That  stain' d  their  fetlocks  in  his  smoking  blood. 
The  noble  gentleman  gave  up  the  ghost. 

War.  Then  let  the  earth  be  drunken  with  our  blood : 
I'll  kill  my  horse,  because  I  will  not  fly. 
Why  stand  we  like  soft-hearted  women  here. 
Wailing  our  losses,  whiles  the  foe  doth  rage  ? 
And  look  upon,  as  if  the  tragedy 
Were  play'd  in  jest  by  counterfeiting  actors  ? 


i 


Here  on  my  knee  I  vow  to  God  above, 
I'll  never  pause  again,  never  stand  still. 
Till  either  death  hath  clos'd  these  eyes  of  mine. 
Or  fortune  given  me  measure  of  revenge. 

Edw.  O  Warwick,  I  do  bend  my  knee  with  thine  ; 
And,  in  this  vow,  do  chain  my  soul  to  thine ; 
And,  ere  my  knee  rise  from  the  earth's  cold  face, 
I  throw  my  hands,  mine  eyes,  my  heart  to  thee, 
Thou  setter  up  and  plucker  down  of  kings  ! 
Beseeching  thee,  —  if  with  thy  will  it  stands, 
That  to  my  foes  this  body  must  be  prey,  — 
Yet  tliat  thy  brazen  gates  of  heaven  may  ope, 
And  give  sweet  passage  to  my  sinful  soul  !  — 
Now,  lords,  take  leave  until  we  meet  again, 
Where'er  it  be,  in  heaven,  or  on  earth. 

B.ich.   Brother,  give  me  thy  hand ;  — and,  gentle 
Warwick, 
Let  me  embrace  thee  in  my  weary  arms  :  — 
I,  that  did  never  weep,  now  melt  with  woe, 
That  winter  should  cut  off*  our  spring-time  so. 

War.  Away,  away  !   Once  more,  sweet  lords,  fare- 
well. 

Geo.   Yet  let  us  all  together  to  our  troops. 
And  give  them  leave  to  fly  that  will  not  stay ; 
And  call  them  pillars,  that  will  stand  to  us ; 
And  if  we  thrive,  promise  them  such  rewards 
As  victors  wear  at  the  Olympian  games : 
This  may  plant  courage  in  their  quailing  breasts ; 
For  yet  is  hope  of  life,  and  victory.  — 
Fore-slow  3  no  longer,  make  we  hence  amain. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE   IV The  same.     Another  Part  of  the 

Field. 

Excursions.     Enter  Richard  and  Clifford. 

Rich.   Now,  Clifford,  I  have  singled  thee  alone  : 
Suppose,  this  arm  is  for  the  duke  of  York, 
And  this  for  Rutland ;  both  bound  to  revenge, 
Wert  thou  environ'd  with  a  brazen  wall. 

Clif.  Now,  Richard,  I  am  with  thee  here  alone  : 
This  is  the  hand,  that  stabb'd  thy  father  York  ; 
And  this  the  hand  that  slew  thy  brother  Rutland  ; 
And  here's  the  heart,  that  triumphs  in  their  death. 
And  cheers  these  hands,  that  slew  thy  sire  and  brother. 
To  execute  the  like  upon  thyself; 
And  so  have  at  thee. 

[They  fight.   Warwick  mters;   Clifford j??V5. 

Rich.  Nay,  Warwick,  single  out  some  other  chase ; 
For  I  myself  will  hunt  this  wolf  to  death.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum.     Enter  King  Henry. 
K.  Hen.  This  battle  fares  like  to  the  morning's  war» 
When  dying  clouds  contend  with  growing  light ;   ^H  i 
What  time  the  shepherd,  blowing  of  his  nails. 
Can  neither  call  it  perfect  day,  nor  night. 
Now  sways  it  this  way,  like  a  mighty  sea, 
Forc'd  by  the  tide  to  combat  with  the  wind  : 
Now  sways  it  that  way,  like  the  self-same  sea 
Forc'd  to  retire  by  fury  of  the  wind  : 
Sometime,  the  flood  prevails  ;  and  then,  the  wind  j 
Now,  one  the  better ;  then,  another  best ; 
Both  tugging  to  be  victors,  breast  to  breast, 
Yet  neither  conqueror,  nor  conquered  : 
So  is  the  equal  poise  of  this  fell  war. 
Here  on  this  molehill  will  I  sit  me  down. 
To  whom  God  will,  there  be  the  victory  ' 
3  Be  dilatory. 


i 


Scene  V. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


517 


For  Margaret,  my  queen,  and  Clifford  too. 

Have  chid  me  from  the  battle ;  swearing  both, 

They  prosper  best  of  all  when  I  am  thence. 

Would  I  were  dead  !  if  Gotl's  good  will  were  so : 

For  what  is  in  this  world,  but  grief  and  woe  ? 

Alas  !  methinks,  it  were  a  happy  life, 

To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain ; 

To  sit  upon  a  hill,  as  I  do  now, 

To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point, 

Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  they  run  : 

How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete, 

How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day 

How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year. 

How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 

When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times : 

So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock  ; 

So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest ; 

So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate  ; 

So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself; 

So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young ; 

So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean  ; 

So  many  years  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece  : 

So  minutes,  hours,  days,  weeks,  months,  and  years, 

Pass'd  over  to  the  end  they  were  created. 

Would  bring  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave. 

Ah,  what  a  life  were  this  !  how  sweet !  how  lovely  ! 

Gives  not  the  hawthorn  bush  a  sweeter  shade 

To  shepherds,  looking  on  their  silly  sheep, 

Than  doth  a  rich  embroider'd  canopy 

To  kings,  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery  ? 

O,  yes  it  doth  :   a  thousand  fold  it  doth. 

And  to  conclude,  — the  shepherd's  homely  curds, 

His  cold  thin  drink  out  of  his  leather  bottle, 

His  wonted  sleep  under  a  fresh  tree's  shade, 

All  which  secure  and  sweetly  he  enjoys, 

Is  far  beyond  a  prince's  delicates. 

His  viands  sparkling  in  a  golden  cup, 

His  body  couched  in  a  curious  bed. 

When  care,  mistrust,  and  treason,  wait  on  him. 

Alarum.     Enter  a   Son  that  has  killed  his  Father, 
draggitig  in  the  dead  Body. 

Son.   Ill  blows  the  wind,  that  profits  nobody.  — 
This  man,  whom  hand  to  hand  I  slew  in  fight, 
May  be  possessed  with  some  store  of  crowns  : 
And  I,  that  haply  take  them  from  him  now. 
May  yet  ere  night  yield  both  my  life  and  them 
To  some  man  else,  as  this  dead  man  doth  me.  — 
Who's  this  ?  —  O  Heaven  !  it  is  my  father's  face, 
Whom  in  this  conflict  I  unawares  have  kill'd. 
O  heavy  times,  begetting  such  events ! 
From  London  by  the  king  was  I  press'd  forth  ; 
My  fatlier,  being  tlie  earl  of  Warwick's  man. 
Came  on  the  part  of  York,  press'd  by  his  master ; 
And  I,  who  at  his  hands  receiv'd  my  life. 
Have  by  my  hands  of  life  bereaved  him.  — 
Pardon  me,  God,  I  knew  not  what  I  did !  — 
And  pardon,  father,  for  I  knew  not  thee  !  — 
My  tears  shall  wipe  away  these  bloody  marks ; 
And  no  more  words,  till  they  have  flow'd  their  fill. 

K.  Hen.   O  piteous  spectacle  !    O  bloody  times  ! 
Whilst  lions  war,  and  battle  for  tlieir  dens. 
Poor  harmless  lambs  abide  tlieir  enmity.  — 
Weep,  wretched  man,  I'll  aid  thee  tear  for  tear ; 
And  let  our  hearts  and  eyes,  like  civil  war, 
Be  blind  with  tears,  and  break  o'ercharg'd  with  grief. 

Enter  a  Father,  who  has  killed  his  Sony  with  the  Body 
in  his  arms. 
Path.   Thou  that  so  stoutly  hast  resisted  me, 
Give  me  tliy  gold,  if  thou  hast  any  gold  j 


For  I  have  bought  it  with  an  hundred  blows.  — 

But  let  me  see  :  —  is  tliis  our  foeman's  face  ? 

Ah,  no,  no,  no,  it  is  mine  only  son  !  — 

Ah,  boy,  if  any  life  be  left  in  thee, 

Throw  up  thine  eye  ;  see,  see,  what  showers  arise, 

Blown  with  the  windy  tempest  of  my  heart. 

Upon  thy  wounds,  that  kill  mine  eye  and  heart !  — 

O,  pity,  God,  this  miserable  age  !  — 

What  stratagems '',  how  fell,  how  butcherly. 

Erroneous,  mutinous,  and  unnatural. 

This  deadly  quarrel  daily  doth  beget !  — 

O  boy,  thy  father  gave  thee  life  too  soon. 

And  hath  bereft  thee  of  thy  life  too  late  ! 

JT.  Hen.  Woe  above  woe !  grief  more  than  common 
grief ! 
O,  that  my  death  would  stay  these  ruthful  deeds ! 
O,  pity,  pity,  gentle  heaven,  pity  !  — 
Tlie  red  rose  and  the  white  are  on  his  face. 
The  fatal  colours  of  our  striving  houses : 
The  one,  his  purple  blood  right  well  resembles ; 
The  other,  his  pale  cheeks,  methinks,  present : 
Wither  one  rose,  and  let  the  other  flourish  ! 
If  you  contend,  a  thousand  lives  must  wither. 

Son.   How  will  my  mother,  for  a  father's  death, 
Take  on  with  me,  and  ne'er  be  satisfied  ? 

Fath.  How  will  my  wife,  for  slaughter  of  my  son, 
Shed  seas  of  tears,  and  ne'er  be  satisfied  ? 

IT.  Hen.   How  will  the  country,  for  these  woful 
chances, 
Misthink  the  king,  and  not  be  satisfied  ? 

Son.   Was  ever  son,  so  ru'd  a  father's  death  ? 

Fath.   Was  ever  father,  so  bemoan' d  a  son  ? 

IT.  Hen.  Was  ever  king,  so griev'd  for  subjects' woe? 
Much  is  your  sorrow ;  mine,  ten  times  so  much. 

Son.   I'll  beai-  thee  hence,  where  1  may  weep  my 
fill.  [Exit,  with  the  Body. 

Fath.   These  arms  of  mine  snail  be  thy  winding- 
sheet; 
My  heart,  sweet  boy,  shall  be  thy  sepulchre ; 
For  from  my  heart  thine  image  ne'er  shall  go. 
My  sighing  breast  shall  be  thy  funeral  bell ; 
And  so  obsequious  ^  will  thy  father  be. 
Sad  for  the  loss  of  thee,  having  no  more, 
As  Priam  was  for  all  his  valiant  sons. 
I'll  bear  thee  hence  ;  and  let  them  fight  tliat  will, 
For  I  have  murder'd  where  I  should  not  kill. 

\^Exit,  with  the  Body. 

K.  Hen.   Sad-hearted  men,  much  overgone  with 
care. 
Here  sits  a  king  more  woful  than  you  are. 

Alarums:   Excursions.      Enter  Queen  Margaret, 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  Exeter. 

Prince.  Fly,  father,  fly !  for  all  your  friends  are  fled, 
And  Warwick  rages  like  a  chafed  bull  : 
Away  !  for  death  doth  hold  us  in  pursuit. 

Q.  Mar.    Mount  you,  my  lord,  towards  Berwi  k 
post  amain  : 
Edward  and  Richard,  like  a  brace  of  greyhounds 
Having  the  fearful  flying  hare  in  sight, 
With  fiery  eyes,  sparkling  for  very  wrath, 
And  bloody  steel  grasp'd  in  their  ireful  hands. 
Are  at  our  backs;  and  therefore  hence  amain. 

Exe.  Away  !  for  vengeance  comes  along  with  them : 
Nay,  stay  not  to  expostulate,  make  speed ; 
Or  else  come  after,  I'll  away  before. 

K.  Hen.    Nay,   toke  me  with   thee,  good    sweet 
Exeter ; 

*  I.  e.  Dreadful  event«. 

*  Careful  of  obsc<|iiies,  or  funeral  ritei. 

LI  3 


518 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  II. 


Not  that  I  fear  to  stay,  but  love  to  go 
Whither  the  queen  intends.      Forward ;  away  ! 

[^JExeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  The  same. 
A  loud  Alarum.     Enter  Clifford,  wounded. 
Clif.   Here  bums  my  candle  out,  ay,  here  it  dies, 
"Which,  while  it  lasted,  gave  king  Henry  light. 

0,  Lancaster  !   I  fear  thy  overthrow, 
More  than  my  body's  parting  with  my  soul. 
My  love,  and  fear,  glu'd  many  friends  to  thee ; 
And  now  I  fall,  thy  tough  commixtures  melt. 
Impairing  Henry,  strength'ning  mis-proud  York, 
The  common  people  swarm  like  summer  flies  : 
And  whither  fly  the  gnats,  but  to  the  sun? 

And  who  shines  now  but  Henry's  enemies  ? 

0  Phoebus !  hadst  thou  never  given  consent 
That  Phaeton  should  check  thy  fiery  steeds, 
Thy  burning  car  never  had  scorch'd  the  earth  : 
And,  Henry,  hadst  thou  sway'd  as  kings  should  do, 
Or  as  thy  father,  and  his  father  did. 

Giving  no  ground  unto  the  house  of  York, 
They  never  then  had  sprung  like  summer  flies  ; 

1,  and  ten  thousand  in  this  luckless  realm. 
Had  left  no  mourning  widows  for  our  death. 
And  thou  this  day  hadst  kept  thy  chair  in  peace. 
For  what  doth  cherish  weeds  but  gentle  air  ? 

And  what  makes  robbers  bold,  but  too  much  lenity  ? 
Bootless  are  plaints,  and  cureless  are  my  wounds  ; 
No  way  to  fly,  nor  strength  to  hold  out  flight : 
The  foe  is  merciless,  and  will  not  pity  ; 
For,  at  their  hands,  I  have  deserv'd  no  pity. 
The  air  hath  got  into  my  deadly  wounds, 
And  much  effuse  of  blood  doth  make  me  faint :  — 
Come,  York,  and  Richard,  Warwick,  and  the  rest  j 

1  stabb'd  your  fathers'  bosoms,  split  my  breast, 

{He  faints. 

Alarum  and  Retreat.       Enter  Edward,  George, 

Richard,  Montague,  Wx\rwick,  and  Soldiers. 

Edw.  Now  breathe  we,  lords  ;  good  fortune  bids 
us  pause. 

And  smooth  the  frowns  of  war  with  peaceful  looks 

Some  troops  pursue  the  bloody-minded  queen  ;  — 
That  led  calm  Henry,  though  he  were  a  king, 
As  doth  a  sail,  fill'd  with  a  fretting  gust, 
Command  an  argosy  to  stem  the  waves. 
But  think  you,  lords,  that  Clifford  fled  with  them  ? 

War.   No,  'tis  impossible  he  should  escape : 
For,  though  before  his  face  I  speak  the  words, 
Your  brother  Richard  mark'd  him  for  the  grave  : 
And,  wheresoe'er  he  is,  he's  surely  dead. 

[Clifford  groans  and  dies. 

Edw.   Whose  soul  is  that  which  takes  her  heavy 
leave  ? 

l^ich.   A  deadly  groan,  like  life  and  death's  de^ 
parting. 

Edw.  See  who  it  is;  and,  now  the  battle's  ended. 
If  friend,  or  foe,  let  him  be  gently  us'd. 

Rich.  Revoke  that  doom  of  mercy,  for 'tis  Clifford; 
Who  not  contented  that  he  lopp'd  the  branch 
In  hewing  Rutland  when  his  leaves  put  forth. 
But  set  his  murdering  knife  unto  the  root 
From  whence  that  tender  spray  did  sweetly  spring, 
I  mean  our  princely  father,  duke  of  York. 

War.   From  off"  the  gates  of  York  fetch  down  the 
head. 


Your  father's  head,  which  Clifford  placed  there '. 
Instead  whereof,  let  this  supply  the  room ; 
Measure  for  measure  must  be  answered. 

Edw.   Bring  forth  that  fatal  screech-owl  to  our 
house, 
That  nothing  sung  but  death  to  us  and  ours : 
Now  death  shall  stop  his  dismal  threatening  sound. 
And  his  ill-boding  tongue  no  more  shall  speak. 

[Attendants  bring  the  Body  forward. 

War.   I  think  his  understanding  is  bereft :  — 
Speak,  Clifford, dost  thou  know  whospeaksto thee? — 
I)ark  cloudy  death  o'ershades  his  beams  of  life. 
And  he  nor  sees,  nor  hears  us  what  we  say. 

Rich.  O,  'would  he  did !  and  so,  perhaps,  he  doth ; 
'  Tis  but  his  policy  to  counterfeit. 
Because  he  would  avoid  such  bitter  taunts, 
Which  in  the  time  of  death  he  gave  our  father. 

Geo.   If  so  thou   think'st,  vex  him  with  eager 
words.  6 

Rich.    Clifford,  ask  mercy,  and  obtain  no  grace. 

Edw.   Clifford,  repent  in  bootless  penitence. 

War.    Clifford,  devise  excuses  for  thy  faults. 

Geo.   While  we  devise  fell  tortures  for  thy  faults. 

Rich.  Thou  didst  love  York,  and  I  am  son  to  York. 

Edw.   Thou  pitied'st  Rutland,  I  will  pity  thee. 

Geo.  Where's  captain  Margaret,  to  fence  you  now? 

War.   They  mock  thee,  Clifford !  swear  as  thou 
wast  wont. 

Rich.   What,  not  an   oath  ?    nay  then  the  world 
goes  hard. 
When  Clifford  cannot  spare  his  friends  an  oath  :  — 
I  know  by  that,  he's  dead ;   And,  by  my  soul. 
If  this  right  hand  would  buy  two  hours'  life. 
That  I  in  all  despite  might  rail  at  him. 
This  hand  should  chop  it  off";  and  with  the  issuing 

blood 
Stifle  the  villain,  whose  unstaunched  thirst 
York  and  young  Rutland  could  not  satisfy. 

War.  Ay,  but  he's  dead :  Off"  with  the  traitor's  head. 
And  rear  it  in  the  place  your  father's  stands.  — 
And  now  to  London  with  triumphant  march, 
There  to  be  crowned  England's  royal  king ; 
From  whence  shall  Warwick  cut  the  sea  to  France, 
And  ask  the  lady  Bona  for  thy  queen  : 
So  shalt  thou  sinew  both  these  lands  together ; 
And,  having  France  thy  friend,  thou  shalt  not  dread 
The  scatter'd  foe,  that  hopes  to  rise  again ; 
For  though  they  cannot  greatly  sting  to  hurt. 
Yet  look  to  have  them  buz,  to  offend  thine  ears. 
First,  will  I  see  the  coronation  ; 
And  then  to  Britany  I'll  cross  the  sea. 
To  effect  this  marriage,  so  it  please  my  lord. 

Edw.  Even  as  thou  wilt,  sweet  Warwick,  let  it  be : 
For  on  thy  shoulder  do  I  build  my  seat ; 
And  never  will  I  undertake  the  thing. 
Wherein  thy  counsel  and  consent  is  wanting.  — 
Richard,  I  will  create  thee  duke  of  Gloster  ;  — 
And  George,  of  Clarence  —  Warwick,  as  ourself, 
Shall  do,  and  undo,  as  him  pleaseth  best. 

Rich.   Let  me  be  duke  of  Clarence ;   George 
Gloster ; 
For  Gloster's  dukedom  is  too  ominous. 

War.    Tut,  that's  a  foolish  observation  ; 
Richard  be  duke  of  Gloster  :   Now  to  London, 
To  see  these  honours  in  possession.  '[ExeunU 

*"  gour  words:  words  of  fisperity. 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


519 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  — A  Chase  in  the  North  o/"  England. 
Enter  two  Keepers,  wUh  Cross-bows  in  their  Hands. 

1  A'eep.    Under   this   thick-grown    brake  we'll 

shroud  ourselves ; 
For  through  this  laund  7  anon  the  deer  will  come ; 
And  in  this  covert  will  we  make  our  stand, 
Culling  the  principal  of  all  the  deer. 

2  Ayep.  I'll  stay  above  the  hill,  so  both  may  shoot. 

1  A'eep.   That  cannot  be ;  the  noise  of  thy  cross- 

bow 
Will  scare  the  herd,  and  so  my  shoot  is  lost. 
Here  stand  we  both,  and  aim  we  at  the  best : 
And,  for  the  time  shall  not  seem  tedious, 
I'll  tell  thee  what  befell  me  on  a  day. 
In  this  self-place  where  now  we  mean  to  stand. 

2  JTeep.   Here  comes  a  man,  let's  stay  till  he  be 

past. 

Enter  Kino  Henry,  disguised,  with  a  Prayer-book. 
A".  Hen.  From  Scotland  am  I  stol'n,  even  of  pure 
love. 
To  greet  mine  own  land  with  my  wishful  sight. 
No  Harry,  Harry,  'tis  no  land  of  thine ; 
Thy  place  is  fill'd,  thy  scepter  wrung  from  thee. 
Thy  balm  wash'd  off",  wherewith  thou  wast  anointed  : 
No  bending  knee  will  call  thee  Casar  now. 
No  humble  suitors  press  to  speak  for  right. 
No,  not  a  man  comes  for  redress  of  thee. 
For  how  can  I  help  tliem,  and  not  myself? 

1  Keep.  Ay,  here's  a  deer  whose  skin's  a  keeper's 

lee : 
This  is  the  quondam  king  ;  let's  seize  upon  him. 

A".  Hen.   Let  me  embrace  these  sour  adversities  : 
For  wise  men  say,  it  is  the  wisest  course. 

2  A'eep.  Why  linger  we  ?  let  us  lay  hands  upon  him. 
1  Keep.  Forbear  a  while  :  we'll  hear  a  little  more. 
K.  Hen.   My  queen  and  son,  are  gone  to  France 

for  aid ; 
And,  as  I  hear,  the  great  commanding  Warwick 
Is  thither  gone,  to  crave  the  French  king's  sister 
To  wife  for  Edward  :    If  this  news  be  true. 
Poor  queen,  and  son,  your  labour  is  but  lost ; 
For  Warwick  is  a  subtle  orator. 
And  Lewis  a  prince  soon  won  with  moving  words 
By  this  account,  then,  Margaret  may  win  him  ; 
For  she's  a  woman  to  be  pitied  much  : 
Her  sighs  will  make  a  battery  in  his  breast ; 
Her  tears  will  pierce  into  a  marble  heart ; 
The  tiger  will  be  mild,  while  she  doth  mourn  ; 
And  Nero  will  be  tainted  with  remorse, 
To  hear,  and  see,  her  plaints,  her  brinish  tears. 
Ay,  but  she's  come  to  beg ;   Warwick,  to  give  : 
She,  on  his  left  side,  craving  aid  for  Henry  ; 
lie,  on  his  right,  asking  a  wife  for  Edward. 
She  weeps,  and  says  —  her  Henry  is  depos'd  ; 
He  smiles,  and  says  — his  Edward  is  install'd  ; 
Tliat  she,  poor  wretch,  for  grief  can  speak  no  more  : 
VMuIes  Warwick  tells  his  titles,  smooths  Uie  wrong, 
Infcrreth  arguments  of  mighty  strength  ; 
And,  in  conclusion,  wins  the  king  from  her, 
Witli  promise  of  his  sister,  and  what  else. 
To  strengthen  and  support  king  Edward's  place. 
O  Margaret,  thus  'twill  be  ;  and  thou,  poor  soul. 
Art  then  forsaken  as  tJiou  wenl'st  forlorn. 

7  A  plain  extended  tx^twccn  wooda. 


?  Keep.    Say,  what  art  thou,  that  talk'st  of  kings 

and  queens  ? 
K.  Hen.   More  than  I  seem,  and  less  tlian  I  was 
born  to : 
A  man  at  least,  for  less  I  should  not  be ; 
And  men  may  talk  of  kings,  and  why  not  I  ? 
2  Keep.  Ay,  but  thou  talk'st  as  if  thou  wert  a  king. 
K.  Hen.   Why,  so  I   am,   in  mind;    and  that's 

enough. 
2  Keep.  But,  if  thou  be  a  king,  where  is  thy  crown  ? 
K.  Hen.  My  crown  is  in  my  heart,  not  on  my  head ; 
Not  deck'd  with  diamonds,  and  Indian  stones. 
Nor  to  be  seen  :   my  crown  is  call'd,  content : 
A  crown  it  is,  that  seldom  kmgs  enjoy. 

2  Keep.    Well,  if  you  be  a  king  crown'd  with 
content. 
Your  crown  content,  arid  you,  must  be  contented 
To  go  along  with  us :   for,  as  we  think. 
You  are  the  king,  king  Edward  hath  depos'd  ; 
And  we  his  subjects,  sworn  in  all  allegiance. 
Will  apprehend  you  as  his  enemy. 

K.  Hen.  But  did  you  never  swear,  and  break  an 

oath? 
2  Keep.  No,  never  such  an  oath,  nor  will  not  now. 
K.  Hen.   Where  did  you  dwell,  when  I  was  king 

of  England  ? 
2  Keep.     Here  in  this  country,  where  we  now 

remain. 
K.  Hen.  I  was  anointed  king  at  nine  months  old ; 
My  father  and  my  grandfather,  were  kings ; 
And  you  were  sworn  true  subjects  unto  me : 
And,  tell  me  then,  have  you  not  broke  your  oaths? 

1  Keep.   No ; 
For  we  were  subjects  but  while  you  were  king. 
K.  Hen.   Why,  am  I  dead  ?    do  I  not  breathe  a 
man? 
Ah,  simple  men,  you  know  not  what  you  swear. 
Look,  as  I  blow  tliis  feather  from  my  face. 
And  as  the  air  blows  it  to  me  again. 
Obeying  with  my  wind  when  I  do  blow, 
And  yielding  to  another  when  it  blows. 
Commanded  always  by  the  greater  gust ; 
Such  is  the  lightness  of  you  common  men. 
But  do  not  break  your  oaths ;  for,  of  that  sin 
My  mild  entreaty  shall  not  make  you  guilty. 
Go  where  you  will,  the  king  shall  be  commanded; 
And  be  you  kings  ;  command  and  I'll  obey. 

1  Keeju   We  are  true  subjects  to  the  king,  king 

Edward. 
K.  Hen,    So  would  you  be  again  to  Henry, 
If  he  were  seated  as  king  Edward  is. 

1  Kee}}.   We  charge  you  in  God's  name,  and  in 
the  king's. 
To  go  with  us  unto  the  officers. 

A'.  Hen.    In  God's  name  lead  ;  your  king's  name 
be  obey'd  : 
And  what  God  will,  then  let  your  king  perform  ; 
And  what  he  will,  I  humbly  yield  unto,     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter   Kino   Edward,  Gloster,  Clarence,  and 
Lady  Grey. 

A'.Edw.  Brother  of  Gloster,  at  Saint  Albans' field 
This  lady's  husband,  sir  John  Grev,  was  slain, 
L  1    1 


520 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


His  lands  then  seiz'd  on  by  the  conqueror : 
Her  suit  is  now,  to  repossess  those  lands  j 
Which  we  in  justice  cannot  well  deny, 
Because  in  quarrel  of  the  house  of  York 
The  worthy  gentleman  did  lose  his  life. 

Glo.  Your  liighness  shall  do  well  to  grant  her  suit ; 
It  were  dishonour,  to  deny  it  her. 

K.  Ediv.  It  were  no  less;  but  yet  I'll  make  a  pause. 
Glo.   Yea  !  is  it  so  ? 
I  see,  the  lady  hath  a  thing  to  grant, 
Before  the  king  will  grant  her  humble  suit. 

Cla.   He  knows  the  game ;   How  true  he  keeps 
the  wind  ?  \_Aside. 

Glo.   Silence  !  \_Aside. 

K.  JSdw.   Widow,  we  will  consider  of  your  suit ; 
And  come  some  other  time,  to  know  our  mind. 
L.  Grey.   Right  gracious  lord,    I  cannot  brook 
delay : 
May  it  please  your  highness  to  resolve  me  now ; 
And  what  your  pleasure  is,  shall  satisfy  me. 

Glo.    [Jside.]  Ay,  widow?  then  I'll  warrant  you 
all  your  lands. 
An  if  what  pleases  him,  shall  pleasure  you. 

IT.  Ediv.    How  many  children  hast  thou,  widow  ? 

tell  me. 
L.  Grey.   Three,  my  most  gracious  lord. 
K.  Edw.  'Twere  pity  they  should  lose  their  father's 

land. 
L.  Grey.  Be  pitiful,  dread  lord,  and  grant  it  then. 
K.  Edw.    Lords,    give    us  leave ;    I'll    try   this 

widow's  wit. 
Glo.  Ay,  good  leave  have  you  ;  for  you  will  have 
leave, 
Till  youth  take  leave,  and  leave  you  to  the  crutch. 
[Gloster  and  Clarence  retire  to  the 
other  side. 
K.  Edw.   Now  tell  me,  madam,  do  you  love  your 

children  ? 
L.  Grey.   Ay,  full  as  dearly  as  I  love  myself. 
JT.  Edw.  And  would  you  not  do  much  to  do  them 

good? 
L.  Grey.  To  do  them  good,  I  would  sustain  some 

harm. 
JT.  Edw.   Then  get  your  husband's  lands,  to  do 

them  good. 
i.  Grey.   Therefore  I  came  unto  your  majesty. 
JT-  Edw.  I'll  tell  you  how  these  lands  are  to  be  got. 
L.  Grey.   So  shall  you  bind  me  to  your  highness' 

service. 
A".  Edw.    What  service  wilt  thou  do  me,  if  I  give 

them? 
L.  Grey.   What  you  command,  that  rests  in  me 

to  do. 
IT.  Edw.  But  you  will  take  exceptions  to  my  boon. 
L.  Grey.  No,  gracious  lord,  except  I  cannot  do  it. 
JT.  Edw.   Ay,  but  thou  canst  do  what  I  mean 

to  ask. 
L.  Grey.   Why,  then  I  will  do  what  your  grace 

commands. 

Glo.    He  plies  her  hard ;  and  much  rain  wears 

the  marble.  [Aside. 

Clar.   As  red  as  fire  !  nay,    then  her  wax  must 

melt.  [Aside. 

L.  Grey.   Why  stops  my  lord?  shall  I  not  hear 

my  task  ? 
JT.  Edw.   An  easy  task  :   'tis  but  to  love  a  king. 
E.  Grey.   That's  soon  perform'd,  because  I  am  a 

subject. 
JT.  Edw-   Why  then,  thy  husband's  lands  I  freely 
give  thee. 


L.  Grey.   I  take  my  leave  with  many  thousand 

thanks. 
Glo.  Thematchismade;  she  seals  it  with  a  curt'sy. 
JC.  Edw.   But  stay  thee,  'tis  the  fruits  of  love  I 

mean. 
L.  Grey.  The  fruits  of  love  I  mean,  my  loving  liege. 
A".  Edw.    Ay,  but,  I  fear  me,  in  another  sense. 
What  love,  think'st  thou,  I  sue  so  much  to  get  ? 
L.  Grey.   My  love  till  death,  my  humble  thanks, 
my  prayers ; 
That  love,  which  virtue  begs,  and  virtue  grants. 
JC.  Edw.   No,  by  my  troth,  I  did  not  mean  such 

love. 
L.  Grey.  Why  then  you  mean  not  as  I  thought 

you  did. 
A'.  Edw.   But  now  you  partly  may  perceive  my 

mind. 
L.  Grey.  Mymind  will  never  grant  what  I  perceive 
Your  highness  aims  at,  if  I  aim  aright. 

A".  Edw.   Why,  then    thou    shalt   not    have  thy 

husband's  lands. 
L.  Grey.   Why,  then  mine  honesty  shall  be  my 
dower ; 
For  by  that  loss  I  will  not  purchase  them. 

K.  Edw.    Therein   thou    wrong'st    thy    children 

mightily. 
L.  Grey.  Herein  your  highness  wrongs  both  them 
and  me. 
But,  mighty  lord,  this  merry  inclination 
Accords  not  with  the  sadness  of  my  suit; 
Please  you,  dismiss  me,  either  with  ay,  or  no. 

JC.  Ediv.  Ay;  if  thou  wilt  say  ay,  to  my  request: 
No  ;  if  thou  dost  say  no,  to  my  demand. 

L.  Grey.  Then,  no,  my  lord.   My  suit  is  at  an  end. 
Glo.   The  widow  likes  him  not ;    she  knits  her 
brows.  [Aside. 

Clar.   He  is  the  bluntest  wooer  in  Christendom. 

[Aside. 
K.  Edw.  [Aside.]  Her  looks  do  argue  her  replete 
with  modesty ; 
Her  words  do  show  her  wit  imcomparable  ; 
All  her  perfections  challenge  sovereignty  : 
One  way,  or  other,  she  is  for  a  king ; 
And  she  shall  be  my  love,  or  else  my  queen.  — 
Say,  that  king  Edward  take  thee  for  his  queen  ? 
L.  Grey.   'Tis  better  said  than  done,  my  gracious 
lord: 
I  am  a  subject  fit  to  jest  withal. 
But  far  unfit  to  be  a  sovereign. 
II.  Edw.   Sweet  widow,  by  my  state  I  swear  to 
thee, 
I  speak  no  more  than  what  my  soul  intends  ; 
And  that  is  to  enjoy  thee  for  my  love. 

L.  Grey.  And  that  is  more  than  I  will  yield  unto. 
I  know,  I  am  too  mean  to  be  your  queen  ; 
And  yet  too  good  to  be  your  concubine. 

A'.  Edw.  You  cavil,  widow;  I  did  mean  my  queen. 
L.  Grey.   'Twill    grieve   your    grace,    my    sons 

should  call  you  —  father. 
JC.  Edw.   No  more,  than  when  thy  daughters  call 
thee  mother. 
Answer  no  more,  for  thou  shalt  be  my  queen.  — 
Brothers,  you  muse  what  chat  we  two  have  had. 
Glo.   The  widow  likes  it  not,  for  she  looks  sad. 
A".  Edw.  You'd  think  it  strange  if  I  should  marry 

her. 
Clar.   To  whom,  my  lord  ?    * 
IT.  Edw.  Why,  Clarence,  to  myself. 

Glo.   That  would  be  ten  days'  wonder,  at  the  least. ' 
Clar.    That's  a  day  longer  than  a  wonder  lasts. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


521 


Glo.   By  so  much  is  the  wonder  in  extremes. 
iT.  Edw.   Well,  jest  on,  brothers,  I  can  tell  you 
botli, 
Her  suit  is  granted  for  her  husband's  lands. 

Enter  a  Nobleman. 

A^ob.   My  gracious  lord,  Henry  your  foe  is  taken, 
And  brought  your  prisoner  to  your  palace  gate. 

JT.  Edw.    See  that    he    be   convey 'd    unto   the 
Tower.  — 
And  go  we,  brothers,  to  the  man  that  took  him, 
To  question  of  his  apprehension.  — 
Widow,  go  you  along  ;  lords,  use  her  honourable. 
[Exeunt  King  Edward,  Lady  Grey, 
Clarence,  and  Lord. 

Glo.   Ay,  Edward  will  use  women  honourably. 
'Would  he  were  wasted,  maiTOw,  bones,  and  all. 
That  from  his  loins  no  hopeful  branch  may  spring. 
To  cross  me  from  the  golden  time  I  look  for ! 
And  yet,  between  my  soul's  desire  and  me, 
(The  lustful  Edward's  title  buried,) 
Is  Clarence,  Henry,  and  his  son  young  Edward, 
And  all  the  unlook'd-for  issue  of  their  bodies, 
To  take  their  rooms,  ere  I  can  place  myself : 
A  cold  premeditation  for  my  purpose  ! 
Why,  then  I  do  but  dream  on  sovereignty  ; 
Like  one  that  stands  upon  a  promontory. 
And  spies  a  far-offshore  where  he  would  tread, 
Wishing  his  foot  were  equal  with  his  eye  ; 
And  cliides  the  sea  that  sunders  him  from  thence. 
Saying  —  he'll  lade  it  dry  to  have  his  way : 
So  do  I  wish  the  crown,  being  so  far  off ; 
And  so  I  chide  the  means  that  keep  me  from  it  j 
And  so  I  say  —  I'll  cut  the  causes  off, 
Flattering  me  with  imjjossibilities.  — 
My  eye's  too  quick,  my  heart  o'erweens  too  much. 
Unless  my  hand  and  strength  could  equal  them. 
AVell,  say  there  is  no  kingdom  then  for  Richard ; 
What  other  pleasure  can  the  world  afford  ? 
I'll  deck  my  body  in  gay  ornaments. 
And  witch  sweet  ladies  with  my  words  and  looks. 
O  miserable  thought !  and  more  unlikely, 
Tlian  to  accomplish  twenty  golden  crowns  ! 
Wliy,  love  foreswore  me  in  my  mother's  womb  : 
And  for  I  should  not  deal  in  her  soft  laws 
She  did  corrupt  frail  nature  with  some  bribe 
To  shrink  mine  arm  up  like  a  wither'd  shrub  j 
To  make  an  envious  mountain  on  my  back ; 
Where  sits  deformity  to  mock  my  body ; 
I'o  shape  my  legs  of  an  unequal  size  ; 
To  disproportion  me  in  every  part. 
Like  to  a  chaos,  or  an  unlick'd  bear-whelp, 
That  carries  no  impression  like  the  dam. 
And  am  I  then  a  man  to  be  belov'd  ? 
O,  monstrous  fault,  to  harbour  such  a  thought ! 
Then,  since  tliis  earth  affords  no  joy  to  me. 
But  to  command,  to  check,  to  o'erbear  such 
As  are  of  better  person  than  myself, 
I'll  make  my  heaven  —  to  dream  upon  the  crown  ; 
And,  whiles  I  live,  to  account  tliis  world  but  hell, 
Until  my  mis-shap'd  trunk,  that  bears  this  head. 
Be  round  impaled^  with  a  glorious  crown. 
And  yet  I  know  not  how  to  get  the  crown, 
For  many  lives  stand  Ijetween  me  and  home  : 
And  I,  —  like  one  lost  in  a  thorny  wood. 
That  rents  the  thorns,  and  is  rent  with  the  thorns  ; 
Seeking  a  way,  and  straying  from  the  way  ; 
Not  knowing  how  to  find  tlie  ojK'n  air, 
But  toiling  desperately  to  find  it  out,  — 
8  Encircled. 


Torment  myself  to  catch  the  English  crown  : 

And  from  that  torment  I  will  free  myself. 

Or  hew  my  way  out  with  a  bloody  axe. 

Why,  I  can  smile,  and  murder  while  I  smile ; 

And  cry,  content,  to  that  which  grieves  my  heart 

And  wet  my  cheeks  with  artificial  tears, 

And  frame  my  face  to  all  occasions. 

I'll  drown  more  sailors  than  the  mermaid  shall ; 

I'll  slay  more  gazers  than  the  basilisk  ; 

I'll  play  the  orator  as  well  as  Nestor, 

Deceive  more  slily  than  Ulysses  could. 

And,  like  a  Sinon,  take  another  Troy. 

I  can  add  colours  to  the  cameleon  ; 

Change  shapes,  with  Proteus,  for  advantages, 

And  set  the  murd'rous  Machiavel  to  school. 

Can  I  do  this,  and  cannot  get  a  crown  ? 

Tut !  were  it  further  off,  I'd  pluck  it  down.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  —  France.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish.  Enter  Lewis  the  French  JTing,  and  Lady 
Bona,  attended  ;  the  King  takes  his  state.  Then 
enter  Queen  Margaret,  Prince  Edward  her 
Son,  and  the  Earl  of  Oxford. 

IT.  Lew.   Fair  queen  of  England,  worthy  Mar- 
garet, 
Sit  down  with  us ;  it  ill  befits  thy  state. 
And  birth,  that  thou  shouldst  stand,  while  Lewis 
doth  sit. 
Q.  Mar.  No,  mighty  king  of  France ;  now  Mar- 
garet 
Must  strike  her  sail,  and  learn  a  while  to  serve, 
Where  kings  command.     I  was,  I  must  confess, 
Great  Albion's  queen  in  former  golden  days : 
But  now  mischance  hath  trod  my  title  down. 
And  with  dishonour  laid  me  on  the  ground. 
Where  I  must  take  like  seat  unto  my  fortune. 
And  to  my  humble  seat  conform  myself. 

JT.  Lew.   Why,  say,  fair  queen,  whence  springs 

this  deep  despair  ? 
Q.  Mar.   From  such   a  cause  as  fills  mine  eyes 
with  tears. 
And  stops  my  tongue,  while  heart  is  drown'd  in 
cares. 
K.  Lew.   Whate'er  it  be,  be  thou  still  like  thyself. 
And  sit  thee  by  our  side :  yield  not  thy  neck 

[Seats  her  by  him. 
To  fortune's  yoke,  but  let  thy  dauntless  mind 
Still  ride  in  triumph  over  all  mischance. 
Be  plain,  queen  Margaret,  and  tell  thy  grief; 
It  shall  be  eas'd,  if  France  can  yield  relief. 

Q.  Mar.   Those  gracious  words  revive  my  droop- 
ing thoughts. 
And  give  my  tongue-tied  sorrows  leave  to  speak. 
Now,  therefore,  be  it  known  to  noble  Lewis,  — 
That  Henry,  sole  possessor  of  my  love. 
Is,  of  a  king,  become  a  banish'd  man. 
And  forc'd  to  live  in  Scotland  a  forlorn  ; 
While  proud  ambitious  Edward  duke  of  York, 
Usurj)s  the  regal  title,  and  tlie  seat 
Of  England's  true-anointed  lawful  king. 
This  is  the  cause,  that  I,  poor  Margaret,  — 
With    this    my    son,    pnnce    Edward,    Henry's 

heir,  — 
Am  come  to  crave  thy  just  and  lawful  aid  ; 
And,  if  thou  fail  us,  all  our  hope  is  done  : 
Scotland  hath  will  to  help,  but  cannot  help  ; 
Our  i>cople  and  our  peers  are  both  misled 
Our  treasure  seiz'd,  our  soldiers  put  to  flight, 
And,  as  thou  sccst,  ourselves  in  heavy  plight. 


522 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  III. 


K.  Lew.   Renowned  queen,  with  patience  calm 
the  storm, 
While  we  bethink  a  means  to  break  it  off. 

Q.  Mar.   The  more  we  stay,  the  stronger  grows 

our  foe. 
K.  Lew.  The  more  I  stay,  the  more  I'll  succour  thee. 
Q.  Mar.  O,  but  impatience  waiteth  on  true  sorrow : 
And  see,  where  comes  tlie  breeder  of  my  sorrow. 

Enter  Warwick,  attended. 

K.  Lew.  What's  he,  approacheth  boldly  to  our 
presence  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Our  earl  of  Warwick,  Edward's  greatest 
friend. 

K.  Lew.  Welcome,  brave  Warwick  !  What  brings 
thee  to  France  ? 
[^Descending from  his  state.     Queen  Margaret 
rises. 

Q.  Mar.    Ay,  now  begins  a  second  storm  to  rise ; 
For  this  is  he,  that  moves  both  wind  and  tide. 

War.   From  worthy  Edward,  king  of  Albion, 
My  lord  and  sovereign,  and  thy  vowed  friend, 
I  come,  —  in  kindness,  and  unfeigned  love,  — 
First,  to  do  greetings  to  thy  royal  person  ; 
And,  then,  to  crave  a  league  of  amity  ; 
And,  lastly,  to  confirm  that  amity 
With  nuptial  knot,  if  thou  vouchsafe  to  grant 
That  virtuous  lady  Bona,  thy  fair  sister. 
To  England's  king  in  lawful  marriage. 

Q.  Mar.  If  that  go  forward,  Henry's  hope  is  done. 

War.   And,  gracious  madam,  [To  Bona.]  in  our 
king's  behalf, 
I  am  commanded,  with  your  leave  and  favour. 
Humbly  to  kiss  your  hand,  and  with  my  tongue 
To  tell  the  passion  of  my  sovereign's  heart : 
Where  fame,  late  entering  at  his  heedful  ears. 
Hath  plac'd  thy  beauty's  image,  and  thy  virtue. 

Q.  Mar.   King  Lewis,  —  and  lady  Bona,  —  hear 
me  speak. 
Before  you  answer  Warwick.      His  demand 
Springs  not  from  Edward's  well-meant  honest  love. 
But  from  deceit,  bred  by  necessity ; 
For  how  can  tyrants  safely  govern  home. 
Unless  abroad  they  purchase  great  alliance  ? 
To  prove  him  tyrant,  this  reason  may  suffice,  — 
That  Henry  liveth  still :  but  were  he  dead. 
Yet  here  prince  Edward  stands,  king  Henry's  son. 
Look  therefore,  Lewis,  that  by  this  league  and  mar- 
riage 
Thou  draw  not  on  thy  danger  and  dishonour  : 
For  though  usurpers  sway  the  rule  awhile, 
Yet  heavens  are  just,  and  time  suppresseth  wrongs. 

War.   Injurious  Margaret. 

Prince.  And  why  not  queen  ? 

War.   Because  thy  father  Henry  did  usurp  ; 
And  thou  no  more  art  prince,  than  she  is  queen. 

Oxf.  Then  Warwick  disannuls  great  John  of  Gaunt, 
Which  did  subdue  the  greatest  part  of  Spain ; 
And  after  John  of  Gaunt,  Henry  the  Fourth, 
Wliose  wisdom  was  a  mirror  to  the  wisest ; 
And,  after  that  wise  prince,  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Who  by  his  prowess  conquered  all  France : 
From  these  our  Henry  lineally  descends. 

War.  Oxford,  how  haps  it,  in  this  smooth  discourse, 
You  told  not,  how  Henry  the  Sixth  hath  lost 
All  that  which  Henry  the  Fifth  had  gotten  ? 
Methinks,  these  peers  of  France  should  smile  at  that. 
But  for  the  rest,  —  You  tell  a  pedigree 
Of  threescore  and  two  years ;  a  silly  time 
To  make  prescription  for  a  kingdom's  worth. 


Oxf.  Why,  Warwick,  canst  thou  speak  against  tliy 
liege, 
Whom  thou  obeyedst  thirty  and  six  years. 
And  not  bewray  thy  treason  with  a  blush  ? 

War.    Can  Oxford,  that  did  ever  fence  the  right, 
Now  buckler  falsehood  with  a  pedigree  ? 
For  shame,  leave  Henry,  and  call  Edward  king. 

Oxf.  Call  him  my  king,  by  whose  injurious  doom 
My  elder  brother,  the  lord  Aubrey  Vere, 
Was  done  to  death  ?  and  more  than  so  my  father. 
Even  in  the  downfall  of  his  mellow'd  years, 
When  nature  brought  him  to  the  door  of  death  ? 
No,  Warwick,  no ;  while  life  upholds  this  arm, 
This  arm  upholds  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

War.   And  I  the  house  of  York. 

IT.  Lew.   Queen  Margaret,  prince  Edward,  and 
Oxford, 
Vouchsafe,  at  our  request,  to  stand  aside, 
While  I  use  further  conference  with  Warwick. 

Q.  Mar.     Heaven  grant  that  Warwick's  words 
bewitch  him  not ! 

[Retiring  with  the  Prince  and  Oxford. 

JT.  Lew.   Now,  Warwick,  tell  me,  even  upon  thy 
conscience. 
Is  Edward  your  true  king  ?  for  I  were  loath. 
To  link  with  him  that  were  not  lawful  chosen. 

War.  Thereon  I  pawn  my  credit  and  minejionour. 

-ff".  Lew.   But  is  he  gracious  in  the  people's  eye? 

War.   The  more,  that  Henry  was  unfortunate. 

JC.  Lew.  Then  further,  —  all  dissembling  set  aside, 
Tell  me  for  truth  the  measure  of  his  love 
Unto  our  sister  Bona. 

War.  Such  it  seems, 

As  may  beseem  a  monarch  like  himself. 
Myself  have  often  heard  him  say,  and  swear,  — 
That  this  his  love  was  an  eternal  plant ; 
Whereof  the  root  was  fix'd  in  virtue's  ground, 
The  leaves  and  fruit  maintain'd  with  beauty's  sun  • 
Exempt  from  envy,  but  not  from  disdain. 
Unless  the  lady  Bona  quit  his  pain. 

JT.  Lew.  Now,  sister,  let  us  hear  your  firm  resolve. 

Bona.  Your  grant,  or  your  denial,  shall  be  mine  • 
Yet  I  confess,  [To  War.]  that  often  ere  this  day. 
When  I  have  heard  your  king's  desert  recounted. 
Mine  ear  hath  tempted  judgment  to  desire. 

II".  Lew.  Then,  Warwick,  thus,  —  Our  sister  shall 
be  Edward's ; 
And  now  forthwith  shall  articles  be  drawn 
Touching  the  jointure  that  your  king  must  make. 
Which  with  her  dowry  shall  be  counterpois'd  :  — 
Draw  near,  queen  Margaret ;  and  be  a  witness. 
That  Bona  shall  be  wife  to  the  English  king. 

Prince.  To  Edward,  but  not  to  the  English  king. 

Q.  Mar.    Deceitful  Warwick  !  it  was  thy  device 
By  this  alliance  to  make  void  my  suit ; 
Before  thy  coming,  Lewis  was  Henry's  friend. 

IT.  Lew.  And  still  is  friend  to  him  and  Margaret. 
But  if  your  title  to  the  crown  be  weak,  — 
As  may  appear  by  Edward's  good  success,  — 
Then  'tis  but  reason,  that  I  be  releas'd 
From  giving  aid,  which  late  I  promised. 
Yet  shall  you  have  all  kindness  at  my  hand, 
That  your  estate  requires,  and  mine  can  yield. 

War.   Henry  now  lives  in  Scotland,  at  his  ease  ; 
Where  having  nothing,  nothing  he  can  lose. 
And  as  for  you  yourself,  our  quondam  queen,  — 
You  have  a  father  able  to  maintain  you  ; 
And  better  'twere  you  troubled  him  than  France. 

Q.  Mar.    Peace,  impudent  and  shameless  War- 
wick, peace  j 


d 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


523 


Proud  setter-up  and  puller-down  of  kings  ! 
I  will  not  hence,  till  with  my  talk  and  tears, 
Both  full  of  truth,  I  make  king  Lewis  behold 
Thy  sly  conveyance 9,  and  thy  lord's  false  love ; 
For  both  of  you  are  birds  of  self-same  feather. 

[A  Horn  sounded  within. 
K.  Lew.  Warwick,  this  is  some  post  to  us,  or  thee. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord  ambassador,  these  letters  are  for  you ; 
Sent  from  your  brother,  marquis  Montague. 
These  from  our  king  unto  your  majesty.  — 
And,  madam,  these  for  you  ;  from  whom  I  know  not. 
[7'o  Margaret.    They  all  read  their  Letters. 

Oxf.  I  like  it  well,  that  our  fair  queen  and  mistress 
Smiles  at  her  news,  while  Warwick  frowns  at  his. 

Prince.  Nay,  mark,  how  Lewis  stamps  as  he  were 
nettled  ; 
I  hope  all's  for  the  best 

K.  Lew.  Warwick,  what  are  thy  news  ?  and  yours, 
fair  queen  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Mine,  such  as  fill  my  heart  witli  unhop'd 
joys. 

War.  Mine,  full  of  sorrow,  and  heart's  discontent. 

K.  Lew.  What !  has  your  king  married  the  lady 
Grey? 
And  now,  to  soothe  your  forgery  and  his, 
Sends  me  a  paper  to  persuade  me  patience  ? 
Is  this  tlie  alliance  that  he  seeks  with  France  ? 
Dare  he  presume  to  sconi  us  in  this  manner  ? 

Q.  Mar.    I  told  your  majesty  as  much  before  : 
This  proveih  .'iidward's  love,  and  Warwick's  honesty. 

War.    Kin^'  Lewis,  I  here  protest,  —  in  sight  of 
heaven. 
And  by  the  hope  I  have  of  heavenly  bliss, — 
That  I  am  clear  from  this  misdeed  of  Edward's  ; 
No  more  my  king,  for  he  dishonours  me ; 
But  most  himself,  if  he  could  see  his  shame.  — 
Did  I  forget,  that  by  the  house  of  York 
My  father  came  untimely  to  his  death? 
Did  1  let  pass  the  abuse  done  to  my  niece  ? 
Did  I  impale  him  with  the  regal  crown  ? 
Did  I  put  Henry  from  his  native  right ; 
And  am  I  guerdon'd  '  at  the  last  with  shame? 
Shame  on  himself !  for  my  desert  is  honour. 
And  to  repair  my  honour  lost  for  him, 
I  here  renounce  him,  and  return  to  Henry : 
My  noble  queen,  let  former  grudges  pass, 
And  henceforth  I  am  thy  true  servitor ; 
I  will  revenge  his  wrong  to  lady  Bona, 
And  replant  Henry  in  his  fonner  state. 

Q.  Mar.    Warwick,  these  words  have  turn'd  my 
hate  to  love ; 
And  I  forgive  and  quite  forget  old  faults. 
And  joy  that  thou  becom'st  king  Henry's  friend. 

War.  So  much  his  friend,  ay,  his  unfeigned  friend, 
That,  if  king  Lewis  vouchsafe  to  furnish  us 
With  some  few  bands  of  chosen  soldiers, 
I'll  undertake  to  land  tliem  on  our  coast. 
And  force  the  tyrant  from  his  seat  by  war. 
*Tis  not  his  new-made  bride  shall  succour  him : 
And  as  for  Clarence,  — as  my  letters  tell  me, 
He's  very  likely  now  to  fall  from  him ; 
For  matching  more  for  wanton  lust  than  Ijonour, 
Or  than  for  strength  or  safety  of  our  country. 
9  Juggling.  '  Rcwardcil. 


Bona.  Dear  brother,  how  shall  Bona  be  revengd. 
But  by  thy  help  to  this  distressed  queen  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Renowned  prince,  how  shall  poor  Henry 
live. 
Unless  thou  rescue  him  from  foul  despair  ? 

Hona.  My  quarrel,  and  this  English  queen's,  are  one. 

War.  And  mine,  fair  lady  Bona,  joins  witli  yours. 

K.  Lew.   And  mine,  with  hers,  and  tliine,  and 
Margaret's. 
ITierefore  at  last,  I  firmly  am  resolv'd, 
You  shall  have  aid. 

Q.  Mar.  Let  me  give  humble  thanks  for  all  at  once. 

K.  Lew.   Then  England's  messenger,  return  in 
post ; 
And  tell  false  Edward,  thy  supposed  king,  — 
That  Lewis  of  France  is  sending  over  maskers. 
To  revel  it  with  him  and  his  new  bride  : 
Thou  seest  what's  past,  go  fear'^  thy  king  withal. 

Bona.   Tell  him.  In  hope  he'll  prove  a  widower 
shortly, 
I'll  wear  the  willow  garland  for  his  sake. 

Q.  Mar.   Tell  him,  My  mourning  weeds  are  laid 
aside, 
And  I  am  ready  to  put  armour  on. 

War.   Tell  him  from  me,  That  he  hath  done  me 
wrong ; 
And  therefore  I'll  uncrown  him  ere't  be  long. 
There's  thy  reward ;  be  gone.  {Exit  Mess. 

K.  Lew.  But,  Warwick,  thou. 

And  Oxford,  with  five  thousand  men. 
Shall  cross  the  seas,  and  bid  false  Edward  battle : 
And,  as  occasion  serves,  this  noble  queen 
And  prince  shall  follow  with  a  fresh  supply. 
Yet,  ere  thou  go,  but  answer  me  one  doubt ;  — 
What  pledge  have  we  of  thy  firm  loyalty  ? 

War.    This  shall  assure  my  constant  loyalty  :  — 
That  if  our  queen  and  this  young  prince  agree, 
I'll  join  mine  eldest  daughter,  and  my  joy. 
To  him  forthwith  in  holy  wedlock  bands. 

Q.  Mar.   Yes,  I  agree,  and  thank  you  for  your 
motion :  — 
Son  Edward,  she  is  fair  and  virtuous. 
Therefore  delay  not,  give  thy  hand  to  Warwick  : 
And,  with  thy  hand,  thy  faith  irrevocable. 
That  only  Warwick's  daughter  shall  be  thine. 

Prince.  Yes,  I  accept  her,  for  she  well  deserves  it : 
And  here  to  pledge  my  vow,  I  give  my  hand. 

[He  gives  his  hand  to  Warwick. 

K.  Lew.  Why  stay  we  now  ?  These  soldiers  shall 
be  levied. 
And  thou,  lord  Bourbon,  our  high  admiral, 
Shall  waft  them  over  with  our  royal  fleet  — 
I  long,  till  Edward  fall  by  war's  mischance. 
For  mocking  marriage  with  a  dame  of  France. 

[Erennt  all  but  Warwick. 

War.   I  came  from  Edward  as  ambassador. 
But  I  return  his  sworn  and  mortal  foe : 
Matter  of  marriage  was  the  charge  he  gave  me, 
But  dreadful  war  shall  answer  his  demand. 
Had  he  none  else  to  make  a  stale  \  but  me  "* 
Then  none  but  I  shall  turn  his  jest  to  sorrow. 
I  was  tlie  chief  that  rais'd  him  to  the  crown. 
And  I'll  be  chief  to  bring  him  down  again  : 
Not  that  I  pity  Henry's  misery. 
But  seek  revenge  on  Edward's  mockery.         [Exit. 
3  Frightca  ^  f^  stalking-horse,  a  pretence. 


524: 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

ErUer  Gloster,  Clarence,  Somerset,  Montague, 
mid  others. 

Glo.  Nowtell  me,  brother  Clarence,  what  think  you 
Of  this  new  marriage  with\he  lady  Grey? 
Hath  not  our  brother  made  a  worthy  choice  ? 

CLir.  Alas,  you  know,  'tis  far  from  hence  to  France ; 
How  could  he  stay  till  Warwick  made  return  ? 

Som.  My  lords,  forbear  this  talk ;  here  comes  the 
king. 

Flourish.  Enter  King  Edward,  attended ,-  Lady 
Grey,  as  Queen ;  Pembroke,  Stafford,  Hast- 
ings, and  others. 

Glo.   And  his  well-chosen  bride. 
Clar.    I  mind  to  tell  him  plainly  what  I  think. 
IT.  Edw.  Now,  brother  of  Clarence,  how  like  you 
our  choice. 
That  you  stand  pensive,  as  half  malcontent  ? 

Clar.  As  well  as  Lewis  of  France,  or  the  earl  of 
Warwick ; 
Which  are  so  weak  of  courage,  and  in  judgment, 
That  they'll  take  no  offence  at  our  abuse. 

A".  Edw.  Suppose  they  take  offence  without  a  cause, 

They  are  but  Lewis  and  Warwick  ;   I  am  Edward, 

Your  king  and  Warwick's,  and  must  have  my  will. 

Glo.   And  you  shall  have  your  will,  because  our 

king : 

Yet  hasty  marriage  seldom  proveth  well. 

IT.  Edw.   Yea,  brother  Richard,  are  you  offended 

too? 
Glo.    Not  I : 
No  ;   God  forbid,  that  I  should  wish  them  sever'd 
Whom  he  hath  join'd  together :   ay,  and  'twere  pity. 
To  sunder  them  that  yoke  so  well  together. 

IT.  Edw.    Setting  your  scorns,  and  your  mislike, 
aside. 
Tell  me  some  reason,  why  the  lady  Grey 
Should  not  become  my  wife,  and  England's  queen :  — 
And  you  too,  Somerset,  and  Montague, 
Speak  freely  what  you  think. 

Clar.   Then  this  is  my  opinion,  —  that  king  Lewis 
Becomes  your  enemy,  for  mocking  him 
About  the  marriage  of  the  lady  Bona. 

Glo.  And  Warwick,  doing  what  you  gave  in  charge. 
Is  now  dishonoured  by  this  new  marriage. 

JT.  Edw.   What,  if  both  Levkds  and  Warwick  be 
appeas'd, 
By  such  invention  as  I  can  devise  ? 

Mont.   Yet  to  have  join'd  with  France  in  such  al- 
liance. 
Would  more  have  strengthen'd  this  our  common- 
wealth 
'Gainst  foreign  storms,  than  any  home-bred  marriage. 
Hast.   Why,  knows  not  Montague,  that  of  itself 
England  is  safe,  if  true  within  itself  ? 

Mont.    Yes  ;  but  the  safer,  when  'tis  back'd  with 

France. 
Hast.   'Tis   better   using   France,   than   trusting 
France  : 
Let  us  be  back'd  with  heaven,  and  with  the  seas, 
Which  God  hath  given  for  fence  impregnable. 
And  with  their  helps  only  defend  ourselves  ; 
In  tliem,  and  in  ourselves,  our  safety  lies. 


Clar.   For  this  one  speech,  lord  Hastings  well 
deserves 
To  have  the  heir  of  the  lord  Hungerford. 

IT.  Edw.   Ay,  what  of  that?  it  was  my  will,  and  ' 
grant ; 
And,  for  this  once,  my  will  shall  stand  for  law. 

Glo.    And   yet,  methinks,  your  grace   hath  not 
done  well, 
To  give  the  heir  and  daughter  of  lord  Scales 
Unto  the  brother  of  your  loving  bride  ; 
She  better  would  have  fitted  me,  or  Clarence : 
But  in  your  bride  you  bury  brotherhood. 

Clar.  Or  else  you  would  not  have  bestow'd  the  heir 
Of  the  lord  Bonville  on  your  new  wife's  son. 
And  leave  your  brothers  to  go  speed  elsewhere. 

JC.  Edw.    Alas,  poor  Clarence  !  is  it  for  a  wife. 
That  thou  art  malcontent  ?  I  will  provide  thee. 

Clar.   In  choosing  for  yourself,  you  show'd  your 
judgment ; 
Which  being  shallow,  you  shall  give  me  leave 
To  play  the  broker  in  mine  own  behalf; 
And,  to  that  end,  I  shortly  mind  to  leave  you. 

IT.  Edw.  Leave  me,  or  tarry,  Edward  will  be  king, 
And  not  be  tied  unto  his  brotlier's  will. 

Q.  Eliz.   My  lords,  before  it  pleas'd  his  majesty 
To  raise  my  state  to  title  of  a  queen. 
Do  me  but  right,  and  you  must  all  confess 
That  I  was  not  ignoble  of  descent, 
And  meaner  than  myself  have  had  like  fortune. 
But  as  this  title  honours  me  and  mine. 
So  your  dislikes,  to  whom  I  would  be  pleasing. 
Do  cloud  my  joys  with  danger  and  with  sorrow. 

K.  Edw.   My  love,  forbear  to  fawn   upon  their 
frowns : 
What  danger,  or  what  sorrow  can  befal  thee, 
So  long  as  Edward  is  thy  constant  friend, 
And  their  true  sovereign,  whom  they  must  obey  ? 
Nay,  whom  they  shall  obey,  and  love  thee  too. 
Unless  they  seek  for  hatred  at  my  hands  : 
Which  if  they  do,  yet  will  I  keep  thee  safe. 
And  they  shall  feel  the  vengeance  of  my  wrath. 

Glo.   I  hear,  yet  say  not  much,  but  think   the 
more.  [Aside. 

Enter  a  Messenger, 

JT.  Edw.   Now,  messenger,  what  letters,  or  what 
news. 
From  France  ? 

Mess.  My  sovereign  liege,  no  letters ;    and  few 
words, 
But  such  as  1  without  your  special  pardon. 
Dare  not  relate. 

if.  Edw.    Go  to,  we  pardon  thee :   therefore,  in 
brief. 
Tell  me  their  words  as  near  as  thou  canst  guess  them. 
What  answer  makes  king  Lewis  unto  our  letters  ? 
Mess.   At  my  depart  these  were  his  very  words ; 
Go  tell  false  Edward,  thy  supposed  king,  — 
That  Lewis  of  France  is  sending  over  maskers, 
To  revel  it  with  him  and  his  new  bride. 
K.  Edw.   Is  Lewis  so  brave?  belike,  he  thinks 
me  Henry. 
But  what  said  lady  Bona  to  my  marriage  ? 

Mess.   These  were  her  words,  utter'd  with  mild 
disdain ; 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


525 


Tell  him.  in  hope  he'll  prove  a  widower  shortly, 
ril  wear  the  willow  garland  for  his  sake. 

K.  Edw.  I  l)lame  not  her,  she  could  say  little  less ; 
She  had  the  wrong.  But  what  said  Henry's  queen? 
For  I  have  heard  that  she  was  there  in  place. 

Mess.    Tell  him,  quoth  she,  my  mourning  ifeeds 
are  done, 
And  I  am,  ready  to  put  armour  on 

K.  Edw.  Belike,  she  minds  to  play  the  Amazon. 
But  what  said  Warwick  to  thesu  injuries? 

Aiess.    He,  more  incens'd  against  your  majesty 
Than  all  the  rest,  discharg'd  me  witli  these  words  ; 
Tell  him  from  me,  that  he  hath  done  me  wrong, 
And  therefore,  Vll  uncrown  him,  ere't  be  long. 

K.  Edw.    Ha !    durst  the.  traitor  breathe  out  so 
proud  words? 
Well,  I  will  arm  me,  being  thus  forewarn'd  : 
They  shall  have  wars,  and  pay  for  their  presumption. 
But  say,  is  Warwick  friends  with  Margaret? 

Mess.   Ay,  gracious  sovereign  ;  they  are  so  link'd 
in  friendship. 
That  young   prince    Edward   marries    Warwick's 
daughter. 
Clnr.   Belike,  tlie  elder ;   Clarence  will  have  the 
younger. 
Now,  brother  king,  farewell,  and  sit  you  fast. 
For  I  will  hence  to  Warwick's  other  daughter ; 
That,  though  I  want  a  kingdom,  yet  in  marriage 
I  may  not  prove  inferior  to  yourself.  — 
You,  that  love  me  and  Warwick,  follow  me. 

[Exit  Clarence,  and  Somzrset  follows. 
Glo.   Not  I  : 
My  thoughts  aim  at  a  further  matter  ;   I 
Stay  not  for  love  of  Edward,  but  the  crown.  [Aside. 
K.  Edw.   Clarence  and   Somerset  both  gone  to 
Warwick  ! 
Yet  am  I  arm'd  against  the  worst  can  happen  ; 
And  haste  is  needful  in  this  desperate  case.  — 
Pembroke,  and  Stafford,  you  in  our  behalf 
Go  levy  men,  and  make  prepare  for  war  ; 
They  are  already,  or  quickly  will  be  landed  : 
Myself  in  person  will  straight  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  Pembroke  and  Stafford. 
But,  ere  I  go,  Hastings,  — and  Montague,  — 
Resolve  my  doubt.      You  twain,  of  all  the  rest, 
Are  near  to  Warwick,  by  blood,  and  by  alliance  : 
Tell  me,  if  you  love  Warwick  more  than  me  ? 
If  it  be  so,  then  both  depart  to  him  ; 
I  rather  wish  you  foes  than  hollow  friends ; 
But  if  you  mind  to  hold  your  true  obedience, 
Give  me  assurance  with  some  friendly  vow, 
That  I  may  never  have  you  in  suspect. 

Mont.   So   God    help   Montague,  as   he  proves 

true ! 
Hast.    And   Hastings,  as  he  favours  Edward's 

cause  ! 
K.  Edw.   Now,  brother  Richard,  will  you  stand 

by  us? 
Glo.  Ay,  in  despite  of  all  that  shall  withstand  you. 
A".  Edw.   Wliy  so ;  then  am  I  sure  of  victory. 
Now  therefore  let  us  hence  ;  and  lose  no  hour. 
Till  we  meet  Warwick  with  his  foreign  power. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —^  Plain  in  Warwicksliire. 

Enter  Warwick    and  Oxford,  with   French  and 
other  Forces. 
War.   Trust  me,  my  lord,  all  hitherto  goes  well ; 
The  common  people  by  numbers  swarm  to  us. 


Enter  Clarence  and  Somehsftt. 

But,  see,  where  Somerset  and  Clarencj  come  j  — 
Speak  suddenly,  my  lords,  are  we  all  friends? 

Clar.  Fear  not  that,  my  lord. 

War.   Then,  gentle  Clarence,  welcome  unto  War- 
wick ; 
And  welcome,  Somerset :  —  I  hold  it  cowardice. 
To  rest  mistrustful  where  a  noble  heart 
Hath  pawn'd  an  open  liand  in  sign  of  love  ; 
Else  might  I  think,  that  Clarence.  Edward's  brother, 
Were  but  a  feigned  friend  to  our  proceedings : 
But  welcome,  Clarence;  my  daughter  shall  be  tlu'ne. 
And  now  what  rests,  but,  in  night's  coverture. 
Thy  brother  being  carelessly  encamp'd. 
His  soldiers  lurking  in  the  towns  about, 
And  but  attended  by  a  simple  guard, 
We  may  surprize  and  take  him  at  our  pleasure? 
Our  scouts  have  found  the  adventure  very  easy  : 
That  as  Ulysses,  and  stout  Diomede, 
With  sleight  and  manhood  stole  to  Rliesus'  tents. 
And  brought  from  thence  the  Thracian  fatal  steeds; 
So  we,  well  cover'd  with  the  night's  black  mantle, 
At  unawares  may  beat  down  Edward's  guard, 
And  seize  himself:    I  say  not  —  slaughter  him, 
For  I  intend  but  only  to  surprize  him.  — 
You,  that  will  follow  me  to  this  attempt, 
Applaud  the  name  of  Henry,  with  your  leader. 

[They  all  cry  Henry  ! 
Why,  then,  let's  on  our  way  in  silent  sort : 
For  Warwick  and  his  friends,  God  and  saint  George ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  Edward's  Camp  near  Warwick. 

Enter  certain  Watchmen,  to  guard  the  King's  Tent. 

1  Watch.   Come  on,  my  masters,  each  man  take 

his  stand ; 
The  king  by  this,  is  set  him  down  to  sleep. 

2  Watch.   What,  will  he  not  to  bed  ? 

1  Watch.   Why,  no :  for  he  hath  made  a  solemn 

vow 
Never  to  He  and  take  his  natural  rest, 
Till  Warwick,  or  himself,  be  quite  suppress'd. 

2  Watch.  To-morrow  then,  belike, shall  be  the  day. 
If  Warwick  be  so  near  as  men  report. 

3  Watch.    But  say,  I  pray,  what  nobleman  is  tliat. 
That  with  the  king  here  resteth  in  his  tent  ? 

1  Watch-  'Tis  the  lord  Hastings,  the  king's  chicf- 

est  friend. 
3  Watch.  O,  is  it  so?  But  why  commands  the  king. 
That  his  chief  followers  lodge  in  towns  about  him, 
While  he  himself  keepetli  in  the  cold  field  ? 

2  Watch     'Tis  the  more  honour,  because  more 

dangerous. 

3  Watch.  Ay;  but  give  me  worship  and  quietness, 
I  like  it  better  than  a  dangerous  honour. 

If  Warwick  knew  in  what  estate  he  stands, 
'Tis  to  be  doubted,  he  would  waken  him. 

1   Watch.   Unless  our  halberds  did  shut  up  his 


2  Watch.   Ay ;  wherefore  else  guard  we  his  royal 
tent. 
But  to  defend  his  person  from  night-foes? 

Enter  Warwick,  Clarencb,  Oxford,  Somkrsct, 
and  Forces. 
War.   Tliis  is  his  tent ;  and  see,  where  stand  bis 
guard. 
Courage,  my  masters ;  honour  now,  or  never ! 
But  follow  me,  and  Edward  shall  be  ours. 


526 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


1  Watch.   Who  goes  there  ? 

2  Watch.   Stay,  or  thou  diest. 

[Warwick,  and  the  rest,  cry  M — Warwick! 
Warwick  !  and  set  upon  the  guard  ;  who  fly, 
crying — Ann!    Arm!   Warwick,   and  the 
rest,  following  them. 
The  Drum  beating,  and  Trumpets  sounding,  re-enter 
Warwick,  and  the  rest,  bringing  tlie  King  out  in 
a  Gown,  sitting  in  a  Chair  ;   Gloster  and  Hast- 
ings,/y. 

Som.  What  are  they  that  fly  there  ? 

War.    Richard,  and  Hastings  :  let  them  go,  here's 

the  duke. 
IT.  Edw.   The  duke;    why,  Warwick,  when  we 
parted  last. 
Thou  call'dst  me  king. 

War.  Ay,  but  the  case  is  alter'd  : 

When  you  disgrac'd  me  in  my  embassade, 
I'hen  I  degraded  you  from  being  king. 
And  come  now  to  create  you  duke  of  York. 
Alas!  how  should  you  govern  any  kingdom, 
Tliat  know  not  how  to  use  ambassadors ; 
Nor  how  to  be  contented  with  one  wife ; 
Nor  how  to  use  your  brothers  brotherly ; 
Nor  how  to  study  for  the  people's  welfare  ; 
Nor  how  to  shroud  yourself  from  enemies  ? 

K.  Edw.   Yea,  brother  of  Clarence,  art  thou  here 
too? 
Nay,  then  I  see,  that  Edward  needs  must  down.  — 
Yet,  Warwick,  in  despite  of  all  mischance. 
Of  thee  thyself,  and  all  thy  complices, 
Edward  will  always  bear  himself  as  king  : 
I'hough  fortune's  malice  overthrow  my  state. 
My  mind  exceeds  the  compass  of  her  wheel. 

War.  Then,  for  his  mind  +,  be  Edward  England's 
king  :  {^Takes  off  his  crown. 

But  Henry  now  shall  wear  the  English  crown, 
And  be  true  king  indeed ;  thou  but  the  shadow.  — 
My  lord  of  Somerset,  at  my  request, 
See  that  forthwith  duke  Edward  be  convey'd 
Unto  my  brother,  archbishop  of  York. 
When  I  have  fought  with  Pembroke  and  his  fellows, 
I'll  follow  you,  and  tell  what  answer 
Lewis,  and  the  lady  Bona,  send  to  him  : 
Now,  for  a  while,  farewell,  good  duke  of  York. 
K.  Edw.   What  fates  impose,  that  men  must  needs 
abide ; 
It  boots  not  to  resist  both  wind  and  tide. 

\_Exit  King  Edward,  led  out ;   Somerset 
uith  him. 
Oxf.   What  now  remains,  my  lords,  for  us  to  do, 
But  march  to  London  with  our  soldiers  ? 

War.  Ay,  that's  the  first  thing  that  we  have  to  do  : 
To  free  king  Henry  from  imprisonment. 
And  see  him  seated  in  the  regal  throne.      \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Rivers. 
Riv.    Madam,  what  makes   you  in  this  sudden 

change  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  Why,  brother  Rivers,  are  you  yet  to  learn, 
What  late  misfortune  is  befall'n  king  Edward  ? 
Riv.   What,  loss  of  some  pitch'd  battle  against 

Warwick  ? 
Q.  Eliz.   No,  but  the  loss  of  his  own  royal  person. 
Riv-    Then  is  my  sovereign  slain  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  Ay,  almost  slain,  for  he  is  taken  prisoner  ; 
Either  betray'd  by  falsehood  of  his  guard, 

■*  i.  e.  In  his  mind  j  as  far  as  his  own  mind  goes. 


Or  by  his  foe  surpriz'd  at  unawares  : 
And,  as  I  further  have  to  understand. 
Is  new  commited  to  the  bishop  of  York, 
Fell  Warwick's  brother,  and  by  that  our  foe. 

Riv.  These  news,  I  must  confess,  are  full  of  grief : 
Yet,  gracious  madam,  bear  it  as  you  may  ; 
Warwick  may  lose,  that  now  hath  won  the  day. 

Q.  Eliz.  Till  then,  fair  hope  must  hinder  life's 
decay. 
And  I  the  rather  wean  me  from  despair. 
For  love  of  Edward's  off'spring  in  my  womb : 
This  is  it  that  makes  me  bridle  passion. 
And  bear  wdth  mildness  my  misfortune's  cross ; 
Ay,  ay,  for  this  I  draw  in  many  a  tear. 
And  stop  the  rising  of  blood-sucking  sighs, 
Lest  with  my  sighs  or  tears  I  blast  or  drown 
King  Edward's  fruit,  true  heir  to  the  English  crown. 

Riv.  But,  madam,  where  is  Warwick  then  become? 

Q.  Eliz.   I  am  informed,  that  he  comes  towards 
London, 
To  set  the  crown  once  more  on  Henry's  head  : 
Guess  thou  the  rest ;  king  Edward's  friends  must 

down. 
But  to  prevent  the  tyrant's  violence, 
(For  trust  not  him  that  hath  once,  broken  faith,) 
I'll  hence  forthwith  unto  the  sanctuary. 
To  save  at  least  the  heir  of  Edward's  right; 
There  shall  I  rest  secure  from  force,  and  fraud. 
Come  therefore,  let  us  fly,  while  we  may  fly ; 
If  Warwick  take  us,  we  are  sure  to  die.      [^Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. 


A  Park  near  Middleham  Castle  in 
Yorkshire. 


Enter  Gloster,  Hasting-s,  Sir  William  Stanley, 
and  others. 
Glo.   Now,  my  lord  Hastings,  and  sir  William 
Stanley, 
Leave  off  to  wonder  why  I  drew  you  hither, 
Into  this  chiefest  thicket  of  the  park. 
Thus  stands  the  case  :    You  know,  our  king,  my 

brother, 
Is  prisoner  to  the  bishop  here,  at  whose  hands 
He  hath  good  usage  and  great  liberty ; 
And  often,  but  attended  with  weak  guard. 
Comes  hunting  this  way  to  disport  himself. 
I  have  adv^rtis'd  him  by  secret  means, 
That  if  about  this  hour,  he  make  this  way, 
Under  the  colour  of  his  usual  game. 
He  shall  here  find  his  friends,  with  horse  and  men, 
To  set  him  free  from  his  captivity. 

Enter  King  Edward,  and  a  Huntsman. 

Hunt.   This  way,  my  lord  ;  for  this  way  lies  the 

game. 
K.  Edw.     Nay,   this  way,  man  ;  see,  where  the 

huntsmen  stand.  — 
Now,  brother  of  Gloster,  lord  Hastings,  and  the  rest. 
Stand  you  thus  close,  to  steal  the  bishop's  deer  ? 

Glo.   Brother,  the  time  and  case  requireth  haste  ; 
Your  horse  stands  ready  at  the  park  corner. 
K.  Edw.    But  whither  shall  we  then  ? 
Hast.    To  Lynn,  my  lord,  and  ship  from  thence 

to  Flanders. 
Glo.   Well  guess'd,  believe  me  ;  for  that  was  my 

meaning. 
K.  Edw.    Stanley,  I  will  requite  thy  forwardness. 
Glo.  But  wherefore  stay  we  ?  'tis  no  time  to  talk. 
K.  Edw.  Huntsman,  what  say'st  thou  ?  wilt  thou 

go  along. 


Scene  VI. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


527 


Hunt.    Better  do  so,  than  tarry  and  be  liang'd. 
Glo.  Come  then  away  ;  let's  have  no  more  ado. 
K.  Edw.     Bishop,    farewell  :     shield   thee   from 
Warwick's  frown ; 
And  pray  that  I  may  repossess  tlie  crown.     \^Exeiml. 

SCENE  VI.  —  A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Clarence,  Warwick,  So- 
merset, Young  Richmond,  Oxford,  Monta- 
gue, Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Hen.   Master  lieutenant,  now  that  God  and 
friends 
Have  shaken  Edward  from  the  regal  seat ; 
And  turn'd  my  captive  state  to  liberty. 
My  fear  to  hope,  my  sorrows  unto  joys ; 
At  our  enlargement  what  are  thy  due  fees 

Lieut.   Subjects  may  challenge  nothing  of  their 
sovereigns ; 
But,  if  an  humble  prayer  may  prevail, 
1  then  crave  pardon  of  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.  For  what,  lieutenant  ?  for  well  using  me  ? 
Nay,  be  thou  sure,  I'll  well  requite  thy  kindness, 
For  that  it  made  my  imprisonment  a  pleasure  : 
Ay,  such  a  pleasure  as  incaged  birds 
Conceive,  when,  after  many  moody  thoughts, 
At  last,  by  notes  of  household  harmony. 
They  quite  forget  their  loss  of  liberty.  — 
But,  Warwick,  after  God,  thou  set'st  me  free. 
And  chiefly  therefore  I  thank  God  and  thee  ; 
He  was  the  author,  thou  the  instrument. 
Therefore,  that  I  may  conquer  fortune's  spite. 
By  living  low  where  fortune  cannot  hurt  me ; 
And  that  the  people  of  this  blessed  land 
May  not  be  punish'd  with  my  thwarting  stars  ; 
Warwick,  although  my  head  still  wear  the  crown, 
I  here  resign  my  government  to  thee. 
For  thou  art  fortunate  in  all  thy  deeds. 

War.   Your  grace  hath  still  been  fam'd  for  vir- 
tuous ; 
And  now  may  seem  as  wise  as  virtuous. 
By  spying  and  avoiding  fortune's  malice. 
For  few  men  rightly  temper  with  the  stars  ^ : 
Yet  in  this  one  thing  let  me  blame  your  grace. 
For  choosing  me,  when  Clarence  is  in  place.  ^ 

Clar.   No,  Warwick,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  sway, 
To  whom  the  heavens,  in  thy  nativity, 
Adjudg'd  an  olive  branch,  and  laurel  crown. 
As  likely  to  be  blest  in  peace,  and  war ; 
And  therefore  I  yield  thee  my  free  consent. 

War.    And  I  choose  Clarence  only  for  protector. 
K.  Hen.   Warwick,  and  Clarence,  give  me  both 
your  hands ; 
Now  join  your  hands,  and  with  your  hands,  your 

hearts. 
That  no  dissension  hinder  government : 
I  make  you  both  protectors  of  this  land  ; 
While  I  myself  will  lead  a  private  life, 
And  in  devotion  spend  my  latter  days. 
To  sin's  rebuke,  and  my  Creator's  praise. 

War.   What  answers  Clarence  to  his  sovereign's 

will? 
Clar.   That  he  consents,  if  Warwick  yield  con- 
sent; 
For  on  thy  fortune  I  repose  myself. 

War.   Why  tiien,  tliough  loath,  yet  must  I  be 
content : 
We'll  yoke  together,  like  a  double  shadow 

''  Few  men  conform  their  temper  to  their  destiny. 
«  Present 


To  Henry's  body,  and  supply  bis  place  ; 
I  mean  in  bearing  weight  of  government. 
While  he  enjoys  the  honour,  and  his  ease. 
And,  Clarence,  now  then  it  is  more  than  needful, 
Forthwith  that  Edward  be  pronounc'd  a  traitor. 
And  all  his  lands  and  goods  be  confiscate. 

Clar.   What  else?  and  that  succession  be  deter- 

min'd. 
War.    Ay,  therein  Clarence  shall  not  want  his 

part. 
K.  Hen.    But,  with  the  first  of  all  your  chief 
affairs, 
Let  me  entreat,  (for  I  command  no  more,) 
That  Margaret  your  queen,  and  my  son  Edward, 
Be  sent  for,  to  return  from  France  with  speed  : 
For,  till  I  see  them  here,  by  doubtful  fear 
My  joy  of  liberty  is  half  eclips'd. 

Clar.   It  shall  be  done,  my  sovereign,  with  all 

speed. 
K.  Hen.    My  lord   of  Somerset,  what  youth  is 
that. 
Of  whom  you  seem  to  have  so  tender  care  ? 

Som.   My  liege,  it  is  young  Henry,  earl  of  Rich- 
mond. 
K.  Hen.  Come  hither,  England's  hope  :   If  secret 
powers,  l^Lays  his  hand  on  Ids  head. 

Suggest  but  truth  to  my  divining  thoughts, 
This  pretty  lad'  will  prove  our  country's  bliss. 
Ilis  looks  are  full  of  peaceful  majesty  ; 
His  head  by  nature  fram'd  to  wear  a  crown. 
His  hand  to  wield  a  scepter  j  and  himself 
Likely,  in  time,  to  bless  a  regal  throne. 
Make  much  of  him,  my  lords ;  for  this  is  he, 
Must  help  you  more  than  you  are  hurt  by  me. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

War.    What  news,  my  friend  ? 

Mess.   That  Edward  is  escaped  from  your  brother. 
And  fled,  as  he  hears  since,  to  Burgundy. 

War.    Unsavoury    news  :     But    how    made    he 
escape  ? 

Mess.   He  was  convey'd    by   Richard   duke  of 
Gloster, 
And  the  lord  Hastings,  who  attended  him 
In  secret  ambush  on  the  forest  side. 
And  from  the  bishop's  huntsmen  rescued  him  ; 
For  hunting  was  his  daily  exercise. 

War.  My  brother  was  too  careless  of  his  charge. — 
But  let  us  hence,  my  sovereign,  to  provide 
A  salve  for  any  sore  that  may  betide. 

\^Exeu7it  King  Henry,  War.,  Clar.,  Lieut., 
and  Attendants. 

Som.   My  lord,  I  like  not  of  this  flight  of  Ed- 
ward's : 
For,  doubtless,  Burgundy  will  yield  him  help ; 
And  we  shall  have  more  wars,  l>efore't  be  long. 
As  Henry's  late  presaging  prophecy 
Did  glad  my  heart,  with  hope  of  this  young  Rich- 
mond ; 
So  doth  my  heart  misgive  me,  in  these  conflicts 
What  may  lH;fall  him,  to  his  hann,  and  ours : 
Therefore,  lord  Oxford,  to  prevent  the  worst. 
Forthwith  we'll  send  him  hence  to  Britany, 
Till  storms  be  past  of  civil  enmity. 

Oif.    Ay  ;  for,  if  Edward  repossess  the  crown, 
'Tis  like  tliat  Richmond  with  the  rest  shall  down. 

Sonu    It  shall  be  so  ;  he  shall  to  Britany. 
Come  therefore,  let's  about  it  speedily.       [Exeunt. 

7  Afterward  Henry  VI L 


528 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  IV. 


SCENE  VII.  —  Before  York. 

Enter  King    Edward,  Gloster,   Hastings,  and 

Forces. 

jr.  Edw,  Now,  brother  Richard,  lord  Hastings, 
and  the  rest ; 
Yet  thus  far  fortune  maketh  us  amends. 
And  says  —  that  once  more  I  shall  interchange 
My  waned  state  for  Henry's  regal  crown. 
Well  have  we  pass'd,  and  now  repass'd  the  seas, 
And  brought  desired  help  from  Burgundy ; 
What  then  remains,  we  being  thus  arriv'd 
From  Ravenspurg  haven  before  the  gates  of  York, 
But  that  we  enter,  as  into  our  dukedom  ? 

Glo.  The  gates  made  fast ! — Brother,  I  like  not  this ; 
For  many  men,  that  stumble  at  the  threshold. 
Are  well  foretold  —  that  danger  lurks  within. 

K.  Edw'   Tush,  man  !  abodements  must  not  now 
affright  us ; 
By  fair  or  foul  means  we  must  enter  in, 
For  hither  will  our  friends  repair  to  us. 

Hast.  My  liege,  I'll  knock  once  more  to  summon 
them. 

Enter,  on  the  Walls,  the  Mayor  of  York,  and  his 
Brethren. 

May,   My  lords,  we  were   forewarned  of  your 
coming. 
And  shut  the  gates  for  safety  of  ourselves ; 
For  now  we  owe  allegiance  unto  Henry. 

K.  Edw.  But,  master  mayor,  if  Henry  beyour  king. 
Yet  Edward,  at  the  least,  is  duke  of  York. 

May.  True,  my  good  lord ;  I  know  you  for  no  less. 
K.  Edw.   Why,  and  I  challenge  nothing  but  my 
dukedom ; 
As  being  well  content  with  that  alone. 

Glo.  But  when  the  fox  hath  once  got  in  his  nose. 
He'll  soon  findmeans  to  make  the  body  follow.  \^Aside. 
Hast.   Why,  master  mayor,  why  stand  you  in  a 
doubt  ? 
Open  the  gates,  we  are  king  Henry's  friends. 
May.  Ay,  say  you  so  ?   the  gates  shall  then  be 
open'd.  [Exeunt from  above. 

Glo.   A  wise  stout  captain,  and  persuaded  soon  ! 
Hast.   The  good  old  man  would  fain  that  all  were 
well, 
So  'twere  not  'long  of  him  :   but,  being  enter'd, 
I  doubt  not,  I,  but  we  shall  soon  persuade 
Both  him  and  all  his  brothers  unto  reason. 

Re-enter  the  Mayor  and  two  Aldermen,  below. 

K.  Edw.  So,  master  mayor:  these  gates  must  not 
be  shut. 
But  in  the  night  or  in  the  time  of  war. 
What !  fear  not,  man,  but  yield  me  up  the  keys ; 

[  Takes  his  keys. 
For  Edward  will  defend  the  town  and  thee. 
And  all  those  friends  that  deign  to  follow  me. 

Drum.    Enter  Montgomery,  and  Forces,  marching. 

Glo.    Brother,  this  is  sir  John  Montgomery, 
Our  trusty  friend,  unless  I  be  deceiv'd. 

A".  Edw.   Welcome,   sir  John !    But  why  come 
you  in  arms  ? 

Mont.  To  help  king  Edward  in  his  time  of  storm, 
As  every  loyal  subject  ought  to  do. 

K.  Edw.   Thanks,  good  Montgomery :    But  M^e 
now  forget 
Our  title  to  the  crown ;  and  only  claim 
Our  dukedom,  till  Heaven  please  to  send  the  rest. 


Mont.  Then  fare  you  well,  for  I  will  hence  again ; 
I  came  to  serve  a  king  and  not  a  duke,  — 
Drummer,  strike  up,  and  let  us  march  away. 

[A  March  begun. 
K.  Edw.   Nay,  stay,  sir  John,  a  while  ;  and  we'll 
debate, 
By  what  safe  means  the  crown  may  be  recover'd. 

Mont.  What,  talk  you  of  debating  ?  in  few  words. 
If  you'll  not  here  proclaim  yourself  our  king, 
I'll  leave  you  to  your  fortune;  and  be  gone. 
To  keep  them  back  that  come  to  succour  you 
Why  should  we  fight,  if  you  pretend  no  title  ? 
Glo.   Why,  brother,  wherefore  stand  you  on  ni 

points  ? 
IT.  Edw.  When  we  grow  stronger,  then  we'll  make 
our  claim : 

Till  then,  'tis  wisdom  to  conceal  our  meaning. 
Hast.   Away  with   scrupulous   wit!    now  arms 

must  rule. 
Glo.    And   fearless   minds  climb  soonest   unto 
crowns. 
Brother,  we  will  proclaim  you  out  of  hand  ; 
The  bruit  8  thereof  will  bring  you  many  friends, 

IT.  Edw.  Then  be  it  as  you  will ;  for  'tis  my  right, 
And  Henry  but  usurps  the  diadem. 

Mont.  Ay,  now  my  sovereign  speaketh  like  him- 
self; 
And  now  will  I  be  Edward's  champion. 

Hast.    Sound,  trumpet;   Edward  shall  be  here 
proclaim'd :  — 
Come,  fellow-soldier,  make  thou  proclamation. 

[  Gives  him  a  paper.     Flourish. 
Sold.  [Reads.']   Edward  the  Fourth,  by  the  grace 
of  God,  king  of  England  and  France,  and  lord  of 
Ireland,  &c. 

Mont.    And  whosoe'er  gainsays  king  Edward's 
right. 
By  this  I  challenge  him  to  single  fight, 

[Throws  down  his  Gauntlet j 
All.   Long  live  Edward  the  Fourth ! 
JT.  Edw.     Thanks,    brave  Montgomery;  —  and 
thanks  unto  you  all. 
If  fortune  serve  me,  I'll  requite  this  kindness. 
Now  for  this  night,  let's  harbour  here  in  York : 
And,  when  the  morning  sun  shall  raise  his  car 
Above  the  border  of  this  horizon. 
We'll  forward  towards  Warwick,  and  his  mates  j 
For,  well  I  wot  ^,  that  Henry  is  no  soldier.  — 
Ah,  froward  Clarence  !  —  how  evil  it  beseems  thee. 
To  flatter  Henry,  and  forsake  thy  brother  ! 
Yet,  as  we  may,  we'll  meet  both  thee  and  Warwick. 
Come  on,  brave  soldiers  ;  doubt  not  of  the  day ; 
And,  that  once  gotten,  doubt  not  of  large  pay. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.  —  London.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter   King   Henry,  Warwick,   Clarence, 
Montague,  Exeter,  and  Oxford. 

War.  What  counsel,  lords  ?    Edward  from  Belgia, 
With  hasty  Germans,  and  blunt  Hollanders, 
Hath  pass'd  in  safety  through  the  narrow  seas, 
And  with  his  troops  doth  march  amain  to  London; 
And  many  giddy  people  flock  to  him. 

Oxf.   Let's  levy  men,  and  beat  him  back  again. 

Clar.    A  little  fire  is  quickly  trodden  out ; 
Which,  being  sufFer'd,  rivers  cannot  quench. 

War.  In  Warwickshire  I  have  true-hearted  friends, 
Not  mutinous  in  peace,  yet  bold  in  war; 
8  Noise,  report  ^  Know. 


1 

ke^ 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


529 


i 


Those  will  I  muster  up  —  and  thou,  son  Clarence, 
Shalt  stir,  in  Suffolk,  Norfolk,  and  in  Kent, 
The  knights  and  gentlemen  to  come  with  thee  :  — 
Thou,  brother  Montague,  in  Buckingham, 
Northampton,  and  in  Leicestershire,  shalt  find 
Men  well  inclin'd  to  hear  what  thou  command's! :  — 
And  thou,  brave  Oxford,  wondrous  well  belov'd, 
In  Oxfordshire  shall  muster  up  thy  friends.  — 
My  sovereign,  with  the  loving  citizens,  — 
Like  to  his  island,  girt  in  with  the  ocean, 
Shall  rest  in  London,  till  we  come  to  him.  — 
Fair  lords,  take  leave,  and  stand  not  to  reply.  — 
Farewell,  my  sovereign. 

jr.  Hen.   Farewell,  my  Hector,  and  my  Troy's 
true  hope. 

Cla.   In  sign  of  truth,  I  kiss  your  highness'  hand. 

K.  Hen,  Well-minded  Clarence,  be  thou  fortunate ! 

Moiit.   Comfort,  my  lord ;  —  and  so  I  take  my 
leave. 

Orf.   And  thus  \^Kissing  Henry's  hand.'\  I  seal 
my  truth,  and  bid  adieu. 

K.  Hen.  Sweet  Oxford,  and  my  loving  Montague, 
And  all  at  once,  once  more  a  happy  farewell. 

War.   Farewell,  sweet  lords ;  let's  meet  at  Co- 
ventry. 
\^Exeunt  War.,  Clar.,  Oxf.,  and  Mont. 

K.  Hen.   Here  at  the  palace  will  I  rest  a  while. 
Cousin  of  Exeter,  what  tliinks  your  lordship  ? 
Methinks,  the  power  that  Edward  hath  in  field, 
Should  not  be  able  to  encounter  mine. 

Eie.   The  doubt  is,  that  he  will  seduce  the  rest. 

K.  Hen.   That's  not  my  fear,  my  meed  *  hath  got 
me  fame. 


I  have  not  stopp'd  mine  ears  to  their  demands, 
Nor  posted  off  their  suits  with  slow  delays ; 
My  pity  hath  been  balm  to  heal  their  wounds, 
My  mildness  hath  allay'd  their  swelling  griefs. 
My  mercy  dry'd  their  water-flowing  tears : 
I  have  not  been  desirous  of  their  wealth. 
Nor  much  oppress'd  them  with  great  subsidies, 
Nor  forward  of  revenge,  though  they  much  err'd  ; 
Then  why  should  they  love  Edward  more  than  me  ? 
No,  Exeter,  these  graces  challenge  grace : 
And,  when  the  lion  fawns  upon  the  lamb, 
The  Iamb  will  never  cease  to  follow  him. 

[Shout  within.     A  Lancaster  !   A  Lancaster ! 
Exe.   Hark,  hark,   ray  lord!    what   shouts  are 
these  ? 

Enter  Kino  Edward,  Glostxr,  and  Soldiers. 

K.  Edw.   Seize  on  the  shame-fac'd  Henry,  bear 
him  hence. 
And  once  again  proclaim  us  king  of  England.  — 
You  are  the  fount,  that  makes  small  brooks  to  flow ; 
Now  stops  thy  spring ;  my  sea  shall  suck  them  dry, 
And  swell  so  much  the  higher  by  their  ebb.  — 
Hence  with  him  to  the  Tower ;  let  him  not  speak. 
[Exeunt  some  with  King  Henry. 
And,  lords,  towards  Coventry  bend  we  our  course. 
Where  peremptory  Warwick  now  remains  ; 
The  sun  shines  hot,  and,  if  we  use  delay. 
Cold  biting  winter  mars  our  hop'd-for  hay. 

Glo.  Away  betimes,  before  his  forces  join, 
And  take  the  great-grown  traitor  unawares; 
Brave  warriors,  march  amain  towards  Coventry. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. —  Coventry. 

Enter,  upon  the    Walls,  Warwick,   the  Mai/or   of 
Coventry,  two  Messengers,  and  others. 

War.  Where  is  the  post  that  came  from  valiant 
Oxford  ? 
How  far  hence  is  thy  lord,  mine  honest  fellow  ? 

1  Mess.   By  this  at  Dunsmore,  marching  hither- 

ward. 
War.  How  far  off  is  our  brother  Montague  ? 
Where  is  the  post  that  came  from  Montague  ? 

2  Mess.   By  this  at  Daintry,  with  a  puissant  troop. 

Enter  Sir  John  Somerville. 
War.   Say,  Somerville,  what  says  my  loving  son  ? 
And,  by  the  guess,  how  nigh  is  Clarence  now? 

Som.   At  Southam  I  did  leave  him  with  his  forces. 
And  do  expect  him  here  some  two  hours  hence. 

[Drum  heard. 
War.   Then  Clarence  is  at  hand,  I  hear  his  drum. 
Som.   It  is  not  his  my  lord  ;  here  Southam  lies  ; 
The  drum  your  honour  hears,  marcheth  from  War- 
wick. 
War.  Who  should  that  be?  belike,  unlook'd-for 

friends. 
Sovi.   They  are  at  hand,  and  you  shall  quickly 
know. 

Drums.       Enter    Kino   Edward,    Glostkr,   and 
Forces,  marching. 
K.  Edw.   Go,  trumpet,  to  the  walls,  and  sound  a 
parle. 

>  Merit 


Glo.   See,  how  the  surly  Warwick  mans  the  wall. 

War.   O,  unhid  spite  !  is  sportful  Edward  come  ? 
Where  slept  our  scouts,  or  how  are  they  seduc'd, 
That  we  could  hear  no  news  of  his  repair  ? 

IT.  Edw.   Now,  WaTAvick,  wilt  thou  ope  the  city 
gates, 
Speak  gentle  words,  and  humbly  bend  thy  knee  ?  — 
Call  Edward  —  king,  and  at  his  hands  beg  mercy. 
And  he  shall  pardon  thee  these  outrages. 

War.   Nay,  rather  wilt  thou  draw  thy  forces  hence, 
Confess  who  set  thee  up  and  pluck'd  thee  down  ?  — 
Call  Warwick  —  patron,  and  be  penitent. 
And  thou  shalt  still  remain  the  duke  of  York. 

Glo.   I  thought,  at  least,  he  would  have  said  — 
the  king ; 
Or  did  he  make  the  jest  against  his  will  ? 

War.   Is  not  a  dukedom,  sir,  a  goodly  gift  ? 

Glo.   Ay,  by  my  faith,  for  a  poor  earl  to  give ; 
I'll  do  thee  service  for  so  good  a  gift. 

War.  'Twas  I,  that  gave  the  kingdom  to  thy 
brother. 

JT.  Edw.  Why,  then,  'tis  mine,  if  but  bv  Warwick's 
gift. 

War.   Thou  art  no  Atlas  for  so  great  a  weight : 
And,  weakling,  Warwick  takes  his  gift  again  ; 
And  Henry  is  my  king,  Warwick  his  subject, 

IT.  Edw.   But  Warwick's  king  is  Edward's  pri- 
soner: 
And  gallant  Warwick,  do  but  answer  this,  — 
What  is  the  body,  when  the  head  is  off? 

Glo.   Alas,  that  Warwick  had  no  more  forecast, 
But,  whiles  he  thought  to  steal  the  single  ten, 
Mm 


530 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  V. 


The  king  was  slily  finger'd  from  the  deck  !  ^ 
You  left  poor  Henry  at  the  bishop's  palace, 
And,  ten  to  one,  jou'll  meet  him  in  the  Tower. 

K.  Edw.  'Tis  even  so;  yet  you  are  Warwick  still. 

Glo.  Come,  Warwick,  take  the  time,  kneel  down, 
kneel  down  : 
Nay,  when  ?  strike  now,  or  else  the  iron  cools. 

War.   I  had  rather  chop  this  hand  off  at  a  blow. 
And  with  the  other  fling  it  at  thy  face, 
Than  bear  so  low  a  sail,  to  strike  to  thee. 

K.  Edw.  Sail  how  thou  canst,  have  wind  and  tide 

thy  friend ; 

This  hand,  fast  wound  about  thy  coal-black  hair. 

Shall,  whiles  the  head  is  warm,  and  new  cut  off. 

Write  in  the  dust  this  sentence  with  thy  blood,  — 

•^Wind-changing  Warwick  now  can  change  no  more. 

Enter  Oxford,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 
War.   O  cheerful   colours  !     see  where    Oxford 

comes ! 
Oxf.   Oxford,  Oxford,  for  Lancaster ! 

[Oxford  and  his  Forces  enter  the  City. 
Glo.   The  gates  are  open,  let  us  enter  too. 
K.  Edw.    So  other  foes  may  set  upon  our  backs  : 
Stand  we  in  good  array ;  for  they,  no  doubt. 
Will  issue  out  again,  and  bid  us  battle : 
If  not,  the  city,  being  but  of  small  defence, 
We'll  quickly  rouse  the  traitors  in  the  same. 

War.  O,  welcome,  Oxford !  for  we  want  thy  help. 

Enter  Montague,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 
Mont.   Montague,  Montague,  for  Lancaster  ! 

\^He  and  his  Forces  enter  the  City. 
Glo.   Thou  and  thy  brother  both  shall  buy  this 
treason 
Even  with  the  dearest  blood  your  bodies  bear. 

K.  Edw.  The  harder  match'd,  the  greater  victory  ; 
My  mind  presageth  happy  gain,  and  conquest. 

Enter  Somerset,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 
Som.   Somerset,  Somerset,  for  Lancaster  ! 

[jHe  and  his  Forces  enter  the  City. 
Glo.    Two  of  thy  name,  both  Dukes  of  Somerset, 
Have  sold  their  lives  unto  the  house  of  York  ; 
And  thou  shalt  be  the  third,  if  this  sword  hold. 

Enter  Clarence,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 

War.    And  lo,  where  George  of  Clarence  sweeps 
along, 
.  Of  force  enough  to  bid  his  brother  battle  ; 
With  whom  an  upright  zeal  to  right  prevails. 
More  than  the  nature  of  a  brother's  love  :  — 
Come,  Clarence,  come ;  thou  wilt,  if  Warwick  calls. 

Clar.   Father  of  Warwick,  know  you  what  this 
means  ?  [  Taking  the  red  Rose  out  of  his  Cap. 
Look  here,  I  throw  my  infamy  at  thee  : 
I  will  not  ruinate  my  father's  house. 
Who  gave  his  blood  to  lime  the  stones  together. 
And  set  up  Lancaster.   Why,  trow'st  thou,  Warwick, 
That  Clarence  is  so  harsh,  so  blunt  ?,  unnatural, 
To  bend  the  fatal  instruments  of  war 
Against  his  brother,  and  his  lawful  king  ? 
Perhaps,  thou  wilt  object  my  holy  oath  : 
To  keep  that  oath,  were  more  impiety. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  my  trespass  made, 
That  to  deserve  well  at  my  brother's  hands, 
I  here  proclaim  myself  thy  mortal  foe  ; 
With  resolution,  wheresoe'er  I  meet  thee, 
(As  I  will  meet  thee,  if  thou  stir  abroad,) 

'  A  pack  of  cards  was  formerlj  termed  a  deck  of  cards. 
3  In-sensible, 


To  plague  thee  for  thy  foid  misleading  me. 
And  so,  proud-hearted  Warwick,  I  defy  thee, 
And  to  my  brother  turn  my  blushing  clieeks. 
Pardon  me,  Edward,  I  will  make  amends ; 
And,  Richard,  do  not  frown  upon  my  faults, 
For  I  will  henceforth  be  no  more  unconstant. 

JC.  Edw.  Now  welcome  more,  and  ten  times  more 
belov'd, 
Than  if  thou  never  hadst  deserv'd  our  hate. 

Glo.  Welcome,  good  Clarence ;  this  is  brother-like. 

War.    O  passing  4  traitor,  peijur'd,  and  unjust ! 

K.  Edw.   What,  Warwick,   wilt  thou  leave  the  [ 
town,  and  fight  ?  , 

Or  shall  we  beat  the  stones  about  thine  ears  ? 

War.   Alas,  I  am  not  coop'd  here  for  defence  : 
I  will  away  towards  Barnet  presently, 
And  bid  thee  battle,  Edward,  if  thou  dar'st. 

if.  Edw.   Yes,  Warwick,  Edward  dares,  and  leads 
the  way  :  — 
Lords,  to  the  field ;  saint  George,  and  victory. 

[March.     Exeunt, 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Field  of  Battle  near  Barnet. 

Alarums  and  Excursions.     Enter  King  Edward, 
bringing  in  Warwick  wounded. 

K.  Edw.  So,  lie  thou  there  :   die  thou,  and  die  our 

fear ; 
For  Warwick  was  a  bug  ^  that  fear'd  ^  us  all.  — 
Now,  Montague,  sit  fast ;   I  seek  for  thee, 
That  Warwick's  bones  may  keep  thine  company. 

[ExU. 
War.    Ah,  who  is  nigh  ?  come  to  me  friend,  or  fo^ 
And  tell  me,  who  is  victor,  York,  or  Warwick  ? 
Why  ask  I  that  ?  my  mangled  body  shows, 
My  blood,  my  want  of  strength,  my  sick  heart  shows. 
That  I  must  yield  my  body  to  the  earth, 
And,  by  my  fall,  the  conquest  to  my  foe. 
Thus  yields  the  cedar  to  the  axe's  edge, 
Whose  arms  gave  shelter  to  the  princely  eagle, 
Under  whose  shade  the  ramping  lion  slept ; 
Whose  top-branch  overpeer'd  Jove's  spreading  tree. 
And  kept  low  shrubs  from  winter's  powerful  wind. 
These  eyes  that  now  are  dimm'd  with  death's  black 

veil, 
Have  been  as  piercing  as  the  mid-day  sun. 
To  search  the  secret  treasons  of  the  world  : 
The  wrinkles  in  my  brows,  now  fill'd  with  blood. 
Were  liken'd  oft  to  kingly  sepulchres  ; 
For  who  liv'd  king,  but  1  could  dig  his  grave  ? 
And  who  durst  smile,  when  Warwick  bent  his  brow  ? 
Lo,  now  my  glory  smear'd  in  dust  and  blood ! 
My  parks,  my  walks,  my  manors  that  I  had. 
Even  now  forsake  me  :   and,  of  all  my  lands. 
Is  nothing  left  me,  but  my  body's  length  ! 
Why,  what  is  pomp,  rule,  reign,  but  earth  and  dust  ? 
And,  live  we  how  we  can,  yet  die  we  must. 

Enter  Oxford  and  Somerset. 

Som.  Ah,  Warwick,  Warwick  !  wert  thou  as  we  are. 
We  might  recover  all  our  loss  again  ! 
The  queen  from  France  hath  brought  a  puissant 

power ; 
Even  now  we  heard  the  news  :    Ah,  couldst  thou  fly ! 

^W.  Why,  then  I  would  not  fly — Ah,  Montague, 
If  thou  be  there,  sweet  brother,  take  my  hand, 
And  with  thy  lips  keep  in  my  soul  a  while  ! 
Thou  lov'st  me  not ;  for,  brother,  if  thou  didst, 
Tl)y  tears  would  wash  this  cold  congealed  blood, 


^  Eminent,  egregious. 
6  Terrifieti. 


5  Bugbear. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


531 


I 


That  glues  my  lips,  and  will  not  let  me  speak. 
Come  quickly,  Montague,  or  I  am  dead. 

Som.  AhjWarwick,  Montaguehathbreath'dhislast; 
And  to  the  latest  gasp,  cried  out  for  Warwick, 
And  said —  Commend  me  to  my  valiant  brother. 
And  more  he  would  liave  said  ;  and  more  he  spoke, 
"Which  sounded  like  a  cannon  in  a  vault, 
That  might  not  be  distinguish'd  ;  but  at  last, 
I  well  might  hear  deliver'd  with  a  groan,  — 
O,  farewell,  Warwick  ! 

War.  Sweet  rest  to  his  soul !  — 

Fly,  lords,  and  save  yourselves  :   for  Warwick  bids 
You  all  farewell,  to  meet  again  in  heaven.      [^Dks. 

Oxf.  Away,  away,  to  meet  the  queen's  great  power. 
\Exeuvii  bearing  off  Warwick'^  Body. 

SCENE  III.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Flourish.     Enter  King  Edward  in  triumph ;  with 
Clarence,  Gloster,  and  the  rest. 

IT.  Edw.   Thus  far  our  fortune  keeps  an  upward 
course. 
And  we  are  grac'd  with  wreaths  of  victory. 
But  in  the  midst  of  this  bright-shining  day, 
I  spy  a  black,  suspicious,  threat'ning  cloud. 
That  will  encounter  with  our  glorious  sun. 
Ere  he  attain  his  easeful  western  bed  : 
I  mean,  my  lords,  —  those  powers  that  the  queen 
Hath  rais'd  in  Gallia,  have  arriv'd  our  coast. 
And,  as  we  hear,  march  on  to  fight  with  us. 

Clar.   A  little  gale  will  soon  disperse  that  cloud, 
And  blow  it  to  the  source  from  whence  it  came  : 
Thy  very  beams  will  dry  those  vapours  up  ; 
For  every  cloud  engenders  not  a  storm. 

Glo.    The  queen  is  valued  thirty  thousand  strong. 
And  Somerset,  with  Oxford,  fled  to  her ; 
If  she  have  time  to  breathe,  be  well  assur'd, 
Her  faction  will  be  full  as  strong  as  ours. 

K.  Edw.  We  are  adv^rtis'd  by  our  loving  friends, 
That  they  do  hold  their  course  towards  Tewksbury  ; 
We,  having  now  the  best  at  Bamet  field. 
Will  thither  straight,  for  willingness  rids  way ; 
And,  as  we  march,  our  strength  will  be  augmented 
In  every  county  as  we  go  along.  — 
Strike  up  the  drum  ;  cry  —  Courage  !  and  away. 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV Plains  near  Tewksbury. 

March.     Enter   Queen   Margaret,  Prince   Ed- 
ward, Somerset,  Oxford,  and  Soldiers. 

Q.  Mar.  Great  lords,  wise  men  ne'er  sit  and  wail 
their  loss. 
But  cheerly  seek  how  to  redress  their  harms. 
What  though  the  mast  be  now  blown  over-board, 
The  cal)le  broke,  the  holding  anchor  lost. 
And  half  our  sailors  swallow'd  in  the  flood? 
Yet  lives  our  pilot  still :   Is't  meet  that  he 
Should  leave  the  helm,  and,  like  a  fearful  lad, 
Witli  tearful  eyes  add  water  to  the  sea, 
And  give  more  strength  to  that  which  hath  too  much ; 
Whiles,  in  his  moan,  the  ship  splits  on  the  rock, 
Which  industry  and  courage  might  have  sav'd  ? 
Ah,  what  a  shame!  ah,  what  a  fault  were  tliis! 
Say,  Warwick  was  our  anchor  ;   What  of  that  ? 
And  Montague  our  top^mast ;  W'hat  of  him  ? 
Our  slaughter'd  friends  tlie  tackles ;  What  of  these  ? 
Why,  is  not  Oxford  here  another  anchor  ? 
And  Somerset  another  goodly  mast ; 
The  friends  of  France  our  slirouds  and  tacklings  ? 
And,  though  unskilful,  why  not  Ned  and  I 


For  once  allow'd  the  skilful  pilot's  charge  ? 
We  will  not  from  the  helm,  to  sit  and  weep  ; 
But  keep  our  course,  though  the  rough  wind  say — no. 
From  shelves  and  rocks  that  threaten  us  with  wreck. 
As  good  to  chide  the  waves  as  speak  them  fair. 
And  what  is  Edward,  but  a  ruthless  sea? 
What  Clarence,  but  a  quicksand  of  deceit  ? 
And  Richard,  but  a  ragged  fatal  rock? 
All  these  the  enemies  to  our  poor  bark. 
Say,  you  can  swim  ;  alas,  'tis  but  a  while  ; 
Tread  on  the  sand  ;  why  there  you  quickly  sink : 
Bestride  the  rock  ;  the  tide  will  wash  you  off. 
Or  else  you  famish,  that's  a  threefold  death. 
This  speak  I,  lords,  to  let  you  understand, 
In  case  some  one  of  you  would  fly  from  us. 
That  there's  no  hop'd-for  mercy  with  the  brothers^ 
More  than  with  ruthless  waves,  with  sands,  and  rocks. 
Why,  courage,  then  !  what  cannot  be  avoided, 
'Twere  childish  weakness  to  lament  or  fear. 

Prince.   Methinks,  a  woman  of  this  valiant  spirit 
Should,  if  a  coward  heard  her  speak  these  words, 
Infuse  his  breast  with  magnanimity. 
And  make  him,  naked,  foil  a  man  at  arms. 
I  speak  not  this  as  doubting  any  here : 
For,  did  I  but  suspect  a  fearful  man. 
He  should  have  leave  to  go  away  betimes  ; 
Lest,  in  our  need,  he  might  infect  another 
And  make  him  of  like  spirit  to  himself. 
If  any  such  be  here,  as  heaven  forbid ! 
Let  him  depart,  before  we  need  his  help. 

Oxf.   Women  and  children  of  so  high  a  courage  ! 
And  warriors  faint !  why,  'twere  perpetual  shame.— 
O,  brave  young  prince  !  thy  famous  grandfather 
Doth  live  again  in  thee ;   Long  mayst  thou  live. 
To  bear  his  image,  and  renew  his  glories  ! 

Som.  And  he,  that  will  not  fight  for  such  a  hop^ 
Go  home  to  bed,  and,  like  the  owl  by  day. 
If  he  arise,  be  mock'd  and  wonder'd  at. 

Q.  Mar.   Thanks,  gentle  Somerset ;  —  sweet  Ox- 
ford, thanks. 

Prince.  And  take  his  thanks,  that  yet  hath  nothing 
else. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Prepare  you,  lords,  for  Edward  is  at  hand, 
Ready  to  fight ;  therefore  be  resolute. 

Oxf.   I  thought  no  less  -.  it  is  his  policy, 
To  haste  thus  fast,  to  find  us  unprovided. 

Som.   But  he's  deceiv'd,  we  are  in  readiness. 

Q.  Mar.   This  cheers  my  heart,  to  see  your  for^ 
wardness. 

Oxf.   Here  pitch  our  battle,  hence  we  will  not 
budge. 

March.       Enter,  at    a   distance.    King    Edward, 
Clarence,  Gloster,  and  Forces. 
K.  Edw.     Brave   followers,    yonder   stands  the 
thorny  wood. 
Which,  by  the  heaven's  assistance,  and  your  strength. 
Must  by  the  roots  be  hewn  up  yet  ere  night. 
I  need  not  add  more  fuel  to  your  fire, 
For,  well  I  wot  7,  ye  blaze  to  bum  them  out : 
Give  signal  to  the  fight,  and  to  it,  lords. 

Q.  Mar.   Lords,  knights,  and  gentlemen,  what  I 
should  say. 
My  tears  gain.say  ;  for  ^very  word  I  speak. 
Ye  see,  I  drink  the  water  of  mine  eyes. 
Therefore,  no  more  but  this :  —  Henry,  your  sove* 

reign. 
Is  prisoner  to  the  foe ;  his  state  usurped, 
J  Know. 
M  m  3 


532 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Act  V, 


His  realm  a  slaugliter-house,  his  subjects  slain, 
His  statutes  cancell'd,  and  his  treasure  spent ; 
And  yonder  is  the  wolf  that  makes  this  spoil. 
You  fight  in  justice  :   then,  in  God's  name,  lords, 
3e  valiant,  and  give  signal  to  the  fight. 

[Exeunt,  both  Armies. 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  Part  of  the  same. 

Alarums :   Excursions  .•    and  afterwards  a  Retreat. 

Then  enter  King  Edward,  Clarence,  Gloster, 

and  Forces;  with  Queen  Margaret,  Oxford, 

and  Somerset,  Prisoners. 

K.  Edw.  Now,  here  a  period  of  tumultuous  broils. 
Away  with  Oxford  to  Hammes'  castle 8  straight: 
For  Somerset,  off'  with  his  guilty  head. 
Go,  bear  them  hence ;  I  will  not  hear  them  speak. 

Oxf.  For  my  part,  I'll  not  trouble  thee  with  words. 

Som.  Nor  I ;  but  stoop  with  patience  to  my  fortune. 
[Exeunt  Oxford  and  Somerset,  guarded. 

Q.  Mar.  So  part  we  sadly  in  this  troublous  world, 
To  meet  with  joy  in  sweet  Jerusalem. 

K,  Edw.  Is  proclamation  made,  —  that,  who  finds 
Edward, 
Shall  have  a  high  reward,  and  he  his  life? 

Glo.  It  is :  and,  lo,  where  youthful  Edward  comes. 
Enter  Soldiers,  with  Prince  Edward. 

JT.  Edw.  Bring  forth  the  gallant,  let  us  hear  him 


What !  can  so  young  a  thorn  begin  to  prick  ? 
Edward,  what  satisfaction  canst  thou  make. 
For  bearing  arms,  for  stirring  up  my  subjects. 
And  all  the  trouble  thou  hast  turn'd  me  to  ? 

Prince.  Speak  like  a  subject,  proud  ambitious  York ! 
Suppose  that  I  am  now  my  father's  mouth ; 
Resign  thy  chair,  and,  where  I  stand,  kneel  thou, 
"WhDst  I  propose  the  self-same  words  to  thee, 
Which,  traitor,  thou  wouldst  have  me  answer  to. 
Q.  Mar.  Ah,  that  thy  father  had  been  so  resolv'd ! 
jr.  Edw.  Peace,  wilful  boy,  or  I  will  charm  your 

tongue. 
Clar.   Untutor'd  lad,  thou  art  too  malapert. 
Prince.   I  know  my  duty  ;  you  are  all  undutiful  • 
Lascivious  Edward,  —  and  thouperjur'd  George, — 
And  thou  mis-shapen  Dick,  —  I  tell  ye  all, 
I  am  your  better,  traitors  as  ye  are  ;  — 
And  thou  usurp'st  my  father's  right  and  mine. 
JT.  Edw.  Take  that,  the  likeness  of  this  railer  here. 

[Stabs  him. 

Glo.  Sprawl'st  thou  ?  take  that,  to  end  thy  agony. 

[Glo.  stabs  him. 

Clar.   And  there's  for  twitting  me  with  perjury. 

[Clar.  stabs  him. 

Q.  Mar.   O,  kill  me  too  ! 

Glo.   Marry,  and  shall.  [OJ^ers  to  kill  her. 

K.  Edw.   Hold,  Richard,  hold,  for  we  have  done 

too  much. 
Glo.   Why  should  she  live,  to  fill  the  world  with 

words  ? 
K.  Edw.  What !  doth  she  swoon  ?  use  means  for 

her  recovery. 
Glo.  Clarence,  excuse  me  to  the  king  my  brother  : 
I'll  hence  to  London  on  a  serious  matter: 
Ere  ye  come  there,  be  sure  to  hear  some  news. 
Clar.   What?  what? 

Glo.   The  Tower,  the  Tower  !  [Ex\i. 

Q.  Mar.  O,  Ned,  sweet  Ned  !  speak  to  thy  mother, 
boy ! 
Canst  thou  not  speak  ?  —  O  traitors  !  murderers  !  — 
They,  that  stabb'd  Caesar,  shed  no  blood  at  all, 
8  A  castle  in  Picardy. 


Did  not  offend,  nor  were  not  worthy  blame. 
If  this  foul  deed  were  by,  to  equal  it. 
He  was  a  man  :   this,  in  respect,  a  child ; 
And  men  ne'er  spend  their  fury  on  a  child. 
What's  worse  than  murderer,  that  I  may  name  it  ? 
No,  no  ;  my  heart  will  burst,  an  if  I  speak  :  — 

And  I  will  speak,  that  so  my  heart  may  burst 

Butchers  and  villains,  bloody  cannibals  ! 

How  sweet  a  plant  have  you  untimely  cropp'd  ! 

You  have  no  children,  butchers  !  if  you  had. 

The  thought  of  them  would  have  stirr'd  up  remorse  : 

But,  if  you  ever  chance  to  have  a  child, 

Look  in  his  youth  to  have  him  so  cut  off, 

As,  deathsmen !  you  have  rid  this  sweet  young  prince ! 

K.  Edw.  Away  with  her ;  go  bear  her  hence  per- 
force. 

Q.  Mar.  Nay,  never  bear  me  hence,  despatch  me 
here; 
Here  sheath  thy  sword,  I'll  pardon  thee  my  death  : 
What !  wilt  thou  not  ?  —  then,  Clarence,  do  it  thou. 

Clar.  By  heaven,  I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  ease. 

Q.  Mar.    Good  Clarence,  do  j  sweet  Clarence,  do 
thou  do  it. 

Clar.   Didst  thou  not  hear  me  swear,  I  would  not 
doit? 

Q.  Mar.   Ay,  but  thou  usest  to  forswear  thyself ; 
'Twas  sin  before  9,  but  now  'tis  charity. 
What !  wilt  thou  not  ?  where  is  that  devil's  butcher, 
Hard-favour'd  Richard  ?   Richard,  where  art  thou  ? 
Thou  art  not  here  :   Murder  is  thy  alms-deed ; 
Petitioners  for  blood  thou  ne'er  put'st  back. 

IT.  Edw.  Away,  I  say ;  I  charge  ye  bear  her  hence. 

Q.  Mar.    So  come  to  you,  and  yours,  as  to  this 
prince  !  [Exit,  led  out  forcibly. 

K.  Edw.  Where's  Richard  gone  ? 

Clar.    To  London  all  in  post ;  and,  as  I  guess. 
To  make  a  bloody  supper  in  the  Tower. 

K.  Edw.  He's  sudden,  if  a  thing  comes  in  his  head. 
Now  march  we  hence  :   discharge  the  common  sort 
With  pay  and  thanks,  and  let's  away  to  London, 
And  see  our  gentle  queen  how  well  she  fares  ; 
By  this,  I  hope,  she  hath  a  son  for  me.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VL  — London.     A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

King  Henry  is  discovered  sitting  with  a  Book  in  his 

Hand,  the  Lieutenant  attending.  Enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Good  day,  my  lord  !   What,  at  your  book  so 

hard? 
K.  Hen.   Ay,  my  good  lord  :   My  lord,  I  should 
say  rather ; 
'Tis  sin  to  flatter,  good  was  little  better; 
Good  Gloster,  and  good  devil,  were  alike, 
And  both  preposterous  ;  therefore,  not  good  lord. 
Glo.  Sirrah,  leave  us  to  ourselves :  we  must  confer. 
[Exit  Lieutenant. 
K.  Hen.   So  flies  the  reckless  shepherd  from  the 
wolf : 
So  first  the  harmless  sheep  doth  yield  his  fleece, 
And  next  his  throat  unto  the  butcher's  knife.  — 
What  scene  of  death  hath  Roscius  now  to  act  ? 

Glo.    Suspicion  always  haunts  the  guilty  mind  j 
The  thief  doth  fear  each  bush  an  officer. 

K.  Hen.  The  bird,  that  hath  been  limed  in  a  bush, 
With  trembling  wings  misdoubteth  •  every  bush : 
And  I,  the  hapless  male  to  one  sweet  bird. 
Have  now  the  fatal  object  in  my  eye. 
Where  my  poor  young  was  lim'd,  was  caught,  and 
kiU'd. 
9  She  alludes  to  the  desertion  of  Clarence. 
1  'J'o  misdoubt  is  to  suspect  danger,  to  fear. 


Scene  VI. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


533 


Glo.  Why,  what  a  peevisli  -  fool  was  that  of  Crete, 
That  taught  his  son  the  office  of  a  fowl  ? 
And  yet,  for  all  his  wings,  the  fool  was  drown'd. 

JT.  Hen.    I,  Daedalus ;  my  poor  boy,  Icarus ; 
Thy  father,  Minos,  that  denied  our  course ; 
The  sun,  that  sear'd  the  wings  of  my  sweet  boy, 
Thy  brother  Edward ;  and  thyself,  the  sea. 
Whose  envious  gulf  did  swallow  up  his  life. 
Ah,  kill  me  with  thy  weapon,  not  with  words  ! 
My  breast  can  better  brook  thy  dagger's  point, 
Than  can  my  ears  that  tragick  history.  — 
But  wherefore  dost  thou  come?  is't  for  my  life  ? 

Glo.   Think'st  thou,  I  am  an  executioner  ? 

IT.  Hen.   A  persecutor,  I  am  sure,  thou  art ; 
If  murdering  innocents  be  executing, 
Why,  then  thou  art  an  executioner. 

Glo.   Thy  son  I  kill'd,  for  his  presumption. 

IT.  Hen.  Hadst  tliou  been  kill'd,  when  first  thou 
didst  presume. 
Thou  hadst  not  liv'd  to  kill  a  son  of  mine. 
And  tlius  I  prophesy,  —  that  many  a  thousand, 
Which  now  mistrust  no  parcel  of  my  fear ; 
And  many  an  old  man's  sigh,  and  many  a  widow's, 
And  many  an  orphan's  water-standing  eye,  — 
Men  for  their  sons',  wives  for  their  husbands'  fate. 
And  orphans  for  their  parents'  timeless  deatli,  — 
Shall  rue  the  hour  that  ever  thou  wast  born. 
The  owl  shriek'd  at  thy  birth,  an  evil  sign ; 
The  night-crow  cried,  aboding  luckless  time  j 
Dogshowl'd,  and  hideous  tempests  shook  down  trees ; 
The  raven  rook'd^  her  on  the  chimney's  top, 
And  chattering  pies  in  dismal  discords  sung. 
Thy  mother  felt  more  than  a  mother's  pain. 
And  yet  brought  forth  less  than  a  mother's  hope  ; 
To  wit,  —  an  indigest  deformed  lump. 
Not  like  the  fruit  of  such  a  goodly  tree. 
Teeth  hadst  thou  in  tliy  head,  when  thou  wast  born. 
To  signify,  —  thou  cam'st  to  bite  the  world  : 
And,  if  the  rest  be  true  which  I  have  beard. 
Thou  cam'st  — 

Glo.   I'll  hear  no  more  ;  —  Die,  prophet,  in  thy 
speech;  [Stabs  him. 

For  this,  amongst  the  rest,  was  I  ordain 'd. 

IT.  Hen.  Ay,  and  for  much  more  slaughter  after  this. 

O  God  !  forgive  my  sins,  and  pardon  thee  !        [Dies. 

Glo.   Wliat,  will  the  aspiring  blood  of  Lancaster 

Sink  in  the  ground?     I    thought   it  would  have 

mounted. 
See,  how  my  sword  weeps  for  the  poor  king's  death  ! 

0,  may  such  purple  tears  be  always  slied 

From  those  that  wish  the  downfal  of  our  house !  — 
If  any  spark  of  life  be  yet  remaining, 
Down,  down  to  hell  j  and  say  —  I  sent  thee  thither, 

[Stabs  him  again. 

1,  that  have  neither  pity,  love,  nor  fear.  — 
Indeed,  'tis  true,  that  Henry  told  me  of; 
As  I  have  often  heard  my  mother  say, 

I  came  into  the  world  with  my  legs  forward  : 
Had  I  not  reason,  think  ye,  to  make  haste. 
And  seek  their  ruin  that  usurp'd  our  right? 
The  midwife  wonder'd ;  and  tlie  women  cried, 
O,  Heamn  bless  M4,  he  is  born  with  teeth  ! 
And  so  1  was;  which  plainly  signified  — 
Tliat  I  should  snarl,  and  bite,  and  play  the  dog. 
Then,  since  the  heavens  have  shap'd  my  body  so, 
I^t  hell  make  crook 'd  my  mind  to  answer  iL 
I  have  no  brother,  I  am  like  no  brotlier  : 
And  this  word  —  love,  which  greybeards  call  divine 
Be  resident  in  men  like  one  anotiier, 
«  Childuh.        3  To  rook  signified  to  lodge  on  any  thing. 


And  not  in  me  ;   I  am  myself  alone.  — 

Clarence,  beware ;  thou  keep'st  me  from  the  light ; 

But  I  will  sort  ^  a  pitchy  day  for  thee : 

For  I  will  buz  abroad  such  prophecies. 

That  Edward  shall  be  fearful  of  his  life  ; 

And  then,  to  purge  his  fear,  I'll  be  thy  death. 

King  Henry,  and  the  prince  his  son,  are  gone  : 

Clarence,  thy  turn  is  next,  and  then  the  rest ; 

Counting  myself  but  bad,  till  I  be  best.  — 

I'll  throw  thy  body  in  another  room. 

And  triumph,  Henry,  in  thy  day  of  doom.      [Esit, 

SCENE  VII.  —^  Room  in  the  Palace. 

King  Edward  is  discovered  sitting  on  his  Throne  ; 
QuE£N  Elizabeth  with  the  infant  Prince^  Cla- 
rence, Gloster,  Hastings,  and  others,  near  him. 

JC.Edw.  Once  more  wesit  in  England'sroyal  throne, 
Re-purchas'd  with  the  blood  of  enemies. 
What  valiant  foe-men,  like  to  autumn's  com. 
Have  we  mow'd  down,  in  tops  of  all  their  pride  ? 
Three  dukes  of  Somerset,  threefold  renown 'd 
For  hardy  and  undoubted  champions  : 
Two  Cliffords,  as  the  father  and  the  son, 
And  two  Northumberlands ;  two  braver  men 
Ne'er  spurr'd  their  coursers  at  the  trumpet's  sound  : 
With  them,  the  two  brave  bears,  Warwick  and  Mon- 
tague, 
That  in  their  chains  fetter'd  the  kingly  lion, 
And  made  the  forest  tremble  when  they  roar'd. 
Thus  have  we  swept  suspicion  from  our  seat. 
And  made  our  footstool  of  security.  — 
Come  hither,  Bess,  and  let  me  kiss  my  boy  :  — 
Young  Ned,  for  thee,  thine  uncles,  and  myself. 
Have  in  our  armours  watch'd  the  winter's  night ; 
Went  all  a-foot  in  summer's  scalding  heat, 
That  thou  mightst  repossess  the  crown  in  peace ; 
And  of  our  labours  thou  shalt  reap  the  gain. 

Glo.   I'll  blast  his  harvest,  if  your  head  were  laid. 
For  yet  I  am  not  look'd  on  in  the  world. 
This  shoulder  was  ordain'd  so  thick,  to  heave ; 
And  heave  it  shall  some  weight,  or  break  my  back :  — 
Work  thou  the  way,  —  and  thou  shalt  execute. 

[Aside. 
K,  Edw.   Clarence,  and  Gloster,  love  my  lovely 
queen  ; 
And  kiss  your  princely  nephew,  brothers  both. 

Clar.   The  duty,  that  I  owe  unto  your  majesty, 
I  seal  upon  tlie  lips  of  this  sweet  babe. 
JT.  Edw.  Thanks,  noble  Clarence;  worthy  brother, 

thanks. 
Glo.  And,  that  I  love  the  tree  from  whence  thou 
sprang'st. 
Witness  the  loving  kiss  I  give  the  fruit.  — 

IT.  Edw.    Now  am  I  seated  as  my  soul  delights. 
Having  my  country's  peace,  and  brothers'  loves. 
Clar.    What  will  your  grace  have  done  with  Mar- 
garet? 
Reignier,  her  father,  to  the  king  of  France 
Hath  pawn'd  the  Sicils  and  Jerusalem, 
And  hither  have  they  sent  it  for  her  ransome. 
A".  Edw.   Away  with  her,  and  waft  her  hence  to 
France. 
And  now  what  rests,  but  that  we  spend  the  time 
With  stately  triumphs,  mirthful  comick  shows, 
Such  as  befit  the  pleasures  of  the  court  ?  — 
Sound,  drums  and  trumpets !  —  farewell, sour  annoy ! 
For  here,  I  hoi>e,  begins  our  lasting  joy.    [ExeunU 

*  Select 
M  m  3 


A 


P 
^ 


-^'l 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF 

KING    RICHARD   III. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


1 


Soils  to  the  King. 


•others 
King. 


to  the 


afienvards     King 


King  Edward  the  Fourth. 

Edward,  Prince  o/*  Wales,  after 
wards  King  Edward  V., 

Richard,  Duke  of  York, 

George,  Duke  ©^Clarence, 

Richard,  Duke  of  Gloster,  after- 
wards King  Richard  III. 

ji  young  Son  of  Clarence. 

Henry,     Earl    of    Richmond, 
Henry  VII. 

Cardinal  Bourchier,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Thomas  Rotherham,  Archbishop  of  York. 

John  Morton,  Bishop  of  Ely. 

Duke  of  Buckingham. 

Duke  of  Norfolk. 

Earl  of  Surrey,  his  Son. 

Earl  of  Rivers,  Brother  to  King  Edward's  Queen. 

Marquis  of  Dorset,  and  Lord  Grey,  her  Sons. 

Earl  of  Oxford. 

Lord  Hastings. 

Lord  Stanley. 

Lord  Lovel. 

Sir  Thomas  Vauchan. 


Sir  Richard  Ratcliff.  ^ 

Sir  William  Catesby. 

Sir  James  Tyrrfl. 

Sir  James  Blount. 

Sir  Walter  Herbert. 

Sir  Robert  Brakenbury,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower* 

Christopher  Urswick,  a  Priest. 

Another  Priest. 

Lord  Mat/or  of  London. 

iSAer^o/"' Wiltshire. 

Elizabeth,  Queen  of  King  Edward  IV. 

Margaret,  JFidow  of  King  Henry  VI. 

Duchess  of  York,  Mother  to  King  Edward  IV., 

Clarence,  and  Gloster. 
Lady  Anne,  Widow  of  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales, 

Son  to  King  Henry  VI. ;  afterwards  married  to 

the  Duke  of  Gloster. 
A  young  Daughter  of  Clarence. 


Lords,    and    other  Attendants;    two   Gentlemen,  a 
Pursuivant,  Scrivener,  Citizens,   Afurderers,  Mes- 
sengers, Ghosts,  Soldiers,  (.fc 
SCENE,  —  England. 


1  Kr.l.,   MB.   THOC    VI 


iERK    ARffi    I^Y    GHILljREh 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF 


KING    RICHARD    III 


ACT  L 


SCENE  I.  —  London,     A  Street. 
Enter  Gloster. 
Glo.   Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer  by  this  sun  of  York ; 
And  all  the  clouds,  that  low'r'd  upon  our  house, 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried. 
Now  are  our  brows  bound  with  victorious  wreaths  ; 
Our  bruised  arms  hung  up  for  monuments  ; 
Our  stern  alarums  chang'd  to  merry  meetings, 
Our  dreadful  marches  to  delightful  measures.  > 
Grim-visag'd  war  hath  smooth'd  his  wrinkled  front; 
And  now,  —  instead  of  mounting  barbed ^  steeds, 
To  fright  the  souls  of  fearful  adversaries,  — 
He  capers  nimbly  in  a  lady's  chamber, 
To  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  a  lute. 
But  I,  —  that  am  not  shap'd  for  sportive  tricks, 
Nor  made  to  court  an  amorous  looking-glass  ; 
1,  that  am  rudely  stamp'd,  and  want  love's  majesty, 
1  Dances  "^  Arinec). 


To  strut  before  a  wanton  ambling  nymph  ; 
I,  that  am  curtail'd  of  this  fair  proportion. 
Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 
Deform'd,  unfinish'd,  sent  before  my  time 
Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up 
And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionable, 
That  dogs  bark  at  me,  as  I  halt  by  them  ;  — 
Why  I,  in  this  weak  piping  time  of  peace. 
Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the  time ; 
Unless  to  spy  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 
And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity  ; 
And  therefore,  since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover, 
To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days,  — 
I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain, 
And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days,  — 
Plots  have  I  laid,  inductions^  dangerous, 
By  drunken  prophecies,  libels,  and  dreams. 
To  set  my  brother  Clarence,  and  the  king. 
In  deadly  hate  the  one  against  the  other : 
^  Preparations  for  mischief. 


Act  I.  Scene  I. 


KING   RICHARD  III. 


535 


And,  if  king  Edward  be  as  true  and  just 
As  I  am  subtle,  false,  and  treacherous. 
This  day  should  Clarence  closely  be  mew'd  up  ; 
About  a  prophecy,  which  says  —  that  G 
Of  Edward's  heirs  the  murderer  shall  be. 
Dive,  thoughts,  down  to  my  soul !  here  Clarence 
comes. 

Enter  Clarencx,  guarded,  and  Bbakenbury. 

Brother,  good  day  :    What  means  this  armed  guard 
That  waits  upon  your  grace  ? 

Clar.  His  majesty, 

Tendering  my  person's  safety,  hath  appointed 
This  conduct  to  convey  me  to  the  Tower. 

Glo.   Upon  what  cause  ? 

Clar.  Because  my  name  is  —  George. 

Glo,    Alack,  my  lord,  that  fault  is  none  of  yours  ; 

He  should,  for  that,  commit  your  godfathers  : 

Belike  his  majesty  hath  some  intent, 

That  you  shall  be  new  christened  in  the  Tower. 

But  what's  the  matter,  Clarence  ?  may  I  know  ? 

Clar.    Yea,  Richard,  when  I  know  ;  for  I  protest, 
As  yet  I  do  not :    But,  as  I  can  learn, 
He  hearkens  after  prophecies,  and  dreams ; 
And  from  the  cross- row  plucks  the  letter  G, 
And  says  —  a  wizard  told  him,  that  by  G 
His  issue  disinherited  should  be  ; 
And,  for  my  name  of  George  begins  with  G, 
It  follows  in  his  thought  that  I  am  he : 
These  as  I  learn,  and  such  like  toys  as  these, 
Have  mov'd  his  highness  to  commit  me  now. 

G/o.  Why,thisitis,when  men  are  rul'd  by  women: — 
'Tis  not  the  king,  that  sends  you  to  the  Tower  ; 
My  lady  Grey,  his  wife,  Clarence,  'tis  she. 
That  tempers  him  to  this  extremity. 
Was  it  not  she,  and  that  good  man  of  worship, 
Antony  Woodeville,  her  brother  there, 
That  made  him  send  lord  Hastings  to  the  Tower  ; 
From  whence  this  present  day  he  is  deliver'd  ? 
We  are  not  safe,  Clarence,  we  are  not  safe. 

Clar.   By  heaven,  I  think,  there  is  no  man  secure. 
But  the  queen's  kindred,  and  night-walking  heralds 
That  trudge  betwixt  the  king  and  mistress  Shore. 
Heard  you  not  what  an  humble  suppliant 
Lord  Hastings  was  to  her  for  his  delivery  ? 

Glo.   Humbly  complaining  to  her  deity 
Got  my  lord  chamberlain  his  liberty. 
I'll  tell  you  what,  —  I  think,  it  is  our  way, 
If  we  will  keep  in  favour  with  the  king, 
To  be  her  men,  and  wear  her  livery  : 
The  jealous  o'er-wom  widow,  and  herself*. 
Since  that  our  brother  dubb'd  them  gentlewomen, 
Are  mighty  gossips  in  this  monarchy. 

Brak.  I  beseech  your  graces  both  to  pardon  me ; 
His  majesty  hath  straitly  given  in  charge. 
That  no  man  shall  have  private  conference, 
Of  what  degree  soever  with  his  brother. 

Glo.    Even  so  ?  an  please  your  worship,  Braken- 
bury, 
You  may  partake  of  any  thing  we  say  : 
We  speak  no  treason,  man  ;  —  We  say,  the  king 
Is  wise,  and  virtuous  ;  and  his  noble  queen 
Well  struck  in  years ;  fair,  and  not  jealous : 
We  sayj  that  Shore's  wife  hath  a  pretty  foot, 
A  cherry  lip, 

A  bonny  eye,  a  passing  pleasing  tongue  ; 
And  the  queen's  kindred  are  made  gentlefolks : 
How  say  you,  sir?  can  you  deny  all  this? 

^ra*.  With  this,  my  lord,  myself  have  nought  to  do, 
*  The  queen  and  Shore. 


And  1  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me ;  and,  withal. 
Forbear  your  conference  with  the  noble  duke. 

Clar.   We  know   thy  charge,    Brakenburj',  and 
vnll  obey. 

Glo.   We  are  the  queen's  abjects,  and  must  obey. 
Brother,  farewell :    I  will  unto  the  king  j 
And  wliatsoever  you  will  employ  me  in, — 
Were  it,  to  call  king  Edward's  widow  —  sister,^ 
I  will  perform  it  to  enfranchise  you. 
Mean  time,  this  deep  disgrace  in  brotherhood, 
Touches  me  deeper  than  you  can  ihiagine, 

Clar.    I  know  it  picaseth  neither  of  us  well. 

Glo.   Well,  your  imprisonment  shall  not  be  long; 
I  will  deliver  you,  or  else  lie  for  you  : 
Mean  time,  have  patience. 

Clar.  I  must  perforce  ;  farewell. 

lExeunt  Clarence,  Brakenbury,  and 
Guard. 

Glo.  Go,  tread  the  path  that  thou  shalt  ne'er  return. 
Simple,  plain  Clarence !  —  I  do  love  thee  so, 
That  I  will  shortly  send  thy  soul  to  heaven. 
If  heaven  will  take  the  present  at  our  hands. 
But  who  comes  here  ?  the  new-deliver'd  Hastings  ? 

Ertier  Hastings. 

Hast,    Good  time  of  day  unto  my  gracious  lord  ! 

Glo.    As  much  unto  my  good  lord  chamberlain ! 
Well  are  you  welcome  to  this  open  air. 
How  hath  your  lordship  brook'd  imprisonment? 

Hast.   With  patience,  noble    lord,   as  prisoners 
must: 
But  I  shall  live,  my  lord,  to  give  them  thanks. 
That  were  the  cause  of  my  imprisonment. 

Glo.   No  doubt,  no  doubt ;  and  so  shall  Clarence 
too ; 
For  they,  that  were  your  enemies,  are  his. 
And  have  prevail'd  as  much  on  him,  as  you. 

Hast.  More  pity  that  the  eagle  should  be  mew'd. 
While  kites  and  buzzards  prey  at  liberty. 

Glo.   What  news  abroad  ? 

Hast.  No  news  so  bad  abroad,  as  this  at  home  ;  — 
Tiie  king  is  sickly,  weak,  and  melancholy. 
And  his  physicians  fear  him  mightily. 

Glo.  Now,  by  saint  Paul,  this  news  is  bad  indeed. 
O,  he  hath  kept  an  evil  diet  long, 
And  over-much  consum'd  his  royal  person  ; 
'Tis  very  grievous  to  be  thought  upon. 
What,  is  he  in  his  bed? 

Hast.  He  is. 

Glo.   Go  you  before,  and  I  will  follow  you. 

\^Exit  Hastings. 
He  cannot  live,  I  hope  ;  and  must  not  die. 
Till  George  be  pack'd  with  post-horse  up  to  heaven. 
I'll  in,  to  urge  his  hatred  more  to  Clarence, 
With  lies  well  steel'd  with  weighty  arguments ; 
And,  if  I  fail  not  in  my  deep  intent, 
Clarence  hath  not  another  day  to  live : 
Which  done,  Heaven  take  king  Edward  to  hismercy. 
And  leave  the  world  for  me  to  bustle  in  ! 
For  then  I'll  marry  Warwick's  youngest  daughter: 
What  though  I  kill'd  her  husband,  and  her  father? 
The  readiest  way  to  make  the  wench  amends, 
Is  —  to  become  her  husband,  and  her  father  : 
The  which  will  I  ;  not  all  so  much  for  love, 
As  for  another  secret  close  intent. 
By  marrying  her,  which  I  must  reach  unto. 
But  yet  I  run  before  my  horse  to  market : 
Clarence  still  breathes:  Edwardstill  livis,  and  reigns; 
When  they  are  gone,  then  must  I  count  my  gains. 

{Exit. 
M  m  4 


536 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  I. 


SCENE  II.  ^  Another  Street. 

Enter  the  Corpse  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  borne  in 
an  open  Coffin;  Gentlemen  bearing  Halberds,  to 
guard  it ;  and  Ladt  Anne  as  Mourner. 

Anne.  Set  down,  set  down  your  honourable  load, — 
If  honour  may  be  shrouded  in  a  hearse,  — 
Whilst  T  a  while  obsequiously  ^  lament 
The  untimely  fall  of  virtuous  Lancaster.  —- 
Poor  key-cold  figure  of  a  holy  king  ! 
Pale  ashes  of  the  house  of  I^ancaster  ! 
Thou  bloodless  remnant  of  that  royal  blood  ! 
Be  it  lawful  that  I  invocate  thy  ghost. 
To  hear  the  lamentations  of  poor  Anne, 
Wife  to  thy  Edward,  to  thy  slaughter'd  son, 
Stabb'd  by  the  self-same  hand  that  made  these  wounds ! 
Lo,  in  these  windows,  that  let  forth  thy  life, 
I  pour  the  helpless  balm  of  my  poor  eyes :  — 
O,  cursed  be  the  hand  that  made  these  holes  ! 
Cursed  the  heart,  that  had  the  heart  to  do  it ! 
Cursed  the  blood,  that  let  this  blood  from  hence  !    , 
More  direful  hap  betide  that  hated  wretch, 
That  makes  us  wretched  by  the  death  of  thee, 
Than  I  can  wish  to  adders,  spiders,  toads. 
Or  any  creeping  venom'd  thing  that  lives ! 
If  ever  he  have  child,  abortive  be  it, 
Prodigious,  and  untimely  brought  to  light, 
Whose  ugly  and  unnatural  aspect 
May  fright  the  hopeful  mother  at  the  view  ; 
And  that  be  heir  to  his  unhappiness  ! 
If  ever  he  have  wife,  let  her  be  made 
More  miserable  by  the  death  of  him. 
Than  I  am  made  by  my  young  lord,  and  thee !  — 
Come,  now,  toward  Chertsey  with  your  holy  load, 
Taken  from  Paul's  to  be  interred  there ; 
And  still,  as  you  are  weary  of  the  weight, 
Rest  you,  whiles  I  lament  king  Henry's  corse. 

[The  Bearers  lake  up  the  Corpse,  and  advance. 

Enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Stay  you  that  bear  the  corse,  and  set  it  down. 

Anne.  What  black  magician  conjures  up  this  fiend, 
To  stop  devoted  charitable  deeds  ? 

Glo.  Villains,  set  down  the  corse;  or, by  saint  Paul, 
I'll  make  a  corse  of  him  that  disobeys. 

1  Gent.   My  lord,  stand  back,  and  let  the  coffin 
pass. 

Glo.  Unmanner'd  dog  :  stand  thou  when  I  com- 
mand : 
Advance  thy  halberd  higher  than  my  breast. 
Or,  by  saint  Paul,  I'll  strike  thee  to  my  foot. 
And  spurn  upon  thee,  beggar,  for  thy  boldness. 

[TAe  Bearers  set  down  the  Coffin. 

Anne.  What,  do  you  tremble  ?  are  you  all  afraid  ? 
Alas,  I  blame  you  not ;  for  you  are  mortal. 
And  mortal  eyes  cannot  endure  the  devil.  ^ — 
Avaunt,  thou  dreadful  minister  of  hell ! 
Thou  hadst  but  power  over  his  mortal  body. 
His  soul  thou  canst  not  have  ;  therefore,  begone. 

Glo.   Sweet  saint,  for  charity,  be  not  so  curst. 

Anne.   Foul  devil,  for  heaven's  sake,  hence,  and 
trouble  us  not ; 
For  thou  hast  made  the  happy  earth  thy  hell, 
Fill'd  it  with  cursing  cries,  and  deep  exclaims. 
If  thou  delight  to  view  thy  heinous  deeds. 
Behold  this  pattern  of  thy  butcheries  :  — 
O,  gentlemen,  see,  see !  dead  Henry's  wounds 
Open  their  congeal'd  mouths,  and  bleed  afresh !  — 
Blush,  blush,  thou  lump  of  foul  deformity ; 
*  With  becoming  reverence  for  the  dead. 


For  'tis  thy  presence  that  exhales  this  blood 

From  cold  and  empty  veins,  where  no  blood  dwells  ; 

Thy  deed,  inhuman  and  unnatural. 

Provokes  this  deluge  most  unnatural.     -     ■ 

O  Thou,  which  this  blood  mad'st,  revenge  his  death ! 

O  earth,  which  this  blood  drink'st,  revenge  his  death ! 

Either,  Heaven,  with  lightning  strike  the  murderer 

dead. 
Or,  earth,  gape  open  wide,  and  eat  him  quick  ; 
As  thou  dost  swallow  up  this  good  king's  blood. 
Which  his  hell-govern'd  arm  hath  butchered  ! 

Glo.  Lady,  you  know  no  rules  of  charity. 
Which  renders  good  for  bad,  blessings  for  curses. 

Anne.   Villain,  thou  know'st  no  law  of  God  nor 
man  ; 
No  beast  so  fierce,  but  knows  some  touch  of  pity. 

Glo.  But  I  know  none,  and  therefore  am  no  beast. 

Anne.   O  wonderful,  when  devils  tell  the  truth  ! 

Glo.  More  wonderful,  when  angels  are  so  angry.— 
Vouchsafe,  divine  perfection  of  a  woman. 
Of  these  supposed  evils,  to  give  me  leave, 
By  circumstance,  but  to  acquit  myself. 

Anne.   Vouchsafe,  difFus'd  infection  of  a  man. 
For  these  known  evils,  but  to  give  me  leave, 
By  circumstance,  to  curse  thy  cursed  self. 

Glo.    Fairer  than  tongue  can  name  thee,  let  me 
have 
Some  patient  leisure  to  excuse  myself. 

Anne.  Fouler  than  heart  can  think  thee,  thou  canst 
make 
No  excuse  current,  but  to  hang  thyself. 

Glo.   By  such  despair,  I  should  accuse  myself. 

Anne.  And,  by  despairing,  shalt  thou  stand  excus'd ; 
For  doing  worthy  vengeance  on  thyself. 
That  didst  unworthy  slaughter  upon  others. 

Glo.   Say,  that  I  slew  them  not  ? 

Anne.  Why,  then,  they  are  not  dead : 

But  dead  they  are,  and,  devilish  slave,  by  thee. 

Glo.   I  did  not  kill  your  husband. 

Anne.  Why,  then  he  is  alive. 

Glo.  Nay,  he  is  dead;  and  slain  by  Edward's  hand. 

Anne.    In  thy  soul's  throat  thou  liest  :    queen 
Margaret  saw 
Thy  murd'rous  faulchion  smoking  in  his  blood  ; 
The  which  thou  once  didst  bend  against  her  breast, 
But  that  thy  brothers  beat  aside  the  point. 

Glo.   I  was  provoked  by  her  sland'rous  tongue. 
That  laid  their  guilt  upon  my  guiltless  shoulders. 

Anne.   Thou  w^ast  provoked  by  thy  bloody  mind. 
That  never  dreamt  on  aught  but  butcheries  ; 
Didst  thou  not  kill  this  king  ? 

Glo.  I  grant  ye. 

Anne.    O,  he  was  gentle,  mild,  and  virtuous. 

Glo.  The  fitter  for  the  Kingof  heaven  that  hath  him. 

Anne.   He  is  in  heaven,  where  thou  shalt  never 
come. 

Glo.   Let  him  thank  me,  that  holp  to  send  him 
thither ; 
For  he  was  fitter  for  that  place,  than  earth. 

Anne.   And  thou  unfit  for  any  place  but  hell. 

Glo.   Yes,  one  place  else,  if  you  will  hear  me 
name  it. 

Anne.    Some  dungeon. 

Glo.  Your  bed-chamber. 

Anne.  Ill  rest  betide  the  chamber  where  thou  liest  I 

Glo.    So  will  it,  madam,  till  I  lie  with  you. 

Anne.   I  hope  so. 

Glo.  I  know  so But,  gentle  lady  Anne,  — 

To  leave  this  keen  encounter  of  our  wits. 
And  fall  somewhat  into  a  slower  method ;  — 


Scene  IT. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


537 


Is  not  the  causer  of  the  timeless  deaths 
Of  these  Plantagenets,  Henry  and  Edward, 
As  blameful  as  the  executioner  ? 

Anne.   Thou  wast  the  cause,  and  most  accurs'd 

effect. 
Glo.   Your  beauty  was  the  cause  of  that  effect ; 
Your  beauty  which  did  haunt  me  in  my  sleep, 
To  undertake  the  death  of  all  the  world. 

Anne.    If  I  thought  that,  I  tell  thee,  homicide, 
These  nails  should  rend  that  beauty  from  my  cheeks. 

Glo.   These  eyes  could  not  endure  that  beauty's 
wreck  ; 
You  should  not  blemish  it,  if  I  stood  by  : 
As  all  the  world  is  cheered  by  the  sun. 
So  I  by  that ;  it  is  my  day,  my  life. 

Anne,   Black  night  o'ershade  thy  day,  and  death 
thy  life ! 

Glo.   Curse  not  thyself,  fair  creature;  thou  art 
both. 

Anne.   I  would  I  were,  to  be  reveng'd  on  thee. 

Glo.    It  is  a  quarrel  most  unnatural. 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him  that  loveth  thee. 

Anne.   It  is  a  quarrel  just  and  reasonable. 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him  that  kill'd  my  husband. 

Glo.   He  that  bereft  thee,  lady,  of  thy  husband, 
Did  it  to  help  thee  to  a  better  husband. 

Anne-    His   better   doth    not    breathe  upon  the 
earth. 

do.  He  lives,  that  loves  you  better  than  he  could. 

Anne.   Name  him. 

Glo.  Plantagenet. 

Anne.  Why,  that  was  he. 

Glo.  The  self-same  name,  but  one  of  better  nature. 

Anne.   Where  is  he  ? 

Glo.  Here  :   [Slie  spits  at  him.}   Why 

dost  thou  spit  at  me  ? 

Anne.  'Would  it  were  mortal  poison,  for  thy  sake  ! 

Glo.    Never  came  poison  from  so  sweet  a  place. 

Anne.    Never  hung  poison  on  a  fouler  toad. 
Out  of  my  sight !  thou  dost  infect  mine  eyes. 

Glo.    Thine  eyes,  sweet  lady,  have  infected  mine. 

Anne.  'Would  they  were  basilisks,  to  strike  thee 
dead  ! 

Glo.  I  would  they  were,  that  I  might  die  at  once ; 
For  now  they  kill  me  with  a  living  death. 
Those  eyes  of  tliine  from  mine  have  drawn  salt  tears, 
Sham'd  their  aspects  with  store  of  childish  drops  : 
These  eyes,  which  never  shed  remorseful  ^  tear,  — 
Nor  when  my  father  York  and  Edward  wept, 
To  hear  the  piteous  moan  that  Rutland  made. 
When  black-fac'd  Clifford  shook  his  sword  at  him  : 
Nor  when  thy  warlike  father,  like  a  child, 
Told  the  sad  story  of  my  father's  death  ; 
And  twenty  times  made  pause,  to  sob  and  weep. 
That  all  tlie  standers-by  had  wet  their  cheeks, 
Like  trees  bedash 'd  with  rain  :   in  that  sad  time. 
My  manly  eyes  did  scorn  an  humble  tear ; 
And  what  these  sorrows  could  not  hence  exhale. 
Thy  beauty  hath,  and  made  them  blind  with  weeping. 
I  never  su'd  to  friend,  nor  enemy ; 
My  tongue  could  never  learn  sweet  sootliing  word  ; 
But  now  thy  beauty  is  propos'd  my  fee. 
My  proud  heart  sues,  and  prompts  my  tongue  to 
speak.  [She  looks  scomjfuUy  at  him. 

Teach  not  thy  lip  such  scorn  ;  for  it  was  made 
For  kissing,  lady,  not  for  such  contempt. 
If  tliy  revengeful  heart  cannot  forgive, 
Ix) !  here  I  lend  thee  this  shar]>-pointed  sword  ; 
Which  if  thou  please  to  hide  in  this  true  breast, 
•  Pitying. 


And  let  the  soul  forth  that  adoreth  thee, 

I  lay  it  naked  to  the  deadly  stroke. 

And  humbly  beg  the  death  upon  my  knee. 

[He  lays  his  Breast  open  ;  she  offers  at  it  with 
his  Sword. 
Nay,  do  not  pause ;  for  I  did  kill  king  Henry ;  — 
But  'twas  thy  beauty  that  provok'd  me. 
Nay,  now  despatch ;  'twas  I  that  stabb'd  young 
Edward ;  —  [She  again  offers  at  his  Breast. 
But  'twas  thy  heavenly  face  that  set  me  on. 

[She  lets  fall  the  Sword. 
Take  up  the  sword  again,  or  take  up  me. 

Anne.  Arise,  dissembler :  though  I  wish  thy  death, 
I  will  not  be  thy  executioner. 

Glo.   Then  bid  me  kill  myself,  and  I  will  do  it. 
Anne.   I  have  already. 

Glo.  That  was  in  thy  rage : 

Speak  it  again,  and,  even  with  the  word. 
This  hand,  which  for  thy  love,  did  kill  thy  love. 
Shall,  for  thy  love,  kill  a  far  truer  love  ; 
To  both  their  deaths  shalt  thou  be  accessary. 
Anne.    1  would,  I  knew  thy  heart. 
Glo.   *Tis  figur'd  in  my  tongue. 
Anne.   I  fear  me,  both  are  false. 
Glo.    Then  man  was  never  true. 
Anne.   Well,  well,  put  up  your  sword. 
Glo.   Say  then,  my  peace  is  made. 
Anne.   ITiat  shall  you  know  hereafter. 
Glo.   But  shall  I  live  in  hope  ? 
Anne-    All  men,  I  hope,  live  so. 
Glo.   Vouchsafe  to  wear  this  ring. 
Anne.   To  take,  is  not  to  give. 

[She  puts  on  the  Ring, 
Glo.  Look,  how  this  ring  encompasseth  thy  finger, 
Even  so  thy  breast  encloseth  my  poor  heart ; 
Wear  both  of  them,  for  both  of  them  are  thine. 
And  if  thy  poor  devoted  servant  may 
But  beg  one  favour  at  thy  gracious  hand. 
Thou  dost  confirm  his  happiness  for  ever. 
A?ine.   What  is  it  ? 

Glo.   That  it  may  please  you  leave  these  sad  de- 
signs 
To  him  that  hath  more  cause  to  be  a  mourner. 
And  presently  repair  to  Crosby-place  7  : 
Where  —  after  I  have  solemnly  interr'd, 
At  Chertsey  monast'ry  this  noble  king. 
And  wet  his  grave  with  my  repentant  tears, — 
I  will  with  all  expedient  duty  see  you. 
For  divers  unknown  reasons,  I  beseech  you. 
Grant  me  this  boon. 

Anne.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  much  it  joys  me  too, 
To  see  you  are  become  so  penitent.  — 
Tressel,  and  Berkley  go  along  with  me. 
G/o.   Bid  me  farewell. 

Anjie.  'Tis  more  tlian  you  deserve  ; 

But,  since  you  teach  me  how  to  flatter  you. 
Imagine  I  have  said  farewell  already. 

[Exeunt  Lady  Annk,  Tressel,  and  Bkrklet. 
Glo.   Take  up  the  corse,  sirs. 
Gent.  Towards  Chertsey,  noble  lord  ? 

Glo.    No,    to  White    Friars ;    there    attend    my 
coming.    [Exeunt  the  rest,  with  the  Corpse. 
Was  ever  woman  in  this  humour  woo'd  ? 
Was  ever  woman  in  tliis  humour  won  ? 
I'll  have  her,  — but  I  will  not  keep  her  long. 
What !   I,  that  kill'd  her  husband,  and  his  father. 
To  take  her  in  her  heart's  cxtremest  hate  ; 
With  curses  in  her  mouth,  tears  in  her  eyes. 
The  bleeding  witness  of  her  hatred  by  ; 
7  In  Bishc^gatcttrcet 


538 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  I. 


"With  Heaven,  her  conscience,  and  these  bars  against 

me, 
And  I  no  friends  to  back  my  suit  withal. 
But  the  plain  devil  and  dissembling  looks, 
And  yet  to  win  her,  — •  all  the  world  to  nothing  ! 
Ha! 

Hath  she  forgot  already  that  brave  prince, 
Edward,  her  lord,  whom  I  some  three  months  since, 
Stabb'd  in  my  angry  mood  at  Tewksbury  ? 
A  sweeter  and  a  lovelier  gentleman,  — 
Fram'd  in  the  prodigality  of  nature,  "^ 
Young,  valiant,  wise,  and,  no  doubt,  right  royal,  — 
The  spacious  world  cannot  again  afford  : 
And  will  she  yet  abase  her  eyes  on  me, 
That  cropp'd  the  golden  prime  of  this  sweet  prince. 
And  made  her  widow  to  a  woful  bed  ? 
On  me,  whose  all  not  equals  Edward's  moiety  ? 
On  me,  that  halt,  and  am  misshapen  thus  ? 
My  dukedom  to  a  beggerly  denier  8, 
I  do  mistake  my  person  all  this  while : 
Upon  my  life,  she  finds,  although  I  cannot, 
Myself  to  be  a  marvellous  proper  man. 
I'll  be  at  charges  for  a  looking  glass ; 
And  entertain  a  score  or  two  of  tailors. 
To  study  fashions  to  adorn  my  body ; 
Since  I  am  crept  in  favour  with  myself, 
I  will  maintain  it  with  some  little  cost. 
But,  first,  I'll  turn  yon'  fellow  in  his  grave ; 
And  then  return  lamenting  to  my  love.  — 
Shine  out,  fair  sun,  till  I  have  bought  a  glass. 
That  I  may  see  my  shadow  as  I  pass.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Queen  Elizabeth,  Lord  Rivers,  and 

Lord  Grey. 
Riv.   Have  patience,  madam ;  there's  no  doubt, 
his  majesty 
Will  soon  recover  his  accustom'd  health. 

Grei/.   In  that  you  brook  it  ill,  it  makes  him 
worse : 
Therefore,  for  heaven's  sake,  entertain  good  comfort, 
And  cheer  his  grace  with  quick  and  merry  words. 
Q.  Eliz.   If  he  were  dead,  what  would  betide  of 

me? 
Grey.   No  other  harm  but  loss  of  such  a  lord. 
Q.  Eliz.  The  loss  of  such  a  lord  includes  all  harms. 
Grey.    The    heavens    have    bless'd    you    with  a 
goodly  son. 
To  be  your  comforter,  when  he  is  gone. 

Q.  Eliz.    Ah,  he  is  young  ;  and  his  minority 
Is  put  unto  the  trust  of  Richard  Gloster, 
A  man  that  loves  not  me,  nor  none  of  you. 
Riv.   Is  it  concluded,  he  shall  be  protector  ? 
Q.  Eliz.   It  is  determin'd,  not  concluded  yet : 
But  so  it  must  be,  if  the  king  miscarry. 

Enter  Buckingham  and  Stanley. 
Grey.   Here  come  the  lords  of  Buckingham  and 

Stanley. 
Buck.   Good  time  of  day  unto  your  royal  grace  ! 
Stan.   Heaven  make  your  majesty  joyful  as  you 

have  been ! 
Q.  Eliz.   The  countess  Richmond,  good  my  lord 
of  Stanley, 
To  your  good  prayer  will  scarcely  say  —  amen. 
Yet,  Stanley,  notwithstanding  she's  your  wife. 
And  loves  not  me,  be  you,  good  lord,  assur'd, 
I  hate  not  you  for  her  proud  arrogance. 
»  A  small  French  coin. 


Stan.   I  do  beseech  you,  either  not  believe 
The  envious  slanders  of  her  false  accusers  ; 
Or,  if  she  be  accus'd  on  true  report, 
Bear  with  her  weakness,  which,  I  think,  proceeds 
From  wayward  sickness,  and  no  grounded  malice. 
Q.  Eliz.  Saw  you  the  king  to-day,  my  lord  of 

Stanley  ? 
Stan.   But  now  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  and  I, 
Are  come  from  visiting  his  majesty. 

Q.  Eliz.   What   likelihood    of    his    amendment, 

lords  ? 
Buck.   Madam,  good  hope ;    his   grace    speaks 

cheerfully. 
Q.  Eliz.    God  grant  him  health  !   Did  you  confer 

with  him  ? 
Buck.  Ay,  madam,  he  desires  to  make  atonement 
Between  the  duke  of  Gloster  and  your  brothers, 
And  between  them  and  my  lord  chamberlain  ; 
And  sent  to  warn  them  to  his  royal  presence. 
Q.  Eliz.  Would  all  were  well !  —  But  that  will 
never  be ; — 
I  fear,  our  happiness  is  at  the  height. 

Enter  Gloster,  Hastings,  and  Dorset. 

Glo.   They  do  me  wrong,  and  I  will  not  endure 
it. — 
Who  are  they,  that  complain  unto  the  king. 
That  I,  forsooth,  am  stern,  and  love  them  not  ? 
By  holy  Paul,  they  love  his  grace  but  lightly. 
That  fill  his  ears  v/ith  such  dissentious  rumours. 
Because  I  cannot  flatter,  and  speak  fair. 
Smile  in  men's  faces,  smooth,  deceive,  and  cog. 
Duck  with  French  nods,  and  apish  courtesy, 
I  must  be  held  a  rancorous  enemy. 
Cannot  a  plain  man  live,  and  think  no  harm, 
But  thus  his  simple  truth  must  be  abus'd 
By  silken,  sly,  insinuating  Jacks  ? 

Grey.   To  whom  in  all  this  presence  speaks  your 
grace  ? 

Glo.   To  thee,  that  hast  nor  honesty,  nor  grace. 
When  have  I  injur'd  thee  ?  when  done  thee  wrong  ? 
Or  thee  ?  —  or  thee  ?  —  or  any  of  your  faction  ? 
X  plague  upon  you  all !   His  royal  grace,  — 
Whom  God  preserve  better  than  you  would  wish  !  — 
Cannot  be  quiet  scarce  a  breathing-while. 
But  you  must  trouble  him  with  rude  complaints. 

Q.  Eliz.    Brother  of  Gloster,    you  mistake  the 
matter ; 
The  king,  of  his  own  royal  disposition. 
And  not  provok'd  by  any  suitor  else  : 
Aiming,  belike,  at  your  interior  hatred. 
That  in  your  outward  action  shows  itself. 
Against  my  children,  brothers,  and  myself. 
Makes  him  to  send ;  that  thereby  he  may  gather 
The  groimd  of  your  ill-will,  and  so  remove  it. 

Glo.    I  cannot  tell ;  —  The  world  is  grown  so  bad. 
That  wrens  may  prey  where  eagles  dare  not  perch. 
Since  every  Jack  9  became  a  gentleman, 
There's  many  a  gentle  person  made  a  Jack. 

Q.  Eliz.    Come,  come,  we  know  your  meaning, 
brother  Gloster : 
You  envy  my  advancement,  and  my  friends  ; 
Heaven  grant,  we  never  may  have  need  of  you  ! 

Glo.   Meantime,  heaven  grants  that  we  have  need 
of  you ! 
Our  brother  is  imprison'd  by  your  means. 
Myself  disgrac'd,  and  the  nobility 
Held  in  contempt ;  while  great  promotions 
ArS  daily  given,  to  ennoble  those 
•  Low  fellow. 


I 


i 


Scene  III. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


539 


Tliat  scarce,  some  two  days  since,   were  worth  a 
noble.  ' 

Q.  Eliz.    By  him   that  rais'd  me  to  tliis  careful 
height 
From  that  contented  hap  which  I  enjoy'd, 
I  never  did  incense  his  majesty 
Against  the  duke  of  Clarence,  but  have  been 
An  earnest  advocate  to  plead  for  him. 
My  lord,  you  do  me  shameful  injury, 
Ftdsely  to  draw  me  in  these  vile  suspects. 

Glo.   You  may  deny  that  you  were  not  the  cause 
Of  my  lord  Hastings'  late  imprisonment. 

Jiiv.   She  may,  my  lord  ;  for  ^^— 

Glo.   She  may,  lord  Rivers  ?  —  why,  who  knows 
not  so? 
She  may  do  more,  sir,  than  denying  that : 
She  may  help  you  to  many  fair  preferments ; 
And  then  deny  her  aiding  band  therein. 
And  lay  those  honours  on  your  high  desert. 
What  may  she  not  ?    She  may,  —  ay,  marry  may 
she.  — 

Itiv.   What,  marry,  may  she? 

Glo.  What,  marry,  may  she  ?  marry  with  a  king, 
A  bachelor,  a  handsome  stripling  too : 
I  wis  2,  your  grandam  had  a  worser  match. 

Q.  Eliz.  My  lord  of  Gloster,  I  have  too  long  borne 
Your  blunt  upbraidings,  and  your  bitter  scoffs  : 
By  heaven,  I  will  acquaint  his  majesty. 
Of  those  gross  taunts  I  often  have  endur'd. 
I  had  rather  be  a  country  servant-maid, 
Than  a  great  queen  with  this  condition  — 
To  be  so  baited,  scom'd,  and  stormed  at : 
Small  joy  have  I  in  being  England's  queen. 

Enter  Queen  Margaret,  behind. 

Q.  Mar.    And  lessen'd  be  that  small,  God,  I  be- 
seech thee ! 
Thy  honour,  state,  and  seat,  is  due  to  me. 

Glo.   What  ?  threat  you  me  with  telling  of  the 
king? 
Tell  him,  and  spare  not :   look,  what  I  have  said 
I  will  avouch,  in  presence  of  the  king : 
I  dare  adventure  to  be  sent  to  the  Tower. 
'Tis  time  to  speak,  my  pains  are  quite  forgot. 

Q.  Mar.  Out,  devil !   I  remember  them  too  well : 
Thou  kill'dst  my  husband  Henry  in  the  Tower, 
And  Edward,  my  poor  son,  at  Tewksbury. 

Glo.   Ere  you  were  queen,  ay,  or  your  husband 
king, 
I  was  a  pack-horse  in  his  great  affairs ; 
A  weeder-out  of  his  proud  adversaries, 
A  liberal  rewarder  of  his  friends  ; 
To  royalize  his  blood,  I  spilt  mine  own. 

Q.  Mar.    Ay,  and  much  better  blood  than  his,  or 

thine. 
Glo.   In  all  which  time,  you,  and  your  husband 
Grey, 
Were  factious  for  the  house  of  Lancaster  ?  — 
And,  Rivers,  so  were  you :  —  Was  not  your  hus- 
band 
In  Margaret's  battle  at  Saint  Alban's  slain? 
Let  me  put  in  your  minds,  if  you  forget. 
What  you  have  been  ere  now,  and  what  you  are  ; 
Witlial,  what  I  have  been,  and  what  I  am. 

Q.  Mar.  A  murd'rous  villain,  and  so  still  thou  art. 
Glo.   Poor  Clarence  did  forsake  his  father  War- 
wick, 
Ay,  and  forswore  himself,  — Which  Jesu  pardon  !  — 
Q.  Mar.   Which  God  revenge  ! 

>  A  coin  rated  at  6ft.  8d.  «  Think. 


Glo.   To  fight  on  Edward's  party,  for  the  crown  ; 
And,  for  his  meed,  poor  lord,  he  is  mew'd  up  : 
I  would  to  heaven,  my  heart  were  flint  like  Ed- 
ward's, 
Or  Edward's  soft  and  pitiful,  like  mine ; 
I  am  too  childish-foolish  for  this  world. 

Q.  Mar.   Hie  thee  to  hell  for  shame,  and  leave 

this  world. 
Riv.   My  lord  of  Gloster,  in  those  busy  days. 
Which  here  you  urge  to  prove  us  enemies. 
We  foUow'd  then  our  lord,  our  lawful  king  ; 
So  should  we  you,  if  you  should  be  our  king. 

Glo.   If  I  should  be  ?  —  I  had  rather  be  a  pedlar. 
Far  be  it  from  my  heart,  tlie  thought  thereof! 

Q.  Eliz.   As  little  joy,  my  lord,  as  you  suppose 
You  should  enjoy,  were  you  this  country's  king  ; 
As  little  joy  you  may  suppose  in  me. 
That  I  enjoy,  being  the  queen  thereof. 

Q.  Mar.   A  little  joy  enjoys  the  queen  thereof; 
For  I  am  she,  and  altogether  joyless. 
I  can  no  longer  hold  me  patient.  —       [Advancing. 
Hear  me,  you  wrangling  pirates,  that  fall  out 
In  sharing  that  which  you  have  piird3    from  me  : 
Which  of  you  trembles  not,  that  looks  on  me : 
If  not,  that  I  being  queen,  you  bow  like  subjects 
Yet  that,  by  you  depos'd,  you  quake  like  rebels? — 
Ah,  gentle  villain,  do  not  turn  away  ! 

Glo.   Foul  wrinkled  witch,  what  mak'st  thou  in 

my  sight  ? 
Q.  Mar.  But  repetition  of  what  thou  hast  marr'd  ; 
That  will  I  make,  before  I  let  thee  go. 

Glo.   Wert  thou  not  banished  on  pain  of  death  ? 
Q.  Mar.   I  was ;  but  I  do  find   more    pain    in 
banishment. 
Than  death  can  yield  me  here  by  my  abode. 
A  husband,  and  a  son,  thou  ow'st  to  me,  — 
And  thou,  a  kingdom ;  —  all  of  you,  allegiance  : 
This  sorrow  that  I  have,  by  right  is  yours  ; 
And  all  the  pleasures  you  usurp  are  mine. 

Glo.   The  curse  my  noble  father  laid  on  thee. 
When  thou  didst  crown  his  warlike  brows  with  paper, 
And  with  thy  scorns  drew'st  rivers  from  his  eyes ; 
And  then,  to  dry  them,  gav'st  the  duke  a  clout, 
Steep'd  in  the  faultless  blood  of  pretty  Rutland ;  — 
His  curses,  then  from  bitterness  of  soul 
Denounc'd  against  thee,  are  all  fall'n  upon  thee ; 
And  God,  not  we,  hath  plagu'd  thy  bloody  deed. 
Q.  Eliz.    So  just  is  God,  to  right  the  innocent. 
Hast.    O,  'twas  the  foulest  deed  to  slay  that  babe. 
And  the  most  merciless,  that  e'er  was  heard  of. 
Riv.   Tyrants  themselves  wept  when  it  was  re- 
ported. 
J}ors.   No  man  but  prophesied  revenge  for  it. 
Buck.  Northumberland,  then  present, wept  to  see  it. 
Q.  Mar.   What !   were  you  snarling  all,  before  I 
came. 
Ready  to  catch  each  other  by  the  throat. 
And  turn  you  all  your  hatred  now  on  me  ? 
Did  York's  dread  curse  prevail  so  much  with  heaven, 
That  Henry's  death,  my  lovely  Edward's  death, 
Their  kingdom's  loss,  my  woful  banishment. 
Could  all  but  answer  for  that  peevish  brat  ? 
Can  curses  pierce  the  clouds,  and  enter  heaven  ?  — 
Why,   then    give   way,  dull    clouds,  to  my  quick 

curses  !  — 
Though  not  by  war,  by  surfeit  die  your  king. 
As  ours  by  murder,  to  make  him  a  king  ! 
Edward,  thy  son,  that  now  is  prince  of  Wales, 
For  Edward,  my  son,  that  was  prince  of  Wales, 
s  Pillaged. 


5M) 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  I. 


Die  in  his  youth,  by  like  untimely  violence ! 

Thyself  a  queen,  for  me  that  was  a  queen, 

Outlive  thy  glory  like  my  wretched  self! 

Long  mayst  thou  live,  to  wail  thy  children's  loss ; 

And  see  another,  as  I  see  thee  now, 

Deck'd  in  thy  rights,  as  thou  art  stall'd  in  mine ! 

I^ong  die  thy  happy  days  before  thy  death  ; 

And  after  many  lengthen'd  hours  of  grief. 

Die  neither  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  queen  !  — 

Rivers,  —  and  Dorset,  —  you  were  standers  by,  — 

And  so  wast  thou,  lord  Hastings,  —  when  my  son 

Was  stabb'd  with  bloody  daggers ;   God,  I  pray  him. 

That  none  of  you  may  live  your  natural  age, 

But  by  some  unlook'd  accident  cut  off ! 

Glo.  Have  done  thy  charm,  thou  hateful  wither'd 

hag. 
Q.  Mar.  And  leave  out  thee  ?  stay,  dog,  for  thou 
shalt  hear  me. 
If  heaven  have  any  grievous  plague  in  store, 
Exceeding  those  that  I  can  wish  upon  thee, 
O,  let  them  keep  it,  till  thy  sins  be  ripe, 
And  then  hurl  down  their  indignation 
On  thee,  the  troubler  of  the  poor  world's  peace  ! 
The  worm  of  conscience  still  be-gnaw  thy  soul ! 
Thy  friends  suspect  for  traitors  while  thou  liv'st. 
And  take  deep  traitors  for  thy  dearest  friends  ! 
No  sleep  close  up  that  deadly  eye  of  thine. 
Unless  it  be  while  some  tormenting  dream 
Affrights  thee  with  a  hell  of  ugly  devils  ! 
Thou  elvish  mark'd,  abortive,  rooting  hog ! 
Thou  that  wast  seal'd  in  thy  nativity 
The  slave  of  nature,  and  the  son  of  hell ! 
Thou  rag  of  honour  !  thou  detested  ■ 

Glo.   Margaret. 
Q.  Mar.  Richard ! 

Glo.  Ha? 

Q.  Mar.  I  call  thee  not. 

Glo.  I  cry  thee  mercy  then  ;  for  I  did  think. 
That  thou  hadst  call'd  me  all  these  bitter  names. 

Q.  Mar.   Why,  so  I  did  ;  but  look'd  for  no  reply, 
O,  let  me  make  the  period  to  my  curse. 

Glo.   'Tis  done  by  me ;  and  ends  in  —  Margaret. 
Q.  Eliz.   Thus   have    you   breath'd   your   curse 

against  yourself. 
Q.  Mar.   Poor  painted  queen,  vain  flourish  of  my 
fortune ! 
Why  strew'st  thou  sugar  on  that  bottled  spider'*. 
Whose  deadly  web  ensnareth  thee  about? 
Fool,  fool !  thou  whet'st  a  knife  to  kill  thyself. 
The  day  will  come,  that  thou  shalt  wish  for  me 
To  help  thee  curse  this  pois'nous  hunch-back'd  toad. 
Hist.  False-boding  woman,  end  thy  frantick  curse  j 
Lest,  to  thy  harm,  thou  move  our  patience. 

Q.  Mar.    Foul   shame   upon  you !    you  have  all 

mov'd  mine. 
Riv.  Were  you  well  serv'd,  you  would  be  taught 

your  duty. 
Q.  Mar.   To  serve  me  well,  you  all  should  do  me 
duty. 
Teach  me  to  be  your  queen,  and  you  my  subjects : 
O,  serve  me  well,  and  teach  yourselves  that  duty. 
Dors.   Dispute  not  with  her,  she  is  lunatick. 
Q.  Mar.  Peace,  master  marquis,  you  are  malapert : 
Your  fire-new  stamp  of  honour  is  scarce  current  *  : 
O,  that  your  young  nobility  could  judge, 
What  'twere  to  lose  it  and  be  miserable  ! 
They  that  stand  high,  have  many  blasts  to  shake  them; 
And,  if  they  fall,  they  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 

4  Alluding  to  Gloster's  form  and  venom 
'  He  was  just  created  marquis  of  Dorset 


Glo.   Good  counsel,  marry  ;  —  learn  it,  learn  it, 
marquis. 

Dors.   It  touches  you,  my  lord,  as  much  as  me. 

Glo.  Ay,  and  much  more  :  But  I  was  born  so  high, 
Our  aieryS  buildeth  in  the  cedar's  top. 
And  dallies  with  the  wind,  and  scorns  the  sun. 

Q.  Mar.   And  turns   the  sun  to  shade ;  —  alas ! 
alas  !  — 
Witness  my  son,  now  in  the  shade  of  death  ; 
Whose  bright  out-shining  beams  thy  cloudy  wrath 
Hath  in  eternal  darkness  folded  up. 
Your  aiery  buildeth  in  our  aiery's  nest :  — 
O  God,  that  seest  it,  do  not  suffer  it ; 
As  it  was  won  with  blood,  lost  be  it  so  ! 

Buck.   Peace,  peace,  for  shame,  if  not  for  charity. 

Q.  Mar.   Urge  neither  charity  nor  shame  to  me ; 
Uncharitably  with  me  have  you  dealt. 
And  shamefully  by  you  my  hopes  are  butcher'd. 
My  charity  is  outrage,  life  my  shame,  — 
And  in  my  shame  still  live  my  sorrow's  rage  ! 

JBuck.   Have  done,  have  done. 

Q.  Mar.   O  princely  Buckingham,  I  kiss  thy  hand, 
In  sign  of  league  and  amity  with  thee  : 
Now  fair  befall  thee,  and  thy  noble  house ! 
Thy  garments  are  not  spotted  with  our  blood. 
Nor  thou  within  the  compass  of  my  curse. 

Buck.   Nor  no  one  here  ;  for  curses  never  pass 
The  lips  of  those  that  breathe  them  in  the  air. 

Q.  Mar.    I'll  not  believe  but  they  ascend  the  sky 

0  Buckingham,  beware  of  yonder  dog  ; 

Look,  when  he  fawns,  he  bites  ;  and,  when  he  bites. 
His  venom  tooth  will  rankle  to  the  death : 
Have  not  to  do  with  him,  beware  of  him ; 
Sin,  death,  and  hell  have  set  their  marks  on  him  ; 
And  all  their  ministers  attend  on  him  ; 

Glo.   What  doth  she  say,  my  lord  of  Buckingham? 

Buck.   Nothing  that  I  respect,  my  gracious  lord. 

Q.  Mar.   What,  dost  thoi*  scorn  me  for  my  gentle 
counsel  ? 
And  soothe  the  devil  that  I  warn  thee  from  ? 
O,  but  remember  this  another  day. 
When  he  shall  split  thy  very  heart  with  sorrow  ; 
And  say,  poor  Margaret  was  a  prophetess.  — 
Live  each  of  you  the  subjects  to  his  hate, 
And  he  to  yours,  and  all  of  you  to  God's  !      [Exil. 

Hast.   My  hair  doth  stand  on  end  to  hear  her 
curses. 

Riv.   And  so  doth  mine ;   I  muse  7,  why  she's  at 
liberty. 

Glo.   I  cannot  blame  her, 
S!ie  hath  had  too  much  wrong,  and  I  repent 
My  part  thereof,  that  I  have  done  to  her. 

Q.  Eliz.   I  never  did  her  any,  to  my  knowledge. 

Glo.   Yet  you  have  all  the  vantage  of  her  wrong. 

1  was  too  hot  to  do  some  body  good, 
That  is  too  cold  in  thinking  of  it  now. 
Marry,  as  for  Clarence,  he  is  well  repaid ; 
He  is  frank'd »  up  to  fatting  for  his  pains ;  — 
Heaven  pardon  them  that  are  the  cause  thereof ! 

Riv.   A  virtuous  and  a  christian-like  conclusion. 
To  pray  for  them  that  have  done  scath  9  to  us. 

Glo.   So  do  I  ever,  being  well  advis'd  ;  — 
For  had  I  curs'd  now,  I  had  curs'd  myself.    [Aside. 

Enter  Catesbt. 
Cates.   Madam,  his  majesty  doth  call  for  you,  — 
And  for  your  grace,  —  and  you,  my  noble  lords. 
Q.  Eliz.    Catesby,  I  come  ;  —  Lords,  will  you  go 

with  me  ? 
6  Nest        7  Wonder.        «  Put  in  a  sty.        »  Harm. 


I 


Scene  IV. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


541 


Riv.   Madam,  we  will  attend  upon  your  grace. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Gloster. 

Glo.   T  do  the  wrong,  and  first  begin  to  brawl. 
The  secret  mischiefs  that  I  set  abroach, 
1  lay  unto  the  grievous  charge  of  others. 
Clarence,  —  whom  I,  indeed,    have    laid  in  dark- 
ness, — 
I  do  beweep  to  many  simple  gulls ; 
Namely,  to  Stanley,  Hastings,  Buckingham ; 
And  tell  them  —  'tis  the  queen,  and  her  allies, 
That  stir  the  king  against  the  duke  my  brother. 
Now  they  believe  it ;  and  withal  whet  me 
To  be  reveng'd  on  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey  : 
But  then  I  sigh,  and,  with  a  piece  of  scripture, 
Tell  them  —  that  God  bids  us  do  good  for  evil : 
And  thus  I  clothe  my  naked  villainy 
With  old  odd  ends,  stol'n  forth  of  holy  writ , 
And  seem  a  saint,  when  most  I  play  the  devil. 

Enter  two  Murderers. 
But  soft,  here  come  my  executioners.  — 
How  now,  my  hardy,  stout  resolved  mates? 
Are  you  now  going  to  despatch  this  thing  ? 

1  Murd.   We  are,  my  lord;  and  come  to  have 
the  warrant, 
That  we  may  be  admitted  where  he  is. 

Glo.   Well  thought  upon,  1  have  it  here  about 
me:  [Gives  the  Jf ''arrant. 

When  you  have  done,  repair  to  Crosby-place. 
But,  sirs,  be  sudden  in  the  execution, 
Withal  obdurate,  do  not  hear  him  plead ; 
For  Clarence  is  well  spoken,  and,  perhaps, 
May  move  your  hearts  to  pity,  if  you  mark  him. 
1  Murd.   Tut,  tut,  my  lord,  we  will  not  stand  to 
prate, 
We  go  to  use  our  hands,  and  not  our  tongues. 
Talkers  are  no  good  doers ;  be  assur'd. 

Glo.   Your  eyes  drop  mill-stones,  when  fools'  eyes 
drop  tears : 
I  like  you,  lads  ;  —  about  your  business  straight ; 
Go,  go,  despatch. 

1  Murd.  We  will,  my  noble  lord.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

Enter  Clarence  and  Brakenbury. 

Brak.   Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to  day  ? 

Clar.   O,  I  have  pass'd  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night. 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days  ; 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time. 

Brak.   What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?  I  pray 
you,  tell  me. 

Clar.   Methought   that  I  had   broken  from  the 
Tower, 
And  was  embark'd  to  cross  to  Burgundy  ; 
And,  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloster : 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the  hatches;  thence  we  look'd  toward  England, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times. 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster 
Tliat  had  befallen  us.      As  we  pac'd  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought,  that  Gloster  stumbled  ;  and,  in  falling, 
Struck  me,  tJiat  thought  to  stay  him,  overboard, 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 
O  heaven  !  methought,  what  pain  it  was  to  drown  ! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  mine  ears ! 


What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes! 

Methought,  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks  ; 

A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  knaw'd  upon  ; 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl. 

Inestimable  stones,  unvalu'd  jewels. 

All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls ;  and,  in  those  holes 

Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept 

(As  't  were  in  scorn  of  eyes)  reflecting  gems, 

That  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep. 

And  mock'd  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scatter'd  by. 

Brak.  Had  you  such  leisure  in  the  time  of  death, 
To  gaze  upon  these  secrets  of  the  deep  ? 

Clar.   Methought,  I  had  ;  and  often  did  I  sti  ive 
To  yield  the  ghost :   but  still  the  envious  flood 
Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  seek  the  empty,  vast,  and  wand'ring  air ; 
But  smother'd  it  within  my  panting  bulk. 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Bra/c.    Awak'd  you  not  with  this  sore  agony  ? 

Clar.   O,  no,  my  dream  was  lengthen 'd  after  life; 
O,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 
I  pass'd,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood. 
With  that  grim  ferryman  which  poets  write  of. 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 
The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul, 
Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick, 
Who  cry'd  aloud  —  What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarcht/  a^ord  false  Clarence  9 
And  so  he  vanish'd  :    Then  came  wand'ring  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood  ;  and  he  shriek'd  out  aloud,  — 
Clarence  is  come, — false,fleeting, perjur  d  Clarence,— 
That  stabb'd  me  in  thefeld  by  Tewksbury  ;  — 
Seize  on  him,  furies,  take  him  to  your  torments  I 
With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environ'd  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise, 
I  trembling  wak'd,  and,  for  a  season  after. 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell ; 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream. 

Brak.   No  marvel,  lord,  though  it  affrighted  you ; 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.  O,  Brakenbury,  I  have  done  these  things,  — 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul,  — 
For  Edward's  sake  ;  and,  see,  how  he  requites  me .' — 

0  God  !  if  my  deep  prayers  cannot  appease  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  be  aveng'd  on  my  misdeeds, 

Yet  execute  thy  wrath  on  me  alone : 

O,  spare  my  guiltless  wife,  and  my  poor  children  ! — 

1  pray  thee,  gentle  keeper,  stay  by  me  ; 
My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 

Brak.  I  will,  my  lord ;  God  give  your  grace  good 
rest !  — 

[Clarence  reposes  himself  on  a  Chair. 
Sorrow  breaks  seasons,  and  reposing  hours. 
Makes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noon-tide  night. 
Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories. 
An  outward  honour  for  an  inward  toil ; 
And,  for  unfelt  imaginations. 
They  often  feel  a  world  of  restless  cares  : 
So  that  between  their  titles,  and  low  name. 
There's  nothing  differs  but  the  outward  tame. 

Enter  the  two  Murderers. 
1  Murd.  Ho  !  who's  here  ? 
Brak.   What    would'st    tliou,    fellow?  and  how 

cam'st  thou  hither? 
1  Murd.    I  would  speak  with  Clarence,  and  1 
came  hither  on  my  legs. 


54.2 


KIN(i  RICHARD  III. 


Act  I. 


Brak.   What,  so  brief? 

2  Murd.   O,  sir,  'tis  better  to  be  brief  tlian  te- 
dious :  — 
Let  him  see  our  commission  ;  talk  no  more. 

[^  Paper  is  delivered  to  Brakeneory, 
who  reads  it. 
Brak.   I  am,  in  this,  commanded  to  deliver 
The  noble  duke  of  Clarence  to  your  hands :  — 
I  will  not  reason  what  is  meant  hereby, 
Because  I  will  be  guiltless  of  the  meaning. 
Here  are  the  keys ;  —  there  sits  the  duke  asleep  : 
I'll  to  the  king  ;  and  signify  to  him, 
That  I  thus  have  resign'd  to  you  my  charge. 

1  Murd.   You  may,  sir ;  'tis  a  point  of  wisdom  : 
Fare  you  well.  [Exit  Brakenbury. 

2  Murd.   What,  shall  we  stab  him  as  he  sleeps  ? 

1  Murd.  No ;  he'll  say,  'twas  done  cowardly, 
when  he  wakes. 

2  Murd.  When  he  wakes !  why,  fool,  he  shall 
never  wake  until  the  great  judgment  day. 

1  Murd.  Why,  then  he'll  say,  we  stabb'd  him 
sleeping. 

2  Murd.  The  urging  of  that  word,  judgment, 
hath  bred  a  kind  of  remorse  in  me. 

1  Murd.  What  ?  art  thou  afraid  ? 

2  Murd.  Not  to  kill  him,  having  a  warrant  for  it ; 
but  to  be  damn'd  for  killing  him,  from  the  which 
no  warrant  can  defend  me. 

1  Murd.    I  thought,  thou  hadst  been  resolute. 

2  Murd.   So  I  am,  to  let  him  live. 

1  Murd.  I'll  back  to  the  duke  of  Gloster,  and 
tell  him  so. 

2  Murd.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  stay  a  little :  I  hope, 
this  holy  humour  of  mine  will  change  ;  it  was  wont 
to  hold  me  but  while. one  would  tell  twenty. 

1  Murd.    How  dost  thou  feel  thyself  now  ? 

2  Murd.  'Faith  some  certain  dregs  of  conscience 
are  yet  within  me. 

1  Murd.  Remember  our  reward,  when  the  deed's 
done. 

2  Murd.  Come,  he  dies ;  I  had  forgot  the  reward. 

1  Murd.   Where's  thy  conscience  now  ? 

2  Murd.   In  the  duke  of  Gloster's  purse. 

1  Murd.  So  when  he  opens  his  purse  to  give  us 
our  reward,  thy  conscience  flies  out. 

2  Murd.  'Tis  no  matter  ;  let  it  go ;  there's  few, 
or  none,  will  entertain  it. 

1  Murd.   What,  if  it  come  to  thee  again  ? 

2  Murd.  I'll  not  meddle  with  it,  it  is  a  dangerous 
thing,  it  makes  a  man  a  coward;  a  man  cannot 
steal,  but  it  accuseth  him ;  a  man  cannot  swear, 
but  it  checks  him.  'Tis  a  blushing  shame-faced 
spirit,  that  mutinies  in  a  man's  bosom  ;  it  fills  one 
full  of  obstacles :  it  made  me  once  restore  a  purse 
of  gold,  that  by  chance  I  found ;  it  beggars  any 
man  that  keeps  it :  it  is  turned  out  of  all  towns  and 
cities  for  a  dangerous  thing ;  and  every  man,  that 
means  to  live  well,  endeavours  to  trust  to  himself, 
and  live  without  it. 

1  Murd.  'Zounds,  it  is  even  now  at  my  elbow, 
persuading  me  not  to  kill  the  duke. 

2  Murd.  Take  the  devil  in  thy  mind,  and  believe 
him  not :  he  would  insinuate  vnth  thee,  but  to 
make  thee  sigh. 

1  Murd.  I  am  strong-fram'd,  he  cannot  prevail 
with  me. 

2  Murd.  Spoke  like  a  tall  9  fellow,  that  respects 
his  reputation.      Come,  shall  we  fall  to  work  ? 

1  Murd.   Take  him  over  the  costard  '  with  the 
9  Brave  '  Head. 


hilts  of  thy  sword,  and  then  throw  him  into  the 
malmsey-butt,  in  the  next  room. 

2  Murd.   O  excellent  device  !    and  make  a  sop 
of  him. 

1  Murd.   Soft !  he  wakes. 

2  Murd.   Strike. 

1  Murd.   No,  we'll  reason  with  him. 

Clar.   Where  art  thou,  keeper?  give  me  a  cup 

of  wine. 
1  Murd.   You  shall  have  wine  enough,  my  lord, 

anon. 
Clar.   In  God's  name,  what  art  thou  ? 
1  Murd.    A  man,  as  you  are. 
Clar.   But  not,  as  I  am,  royal. 
1  Murd.   Nor  you,  as  we  are,  loyal. 
Clar.   Thy  voice  is  thunder,    but  thy  looks  are 

humble. 
1  Murd.   My  voice  is  now  the  king's,  my  looks 

mine  own. 
Clar.   How  darkly,  and  how  deadly  dost  thou 

speak ! 
Your  eyes  do  menace  me  :   Why  look  you  pale  ? 
Who  sent  you  hither  ?    Wherefore  do  you  come  ? 

Both  Murd.   To,  to,  to, 

Clar.   To  murder  me  ? 
Both  Murd.   Ay,  ay. 

Clar.   You  scarcely  have  the  hearts  to  tell  me  so, 
And  therefore  cannot  have  the  hearts  to  do  it. 
Wherein,  my  friends,  have  I  offended  you  ? 

1  Murd.  Offended  us  you  have  not,  but  the  king. 
Clar.   I  shall  be  reconcil'd  to  him  again. 

2  Murd.  Never,  my  lord ;  therefore  prepare  to  die. 
Clar.  Are  you  call'd  forth  from  out  a  world  of  men, 

To  slay  the  innocent  ?  What  is  my  offence  ? 
Where  is  the  evidence  that  doth  accuse  me  ? 
What  lawful  quest  '2  have  given  their  verdict  up 
Unto  the  frowning  judge  ?  or  who  pronounc'd 
The  bitter  sentence  of  poor  Clarence'  death  ? 
Before  I  be  convict  by  course  of  law. 
To  threaten  me  with  death  is  most  unlawful. 
I  charge  you,  as  you  hope  for  any  goodness, 
By  Christ's  dear  blood  shed  for  our  grievous  sins 
That  you  depart,  and  lay  no  hands  on  me ; 
The  deed  you  undertake  is  damnable. 

1  Murd.  What  we  will  do,  we  do  upon  command. 

2  Murd.  And  he,  that  hath  commanded,  isour  king. 
Clar.    Erroneous  vassal !  the  great  King  of  kings 

Hath  in  the  table  of  his  law  commanded. 
That  thou  shalt  do  no  murder  :   Wilt  thou  then 
Spurn  at  His  edict,  and  fulfil  a  man's? 
Take  heed  ;  for  he  holds  vengeance  in  his  hand. 
To  hurl  upon  their  heads  that  break  his  law. 

2  Murd.    And  that  same  vengeance  doth  he  hurl 
on  thee. 
For  false  forswearing,  and  for  murder  too  : 
Thou  didst  receive  the  sacrament,  to  fight 
In  quarrel  3  of  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

1  Murd.   And  like  a  traitor  to  the  name  of  God, 
Didst  break  that  vow  ;  and,  with  thy  treacherous 

blade, 
Unrip'dst  the  bowels  of  thy  sovereign's  son. 

2  Murd.   Whom  thou  wast  sworn  to  cherish  and 

defend. 
1  Murd.  How  canst  thou  urge  God's  dreadful  law 
to  us. 
When  thou  hast  broke  it  in  such  dear  degree  ? 

Clar.   Alas !  for  whose  sake  did  I  that  ill  deed  ? 
For  Edward,  for  my  brother,  for  his  sake : 
He  sends  you  not  to  murder  me  for  this ; 

3  Inquest,  jury.  ^  On  the  part 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


543 


For  in  that  sin  he  is  as  deep  as  I. 
If  God  will  be  avenged  for  the  deed, 
O,  know  you,  that  he  doth  it  publickly  ; 
Take  not  the  quarrel  from  his  powerful  arm ; 
He  needs  no  indirect  nor  lawless  course, 
To  cut  off  those  that  have  offended  him. 

1  Murd.  Who  made  thee  tlien  a  bloody  minister. 
When  gallant-springing,  brave  Plantagenet, 
That  princely  novice,  was  struck  dead  by  thee  ? 

Ctar.   My  brother's  love,  the  devil,  and  my  rage. 

1  Murd.   Thy  brother's  love,  our  duty,  and  thy 

fault, 
Provoke  us  hither  now  to  slaughter  thee. 

Clar.   If  you  do  love  my  brother,  hate  not  me  ; 
I  am  his  brother,  and  I  love  him  well. 
If  you  are  hir'd  for  meed  *,  go  back  again. 
And  I  will  send  you  to  my  brother  Gloster; 
Wlio  shall  reward  you  better  for  my  life. 
Than  Edward  will  for  tidings  of  my  death. 

2  Murd.   You  are  deceiv'd,  your  brother  Gloster 

hates  you. 

Clar.   O,  no ;  he  loves  me,  and  he  holds  me  dear : 
Go  you  to  him  from  me. 

Both  Murd.  Ay,  so  we  will. 

Clar.  Tell  him,  when  that  our  princely  father  York 
Bless'd  his  three  sons  with  his  victorious  arm, 
And  charg'd  us  from  his  soul  to  love  each  other. 
He  little  thought  of  this  divided  friendship  : 
Bid  Gloster  think  on  this,  and  he  will  weep. 

1  Murd.  Ay,  mill-stones ;  as  he  lesson'd  us  to  weep. 

Clar.   O,  do  not  slander  him,  for  he  is  kind. 

1  Murd.    Right,  as  snow  in  harvest.  — Come,  you 
deceive  yourself; 
'Tis  he  that  sends  us  to  destroy  you  here. 

Clar.  It  cannot  be  ;  for  he  bewept  my  fortune, 
And  hugg'd  me  in  his  arms,  and  swore,  with  sobs, 
'i'hat  he  would  labour  my  delivery. 

1  Murd.   Why,  so  he  doth,  when  he  delivers  you 
From  this  earth's  thraldom  to  the  joys  of  heaven. 

2  Murd.  Make  peace  with  God,  for  you  must  die, 

my  lord. 
Clar,   Hast  thou  that  holy  feeling  in  thy  soul, 


To  counsel  me  to  make  my  peace  with  God, 
And  art  thou  yet  to  thy  own  soul  so  blind. 
That  thou  wilt  war  wiUi  God,  by  murd'ring  me  ? 
Ah,  sirs,  consider,  he  that  set  you  on 
To  do  tliis  deed,  will  hate  you  for  the  deed. 

2  Murd.   What  shall  we  do  ? 

Clar.  Relent,  and  save  your  souls. 

1  Murd.    Relent !  'tis  cowardly,  and  womanish. 
Clar.  Not  to  relent,  is  beastly,  savage,  devilish.  — 

Which  of  you,  if  you  were  a  prince's  son. 

Being  pent  *  from  liberty,  as  I  am  now,  — 

If  two  such  murderers  as  yourselves  came  to  you,  — ■ 

Would  not  entreat  for  life  ?  — 

My  friend,  I  spy  some  pity  in  thy  looks ; 

O,  if  thine  eye  be  not  a  flatterer. 

Come  thou  on  my  side,  and  entreat  for  me. 

As  you  would  beg,  were  you  in  my  distress, 

A  begging  prince  what  beggar  pities  not  ? 

2  Murd.   Look  behind  you,  my  lord. 

1  Murd.   Take  that,  and  that ;  if  all  this  will  not 

do,  [Stabs  him. 

I'll  drown  you  in  the  malmsey-butt  within. 

[Exit  with  the  body. 

2  Murd.    A    bloody   deed,    and   desperately   de- 

spatch'd  ! 
How  fain,  like  Pilate,  would  I  wash  my  hands 
Of  this  most  grievous  guilty  murder  done  ! 

Re-enter Jir St  Murderer. 

1  Murd.  How  now  ?  what  mean'st  thou,  that  thou 

help'st  me  not  ? 
By  heaven,  the  duke  shall  know  how  slack  you  have 
been. 

2  Murd.   I  would  he  knew,  that  I  had  sav'd  his 

brother ! 
Take  thou  the  fee,  and  tell  him  what  I  say ; 
For  I  repent  me  that  the  duke  is  slain.  [Exit. 

1  Murd.    So  do  not  I :   go,  coward,  as  thou  art.  — 
Well,  I'll  go  hide  the  body  in  some  hole. 
Till  that  the  duke  give  order  for  his  burial : 
And  when  I  have  my  meed,  I  will  away ; 
For  this  will  out,  and  then  I  must  not  stay.    [ExU. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. —  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Kino  Edward  (led  in  sick),  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, Dorset,  Rivers,  Hastings,  Buckingham, 
Gret,  and  others. 

K.  Ediv.   Why,  so :  —  now  have  I  done  a  good 
day's  work  ;  — 

You  peers  continue  this  united  league  : 

I  every  day  expect  an  embassage 

From  my  Redeemer  to  redeem  me  hence  ; 

And  more  in  peace  my  soul  shall  part  to  heaven. 

Since  I  have  made  my  friends  at  peace  on  earth. 

Rivers,  and  Hastings,  take  each  other's  hand  ; 

Dissemble  not  your  hatred,  swear  your  love. 

Rith   By  heaven,  my  soul  is  purg'd  from  grudging 
hate  ! 

And  witli  my  hand  I  seal  my  true  heart's  love. 
Hast.   So  thrive  I,  as  I  truly  swear  the  like  ! 
if.  Edw.   Take  heed,  you  dally  not  before  your 
king; 

Lest  he,  that  is  the  supreme  King  of  kiugs, 
*  Ucward. 


Confound  your  hidden  falsehood,  and  award 
Either  of  you  to  be  the  other's  end. 

Hast.   So  prosper  I,  as  I  swear  perfect  love ! 

Riv.   And  I,  as  I  love  Hastings  with  my  heart  ! 

IT.  Edw.  Madam,  yourself  are  not  exempt  in  this, — 
Nor  your  son  Dorset,  —  Buckingham,  nor  you  ;  — 
You  have  been  factious  one  against  the  other. 
Wife,  love  lord  Hastings,  let  him  kiss  your  hand  ; 
And  what  you  do,  do  it  unfeignedly. 

Q.  Eliz.   There,  Hastings ;  —  I  will  never  more 
remember 
Our  former  hatred  ;   So  thrive  I,  and  mine  ! 

X.  Edw.   Dorset,  embrace  him,  —  Hastings,  love 
lord  marquis. 

Dor.   This  interchange  of  love,  I  here  protest. 
Upon  my  part  shall  be  inviolable. 

Hast.   And  so  swear  I.  [Embraces  Dorset. 

X.  Edw.   Now,  princely  Buckingham,  seal  thou 
this  league. 
With  thy  embracements  to  my  wife's  allies, 
And  make  me  happy  in  your  unity. 
>  Shut  up. 


54-4 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  II. 


Buck.   Whenever  Buckingham  doth  turn  his  hate 
Upon  your  grace,  [To  tlie  Queen.]   but  with  all 

duteous  love 
Doth  cherish  you,  and  yours,  Heaven  punish  me 
With  hate  in  those  where  I  expect  most  love  ! 
When  I  have  most  need  to  employ  a  friend, 
And  most  assured  that  he  is  a  friend, 
Deep,  hollow,  treacherous,  and  full  of  guile, 
Be  he  unto  me !  this  do  1  beg  of  heaven. 
When  I  am  cold  in  love,  to  you  or  yours. 

[Embracing  Rivers,  ^c. 
JT.  HdW'   A  pleasing  cordial,  princely  Bucking- 
ham, 
Is  this  thy  vow  unto  my  sickly  heart. 
There  wanteth  now  our  brother  Gloster  here, 
To  make  the  blessed  period  of  this  peace. 
£uck.   And,  in  good  time,  here  comes  the  noble 
duke. 

Enter  Gloster. 
Glo.   Good  morrow  to  my  sovereign  king,  and 
queen ; 
And,  princely  peers,  a  happy  time  of  day  ! 

jr.  Edw.   Happy,  indeed,  as  we  have  spent  the 
day :  — 
Brother,  we  have  done  deeds  of  charity ; 
Made  peace  of  enmity,  fair  love  of  hate. 
Between  these  swelling  wrong-incensed  peers. 

Glo.  A  blessed  labour,  my  most  sovereign  liege.  — 
Among  this  princely  heap,  if  any  here. 
By  false  intelligence,  or  wrong  surmise. 
Hold  me  a  foe ; 

If  I  unwittingly,  or  in  my  rage, 
Have  aught  committed  that  is  hardly  borne 
By  any  in  this  presence,  I  desire 
To  reconcile  me  to  his  friendly  peace  : 
'Tis  death  to  me,  to  be  at  enmity  ; 
I  hate  it,  and  desire  all  good  men's  love.  ^ 
First,  madam,  I  entreat  true  peace  of  you. 
Which  I  will  purchase  with  my  duteous  service  ;  — 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin  Buckingham, 
If  ever  any  grudge  were  lodg'd  between  us ; 
Of  you,  lord  Rivers, — and  lord  Grey,  of  you, 
1'hat  all  without  desert  have  frown'd  on  me  ;  — 
Dukes,  earls,  lords,  gentlemen  ;  indeed,  of  all. 
I  do  not  know  that  Englishman  alive, 
With  whom  my  soul  is  any  jot  at  odds. 
More  than  the  infant  that  is  born  to-night ; 
I  tliank  my  God  for  my  humility. 

Q.  Eliz.    A  holy-day  shall    this    be    kept   here- 
after :  — 
I   would   to   heaven    all    strifes    were    well   com- 
pounded. — 
My  sovereign  lord,  I  do  beseech  your  highness 
To  take  our  brother  Clarence  to  your  grace. 

Glo.   Why,  madam,  have  I  ofFer'd  love  for  this, 
To  be  so  flouted  in  this  royal  presence  ? 
Who  knows  not,  that  the  gentle  duke  is  dead  ? 

[Thej/ all  start. 
You  do  him  injury  to  scorn  his  corse. 

IT.  Edw.  Who  Knows  not  he  is  dead  !  who  knows 

he  is? 
Q.  Eliz.   All-seeing  heaven,  what  a  world  is  this 
Buck.   Look  I  so  pale,  lord  Dorset  as  the  rest  ? 
Dor.   Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  and  no  man  in  the  pre- 
sence. 
But  his  red  colour  hath  forsook  his  cheeks. 

iT.  Edw.   Is   Clarence  dead  ?  the  order  was  re- 

vers'd. 
Glo.   But  he,  poor  man,  by  your  first  order  died. 
And  that  a  winged  Mercury  did  bear ; 


Some  tardy  cripple  bore  the  countermand. 
That  came  too  lag  to  see  him  buried  :  — 
Heaven  grant,  that  some,  less  noble,  and  less  loyal, 
Nearer  in  bloody  thoughts,  and  not  in  blood. 
Deserve  not  worse  than  wretched  Clarence  did, 
And  yet  go  current  from  suspicion  ! 

Enter  Stanley. 
Stan.  A  boon,  my  sovereign,  for  my  service  done. 
iT.  Edw.   I  pr'ythee,  peace ;  my  soul  is  full  of 

sorrow. 
Stan.  I  will  not  rise,  unless  your  highness  hear  me. 
IT.  Edw.   Then  say  at  once,  what  is  it  thou  re- 

quest'st. 
Stan.   The  forfeit,  sovereign,  of  my  servant's  life; 
Who  slew  to-day  a  riotous  gentleman. 
Lately  attendant  on  the  duke  of  Norfolk. 

IT.  Edw.   Have  I  a  tongue  to  doom  my  brother's 
death. 
And  shall  that  tongue  give  pardon  to  a  slave  ? 
My  brother  kill'd  no  man,  his  fault  was  thought. 
And  yet  his  punishment  was  bitter  death. 
Who  sued  to  me  for  him  ?  who,  in  my  wrath, 
Kneel'd  at  my  feet,  and  bade  me  be  advis'd  ? 
Who  spoke  of  brotherhood  ?  who  spoke  of  love  ? 
Who  told  me,  how  the  poor  soul  did  forsake 
The  mighty  Warwick,  and  did  fight  for  me  ? 
Who  told  me,  in  the  field  of  Tewksbury, 
When  Oxford  had  me  down,  he  rescued  me. 
And  said,  Dear  brother,  live,  and  be  a  king  F 
Who  told  me,  when  we  both  lay  in  the  field. 
Frozen  almost  to  death,  how  he  did  lap  me 
Even  in  his  garments ;  and  did  give  himself, 
All  thin  and  naked,  to  the  numb-cold  night  ? 
All  this  from  my  remembrance  brutish  wrath 
Sinfully  pluck'd,  and  not  a  man  of  you 
Had  so  much  grace  to  put  it  in  my  mind. 
But  when  your  carters  or  your  waiting-vassals. 
Have  done  a  drunken  slaughter,  and  defac'd 
The  precious  image  of  our  dear  Redeemer, 
You  straight  are  on  your  knees  for  pardon,  pardon ; 
And  I,  unjustly  too,  must  grant  it  you  .  — 
But  for  my  brother,  not  a  man  would  speak,  — 
Nor  I  (ungracious)  speak  unto  myself 
For  him,  poor  soul.  —  The  proudest  of  you  all 
Have  been  beholden  to  him  in  his  life  ; 
Yet  none  of  you  would  once  plead  for  his  life.  — 
O  God  !   I  fear  thy  justice  will  take  hold 
On  me,  and  you,  and  mine,  and  yours,  for  this.  — • 
Come,  Hastings,  help  me  to  my  closet.      O, 
Poor  Clarence ! 

[Exeunt  King,  Queen,  Hastings,  Rivers, 
Dorset,  and  Grey. 
Glo.   This  is  the  fruit  of  rashness !  —  Mark'd  you 
not. 
How  that  the  guilty  kindred  of  the  queen 
Look'd  pale,  when  they  did  hear  of  Clarence'  death  ? 
O  !  they  did  urge  it  still  unto  the  king ; 
Heaven  will  revenge  it.     Come,  lords  ;  will  you  go. 
To  comfort  Edward  with  our  company  ? 

Buck.   We  wait  upon  your  grace.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL  —  The  same. 

Enter  tlu  Duchess  of  York,  with  a  Son  and 

Daughter  of  Clarence. 
Son.    Good  grandam,  tell  us,  is  our  father  dead  ? 
Duch.   No,  boy. 

Daugh.   Why  do  you  so  weep  soft  ?  and  beat  your 
breast ; 
And  cry  —  0  Clarence,  mi/  unhappy  son  / 


Scene  11. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


545 


Son.  Why  do  you  look  on  us,  and  shake  your  head^ 
And  call  us  —  orphans,  wretches,  cast-aways, 
If  that  our  noble  father  be  alive  ? 

Duck.   My  pretty  cousins  you  mistake  me  both. 
I  do  lament  the  sickness  of  the  king, 
As  loath  to  lose  him,  not  your  father's  death  ; 
It  were  lost  soitow,  to  wail  one  that's  lost. 

Son.  Then,  grandam,  you  conclude  that  he  is  dead. 
The  king  my  uncle  is  to  blame  for  this. 

Duck.  Peace,  children,  peace  !  the  king  doth  love 
you  well: 
Incapable  ^  and  shallow  innocents, 
You  cannot  guess  who  caus'd  your  father's  death. 

Son.  Grandam,  we  can :  for  my  good  uncle  Gloster 
Told  me,  the  king,  provok'd  to't  by  the  queen, 
Devis'd  impeachments  to  imprison  him  : 
And  when  my  uncle  told  me  so,  he  wept, 
And  pitied  me,  and  kindly  kiss'd  my  cheek  ; 
Bade  me  rely  on  him,  as  on  my  father, 
And  he  would  love  me  dearly  as  his  child. 

Duck.  Ah,  tliat  deceit  should  steal  such  gentle 
shapes 
And  with  a  virtuous  visor  hide  deep  vice ! 
He  is  my  son,  ay,  and  therein  my  shame, 
Yet  from  my  breast  he  drew  not  this  deceit. 

Son.   Think  you,  my  uncle  did  dissemble,  gran- 
dam ? 

Dnch.   Ay,  boy. 

Son.  I  cannot  think  it.    Hark  !  what  noise  is  this? 

Enter  Queen  Elizabeth,  distractedly;  Rivers 
and  Dorset,  following  her. 

Q.  Eliz.   Ah !  who  shall  hinder  me  to  wail  and 
weep? 
To  chide  my  fortune,  and  torment  myself? 
I'll  join  with  black  despair  against  my  soul, 
And  to  myself  become  an  enemy. 

Duch.  What  means  this  scene  of  rude  impatience? 

Q.  Eliz.   To  make  an  act  of  tragick  violence :  — 
Edward,  my  lord,  thy  son,  our  king,  is  dead. 
Why  grow  the  branches,  when  the  root  is  gone  ? 
Why  wither  not  the  leaves,  that  want  their  sap  ?  — 
If  you  will  live,  lament ;  if  die,  be  brief ; 
That  our  swift- winged  souls  may  catch  the  king's; 
Or,  like  obedient  subjects,  follow  him 
To  his  new  kingdom  of  perpetual  rest. 

Duck.  Ah,  so  much  interest  have  I  in  thy  sorrow. 
As  I  had  title  in  thy  noble  husband  ! 
I  have  bewept  a  worthy  husband's  death. 
And  liv'd  by  looking  on  his  images  : 
But  now  two  mirrors  of  his  princely  semblance 
Are  crack'd  in  pieces  by  malignant  death ; 
And  I  for  comfort  have  but  one  false  glass, 
Tl)at  grieves  me  when  I  see  my  shame  in  him. 
Tliou  art  a  widow  ;  yet  thou  art  a  mother. 
And  hast  the  comfort  of  thy  children  left  thee  : 
But  death  hath  snatch'd  my  husband  from  my  arms. 
And  pluck'd  two  crutches  from  my  feeble  hands, 
Clarence  and  Edward.      O,  what  cause  have  I, 
(Tliine  being  but  a  moiety  of  my  grief,) 
To  over-go  thy  plaints,  and  drown  thy  cries  ! 

Son.    Ah,   aunt !    you  wept  not  for  our  father's 
death; 
How  can  we  aid  you  with  our  kindred  tears  ? 

Daugh.  Our  fatherless  distress  was  left  unmoan'd, 
Your  widow-dolour  likewise  l)e  unwept ! 

Q.  Elix.    Give  me  no  help  in  lamentation, 
I  am  not  barren  to  bring  forth  laments  : 
All  springs  reduce  their  currents  to  mine  eye^ 
•  Ignorant 


That  I,  being  govem'd  by  the  wat'ry  moon, 

May  send  forth  plenteous  tears  to  drown  the  world  ! 

Ah,  for  my  husband,  for  my  dear  lord  Edward  ! 

Chil.   Ah,  for  our  father,  for  our  dear  lord  Cla- 
rence ! 

Duch    Alas,  for  both,  both  mine,  Edward  and 
Clarence ! 

Q.  Eliz.  What  stay  had  I,  but  Edward  ?  and  he's 
gone. 

Chil.   What  stay  had  we,  but  Clarence  ?  and  he's 
gone. 

Duch.   What  stays  had  I,  but  they  ?  and  they  are 
gone. 

Q.  Etiz.   Was  never  widow,  had  so  dear  a  loss. 

Chil.    Were  never  orphans,  had  so  dear  a  loss. 

Duch.   Was  never  mother,  had  so  dear  a  loss. 
Alas  !   I  am  the  mother  of  these  griefs  ; 
Their  woes  are  parcell'd  ',  mine  are  general. 
She  for  an  Edward  weeps,  and  so  do  I ; 
I  for  a  Clarence  weep,  so  doth  not  she : 
These  babes  for  Clarence  weep,  and  so  do  I : 
I  for  an  Edward  weep,  so  do  not  they  : 
Alas  !  you  three,  on  me,  threefold  distress'd, 
Pour  all  your  tears ;   I  am  your  sorrow's  nurse. 
And  I  will  pamper  it  with  lamentations. 

Dor.   Comfort,  dear  mother ;  God  is  much  dis- 
pleas'd. 
That  you  take  with  unthankfulness  his  doing  ; 
In  common  worldly  things,  'tis  called  —  ungrateful, 
With  dull  unwillingness  to  repay  a  debt. 
Which  with  a  bounteous  hand  was  kindly  lent ; 
Much  more  to  be  thus  opposite  with  heaven, 
For  it  requires  the  royal  debt  it  lent  you. 

Riv.   Madam,  bethink  you,  like  a  careful  mother. 
Of  the  young  prince  your  son :  send  straight  for  him, 
I^t  him  be  crown'd  ;  in  him  your  comfort  lives : 
Drown  desperate  sorrow  in  dead  Edward's  grave. 
And  plant  your  joys  in  living  Edward's  throne. 

Enter  Gloster,  Buckingham,  Stanley,  Hastings, 
Ratcliff,  and  others. 

Glo.   Sister,  have  comfort :  all  of  us  have  cause 
To  wail  the  dimming  of  our  shining  star ; 
But  none  can  cure  their  harms  by  wailing  them.  — 
Madam,  my  mother,  I  do  cry  you  mercy, 
I  did  not  see  your  grace  :  —  Humbly  on  my  knee 
I  crave  your  blessing. 

Duch.   God  bless  thee ;  and  put  meekness  in  thy 
breast, 
Love,  charity,  obedience,  and  true  duty  ! 

Glo.  Amen ;  and  make  me  die  a  good  old  man  !  — 
Tliat  is  the  butt-end  of  a  mother's  blessing ;  \^Asidje. 
I  marvel  that  her  grace  did  leave  it  out. 

Buck.   You  cloudy  princes,  and  heart-sorrowing 
peers. 
That  bear  this  mutual  heavy  load  of  moan. 
Now  cheer  each  other  in  eacli  other's  love : 
Though  we  have  spent  our  harvest  of  tliis  king. 
We  are  to  reap  the  harvest  of  his  son. 
The  broken  rancour  of  your  high-swoln  hearts, 
But  lately  splinted,  knit,  and  join'd  together. 
Must  gently  be  preserv'd,  cherish'd,  and  kept: 
Me  scemeth  good,  that,  with  some  little  train. 
Forthwith  from  Ludlow  the  young  prince  be  fetch'd 
Hither  to  London,  to  be  crown'd  our  king. 

Riv.  Why  with  some  little  train,  my  lord  of  Buck- 
ingham ? 

Buck.   Marry,  my  lord,  lest  by  a  multitude. 
The  new-heal'd  wound  of  malice  should  break  out ; 
i  7  Divided. 

N  u 


54<6 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  II. 


Which  would  be  so  much  the  more  dangerous, 
By  how  much  the  estate  is  green,  and  yet  ungovern'd : 
Wliere  every  horse  l)cars  his  commanding  rein, 
And  may  direct  his  course  as  please  himself, 
As  well  the  fear  of  harm,  as  harm  apparent. 
In  my  opinion,  ought  to  be  prevented. 

Glo.  I  hope,  the  king  made  peace  with  all  of  us ; 
And  the  compact  is  firm,  and  true,  in  me. 

Rlv.   And  so  in  me  ;  and  so,  I  think,  in  all : 
Yet,  since  it  is  but  green,  it  should  be  put 
To  no  apparent  likelihood  of  breach, 
Which,  haply,  by  much  company  might  be  urg'd  : 
Therefore  I  say,  with  noble  Buckingham, 
That  it  is  meet  so  few  should  fetch  the  prince. 

Hast.    And  so  say  I. 

Glo.   Then  be  it  so  ;  and  go  we  to  determine 
Who  they  shall  be  that  straight  shall  post  to  Ludlow. 
Madam,  —  and  you  my  mother,  —  will  you  go 
To  give  your  censures  8  in  this  weighty  business  ? 
[Exeunt  all  but  Buckingham  and  Gloster. 

liuck.   My  lord,  whoever  journeys  to  the  prince, 
For  heaven's  sake,  let  not  us  two  stay  at  home  : 
For,  by  the  way,  I'll  sort  occasion. 
As  index  9  to  the  story  we  late  talk'd  of, 
To  part  the  queen's  proud  kindred  from  the  prince. 

Glo.   My  other  self,  my  counsel's  consistory, 
My  oracle,  my  prophet !  —  My  dear  cousin, 
I,  as  a  child,  will  go  by  thy  direction. 
Towards  Ludlow  then,  for  we'll  not  stay  behind. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Street. 

Enter  two  Citizens,  meeting. 

1  Cit.   Good  morrow,  neighbour  :   Whither  away 

so  fast  ? 

2  Cit.   I  promise  you,  I  scarcely  know  myself : 
Hear  you  the  news  abroad  ? 

1  Cit.  Yes  ;  the  king's  dead. 

2  Cit.  Ill  news,  by'r  lady  ;  seldom  comes  the  better ; 
I  fear,  I  fear,  'twill  prove  a  giddy  world. 

Enter  another  Citizen. 

1  Cit.  Give  you  good  morrow,  sir. 

3  Cit.  Doth  the  news  hold  of  good  king  Edward's 

death  ? 

2  Cit.    Ay,  sir,  it  is  too  true. 

3  Cit.  Then,  masters,  look  to  see  a  troublous  world. 

1  Cit.  No,  no  ;  by  God's  good  grace,  his  son  shall 

reign. 
3  Cit.  Woe  to  that  land,  that's  govern'd  by  a  child ! 

2  Cit.   In  him  there  is  a  hope  of  government ; 
That  in  this  nonage  ',  council  under  him. 
And,  in  his  full  and  ripen'd  years,  himself. 

No  doubt,  shall  then,  and  till  then,  govern  well. 

1  Cit.    So  stood  the  state,  when  Henry  the  Sixth 
Was  crown' d  in  Paris  but  at  nine  months  old. 

3  Cit.    Stood  the  state  so  ?  no,  no,  good  friends, 

not  so ; 
For  then  this  land  was  famously  enrich'd 
With  politick  grave  counsel ;  then  the  king 
Had  virtuous  uncles  to  protect  his  grace. 

1  Cit.   Why,  so  hath  this,  both  by  his  father  and 

mother. 
3  Cit.   Better  it  were  they  all  came  by  his  father  ; 
Or,  by  his  father,  there  were  none  at  all  : 
For  emulation  now,  who  shall  be  nearest. 
Will  touch  us  all  too  near,  if  heaven  prevent  not. 
O,  full  of  danger  is  the  duke  of  Gloster ; 

8  Opinions.  9  t.  e.  Preparatory.  i  Minority. 


And  the  queen's  sons,  and  brothers,  haught  and 

proud : 
And  were  they  to  be  rul'd,  and  not  to  rule. 
This  sickly  land  might  solace  as  before. 

1  Cit.   Come,  come,  we  fear  the  worst ;  all  will  be 

well. 
3  Cit.    When  clouds  are  seen,  wise  men  put  on 

their  cloaks ; 
When  great  leaves  fall,  then  winter  is  at  hand  ; 
When  the  sun  sets,  who  doth  not  look  for  night  ? 
Untimely  storms  make  men  expect  a  dearth  : 
All  may  be  well ;  but,  if  heaven  sort  it  so, 
'Tis  more  than  we  deserve,  or  I  expect. 

2  Cit.   Truly,  the  hearts  of  men  are  full  of  fear  : 
You  cannot  reason  '2  almost  with  a  man 

That  looks  not  heavily,  and  full  of  dread. 

3  Cit.   Before  the  days  of  change,  still  is  it  so  : 
By  a  divine  instinct,  men's  minds  mistrust 
Ensuing  danger ;  as,  by  proof,  we  see 

The  water  swell  before  a  boist'rous  storm. 
But  leave  it  all  to  heaven.      Whither  away  ? 

2  Cit.   Marry,  we  were  sent  for  to  the  justices. 

3  Cit.    And  so  was  I  j   I'll  bear  you  company. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  young  Duke  op 
York,  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  Duchess  of 
York. 

Arch.   Last  night,   I  heard,  they  lay  at  Stony- 
Stratford  ; 
And  at  Northampton  they  do  rest  to-night : 
To-morrow,  or  next  day,  they  will  be  here. 

Duch.  I  long  with  all  my  heart  to  see  the  prince  ; 
I  hope,  he  is  much  grown  since  last  I  saw  him. 

Q.  Eliz.  But  I  hear  no  ;  they  say  my  son  of  York 
Hath  almost  overta'en  him  in  his  growth. 

York.   Ay,  mother,  but  I  would  not  have  it  so. 

Duch.  Why,  my  young  cousin?  it  is  good  to  grow. 

York.  Grandam,  one  night,  as  we  did  sit  at  supper, 
My  uncle  Rivers  talk'd  how  I  did  grow 
More  than  my  brother ;  Ay,  quoth  my  uncle  Gloster, 
Small  herbs  have  grace,  great  weeds  do  grow  apace : 
And  since,  methinks,  I  would  not  grow  so  fast. 
Because  sweet  flowers  are  slow,  and  weeds  make 
haste. 

Duch.  '  Good  faith,  'good  faith,  the  saying  did  not 
hold 
In  him  that  did  object  the  same  to  thee  : 
He  was  the  wretched'st  thing,  when  he  was  young, 
So  long  a  growing,  and  so  leisurely. 
That,  if  his  rule  were  true,  he  should  be  gracious. 

Arch.  And  so,  no  doubt,  he  is,  my  gracious  madam. 

Duch.    I  hope,  he  is  ;  but  yet  let  mothers  doubt. 

York.  Now,  by  my  troth,  if  I  had  been  remember'd, 
I  could  have  given  my  uncle's  grace  a  flout. 
To  touch  his  growth,  nearer  than  he  touch'd  mine. 

Duch.  How,  my  young  York  ?  I  pr'ythee,  let  me 
hear  it. 

York.   Marry,  they  say  my  uncle  grew  so  fast, 
That  he  could  gnaw  a  crust  at  two  hours  old ; 
'Twas  full  two  years  ere  I  could  get  a  tooth. 
Grandam,  this  would  have  been  a  biting  jest. 

Duch.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  York,  who  told  you  this  ? 

York.    Grandam,  his  nurse. 

Duch.   His  nurse?  why,  she  was  dead  ere  tliou 
wast  born. 

York.  If 'twere  not  she,  I  cannot  tell  who  told  me 

2  Converse. 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


547 


Q.  Eliz.  A  parlous  boy :  Go  to,  you  aretoo  shrewd. 
Arch.  Good  madain,  be  not  angry  with  the  child. 
Q.  Eliz.   Pitchers  have  ears. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Ardi.  Here  comes  a  messenger : 

What  news  ? 

Mess.  Such  news,  my  lord, 

As  grieves  me  to  unfold. 

Q..  Eliz.  How  doth  the  prince  ? 

Mess.    Well,  madam,  and  in  health. 

Duch.  Wliat  is  thy  news  ? 

Mess.   Lord  Rivers,  and  lord  Grey,  are  sent  to 
Pomfrct, 
With  them  sir  Thomas  Vaughan,  prisoners. 

Duch.   Who  hath  committed  them  ? 

Mess.  The  mighty  dukes, 

Gloster  and  Buckingham. 

Q.  Eliz.  For  what  offence  ? 

Mess.   The  sum  of  all  I  can,  I  liave  disclos'd ; 
Why,  or  for  what,  the  nobles  were  committed, 
Is  all  unknown  to  me,  my  gracious  lady. 

Q.  Eliz.   Ah  me,  I  see  the  ruin  of  my  house  ! 
The  tiger  now  hath  seized  the  gentle  hind : 
Insulting  tyranny  begins  to  jut 
Upon  the  innocent  and  awless  throne :  — 


Welcome  destruction,  blood,  and  massacre  '. 
I  see,  as  in  a  map,  tlie  end  of  all. 

Duch.    Accursed  and  unquiet  wrangling  days  ! 
How  many  of  you  have  mine  eyes  beheld? 
My  husband  lost  his  life  to  get  the  crown  ; 
And  often  up  and  down  my  sons  were  tost. 
For  me  to  joy  and  weep,  their  gain  and  loss  : 
And  being  seated,  and  domestic  broils 
Clean  over-blown,  themselves,  the  conquerors. 
Make  war  upon  themselves  ;  brother  to  brother. 
Blood  to  blood,  self  'gainst  self:  —  O,  preposterous 
And  frantick  courage,  end  thy  wicked  spleen ! 
Or  let  me  die,  to  look  on  deatn  no  more ! 

Q.  Eliz.    Come,  come,  my  boy,  we  will  to  sanc- 
tuary. — 
Madam,  farewell. 

Duch.  Stay,  I  will  go  with  you. 

Q.  Eliz.   You  have  no  cause. 

Af-ch.  My  gracious  lady,  go, 

[To  the  QiJEKN. 
And  thither  bear  your  treasure  and  your  goods. 
For  my  part,  I'll  resign  unto  your  grace 
The  seal  I  keep ;   And  so  betide  me. 
As  well  I  tender  you,  and  all  of  yours  ! 
Come,  I'll  conduct  you  to  the  sanctuary.     [Ercttnt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  l.—A  Street. 

The  Trumpets  soimd.  Enter  the  Prince  of  Wai.es, 
Gloster,  Buckingham,  Cardinal  Bourchier,  and 
others. 

Buck.  Welcome,  sweet    prince,  to  London,    to 

your  chamber. 
do.   Welcome,  dear  cousin,  my  thoughts'  sove- 
reign : 
The  weary  way  hath  made  you  melancholy. 

Prince.   No,  uncle ;  but  our  crosses  on  the  way 
Have  made  it  tedious,  wearisome,  and  heavy : 
1  want  more  uncles  here  to  welcome  me. 

Glo.   Sweet  prince,  the  untainted  virtue  of  your 
years 
Hath  not  yet  div'd  into  the  world's  deceit : 
No  more  can  you  distinguish  of  a  man, 
Than  of  his  outward  show  ;  which,  heaven  knows, 
Seldom,  or  never,  jumpeth  with  the  heart. 
Those  uncles,  which  you  want,  were  dangerous ; 
Your  grace  attended  to  their  sugar'd  words. 
But  look'd  not  on  the  poison  of  their  hearts  : 
Heaven  keep  you  from  them,  and  from  such  false 
friends ! 
Prince.   Heaven  keep  me  from  false  friends  !  but 

they  were  none. 
Glo.   My  lord,  the  mayor  of  London  comes  to 
greet  you. 

Enter  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  his  Train. 

May.    God    bless    your   grace  with    health    and 

happy  days  ! 
Prince.    I  thank  you,  good  my  lord,  —  and  thank 

you  all [Exeunt  Mayor,  c^c. 

I  tliought  my  mother,  and  my  brother  York, 
Would  long  ere  this  have  met  us  on  the  way : 
Fye  !  what  a  slug  is  Hastings,  that  he  comes  not 
To  tell  us,  whetlier  tliey  will  come,  or  no. 


Enter  Hastings. 

Buck.    And  in  good  time,  here  comes  the  sweat- 
ing lord. 

Prince.   Welcome,  my  lord  ;  What,  will  our  mo- 
ther Come  ? 

Hast.    On  what  occasion,  heaven  knows,  not  I, 
The  queen  your  mother,  and  your  brother  York, 
Have  taken  sanctuary  :   The  tender  prince 
Would   fain   have   come  with   me   to   meet  your 

grace. 
But  by  his  mother  was  perforce  withheld. 

Buck.   Fye !  what  an  indirect  and  peevish  course 
Is  this  of  hers  ?  —  Lord  cardinal,  will  your  grace 
Persuade  the  queen  to  send  the  duke  of  York, 
Unto  his  princely  brother  presently  ? 
If  she  deny,  —  lord  Hastings,  go  with  him. 
And  from  ^er  jealous  arms  pluck  him  perforce. 

Card.   My  lord    of    Buckingham,   if  my  weak 
oratory 
Can  from  his  mother  win  the  duke  of  York, 
Anon  expect  him  here ;   But  if  she  be  obdurate 
To  mild  entreaties,  God  in  heaven  forbid 
We  should  infringe  the  holy  privilege 
Of  blessed  sanctuary  !  not  for  all  this  land. 
Would  I  be  guilty  of  so  deep  a  sin. 

Buck.   You  are  too  senseless-obstinate,  my  lord, 
Too  ceremonious,  and  traditional  : 
Weigh  it  but  with  the  grossness  of  tliis  age, 
You  break  not  sanctuary  in  seizing  him. 
The  benefit  thereof  is  always  granted 
To  those  whose  dealings  have  deserv'd  the  place, 
And  those  who  have  the  wit  to  claim  the  place  : 
This  prince  hath  neither  claim'd  it,  nor  deserv'd  it. 
And  therefore,  in  mine  opinion,  cannot  have  it : 
'ITien,  taking  him  from  thence,  that  is  not  there, 
You  break  no  privilege  nor  charter  there. 
Oft  have  I  heard  of  sanctuary  men ; 
But  sanctuary  children,  ne'er  till  now. 
Nn  2 


548 


KING  IIICIIARD  III. 


Act  III. 


Card.   My  lord,  you  shall  o'er-rule  my  mind  for 
once.  — 
Come  on,  lord  Hastings,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Hast.    I  go,  my  lord. 

Prince.    Good  lords,  make  all  the  speedy  haste  you 
may.        [Exetint  Cardinal  and  Hastings. 
Say,  uncle  Gloster,  if  our  brother  come, 
Where  shall  we  sojourn  till  our  coronation  ? 

Glo.   Where  it  seems  best  unto  your  royal  self. 
Tf  1  may  counsel  you,  some  day  or  two, 
Your  highness  shall  repose  you  at  the  Tower  : 
Then  where  you  please,  and  shall  be  thought  most  fit 
For  your  best  health  and  recreation. 

Prince.   I  do  not  like  tlie  Tower,  of  any  place  :  — 
Did  Julius  Caesar  build  that  place,  my  lord? 

Glo.    He  did,  my  gracious  lord,  begin  that  place : 
Which,  since,  succeeding  ages  have  re-edified. 

Prince.   Is  it  upon  record  ?  or  else  reported 
Successively  from  age  to  age  he  built  it? 

Puck.   Upon  record,  my  gracious  lord. 

Prince.    But  say,  my  lord,  it  were  not  register'd; 
Methinks,  the  truth  should  live  from  age  to  age. 
As  'twere  retail'd  to  all  posterity, 
Even  to  the  general  all-ending  day. 

Glo.    So  wise  so  young,  they  say,  do  ne'er  live 
long.  [Aside. 

Prince.   What  say  you,  uncle? 

Glo.  I  say,  without  characters,  fame  lives  long. 
Thus  like  the  formal'*  vice,  Iniquity,  "1  r  ^  •/ 
I  moralize  two  meanings  in  one  word.    J       L    *     • 

Prince.   That  Julius  Caesar  was  a  famous  man  ; 
With  what  his  valour  did  enrich  his  wit, 
His  wit  set  down  to  make  his  valour  live : 
Death  makes  no  conquest  of  tliis  conqueror ; 
For  now  he  lives  in  fame,  though  not  in  life.  — 
I'll  tell  you  what,  my  cousin  Buckingham. 

Buck.   What,  my  gracious  lord  ? 

Prince.   An  if  I  live  until  I  be  a  man, 
I'll  win  our  ancient  right  in  France  again. 
Or  die  a  soldier,  as  I  liv'd  a  king. 

Glo.    Short    summers    lightly  ^   have   a   forward 
spring,  [Aside. 

Enter  YoiiK,  Hastings,  and  the  Cardinal. 

Puck.   Now,  in  good  time,  here  comes  the  duke 
of  York. 

Prince.   Richard  of  York  !  how  fares  our  loving 
brother  ? 

York.   Well,  my  dread  lord  ;  so  must  I  call  you 
now. 

Prince.   Ay,  brother ;  to  our  grief,  as  it  is  yours; 
Too  late  6  he  died,  that  might  have  kept  that  title, 
Which  by  his  death  hath  lost  much  majesty. 

Glo.   How  fares  our  cousin,  noble  lord  of  York  ? 

York.    I  thank  you,  gentle  uncle.      O,  my  lord. 
You  said,  that  idle  weeds  are  fast  in  growth  : 
The  prince,  my  brother,  hath  outgrown  me  far. 

Glo.    He  hath,  my  lord. 

York.  And  therefore  is  he  idle  ? 

Glo.    O,  my  fair  cousin,  I  must  not  say  so. 

York.   Then  is  he  more  beholden  to  you,  than  I. 

Glo.  He  may  command  me,  as  my  sovereign  ; 
But  you  have  power  in  me  as  in  a  kinsman. 

York.  I  pray  you,  uncle,  then,  give  me  this  dagger. 

Glo-   My  dagger,  little  cousin?  with  all  my  heart. 

Prince.    A  beggar,  brother  ? 

York.    Of  my  kind  uncle,  that  I  know  will  give  ; 
And  being  but  a  toy,  which  is  no  grief  to  give. 

""  Sensible  Vice,  the  buffoon  in  the  old  plays. 
*  Commonly.  6  Lately. 


Glo.  A  greater  gift  than  that  1 11  give  my  cousin. 
York.   A  greater  gift !   O,  tliat's  the  sword  to  it  ? 
Glo.   Ay,  gentle  cousin,  were  it  light  enough. 
York.  O  tlien,  I  see,  you'll  part  but  with  light  gifts; 
In  weightier  things  you'll  say  a  beggar  nay. 
Glo.    It  is  too  weighty  for  your  grace  to  wear. 
York.   I  weigh  it  lightly,  were  it  heavier. 
Glo.   What,  would  you  have  my  weapon,  little 

lord? 
Yo7-k.   I  would,  that  I  might  thank  you  as  you 

call  me. 
Glo.   How? 
York.    Little. 

Prince.   My  lord  of  York  will  still  be  cross  in 
talk;  — 
Uncle,  your  grace  knows  how  to  bear  with  him. 
York.   You  mean,  to  bear  me,  not  to  bear  with 
me :  — 
Uncle,  my  brother  mocks  both  you  and  me ; 
Because  that  I  am  little,  like  an  ape, 
He  thinks  that  you  shouldbear  me  on  yourshoulders. 
Buck.  With  what  a  sharp-provided  wit  he  reasons! 
To  mitigate  the  scorn  he  gives  his  uncle, 
He  prettily  and  aptly  taunts  himself: 
So  cunning,  and  so  young,  is  wonderful. 

Glo.   My  gracious  lord,  will't  please  you  pass 
along  ? 
Myself,  and  my  good  cousin  Buckingham, 
Will  to  your  mother ;  to  entreat  of  her. 
To  meet  you  at  the  Tower,  and  welcome  you. 
York.    What,  will  you  go  unto  the  Tower,  my 

lord? 
Prince.    My  lord  protector  needs  will  have  it  so. 
York.   I  shall  not  sleep  in  quiet  at  the  Tower. 
Glo.   Why,  sir,  what  should  you  fear? 
York.   Marry,  my  uncle  Clarence'  angry  ghost ; 
My  grandam  told  me,  he  was  murder'd  there. 
Prince.   I  fear  no  uncles  dead. 
Glo.   Nor  none  that  live,  I  hope. 
Prince.   An  if  they  live,  I  hope,  I  need  not  fear. 
But  come,  my  lord,  and,  with  a  heavy  heart. 
Thinking  on  them,  go  I  unto  the  Tower, 

[Exeunt  Prince,  York,  Hastings,  Cardinal, 
and  Attendants. 
Buck.  Think  you,  my  lord,  this  little  prating  York 
Was  not  incensed  7  by  his  subtle  mother. 
To  taunt  and  scorn  you  thus  opprobriously  ? 

Glo.   No  doubt,  do  doubt ;  O,  'tis  a  parlous  boy ; 
Bold,  quick,  ingenious,  forward,  capable  8  ; 
He's  all  the  mother's,  from  the  top  to  toe. 

Buck.   Well,  let  them  rest 

Come  hither,  gentle  Catesby  ;  thou  art  sworn 

As  deeply  to  effect  what  we  intend, 

As  closely  to  conceal  what  we  impart : 

Thou  know'st  our  reasons  urg'd  upon  the  way ;  — 

What  think'st  thou,  is  it  not  an  easy  matter 

To  make  William  lord  Hastings  of  our  mind. 

For  the  instalment  of  this  noble  duke 

In  the  seat  royal  of  this  famous  isle  ? 

Cate.   He  for  his  father's  sake  so  loves  the  prince, 
That  he  will  not  be  won  to  aught  against  him. 
Buck.   What  think'st  thou  then  of  Stanley  ?  will 

not  he  ? 
Cate.   He  will  do  all  in  all  as  Hastings  doth. 
Buck.   Well  then,  no  more  but  this  :    Go,  gentle 
Catesby. 
And,  as  it  were  far  off,  sound  thou  lord  Hastings, 
How  he  doth  stand  affected  to  our  purpose  ; 
And  summon  him  to-morrow  to  the  Tower, 
I  7  Incited.  ^  Intelligent. 


I 


Scene  U. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


549 


To  sit  about  tlie  coronation. 

If  tliou  dost  find  him  tractable  to  us, 

Encourage  him,  and  tell  him  all  our  reasons : 

If  he  be  leaden,  icy,  cold,  unwilling. 

Be  thou  so  too ;  and  so  break  oft"  the  talk, 

And  give  us  notice  of  his  inclination  : 

For  we  to-morrow  hold  divided 9  councils, 

Whereir\  thyself  shalt  highly  be  employ'd. 

Glo.   Commend  me  to  lord  William  :   tell  him, 
Catesby, 
His  ancient  knot  of  dangerous  adversaries 
To-morrow  are  let  blood  at  Pomfret-castle ; 
And  bid  my  friend  for  joy  of  this  good  news, 
Give  mistress  Shore  one  gentle  kiss  the  more. 
Buck.    Good  Catesby,    go,  effect   this   business 

soundly. 
Cate.   My  good    lords   both,  with  all   the  heed 

I  can. 
Gio.   Shall  we  hear  from  you,  Catesby,  ere  we 

sleep  ? 
Cate.   You  shall,  my  lord. 

Glo.   At  Crosby-place,  there  shall    you  find  us 
both.  [Exit  Catesbt. 

Buck.   Njw,  my  lord,  what  shall  we  do,  if  we 
perceive 
Lord  Hastings  will  not  yield  to  our  complots  ? 
Glo.   Chop  off  his  head,  man :  —  somewhat  we 
will  do :  — 
And,  look,  when  I  am  king,  claim  thou  of  me 
The  earldom  of  Hereford,  and  all  the  movables 
Whereof  the  king  my  brother  was  possess'd. 

Buck.  I'll  claim  that  promise  at  your  grace's  hand. 
Glo.   And  look  to  have  it  yielded  with  all  kind- 
ness. 
Come,  let  us  sup  betimes ;  that  afterwards 
We  may  digest  our  complots  in  some  form.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II Before  Lord  Hastings'*  House. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.   My  lord,  my  lord,  -—  [ITnocking. 

Hast.    [mihin.'\     Who  knocks? 
Mess.  One  from  lord  Stanley. 

Hast.   [Within.^  What  is't  o'clock  ? 
Mess.   Upon  the  stroke  of  four. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hast.  Cannot  thy  master  sleep  the  tedious  nights? 

Mess.   So  it  should  seem  by  that  I  have  to  say. 
First  he  commends  him  to  your  noble  lordship. 

Hast.   And  then,  — 

Mess.   And  then  he  sends  you  word,  he  dreamt 
To-night  the  boar  had  rased  off  his  helm  : 
Besides,  he  says,  there  are  two  councils  held  ; 
And  tliat  may  be  determin'd  at  the  one, 
Which  may  make  you  and  him  to  rue  at  the  other. 
Therefore  he  sends  to  know  your  lordship's  plea- 
sure, — 
If  presently,  you  will  take  horse  with  him, 
And  with  all  speed  post  with  him  toward  the  north, 
To  shun  the  danger  that  his  soul  divines. 

Ilast.    Go,  fellow,  go,  return  unto  thy  lord ; 
Bid  him  not  fear  the  separated  councils  : 
His  honour,  and  myself,  are  at  the  one  ; 
And,  at  the  other,  is  my  good  friend  Catesby  ; 
Where  nothing  can  proceed,  that  toucheth  us. 
Whereof  I  shall  not  have  intelligence. 
Tell  him,  his  fears  are  sliallow,  wanting  instance  '  : 
And  for  his  dreams  —  I  wonder,  he's  so  fond  ^ 
»  Sei>arate.  >  Example.  «  Weak. 


To  trust  the  mockery  of  unquiet  slumbers  : 

To  fly  the  boar,  before  the  boar  pursues. 

Were  to  incense  the  boar  to  follow  us, 

And  make  pursuit,  where  he  did  mean  no  chase. 

Go,  bid  thy  master  rise  and  come  to  me  ; 

And  we  will  both  together  to  the  Tower, 

Where,  he  shall  see,  tlie  boar  3  will  use  us  kindly. 

Mess.  I'll  go,  my  lord,  and  tell  him  what  you  say. 

\_Eiit. 
Enter  Catesby. 

Cate.   Many  good  morrows  to  my  noble  lord ! 

Hast.    Good   morrow,  Catesby  j    you  are  early 
stirring  : 
What  news,  what  news,  in  this  our  tottering  state  ? 

Cate.    It  is  a  reeling  world,  indeed,  my  lord  ; 
And,  I  believe,  will  never  stand  upright, 
Till  Richard  wear  the  garland  of  the  realm. 

Hast.   How  !  wear  the  garland  ?  dost  thou  mean 
the  crown  ? 

Cate.   Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Hast.    I'll  have  this  crown  of  mine  cut  from  my 
shoulders. 
Before  I'll  see  the  crown  so  foul  misplac'd. 
But  canst  thou  guess  that  he  doth  aim  at  it  ? 

Cate.  Ay,  on  my  life;  and  hopes  to  find  you  forward 
Upon  his  party,  for  the  gain  thereof; 
And,  thereupon,  he  sends  you  this  good  news,  — 
That,  this  same  very  day,  your  enemies. 
The  kindred  of  the  queen,  must  die  at  Pomfret. 

Hast.   Indeed,  I  am  no  mourner  for  that  news. 
Because  they  have  been  still  my  adversaries : 
But,  that  I'll  give  my  voice  on  Richard's  side, 
To  bar  my  master's  heirs  in  true  descent, 
God  knows,  I  will  not  do  it,  to  the  death. 

Cate.  God  keep  your  lordship  in  that  gracious 
mind  ! 

Hast.  But  I  shall  laugh  at  this  a  twelve-month 
hence. 
That  they,  who  brought  me  in  ray  master's  hate, 
I  live  to  look  upon  their  tragedy. 
Well,  Catesby,  ere  a  fortnight  make  me  older, 
I'll  send  some  packing,  that  yet  think  not  on't. 

Cate.   'Tis  a  vile  thing  to  die,  my  gracious  lord. 
When  men  are  unprepar'd,  and  look  not  for  it. 

Hast.  O  monstrous,  monstrous!  and  so  falls  it  out 
With  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey :  and  so  'twill  do 
With  some  men  else,  who  think  themselves  as  safe 
As  thou,  and  I ;  who,  as  thou  know'st,  are  dear 
To  princely  Richard,  and  to  Buckingham. 

Cate.  The  princes  both  make  high  account  of  you, — 

For  they  account  his  head  upon  the  bridge.     [Aside. 

Hast.  I  know,  they  do  j  and  I  have  well  deserv'd  it! 

Enter  Stanley. 

Come  on,  come  on,  where  is  your  boar-spear,  man  ? 
Fear  you  the  boar,  and  go  so  unprovided  ? 

Stan.  My  lord,  good  morrow  j  and  good  morrow, 
Catesby :  — 
You  may  jest  on,  but,  by  the  holy  rood  ♦, 
I  do  not  like  these  several  councils,  I. 

Hast.   My  lord,   I  hold  my  life  as  dear  as  yours ; 
And  never,  in  my  life,  I  do  protest. 
Was  it  more  precious  to  me  than  'tis  now : 
Think  you,  but  that  I  know  our  state  secure, 
I  would  be  so  triumphant  as  I  am  ? 

Stan.  Tlie  lords  at  I'omfret,  when  they  rode  from 
London, 
Were  jocund,  and  suppos'd  their  states  were  sure. 


I.  e.  Glostcr,  who  had  a  boar  for  his  arms. 
N  n   3 


*  Cxou, 


550 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  III. 


And  they,  indeed,  had  no  cause  to  mistrust; 
Hut  yet,  you  see,  how  soon  the  day  o'er-cast. 
This  sudden  stab  of  rancour  I  misdoubt ; 
Pray  Heaven,  I  say,  I  prove  a  needless  coward  ! 
What,  shall  we  toward  the  Tower  ?  the  day  is  spent. 

Hast.  Come,  come,  have  with  you.  —  Wot  *  you 
what,  my  lord  ? 
To-day,  the  lords  you  talk  of  are  beheaded. 

Stan.  They  for  tlieir  truth,  might  better  wear  their 
heads, 
Than  some,  that  have  accus'd  them,  wear  their  hats. 
But  come,  my  lord,  let's  away. 

Enter  a  Pursuivant. 
Hast.  Go  on  before,  I'll  talk  with  this  good  fellow. 
[Exeunt  Stanley  and  Catesby. 
How  now,  sirrah,  how  goes  the  world  with  thee  ? 
Purs.  The  better  that  your  lordship  please  to  ask. 
Hast.   I  tell  thee,  man,  'tis  better  with  me  now, 
Than  when  thou  met'st  me  last  where  now  we  meet : 
Then  was  I  going  prisoner  to  the  Tower, 
By  the  suggestion  of  the  queen's  allies  ; 
But  now  I  tell  thee,  (keep  it  to  thyself,) 
This  day  those  enemies  are  put  to  death, 
And  I  in  better  state  than  e'er  I  was. 

Purs.    Heaven  hold  it,    to  your  honour's  good 

content ! 
Hast.   Gramercy,  fellow  :   There,  drink  that  for 
me.  [  Throwing  him  his  Purse. 

Purs.  I  thank  your  honour.        [Exit  Pursuivant. 

Enter  a  Priest. 

Pr.   Well  met,  my  lord  ;  I  am  glad  to  see  your 

honour. 
Hast.   I  thank  thee,  good  sir  John,  with  all  my 
heart. 
I  am  in  your  debt  for  your  last  exercise  ; 
Come  the  next  Sabbath,  and  I  will  content  you. 

Enter  Buckingham. 

Buck.  What,  talking  with  a  priest,  lord  chamber- 
lain ? 
Your  friends  at  Pomfret,  they  do  need  the  priest ; 
Your  honour  hath  no  shriving  ^  work  in  hand. 

Hast.  'Good  faith,  and  when  1  met  this  holy  man, 
The  men  you  talk  of  came  into  my  mind. 
What,  go  you  toward  the  Tower  ? 

Buck.  I  do,  my  lord ;  but  long  I  cannot  stay  there : 
I  shall  return  before  your  lordship  thence. 

Hast.   Nay,  like  enough,  for  I  stay  dinner  there. 

Puck.   And  supper  too,  although  thou  know'st  it 
not.  [Aside. 

Come,  will  you  go  ? 

Hast.   I'll  wait  upon  your  lordship.        [Exeurit. 

SCENE  III.  —  Pomfret.     Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  Ratcliff,  wUh  a  Guard,  conducting  Rivers, 
Grey,  and  Vaughan,  to  Execution. 

Bat.    Come,  bring  forth  the  prisoners. 

Biv.   Sir  Richard  Ratcliff  let  me  tell  thee  this,  — 
To-day,  shalt  thou  behold  a  subject  die. 
For  truth,  for  duty,  and  for  loyalty. 

Grey.  God  keep  the  prince  from  all  the  pack  of  you ! 

Vangh,  You  live,  that  shall  cry  woe  for  this  here- 
after. 

Bat.    Despatch  ;  the  limit  of  your  lives  is  out. 

Biv.  O  Pomfret,  Pomfret !  O  thou  bloody  prison. 
Fatal  and  ominous  to  noble  peers  ! 

•'  Know.  «  Confession. 


Within  the  guilty  closure  of  thy  walls, 
Richard  the  Second  here  was  hack'd  to  death : 
And,  for  more  slander  to  thy  dismal  seat. 
We  give  thee  up  our  guiltless  blood  to  drink. 

Grey.   Now  Margaret's  curse  is  fall'n  upon  our 
heads. 
When  she  exclaim'd  on  Hastings,  you,  and  I, 
For  standing  by  when  Richard  stabb'd  her  son. 

Biv.   Then  curs'd  she  Hastings,  curs'd  she  Buck- 
ingham, 
Then  curs'd  she  Richard ;  —  O,  remember,  God, 
To  hear  her  prayers  for  them,  as  now  for  us ! 
And  for  my  sister,  and  her  princely  sons,  — 
Be  satisfied,  great  God,  with  our  true  bloods. 
Which,  as  thou  know'st,  unjustly  must  be  spilt ! 

Bat.    Make  haste,  the  hour  of  death  is  expiate.  7 

Biv-  Come,  Grey, — come,  Vaughan, — let  us  here 
embrace : 
Farewell,  until  we  meet  again  in  heaven.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  London.     A  Boom  in  the  Tower. 

Buckingham,  Stanley,  Hastings,  the  Bishop  of 

Ely,    Catesby,   Lovel,  and  others,  sitting  at  a 

Table :    Officers  of  the  Council  attending. 

Hast.  Now,  noble  peers,  the  cause  why  we  are  met 
Is  —  to  determine  of  the  coronation  : 
In  God's  name  speak,  when  is  the  royal  day  ? 

Buck.    Are  all  things  ready  for  that  royal  time  ? 

Stan.   They  are ;  and  wants  but  nomination. 

EIj/.   To-morrow,  then,  I  judge  a  happy  day. 

Buck.  Whoknows  the  lord  protector's  mind  herein  ? 
Who  is  most  inward  8  with  the  noble  duke  ? 

Ell/.   Your  grace,  we  think,  should  soonest  know 
his  mind. 

Buck.Weknow  each  other's  faces;  for  our  hearts, — 
He  knows  no  more  of  mine,  than  I  of  yours ; 
Nor  I,  of  his,  my  lord,  than  you  of  mine :  — 
Lord  Hastings,  you  and  he  are  near  in  love. 

Hast.  I  thank  his  grace,  I  know  he  loves  me  well ; 
But,  for  his  purpose  in  the  coronation, 
I  have  not  sounded  him,  nor  he  deliver'd 
His  gracious  pleasure  any  way  therein  : 
But  you,  my  noble  lord,  may  name  the  time ; 
And  in  the  duke's  behalf  I'll  give  my  voice. 
Which,  I  presume,  he'll  take  in  gentle  part. 

Enter  Gloster. 

Elt/.  In  happy  time,  here  comes  the  duke  himself. 

Glo.  My  noble  lords  and  cousins,  all,  good  morrow: 
I  have  been  long  a  sleeper ;  but,  I  trust. 
My  absence  doth  neglect  no  great  design. 
Which  by  my  presence  might  have  been  concluded. 

Buck.  Had  you  not  come  upon  your  cue,  my  lord, 
William  lord  Hastings  had  pronounc'd  your  part, — 
I  mean,  your  voice,  —  for  crowning  of  the  king. 

Glo.   Than  my  lord  Hastings,  no  man  might  be 
bolder ; 
His  lordship  knows  me  well,  and  loves  me  well.  — 
My  lord  of  Ely,  when  I  was  last  in  Holborn, 
I  saw  good  strawberries  in  your  garden  there ; 
I  do  beseech  you,  send  for  some  of  them. 

EIj/.  Marry,  and  will,  my  lord,  with  all  my  heart. 

[Exit  Ely. 

Glo.    Cousin  of  Buckingham,  a  word  with  you. 
[Takes  him  aside. 
Catesby  hath  sounded  Hastings  in  our  business  j 
And  finds  the  testy  gentleman  so  hot. 
That  he  will  lose  his  head,  ere  give  consent, 
^  Expiated,  completed.  ^  Intimate. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


551 


His  master's  child,  as  worshipfully  he  terms  it, 
Shall  lose  the  royalty  of  England's  throne. 

Buck.  Withdraw  yourself  awhile,  I'll  go  with  you. 
lExeu?it  Gloster  and  Buckingham. 

Stan.  We  have  not  yet  set  down  this  day  of  triumph. 
To-morrow,  in  my  judgment,  is  too  sudden  ; 
For  I  myself  am  not  so  well  provided, 
As  else  I  would  be  were  the  day  prolong'd. 

Re-enter  Bishop  of  Elt. 

Eti/.   Where  is  my  lord  protector  ?  I  have  sent 
For  these  strawberries. 

Hast.  His  grace  looks  cheerfully  and  smooth  this 
morning ; 
There's  some  conceit  9  or  other  likes  him  well, 
When  he  doth  bid  good  morrow  with  such  spirit. 
I  think,  there's  ne'er  a  man  in  Christendom, 
Can  lesser  hide  his  love,  or  hate,  than  he ; 
For  by  his  face  straight  shall  ye  know  his  heart 

Stan.  What  of  his  heart  perceive  you  in  his  face, 
By  any  likelihood  he  show'd  to-day  ? 

Hast.   Marry,  that  with  no  man  here  he  is  of- 
fended ; 
For,  were  he,  he  had  shown  it  in  his  looks. 

Re-enter  GtosTEa  and  Buckingham. 

Glo.   I  pray  you  all,  tell  me  what  they  deserve. 
That  do  conspire  my  death  with  devilish  plots 
Of  damned  witchcraft  j  and  that  have  prevail'd 
Upon  my  body  with  their  hellish  charms  ? 

Hast.  The  tender  love  I  bear  your  grace,  my  lord, 
Makes  me  most  forward  in  this  noble  presence 
To  doom  the  offenders :   Whosoe'er  they  be, 
I  say,  my  lord,  they  have  deserved  death. 

Glo.   Then  be  your  eyes  the  witness  of  their  evil. 
Look  how  I  am  bewitch'd ;  behold  mine  arm 
Is,  like  a  blasted  sapling,  wither'd  up  : 
And  this  is  Edward's  wife,  that  monstrous  witch, 
Consorted  with  tliat  harlot,  strumpet  Shore, 
That  by  their  witchcraft  thus  have  marked  me. 

Hast.  If  they  have   done   this  deed,  my  noble 
lord,  — 

Glo.   If!  thou  protector  of  this  wanton  strumpet, 
Talk'st  thou  to  me  of  ifs?  —  Thou  art  a  traitor :  — 
Off  with  his  head :  —  now,  by  saint  Paul  I  swear, 
I  will  not  dine  until  I  see  tlie  same.  — 
Lovel,  and  Catesby,  look  that  it  be  done  ; 
The  rest  that  love  me,  rise,  and  follow  me. 

[^Exeunt  Council,  with  Gloster  and 
Buckingham. 

Hast.  Woe,  woe,  for  England!  not  a  whit  for  me ; 
For  I,  too  fond,  might  have  prevented  this : 
Stanley  did  dream,  the  boar  did  rase  his  helm ; 
But  I  disdain'd  it,  and  did  scorn  to  fly. 
Three  times  to-day  my  foot-cloth  horse  did  stumble. 
And  startled,  when  he  look'd  upon  the  Tower, 
As  loath  to  bear  me  to  the  slaughter-house. 
O,  now  1  want  the  priest  that  spake  to  me : 
I  now  repent  I  told  the  pursuivant. 
As  too  triumphing,  how  mine  enemies 
To-day  at  Pomfret  bloodily  were  butcher'd. 
And  I  myself  secure  in  grace  and  favour. 
O,  Margaret,  Margaret,  now  thy  heavy  curse 
Is  lighted  on  poor  Hastings'  wretched  head. 

Cate.   Despatch,  my  lord,  the  duke  would  be  at 
dinner ; 
Make  a  short  shrift,  he  longs  to  see  your  head. 

Hast.   O  momentary  grace  of  mortal  men. 
Which  we  more  hunt  for  than  the  grace  of  Heaven, 
»  Thought 


Who  builds  his  hope  in  air  of  your  fair  looks. 
Lives  like  a  drunken  sailor  on  a  mast ; 
Ready,  with  every  nod,  to  tumble  down 
Into  the  fatal  bowels  of  the  deep. 

Lov.   Come,  come,  despatch  ;  'tis  bootless  to  ex- 
claim. 

Hast.  O,  bloody  Richard! — miserable  England! 
I  prophesy  the  fearful'st  time  to  thee. 
That  ever  wretched  age  hath  look'd  upon.  — 
Come,  lead  me  to  the  block,  bear  him  my  head  ; 
They  smile  at  me,  who  shortly  shall  be  dead. 

\^Exeunl. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  Tower  IValls. 

Enter  Gloster  and  BvcKiVGHxyt,  in  ru^ty  Armour, 
marvellous  ill-favour  d. 

Glo.   Come,  cousin,  canst  thou  quake,  and  change 
thy  colour  ? 
Murder  thy  breath  in  middle  of  a  word,  — 
And  then  again  begin,  and  stop  again. 
As  if  thou  wert  distraught,  and  mad  with  terror  ? 

Ruck.  Tut,  I  can  counterfeit  the  deep  tragedian  ; 
Speak,  and  look  back,  and  pry  on  every  side, 
Tremble  and  start  at  wagging  of  a  straw. 
Intending  '  deep  suspicion  :   ghastly  looks 
Are  at  my  service,  like  enforced  smiles  ; 
And  both  are  ready  in  their  offices. 
At  any  time,  to  grace  my  stratagems. 
But  what,  is  Catesby  gone  ? 

Glo.   He  is ;  and,  see,  he  brings  the  mayor  along. 

Enler  the  Lord  Mayor  and  Catesby. 

Buck.  Let  me  alone  to  entertain  him.  —  Lord 

mayor, 

Glo.   Look  to  the  draw-bridge  there. 

Buck.  Hark,  liark  I  a  drum. 

Glo.   Catesby,  o'erlook  the  walls. 

Buck.   Lord  mayor,  the  reason  we  have  sent  for 

you, 

Glo.   Look  back,  defend  thee,  here  are  enemies. 
Buck.   Heaven  and  our  innocence  defend   and 

guard  "US  ! 

Enter  Lovel  and  Ratcliff,  with  Hastings's  Head. 

Glo.   Be  patient,  they  are  friends ;   Ratcliff,  and 
Lovel. 

Lov.   Here  is  the  head  of  that  ignoble  traitor. 
The  dangerous  and  unsuspected  Hastings. 

Glo.   So  dear  1  lov'd  the  man,  that  I  must  weep. 
I  took  him  for  the  plainest  harmless't  creature. 
That  breath'd  upon  the  earth  a  Christian ; 
Made  him  my  book,  wherein  my  soul  recorded 
The  history  of  all  her  secret  thoughts  : 
So  smooth  he  daub'd  his  vice  with  show  of  virtue. 
That,  his  apparent  open  guilt  omitted,  — 
I  mean,  his  conversation  with  Shore's  wife,  — 
He  liv'd  from  all  attainder  of  suspect 

Buck.   Well,  well,  he  was  tlie  covert'st  shelter 'd 
ti-aitor 
That  ever  liv'd.  —  Look  you,  my  lord  mayor. 
Would  you  imagine,  or  almost  l)elieve, 
(Wer't  not,  that  by  great  preservation 
We  live  to  tell  it  you,)  the  subtle  traitor 
TIjis  day  had  plotted  in  the  council-house 
To  murder  me,  and  my  good  lord  of  Gloster  ? 

May.   What !  had  he  so  ? 

Glo.   Wliat !  tliink  you  we  are  Turks,  or  infidels? 
Or  that  we  would,  against  the  form  of  law, 
•  Pretending. 
N  n  4 


552 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  111. 


Proceed  thus  rashly  in  the  villain's  death  j 
But  that  the  extreme  peril  of  the  case, 
The  peace  of  England,  and  our  persons*  safety, 
Enforc'd  us  to  this  execution  ? 

May.  Now,  fair  befall  you !  he  deserv'd  his  death ; 
And  your  good  graces  both  have  well  proceeded, 
To  warn  false  traitors  from  the  like  attempts. 
I  never  look'd  for  better  at  his  hands, 
After  he  once  fell  in  with  mistress  Shore. 

Buck.    Yet  had  we  not  determin'd  he  should  die, 
Until  your  lordship  came  to  see  his  end ; 
Which  now  the  loving  haste  of  these  our  friends, 
Somewhat  against  our  meaning,  hath  prevented  : 
Because,  my  loi:dj  we  would  have  had  you  heard 
The  traitor  speak,  and  timorously  confess 
The  manner  and  the  purpose  of  his  treasons  ; 
That  you  might  well  have  signified  the  same 
Unto  the  citizens,  who,  haply,  may 
Misconstrue  us  in  him,  and  wail  his  death. 

May.   But,  my  good  lord,  your  grace's  word  shall 
serve. 
As  well  as  I  had  seen,  and  heard  him  speak  : 
And  do  not  doubt,  right  noble  princes  both, 
But  I'll  acquaint  our  duteous  citi^ns 
With  all  your  just  proceedings  in  this  case. 

Glo.  And  to  that  end  we  wish'd  your  lordship  here. 
To  avoid  the  censures  of  the  carping  world. 

Buck.   But  since  you  came  too  late  of  our  intent, 
Yet  witness  what  you  hear  we  did  intend  ; 
And  so,  my  good  lord  mayor,  we  bid  farewell. 

{Exit  Lord  Mayor. 

Glo.   Go  after,  after,  cousin  Buckingham. 
The  mayor  towards  Guildhall  hies  him  in  all  post :  — 
There,  at  your  meetest  vantage  of  the  time, 
Infer  the  bastardy  of  Edward's  children : 
Tell  them,  how  Edward  put  to  death  a  citizen. 
Only  for  saying  —  he  would  make  his  son 
Heir  to  the  crown  ;  meaning,  indeed,  his  house. 
Which,  by  the  sign  thereof,  was  termed  so. 
Moreover,  urge  his  hateful  luxury, 
And  restless  appetite  in  change  of  lust ; 
Which  stretch'd  unto  their  servants,  daughters,  wives. 
Even  where  his  raging  eye,  or  savage  heart, 
Witliout  controul,  listed  to  make  his  prey. 
Nay,  for  a  need,  thus  far  come  near  my  person  :  — 
Tell  them,  when  that  my  mother  went  with  child 
Of  that  insatiate  Edward,  noble  York, 
My  princely  father,  then  had  wars  in  France ; 
And,  by  just  computation  of  the  time. 
Found,  that  the  issue  was  not  his  begot ; 
Which  well  appeared  in  his  lineaments. 
Being  nothing  like  the  noble  duke  my  father : 
Yet  touch  this  sparingly,  as  'twere  far  off; 
Because,  my  lord,  you  know,  my  mother  lives. 

Buck.   Doubt  not,  my  lord ;    I'll  play  the  orator, 
As  if  the  golden  fee,  for  which  I  plead, 
Were  for  myself:   and  so,  my  lord,  adieu. 

Glo.   If  you  thrive  well,  bring  them  to  Baynard's 
castle  ; 
Where  you  shall  find  me  well  accompanied. 
With  reverend  fathers,  and  well-learned  bishops. 

Buck.  I  go  ;  and,  towards  three  or  four  o'clock, 
Ivook  for  the  news  that  the  Guildhall  affords. 

\^ExU  Buckingham. 

do.  Go,  Lovel,  with  all  speed  to  doctor  Shaw,  — 
Go  thou  [  To  Cat.  ]  to  friar  Penker ;  —  bid  them  both 
Meet  me,  within  this  hour,  at  Baynard's  castle. 

[Exeunt  Lovel  and  Catesby. 
Now  will  I  in,  to  take  some  privy  order 
To  draw  the  brats  of  Clarence  out  of  sight ; 


And  to  give  notice,  that  no  manner  of  person 
Have,  any  time,  recourse  unto  the  princes.     \^Exit. 

SCENE  VL  —  ^5'*ree^ 
Enter  a  Scrivener. 
Scriv.   Here  is  the  indictment  of  the  good  lord 
Hastings ; 
Which  in  a  set  hand  fairly  is  engross'd, 
That  it  may  be  to-day  read  o'er  in  Paul's. 
And  mark  how  well  the  sequel  hangs  together :  — 
Eleven  hours  I  have  spent  to  write  it  over. 
For  yesternight  by  Catesby  was  it  sent  me ; 
The  precedent^  was  full  as  long  a  doing: 
And  yet  within  these  five  hours  Hastings  liv'd. 
Untainted,  unexamined,  free,  at  liberty. 
Here's  a  good  world  the  while !  —  Who  is  so  gross. 
That  cannot  see  this  palpable  device  ? 
Yet  who  so  bold,  but  says  —  he  sees  it  not  ? 
Bad  is  the  world ;  and  all  will  come  to  nought. 
When  such  bad  dealing  must  be  seen  in  thought. 

lExit. 
SCENE  VII.  —  Court  of  Baynard's  Castle. 

Enter  Gloster  and  Buckingham,  meeting, 

Glo.   How  now,  how  now?  what  say  the  citizens? 

Buck.    The  citizens  are  mum,  say  not  a  word. 

Glo.   Touch'd  you  the  bastardy  of  Edward's  chil- 
dren? 

Buck.   I  did ;  with  his  contract  with  lady  Lucy, 
And  his  contract  by  deputy  in  France : 
The  insatiate  greediness  of  his  desires. 
And  his  enforcement  of  the  city  wives ; 
His  tyranny  for  trifles  ;  his  own  bastardy,  — 
As  being  got,  your  father  then  in  France  ; 
And  his  resemblance,  being  not  like  the  duke. 
Withal,  I  did  infer  your  lineaments,  — 
Being  the  right  idea  of  your  father. 
Both  in  your  form  and  nobleness  of  mind : 
Laid  open  all  your  victories  in  Scotland, 
Your  discipline  in  war,  wisdom  in  peace. 
Your  bounty,  virtue,  fair  humility ; 
Indeed,  left  nothing,  fitting  for  your  purpose, 
Untouch'd,  or  slightly  handled,  in  discourse. 
And,  when  my  oratory  grew  to  an  end, 
I  bade  them,  that  did  love  their  coimtry's  good. 
Cry  —  God  save  Richard,  England's  royal  king  ! 

Glo.    And  did  they  so? 

Buck.   No,  so  Heaven  help  me,  they  spake  not  a 
word; 
But  like  dumb  statues,  or  breathless  stones, 
Star'd  on  each  other,  and  look'd  deadly  pale. 
Which  when  I  saw  I  reprehended  them  ; 
And  ask'd  the  mayor,  what  meant  this  wilful  silence  : 
His  answer  was,  —  the  people  were  not  us'd 
To  be  spoke  to,  but  by  the  recorder. 
Then  he  was  urg'd  to  tell  my  tale  again : 
77ms  saith  the  duke,  thus  hath  the  duke  in/err  d  ; 
But  nothing  spoke  in  warrant  from  himself. 
When  he  had  done,  some  followers  of  mine  own. 
At  lower  end  o'the  hall,  hurl'd  up  their  caps. 
And  some  ten  voices  cried,  God  save  king  Richard  ! 
And  thus  I  took  the  vantage  of  those  few,  — 
Thanks,  gentle  citizens,  and  friends,  quoth  I ; 
This  general  applause,  and  cheerful  shout, 
Argues  your  wisdom,  and  your  love  to  Richard  : 
And  even  here  brake  off  and  came  away. 

Glo.   What  tongueless  blocks  were  they  ;   Would 
they  not  speak  ? 
Will  not  the  mayor  then,  and  his  brethen,  come  ? 
2  Original  draft 


Scene  VII. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


553 


Btick.  The  mayor  is  here  at  hand :  intend  3  some 
fear; 
Be  not  you  spoke  with,  but  by  mighty  suit : 
And  look  you,  get  a  prayer-book  in  your  hand, 
And  stand  between  two  churchmen,  good  my  lord; 
For  on  that  ground  I'll  make  a  holy  descant : 
And  be  not  easily  won  to  our  requests. 

Glo.   I  go  ;  and  if  you  plead  as  well  for  them, 
As  I  can  say  nay  to  thee  for  myself, 
No  doubt  we'll  bring  it  to  a  happy  issue. 

Buck.    Go,  go,  up  to  tlie  leads ;  the  lord  mayor 
knocks.  [Exit  Glosteb. 

Enter  the  Lord  Mayor,  Aldermen,  and  Citizens. 

Welcome,  my  lord  ;   I  dance  attendance  here ; 
I  think  the  duke  will  not  be  spoke  withal.  — 

Enter,  from  the  Castle,  Catesby. 
Now,  Catesby  !   what  says  your  lord  to  my  request  ? 

Cate.  He  doth  entreat  your  grace,  my  noble  lord, 
To  visit  him  to-morrow,  or  next  day  : 
He  is  within,  with  two  right  reverend  fathers, 
Divinely  bent  to  meditation  ; . 
And  in  no  worldly  suit  would  he  mov'd, 
To  draw  him  from  his  holy  exercise. 

Buck.  Return,  good  Catesby,  to  the  gracious  duke : 
Tell  him,  myself,  the  mayor  and  aldermen. 
In  deep  designs,  in  matter  of  great  moment, 
No  less  importing  than  our  general  good, 
Are  come  to  have  some  conference  with  his  grace. 

Cate.   I'll  signify  so  much  unto  him  straight. 

{Exit. 

Buck.   Ah,  ha,  my  lord,    this  prince  is  not  an 
Edward ! 
He  is  not  lolling  on  a  wanton  bed, 
But  on  his  knees  at  meditation  ; 
Not  dallying  with  a  brace  of  courtezans, 
But  meditating  with  two  deep  divines  ; 
Not  sleeping,  to  engross  ^  his  idle  body, 
But  praying,  to  enrich  his  watchful  soul : 
Happy  were  England,  would  this  virtuous  prince 
Take  on  himself  the  sovereignty  thereof: 
But,  sure,  I  fear,  we  shall  ne'er  win  him  to  it. 

May.  Marry,  Heaven  forbid,  his  grace  should  say 
us  nay ! 

Bvrk,    I   fear,   he  will  ;    Here  Catesby  comes 
again;  — 

Re-enter  Catesby. 

XNow,  Catesby,  what  says  his  grace? 

Cate.  He  wonders  to  what  end  you  have  assembled 
Such  troops  of  citizens  to  come  to  him  ; 
His  grace  not  being  wam'd  tliereof  before. 
He  fears,  my  lord,  you  mean  no  good  to  him. 

Buck.   Sorry  I  am,  my  noble  cousin  should 
SusiH'ct  me,  that  I  mean  no  good  to  him  : 
By  heaven,  we  come  to  him  in  perfect  love ; 
And  so  once  more  return  and  tell  his  grace. 

•{Exit  Catesby. 
When  holy  and  devout  religious  men 
Are  at  their  beads,  'tis  hard  to  draw  them  thence  ; 
So  sweet  is  zealous  contemplation. 

Enter  Gloster,  in  a   Gallery   above,  between  two 
Bishojis.     Catesby  returns. 

May.   See,  where   his   grace  stands  'tween  two 

clergymen ! 
Duck.   Two  props  of  virtue  for  a  christian  prince, 
To  stay  him  from  the  faUI  of  vanity : 

'  Pretend.  *  Fatten. 


And,  see,  a  book  of  prayer  in  his  hand ; 
True  ornaments  to  know  a  holy  man.  — 
Famous  Plantagenet,  most  gracious  prince, 
Lend  favourable  ear  to  our  requests; 
And  pardon  us  the  interruption 
Of  thy  devotion,  and  right-christian  zeal. 

Glo.   My  lord,  there  needs  no  such  apology  ; 
I  rather  do  beseech  you  pardon  me. 
Who,  earnest  in  the  service  of  my  God, 
Neglect  the  visitation  of  my  friends. 
Bu%  leaving  this,  what  is  your  grace's  pleasure  ? 

Buck.   Even  that,  I  hope,  which  pleaseth  Heaven 
above. 
And  all  good  men  of  this  ungovem'd  isle. 

do.    I  do  suspect,  I  have  done  some  offence, 
That  seems  disgracious  in  the  city's  eye ; 
And  that  you  come  to  reprehend  my  ignorance. 

Buck.  You  have,  my  lord ;   Would  it  might  please 
your  grace. 
On  our  entreaties  to  amend  your  fault ! 

Glo.  Else  wherefore  breathe  I  in  a  christian  land  ? 

Buck.  Know,  then,  it  is  your  fault,  that  you  resign 
The  supreme  seat,  the  throne  majestical. 
The  scepter 'd  office  of  your  ancestors. 
Your  state  of  fortune,  and  your  due  of  birth, 
The  lineal  glory  of  your  royal  house. 
To  the  corruption  of  a  blemish'd  stock  : 
Whilst,  in  the  mildness  of  your  sleepy  thoughts, 
(Which  here  we  waken  to  our  country's  gooid,) 
The  noble  isle  doth  want  her  proper  limbs ; 
Her  face  defac'd  with  scars  of  infamy. 
Her  royal  stock  graft  with  ignoble  plants, 
And  almost  shoulder'd  ^  in  the  swallowing  gulf 
Of  dark  forgetfulness  and  deep  oblivion. 
Which  to  recure  6,  we  heartily  solicit 
Your  gracious  self  to  take  on  you  the  charge 
And  kingly  government  of  this  your  land : 
Not  as  protector,  steward,  substitute, 
Or  lowly  factor  for  another's  gain  : 
But  as  successively,  from  blood  to  blood, 
Your  right  of  birth,  your  empery  7,  your  own. 
For  this,  consorted  with  the  citizens, 
Your  very  worshipful  and  loving  friends. 
And  by  their  vehement  instigation,  •• 

In  this  just  suit  come  I  to  move  your  grace. 

Glo.   I  cannot  tell,  if  to  depart  in  silence, 
Or  bitterly  to  speak  in  your  reproof. 
Best  fitteth  my  degree,  or  your  condition  : 
If,  not  to  answer,  —  you  might  haply  think. 
Tongue-tied  ambition,  not  replying,  yielded 
To  bear  the  golden  yoke  of  sovereignty. 
Which  fondly  you  would  here  impose  on  me ; 
If  to  reprove  you  for  this  suit  of  yours. 
So  season'd  with  your  faithful  love  to  me, 
Then,  on  the  other  side,  I  check'd  my  friends. 
Therefore  —  to  speak,  and  to  avoid  the  first  ; 
And,  then  in  speaking,  not  to  incur  the  last,  — 
Definitively  thus  I  answer  you. 
Your  love  deserves  my  tlianks ;  but  my  desert 
Unmeritable,  shuns  your  high  request. 
First,  if  all  obstacles  were  cut  away. 
And  that  my  path  were  even  to  the  crown. 
As  the  ripe  revenue  and  due  of  birth  ; 
Yet  so  much  is  my  poverty  of  spirit. 
So  mighty,  and  so  many  my  defects. 
That  I  would  rather  hide  me  from  my  greatness,  — 
Being  a  bark  to  brook  no  mighty  sea. 
Than  in  my  greatness  covet  to  be  hid, 
And  in  the  vapour  of  my  glory  smother'd. 

>  Thriut  inta  «  Recover.  '  Empire. 


554, 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  IV, 


But,  Heaven  be  tliank'd,  there  is  no  need  of  me  ; 

(And  much  I  need  ^  to  help  you,  if  need  were ;) 

The  royal  tree  hath  left  us  royal  fruit, 

Which  mellow'd  by  the  stealing  hours  of  time, 

Will  well  become  the  seat  of  majesty. 

And  make,  no  doubt,  us  happy  by  his  reign. 

On  him  I  lay  what  you  would  lay  on  me, 

The  right  and  fortune  of  his  happy  stars,  — 

Which,  God  defend,  that  I  should  wring  from  him  ! 

Buck.   My  lord,  this  argues  conscience  in  your 
grace ; 
But  the  respects  thereof  are  nice  9  and  trivial. 
All  circumstances  well  considered. 
You  say,  that  Edward  is  your  brother's  son ; 
So  say  we  too,  but  not  by  Edward's  wife : 
Foi*  first  he  was  contract  to  lady  Lucy, 
Your  mother  lives  a  witness  to  his  vow  ; 
And  afterwards  by  substitute  betroth'd 
To  Bona,  sister  to  the  king  of  France. 
These  both  put  by,  a  poor  petitioner, 
A  care-craz'd  mother  to  a  many  sons, 
A  beauty-waning  and  distressed  widow, 
Even  in  the  afternoon  of  her  best  days, 
Made  prize  and  purchase  of  his  wanton  eye, 
Seduc'd  the  pitch  and  height  of  all  his  thoughts 
To  base  declension  and  loath'd  bigamy  : 
By  her,  in  his  unlawful  bed,  he  got 
This  Edward,  whom  our  manners  call  -^  the  prince. 
More  bitterly  could  I  expostulate, 
Save  that,  for  reverence  to  some  alive, 
I  give  a  sparing  limit  to  my  tongue  ; 
Then,  good  my  lord,  take  to  your  royal  self 
This  profFer'd  benefit  of  dignity  : 
If  not  to  bless  us  and  the  land  withal. 
Yet  to  draw  forth  your  noble  ancestry 
From  the  corruption  of  abusing  time, 
Unto  a  lineal  true-derived  course. 

May.  Do,  good  my  lord;  your  citizens  entreat  you. 

Buck.  Refuse  not,  mighty  lord,  this  profFer'd  love 

Cate.  O  make  them  joyful,  grant  their  lawful  suit. 

Glo.  Alas,  why  would  you  heap  those  cares  on  me? 
I  am  unfit  for  state  and  majesty  :  — 
I  do  beseech  you,  take  it  not  amiss ; 
I  cannot,  nor  I  will  not,  yield  to  you. 

Buck.   If  you  refuse  it,  —  as  in  love  and  zeal, 
Loath  to  depose  the  child,  your  brother's  son  ; 


As  well  we  know  your  tenderness  of  heart, 
And  gentle,  kind,  effeminate  remorse  •, 
Which  we  have  noted  in  you  to  your  kindred, 
And  equally,  indeed,  to  all  estates,  — 
Yet  know,  whe'r  you  accept  our  suit  or  no. 
Your  brother's  son  shall  never  reign  our  king ; 
But  we  will  plant  some  other  in  your  throne, 
To  the  disgrace  and  downfall  of  your  house. 
And,  in  this  resolution,  here  we  leave  you  j 
Come,  citizens,  we  will  entreat  no  more. 

\^Exeunt  Buckingham  anrf  Citizens. 

Cate.   Call  them  again,  sweet  prince,  accept  their 
suit ; 
If  you  deny  them,  all  the  land  will  rue  it. 

Glo.    Will  you  enforce  me  to  a  world  of  cares  ? 
Well,  call  them  again  ;   I  am  not  made  of  stone. 
But  penetrable  to  your  kind  entreaties, 

[Exit  Catksbv. 
Albeit  against  my  conscience  ilnd  my  soul.  — 

Re-enter  Buckingham  and  the  rest. 

Cousin  of  Buckingham,  —  and  sage,  grave  men,  — 

Since  you  will  buckle  fortune  on  my  back, 

To  bear  her  burden,  whe'r  I  will,  or  no, 

I  must  have  patience  to  endure  the  load  : 

But  if  black  scandal,  or  foul-fac'd  reproach, 

Attend  the  sequel  of  your  imposition, 

Your  mere  enforcement  shall  acquittance  me 

From  all  the  impure  blots  and  stains  thereof; 

For  Heaven  best  knows,  and  you  may  partly  see. 

How  far  I  am  from  the  desire  of  this. 

May.    God  bless  your  grace  !  we  see  it,  and  will 
say  it. 

Glo.    In  saying  so,  you  shall  but  say  the  truth. 

Buck.    Then  I  salute  you  with  this  royal  title,  — 
Long  live  king  Richard,  England's  worthy  king  ! 

All.    Amen. 

Buck.  To-morrow  may  it  please  you  to  be  crown'd? 

Glo.   Even  when  you  please,  since  you  will  have 
it  so. 

Buck.  To-morrow  then  we  will  attend  your  grace; 
And  so,  most  joyfully,  we  take  our  leave. 

Glo.    Come,  let  us  to  our  holv  work  again  :  —  ' 
[2'o  t/ie  Bishops. 
farewell,  gentle  friends. 
l^Exc'unt, 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  Before  the  Tower. 

Enter,  on  one  side,  Queen  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of 
York,  and  Marquis  of  Dorset;  on  the  other, 
Anne,  Duchess  of  Gloster,  leading  Lady  Marga- 
ret Plantagenet,  Clarence's  young  Daughter. 

Duck.  Who  meets  us  here — my  niece  Plantagenet 
Led  in  the  hand  of  her  kind  aunt  of  Gloster  ? 
Now,  for  my  life,  she's  wandering  to  the  Tower, 
On  pure  heart's  love,  to  greet  the  tender  prince.  — 
Daughter,  well  met. 

Anne.  Heaven  give  your  graces  both 

A  happy  and  a  joyful  time  of  day ! 

Q.  Eliz.   As  much  to  you,  good  sister  !  Whither 
away? 

Anne.  No  further  than  the  Tower;  and,  as  I  guess, 

8  Want  ability.  ^  Minute. 


Upon  the  like  devotion  as  yourselves. 
To  gratulate  the  gentle  princes  there. 

Q.  Eliz.   Kind  sister,  thanks ;  we'll  enter  all  to- 
gether : 

Enter  Brakenbury. 
And,  in  good  time,  here  the  lieutenant  comes.  — 
Master  lieutenant,  pray  you,  by  your  leave, 
How  doth  the  prince,  and  my  young  son  of  York  ? 

Brak.  Right  well,  dear  madam:  By  your  patience, 
I  may  not  suffer  you  to  visit  them  ; 
The  king  hath  strictly  charg'd  the  contrary. 

Q.  Eliz.   The  king  !  who's  that  ? 

Brak.  I  mean  the  lord  protector. 

Q.  Eliz.   The  Lord  protect  him  from  that  kingly 
title  ! 
Hath  he  set  bounds  between  their  love,  and  me  ? 
I  am  their  mother,  who  shall  bar  me  from  them  ? 


Pity. 


m 


Scene  I. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


555 


Duch.  I  am  tlieir  father's  motlier,  I  will  see  them. 
Anne.   Their  aunt  I  am  in  law,    in  love  their 
mother : 
Then  bring  me  to  their  sights  ;  I'll  bear  thy  blame, 
And  take  thy  office  from  thee,  on  thy  peril. 

Bnik.    No,  madam,  no,  1  may  not  leave  it  so ; 
I  am  bound  by  oath,  and  therefore  pardon  me, 

[Exit  Brakenburv. 

Enter  Stanley. 

Stan.  Let  me  but  meet  you,  ladies,  one  hour  hence, 
And  I'll  salute  your  grace  of  York,  as  mother, 
And  reverend  looker-on  of  two  fair  queens. 
Come,  madam,  you  must  straight  to  Westminster. 
[To  the  Duchess  of  Gloster. 
There  to  be  crowned  Richard's  royal  queen. 

Q.  Eliz.    Ah,  cut  my  lace  asunder  ! 
That  my  pent  heart  may  have  some  scope  to  beat, 
Or  else  I  swoon  with  this  dead-killing  news. 

Atuie.    Despiteful  tidings  !    O  impleasing  news  ! 

Dor.  Be  of  good  cheer  :   Mother,  how  fares  your 
grace  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  O  Dorset,  speak  not  to  me,  get  thee  gone. 
Death  and  destruction  dog  thee  at  the  heels ; 
Thy  mother's  name  is  ominous  to  children  : 
If  thou  wilt  outstrip  death,  go  cross  the  seas, 
And  live  with  Richmond,  from  the  reach  of  hell, 
(•o,  hie  thee,  hie  thee,  from  this  slaughter-house. 
Lest  thou  increase  the  number  of  the  dead  ; 
And  make  me  die  the  thrall  of  Margaret's  curse, — 
Nor  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  counted  queen. 

Stan.   Full   of  wise  care  is  this    your   counsel, 
madam :  — 
Take  all  the  swift  advantage  of  the  hours ; 
You  shall  have  letters  from  me  to  my  son 
In  your  behalf,  to  meet  you  on  the  way: 
Be  not  ta'en  tardy  by  unwise  delay. 

Duck.    O  ill-dispersing  wind  of  misery  !  — 
O  my  accursed  womb,  tlie  bed  of  death  ; 
A  cockatrice  hast  tliou  hatch'd  to  the  world. 
Whose  unavoided  eye  is  murderous  ! 

Stan.   Come,  madam,  come;   I  in  all  haste  was 
sent. 

Anne.  And  I  with  all  unwillingness  will  go. — 
O,  would  to  heaven  that  the  inclusive  verge 
Of  golden  metal,  that  must  round  my  brow, 
Were  red-hot  steel,  to  sear  me  to  the  brain  ! 
Anointed  let  me  be  with  deadly  venom  ; 
And  die,  ere  men  can  say —  God  save  the  queen  ! 

Q    Eliz.  Go,  go,  poor  soul,  I  envy  not  thy  glory ; 
To  feed  my  humour,  wish  thyself  no  harm. 

Anne.   No !  why  ? — When  he,  that  is  my  husband 
now. 
Came  to  me,  as  I  foUow'd  Henry's  corse ; 
Wlien  scarce  the  blood  was  well  wash'd  from  his 

hands. 
Which  issu'd  from  my  other  angel  husband. 
And  that  dead  saint  which  then  I  weeping  follow'd  ; 
O,  when,  I  say,  I  look'd  on  Richard's  face, 
Tills  was  my  wish,  —  Be  thou,  quoth  L  accurs'd, 
For  making  vie  so  i/oung,  so  old  a  widow/ 
Andy  when  thou  wed'st,  let  sorrow  haunt  thy  bed  ; 
And  be  thy  wife  {if  any  be  so  mad) 
Afore  miserable  by  the  life  qfthee^ 
Than  thou  hast  made  me  by  my  dear  lord's  death  I 
\m,  ere  I  can  repeat  this  curse  again, 
Even  in  so  short  a  space,  my  woman's  heart 
Grossly  grew  captive  to  his  lioney  words. 
And  prov'd  the  subject  of  mine  own  soul's  curse  : 
Whicli  ever  since  hatli  held  mine  eyes  from  rest ; 


For  never  yet  one  hour  in  his  bed 

Did  I  enjoy  the  golden  dew  of  sleep, 

But  with  his  timorous  dreams  was  still  awak'd. 

Besides,  he  hates  me  for  my  father  Warwick  ; 

And  will,  no  doubt,  shortly  be  rid  of  me. 

Q.  Eliz.  Poor  heart,  adieu ;  1  pity  thy  complaining. 

Anne.  No  more  tlian  with  my  soul  I  mourn  for 
yours. 

Dor.    Farewell,  thou  woful  welcomer  of  glory  ! 

Anne.  Adieu,  poor  soul,  that  tak'st  thy  leave  of  it ! 

Duch.    Go  thou  to  Richmond,  and  good  fortune 

guide  thee  !  —  [To  Dorset. 

Go  thou  to  Richard,  and  good  angels  tend  thee !  — 

[To  Anne, 
Go  thou  to  sanctuary,  and  good  thoughts  possess 
thee  !  —  [To  Q,.  Elizabeth. 

I  to  my  grave,  where  peace  and  rest  lie  with  me ! 
Eighty  odd  years  of  sorrow  have  I  seen, 
And  each  hour's  joy  wreck 'd  witli  a  week  of  leen.  ^ 

Q.  Eliz.   Stay  yet :  look  back,  with  me,  unto  the 
Tower.  — 
Pity,  you  ancient  stones,  those  tender  babes, 
Whom  envy  hath  immur'd  within  your  walls! 
Rough  cradle  for  such  little  pretty  ones  ! 
Rude  ragged  nurse  !  old  sullen  play-fellow 
For  tender  princes,  use  my  babies  well ! 
So  foolish  sorrow  bids  your  stones  farewell.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish  of  Trumpets.    Richard,  as  Xing,  upon  his 
Throne;   Buckingham,  Catesby,   a  Page,  and 
others. 
K.  Rich.  Stand  all  apart.  —  Cousin  of  Bucking^ 

ham, 

Buck.   My  gracious  sovereign. 
K.  Rich.   Give  me  thy  hand.     Thus  high,  by  thy 
advice, 
And  thy  assistance,  is  king  Richard  seated  :  — 
But  shall  we  wear  these  glories  for  a  day  ? 
Or  shall  they  last,  and  we  rejoice  in  them  ? 

Buck.   Still  live  they,  and  for  ever  let  them  last ! 
K.  Rich.   Ah,  Buckingham,  now  do  I  play  tlie 
touch  3, 
To  try  if  thou  be  current  jrold,  indeed  :  — 
Young  Edward  lives ;  —  Think  i^uw  what  I  would 
speak. 
Buck.   Say  on,  my  loving  lord. 
K.  TiicA.  Why,  Buckingham,  I  say,  I  would  be  king. 
Buck.  Why,  so  you  are,  my  thrice-renowned  liege. 
K.  Rich.  Ha!  am  I  king?  'Tis  so:  but  Edward 

lives. 
Buck.   True,  noble  prince. 

A'.  Rich.  O  bitter  consequence. 

That  Edward  still  should  live, — true,  noble  prince ! — 
Cousin,  thou  wast  not  wont  to  be  so  dull : 
Shall  I  be  plain  ?   I  wish  the  bastards  dead  ; 
And  I  would  have  it  suddenly  perform'd. 
What  say'st  thou  now?  speak  suddenly,  be  brief. 
Buck.   Your  grace  may  do  your  pleasure, 
IT.  Rich.   Tut,  tut,  thou  art  all  ice,  tliy  kindness 
freezes : 
Say,  have  I  thy  consent,  that  they  shall  die  ? 

Buck.    Give  me  some  breath,  some  little  pause, 
dear  lord. 
Before  I  positively  speak  in  this : 
I  will  resolve  your  grace  immediately, 

[Exit  Buckingham. 
Cate.   The  king  is  angry  ;  see,  lie  gnaws  his  lip. 

[Aside. 
'  Sorrow  '  Touchstone. 


556 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  IV. 


JT.  Rkh.   I  will  converse  with  iron-witted  fools, 
[Descends from  his  Throne. 
And  unrespcctive  '♦  boys  :   none  are  for  me, 
That  look  into  me  with  considerate  eyes  ; 
High-reacliing  Buckingham  grows  circumspect. 
Boy, 

Page.   My  lord. 

JT.  Rich.   Know'st  thou  not  any,  whom  corrupting 
gold 
Would  tempt  unto  a  close  exploit  ^  of  death  ? 

Page.   I  know  a  discontented  gentleman, 
Whose  humble  means  match  not  his  haughty  mind  : 
Gold  were  as  good  as  twenty  orators, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  tempt  him  to  any  thing. 

JT.  Rich.   What  is  his  name  ? 

Page.  His  name,  my  lord,  is  —  Tyrrel. 

A".  Rich.  I  partly  know  the  man ;   Go,  call  him 
hither,  boy.  [JExit  Page. 

The  deep-revolving  witty  6  Buckingham 
No  more  shall  be  the  neighbour  to  my  counsels  : 
Hatli  he  so  long  held  out  with  me  untir'd, 
And  stops  he  now  for  breath  ?  —  well,  be  it  so.  — 

Enter  Stanley. 
How  now,  lord  Stanley  ?  what's  the  news  ? 

Stan.  Know,  my  loving  lord, 

The  marquis  Dorset,  as  I  hear,  is  fled 
To  Richmond,  in  the  parts  where  he  abides. 

JT.  Rich.  Come  hither,  Catesby :  rumour  it  abroad, 
That  Anne,  my  wife,  is  very  grievous  sick ; 
I  will  take  order  for  her  keeping  close. 
Inquire  me  out  some  mean-born  gentleman, 
Whom  I  will  marry  straight  to  Clarence's  daughter : 
The  boy  is  foolish,  and  I  fear  not  him.  — 
Look,  how  thou  dream 'st !  —  I  say  again,  give  out. 
That  Anne  my  queen  is  sick,  and  like  to  die : 
About  it;  for  it  stands  me  much  upon?, 
To  stop  all  hopes,  whose  growth  may  damage  me.  — 

[Exii  Catesby. 
I  must  be  married  to  my  brother's  daughter. 
Or  else  my  kingdom  stands  on  brittle  glass : 
Murder  her  brothers,  and  then  marry  her  ! 
Uncertain  way  of  gain  !     But  1  am  in 
So  far  in  blood,  that  sin  will  pluck  on  sin. 
Tear-falling  pity  dwells  not  in  this  eye.  — 

Re-enter  Page,  with  Tyrrei,. 
Is  thy  name  Tyrrel  ? 

Tyr.  James  Tyrrel,  and  your  most  obedient  subject. 
K.  Rich.   Art  thou,  indeed  ? 
Ti/r.  Prove  me,  my  gracious  lord. 

JT.  Rich.   Dar'st  thou  resolve  to  kill  a  friend  of 

mine? 
Tyr.   Please  you  ;  but  I  had  rather  kill  two  ene- 
mies. 
JT.  Rich.   Why,  then  thou  hast  it ;  two  deep  ene- 
mies ! 
Foes  to  my  rest,  and  my  sweet  sleep's  disturbers, 
Are  they  that  I  would  have  thee  deal  8  upon ; 
Tyrrel,  I  mean  those  bastards  in  the  Tower. 

Tyr.   Let  me  have  open  means  to  come  to  them, 
And  soon  I'll  rid  you  from  the  fear  of  them. 

JC.  Rich.   Thou  sing'st  sweet  music.     Hark,  come 
hither,  Tyrrel ; 
Go,  by  this  token  :  —  Rise,  and  lend  thine  ear  : 

[  Whispers. 
There  is  no  more  but  so  :  —  Say,  it  is  done. 
And  I  will  love  thee,  and  prefer  thee  for  it. 

Tyr.    I  will  despatch  it  straight.  [Exit. 

*  Inconsiderate.  *  Secret  act.  ^  Cunning. 

7  It  is  of  great  consequence  to  my  designs.  ^  Acu 


Re-enter  Buckingham. 

Buck.   My  lord,  I  have  considered  in  my  mind 
The  late  demand  that  you  did  sound  me  in. 

A".  Rich.  Well,  let  that  rest.     Dorset  is  fled  to 
Richmond. 

Ruck.   I  hear  the  news,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.    Stanley,  he  is  your  wife's  son  :  —  Well, 
look  to  it. 

Buck.   My   lord,   I  claim    the  gift,  my  due  by 
promise. 
For  which  your  honour  and  your  faith  is  pawn'd  ; 
The  earldom  of  Hereford,  and  the  movables. 
Which  you  have  promised  I  shall  possess. 

A".  Rich.  Stanley,  look  to  your  wife  ;  if  she  convey 
Letters  to  Richmond,  you  shall  answer  it. 

Buck.   What  says  your  highness  to  my  just  re- 
quest ? 

JT.  Rich.  I  do  remember  me,  —  Henry  the  sixth 
Did  prophecy,  that  Richmond  should  be  king, 
When  Richmond  was  a  little  peevish  9  boy. 
A  king  !  —  perhaps 

Buck.   My  lord, 

IT.  Rich.   How  chance,  the  prophet  could  not  at 
that  time, 
Have  told  me,  I  being  by,  that  I  should  kill  him  ? 

Buck.   My  lord,  your  promise  for  the  earldom, — 

jr.  Rich.     Richmond !  —  When    last    I  was    at 
Exeter, 
Tlie  mayor  in  courtesy  show'd  me  the  castle, 
And  call'd  it — Rouge-mont:  at  which  name,  I 

started ; 
Because  a  bard  of  Ireland  told  me  once, 
I  should  not  live  long  after  I  saw  Richmond. 

Buck.   My  lord, 

Ai  Rich.  Ay,  what's  o'clock  ? 

Buck.  I  am  thus  bold 

To  put  your  grace  in  mind  of  what  you  promis'd  me. 

JT.  Rich.   Well,  but  what  is't  o'clock  ? 

Buck.  Upon  the  stroke 

Of  ten. 

IT.  Rich.  Well,  let  it  strike. 

Buck.  Why,  let  it  strike  ?, 

IT.  Rich.   Because  that,  like  a  Jack  ',  thou  keep'fet 
the  stroke 
Betwixt  thy  begging  and  my  meditation. 
I  am  not  in  the  giving  vein  to-day. 

Buck.  Why,  then  resolve  me  whe'r  you  will,  or  no. 

IT.  Rich.  Thou  troublest  me ;  I  am  not  in  the  vein. 
[Exeunt  King  Richard  and  Train. 

Buck.   And  is  it  thus  ?  repays  he  my  deep  service 
With  such  contempt  ?  made  I  him  king  for  this  ? 
O,  let  me  think  on  Hastings  ;  and  begone 
To  Brecknock  %  while  my  fearful  head  is  on.  [Exit. 

SCENE  111.  — The  same. 

Enter  Tyrrel. 
Tyr.   The  tyrannous  and  bloody  act  is  done  j 
The  most  arch  deed  of  piteous  massacre. 
That  ever  yet  this  land  was  guilty  of. 
Dighton  and  Forrest,  whom  I  did  suborn 
To  do  this  piece  of  ruthless  butchery. 
Albeit  they  were  flesh'd  villains,  bloody  dogs, 
Melting  with  tenderness  and  mild  compassion. 
Wept  like  two  children,  in  their  death's  sad  story. 
0  thus,  quoth  Dighton,  lay  the  gentle  babes,  — 

9  Foolish. 

'  A  Jack  of  the  clock-house  is  an  image  like  those  at  St.. 
Dunstan's  church  in  Fleet-street,  and  was  then  a  commoii 
appendage  to  clocks. 

•^  His  castle  in  Wales. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


557 


Thiis,  thus,  quoth  Forrest,  girdling  one  another, 
Within  their  alabaster  innocent  arms  : 
Their  lips  were  four  red  roses  on  a  stafk, 
Which  in  their  summer  beautt/  kiss\l  each  other, 
A  hook  of  prayers  on  their  pi/loio  lay. 
Which  once,  quoth  Forrest,  almost  changd  mxj  mind. 
But,  0,  the  devil  —  there  the  villain  stopp'd  ; 
When  Dighton  tlms  told  on, —  we  smothered 
The  vutst  replenished  sweet  toork  (f  nature, 
That,  from  the  prime  creation,  e'er  shefrarnd.  — 
Hence  both  are  gone  with  conscience  and  remorse, 
Tluy  could  not  speak  ;  and  so  I  left  them  both, 
To  bear  these  tidings  to  the  bloody  king. 

Enter  Kino  Richard. 

And  here  he  comes :  —  all  health,  my  sovereign  lord  ! 

A".  Rich.  Kind  Tyrrel  !  am  I  happy  in  thy  news  ? 

Ti/r.  If  to  have  done  the  thing  you  gave  in  charge 
Beget  your  happiness,  be  happy  then, 
For  it  is  done. 

A".  Rich.  But  didst  thou  see  them  dead  ? 

Ti/r.    I  did,  my  lord. 

A\  Rich.  And  buried,  gentle  Tyrrel  ? 

Ti/r.   The  chaplain  of  the  Tower  hath   buried 
them ; 
But  where,  to  say  the  truth,  I  do  not  know. 

Jl.  Rich.  Come  to  me,  Tyrrel,  soon,  at  after  supper, 
When  thou  shalt  tell  the  process  of  their  death. 
Mean  time,  but  think  how  I  may  do  thee  good, 
And  be  inheritor  of  tliy  desire. 
Farewell,  till  then. 

Tyr.  I  humbly  take  my  leave.  [Exit. 

A'.  Rich.  The  son  of  Clarence  have  I  penn'd  up 
close; 
His  daughter  meanly  have  I  match'd  in  marriage ; 
The  sons  of  Edward  sleep  in  Abraham's  bosom, 
And  Anne  my  wife  hath  bid  the  world  good  night. 
Now,  for  I  know  the  Bretagne  3  Richmond  aims 
At  young  Elizabeth,  my  brother's  daughter, 
And,  by  that  knot,  looks  proudly  on  the  crown, 
,To  her  go  I,  a  jolly  thriving  woer. 

Enter  Catesby. 
Cate.   My  lord,  — 
A".  Rich.  Good  news,  or  bad,  that  thou  com'st  in 

so  bluntly  ? 
Cate.   Bad  news,  my  lord:    Morton 4  is  fled  to 
Richmond ; 
And  Buckingham,  back'd  with  the  hardy  Welshmen, 
Is  in  the  field,  and  still  his  power  increaseth. 
JT.  Rich.   Ely  with  Richmond  troubles  me  more 
near, 
Tlian  Buckingham  and  his  rash-levied  strength. 
Come,  —  I  have  learn 'd,  that  fearful  commenting 
Is  leaden  servitor  to  dull  delay ; 
Delay  leads  impotent  and  snail-pac'd  beggary  -. 
Then  fiery  expedition  be  my  wing, 
Jove's  Mercury,  and  herald  for  a  king ! 
Go,  muster  men  :    My  counsel  is  my  shield  ; 
We  must  be  brief,  when  traitors  brave  the  field. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV.  —  JBe/ore  the  Palace. 
Enter  Queen  Makoaret. 
Q.  Mar.    So,  now  prosperity  begins  to  mellow, 
And  drop  into  tl>e  rotten  mouth  of  deatli. 
Here  in  these  confines  slily  have  I  lurk'd, 

=*  The  country  in  which  Richmond  had  taken  rcAigc. 
*  Bishop  of  Ely.  * 


To  watch  the  waning  of  mine  enemies. 
A  dire  induction  am  I  witness  to. 
And  will  to  France  ;  hoping  the  consequence 
Will  prove  as  bitter,  black,  and  tragical. 
Withdraw  thee,  wretched   Margaret !    who  comes 
here? 

Enter    Queen    Elizabeth   and    the    Duchess   of 
York. 

Q.  Eliz.   Ah,  my  poor  princes !    ah,  my  tender 
babes ! 
My  unblown  flowers,  new-appearing  sweets  ! 
If  yet  your  gentle  souls  fly  in  the  air. 
And  be  not  fix'd  in  doom  perpetual. 
Hover  about  me  with  your  airy  wings, 
And  hear  your  mother's  lamentation  ! 

Q.  Mar.  Hover  about  her ;  say,  that  right  for  right 
Hath  dimm'd  your  infant  morn  to  aged  night. 

Duch.  So  many  miseries  have  craz'd  my  voice, 
That  my  woe-wearied  tongue  is  still  and  mute,  — 
Edward  Plantagenet,  why  art  thou  dead  ? 

Q.  Mar.    Plantagenet  doth  quit  Plantagenet. 
Edward  for  Edward  pays  a  dying  debt. 

Dv£h.   Dead  life,  blind  sight,  poor  mortal-living 
ghost. 
Woe's  scene,  world's  shame,  grave's  due,  by  life 

usurp'd. 
Brief  abstract  and  record  of  tedious  days. 
Rest  thy  unrest  on  England's  lawful  earth, 

[Sitting  down. 
Unlawfully  made  drunk  with  innocent  blood  ! 

Q.  Eliz.   Ah,  that  thou  wouldst  as  soon  afford  a 
grave. 
As  thou  canst  yield  a  melancholy  seat ; 
Then  would  I  hide  my  bones,  not  rest  them  here  ! 
Ah,  who  hath  any  cause  to  mourn,  but  we  ? 

[Sitting  down  by  her. 

Q.  Mar.   If  ancient  sorrow  be  most  reverent. 
Give  mine  the  benefit  of  seniory  *, 
And  let  my  griefs  frown  on  tlie  upper  hand. 
If  sorrow  can  admit  society, 

[Sitting  down  with  them. 
Tell  o'er  your  woes  again  by  viewing  mine  :  — 
I  had  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him  ; 
I  had  a  husband,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him  : 
Thou  hadst  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him  ; 
Thou  hadst  a  Richard,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him. 

Duch.   I  had  a  Richard  too,  and  Ihou  didst  kill 
him  ; 
I  had  a  Rutland  too,  thou  holp'st  to  kill  him. 

Q.  Mar.  Thou  hadst  a  Clarence  too,  and  Richard 
kiird  him. 
From  forth  the  kennel  of  thy  womb  hath  crept 
A  hell-hound,  that  doth  hunt  us  all  to  death : 
That  dog,  that  had  his  teeth  before  his  eyes, 
To  worry  lambs,  and  lap  their  gentle  blood ; 
That  excellent  grand  tj-rant  of  the  earth, 
That  reigns  in  galled  eyes  of  weeping  souls. 
Thy  womb  let  loose,  to  chase  us  to  our  graves.  — 
O  upright,  just,  and  true-disposing  God, 
How  do  I  thank  thee,  tliat  this  carnal  cur 
Preys  on  the  issue  of  his  mother's  body. 
And  makes  her  pew-fellow  ^  with  others'  m.oan  ! 

Duch.  O,  Harrj-'s  wife,  triumph  not  in  my  woes  ; 
Heaven  witness  with  me,  I  have  wept  for  thine. 

Q.  Mar.    Bear  with  me,  I  am  hungry  for  revenge, 
And  now  I  cloy  me  with  beholding  it. 
Thy  Edward  he  is  dead,  that  kill'd  my  Edward  ; 
Thy  other  Edward  dead  to  quit  my  Edv%ard ; 
»  Seniority.  •  Companion. 


558 


KING  IMCHARD  III. 


Act  IV. 


Young  York  he  is  hut  boot ",  hccause  both  they 
Match  not  the  high  perfection  of  my  loss. 
'J'hy  Chirence  he  is  dead,  that  stabb'd  ray  Edward ; 
And  the  beholders  of  this  tragick  play, 
The  adulterate  Hastings,  Rivers,  Vaughan.  Grey, 
Untimely  smother'd  in  their  dusky  graves. 
Richard  yet  lives,  hell's  black  intelligencer; 
.  Only  reserv'd  their  factor  to  buy  souls, 
And  send  them  thither :    But  at  hand,  at  hand, 
Ensues  his  piteous  and  unpitied  end : 
Earth  gapes,  hell  burns,  fiends  roar,  saints  pray. 
To  have  him  suddenly  convey 'd  from  hence :  — 
Cancel  his  bond  of  life,  great  God,  I  pray. 
That  I  may  live  to  say.  The  dog  is  dead  ! 

Q.  Eliz.   O,  thou  didst  prophesy  the  time  would 
come. 
That  I  should  wish  for  thee  to  help  me  curse 
That  bottled  spider,  that  foul  bunch-back'd  toad. 
Q.  Mar.   I  call'd  thee  then,  vain  flourish  of  my 
fortune ; 
I  call'd  thee  then,  poor  shadow,  painted  queen ; 
The  presentation  of  but  what  I  was. 
The  flattering  index  of  a  direful  pageant,    ' 
One  heav'd  a  high,  to  be  hurl'd  down  below : 
A  mother  only  mock'd  with  two  fail'  babes ; 
A  dream  of  what  thou  wast ;  a  garish  9  flag, 
To  be  the  aim  of  every  dangerous  shot ; 
A  sign  of  dignity,  a  breath,  a  bubble ; 
A  queen  in  jest,  only  to  fill  the  scene. 
Where  is  thy  husband  now  ?  where  be  thy  brothers  ? 
Where  be  thy  two  sons  ?  wherein  dost  thou  joy  ? 
Who  sues,  and  kneels,  and  says  —  God   save  the 

queen  ? 
Where  be  the  bending  peers  that  flatter'd  thee  ? 
Where  be  the  thronging  troops  that  follow'd  thee  ? 
Decline  all  this,  and  see  what  now  thou  art. 
For  happy  wife,  a  most  distressed  widow  ; 
For  joyful  mother,  one  that  wails  the  name  ; 
For  one  being  sued  to,  one  that  humbly  sues ; 
For  queen,  a  very  caitiff  crown'd  with  care  ; 
For  one  that  scorn'd  at  me,  now  scorn'd  of  me ; 
For  one  being  fear'd  of  all,  now  fearing  one  ; 
For  one  commanding  all,  obey'd  of  none. 
Thus  hath  the  course  of  justice  wheel'd  about, 
And  left  thee  but  a  very  prey  to  time  ; 
Having  no  more  but  thought  of  what  thou  wert. 
To  torture  thee  the  more,  being  what  thou  art. 
Thou  didst  usurp  my  place  ;  and  dost  thou  not 
Usurp  the  just  proportion  of  my  sorrow  ? 
Now  thy  proud  neck  bears  half  my  burden'd  yoke  ; 
From  which  even  here  I  slip  my  wearied  head. 
And  leave  the  burden  of  it  all  on  thee. 
Farewell,   York's    wife,  —  and  queen  of  sad  mis- 
chance,— 
These  English  woes  shall  make  me  smile  in  France. 
Q.  Eliz.  O  thou  well  skill'd  in  curses,  stay  a  while, 
And  teach  me  how  to  curse  mine  enemies ! 

Q.  Mar.    Forbear  to  sleep  the  night,  and  fast  the 
day ; 
Compare  dead  happiness  with  living  woe ; 
Think  that  thy  babes  were  fairer  than  they  were. 
And  he  that  slew  them,  fouler  than  he  is  : 
Bettering  thy  loss  makes  the  bad-causer  worse  ; 
Revolving  this  will  teach  thee  how  to  curse. 

Q.  Eliz.   My  words  are   dull,   O,  quicken  them 

with  thine ! 
Q.  Mar.    Thy  woes  will   make  them   sharp,   and 
pierce  like  mine.         \^Exit  Q.  Margaret. 
Duch.   Why  should  calamity  be  full  of  words  ? 
8  Thrown  into  the  bargain.  »  Flaring. 


Q.  Eliz.  Windy  attomies  to  their  client  woes, 
Airy  succeeders  of  intestate  joys, 
l*oor  breathing  orators  of  miseries  ! 
Let  them  have  scope  :   though  what  they  do  impart 
Help  nothing  else,  yet  do  they  ease  the  heart. 

Duch.  If  so,  then  be  not  tongue-ty'd  :  go  with  me, 
And  in  the  breath  of  bitter  words  let's  smother 
My  cruel  son,  that  thy  two  sweet  sons  smother'd. 

[Drum  within. 
I  hear  his  drum,  —  be  copious  in  exclaims. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  his  Train,  marching. 
K.  Rich.   Who  intercepts  me  in  my  expedition  ? 
Duch.   O,  she,  that  might  have  intercepted  thee, 
By  strangling  thee  in  her  unhappy  womb. 
From  all  the  slaughters,  wretch,  that  thou  hast  done. 
Q.  Eliz.   Hid'st  thou  that  forehead  with  a  golden 
crown. 
Where  should  be  branded,  if  that  right  were  right, 
The  slaughter  of  the  prince  that  ow'd  '  that  crown. 
And  the  dire  death  of  my  poor  sons  and  brothers? 
Tell  me,  thou  villain-slave,  where  are  my  children  ? 
Duch.  Thou  toad,  thou  toad,  where  is  thy  brother 
Clarence  ? 
And  little  Ned  Plantagenet,  his  son  ? 

Q.  Eliz.   Where  is  the  gentle  Rivers,  Vaughan, 

Grey  ? 
Duch.   Where  is  kind  Hastings  ? 
K.  Rich.   A  flourish,  trumpets !  —  strike  alarum, 
drums ! 
Let  not  the  heavens  hear  these  tell-tale  women 
Rail  on  the  Lord's  anointed  :   Strike,  I  say.  — 

[Floujish  Alarums. 
Either  be  patient,  and  entreat  me  fair. 
Or  with  the  clamorous  report  of  war 
Thus  will  I  drown  your  exclamations. 
Duch.    Art  thou  my  son? 
K.  Rich.   Ay ;   I  thank  heaven,  my  father,  and 

yourself. 
Duch.   Then  patiently  hear  my  impatience. 
K.  Rich.   Madam,   I  have  a  touch  of  your  con- 
dition "2, 
That  cannot  brook  the  accent  of  reproof. 
Duch.   O,  let  me  speak. 

K.  Rich.  Do,  then ;  but  I'll  not  hear. 

Duch.   I  will  be  mild  and  gentle  in  my  words. 
X.  Rich.   And  brief,  good  mother;  for  I  am  in 

haste. 
Duch.   Art  thou  so  hasty  ?  I  have  staid  for  thee. 
Heaven  knows,  in  torment  and  in  agony. 

K.  Rich.   And  came  I  not  at  last  to  comfort  you  ? 
Duch.  No,  by  the  holy  rood  3,  thou  know'st  it  well. 
Thou  cam'st  on  earth  to  make  the  earth  my  hell. 
A  grievous  burden  was  thy  birth  to  me  ; 
Tetchy  ^  and  wayward  was  thy  infancy ; 
Thy  school-days,    frightful,    desperate,    wild,    and 

furious ; 
Thy  prime  of  manhood,  daring,  bold,  and  venturous; 
Thy  age  confirm'd,  proud,  subtle,  sly,  and  bloody, 
More  mild,  but  yet  more  harmful,  kind  in  hatred  • 
What  comfortable  hour  canst  thou  name. 
That  ever  grac'd  me  in  thy  company  ? 

K.  Rich.   'Faith  none,  but  Humphrey  Hour,  that 
call'd  your  grace 
To  breakfast  once,  forth  of  my  company. 
If  I  be  so  disgracious  in  your  sight, 
Let  me  march  on,  and  not  offend  you,  madam. 
Strike  up  the  drum. 


>  Owned. 

3  Cross, 


Disposition. 
I'ouchy,  fretful 


Scene  IV. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


)59 


Duck.  I  pr'ythee,  hear  me  speak. 

JT.  Rich.   You  speak  too  bitterly. 

Duck.  Hear  me  a  word  ; 

For  I  shall  never  speak  to  thee  again. 

K.  Rich.   So. 

Duch.   Either  thou  wilt  die,  by  God's  just  ordi- 
nance, 
Ere  from  this  war  thou  turn  a  conqueror ; 
Or  I  with  grief  and  extreme  age  shall  perish, 
And  never  look  upon  thy  face  again. 
Therefore,  take  with  thee  my  most  heavy  curse ; 
Which,  in  the  day  of  battle,  tire  thee  more. 
Than  all  the  complete  armour  that  thou  wear'st ! 
My  prayers  on  the  adverse  party  fight ; 
And  there  the  little  souls  of  Edward's  children 
Whisper  the  spirits  of  thine  enemies, 
And  promise  them  success  and  victory. 
IJloody  thou  art,  bloody  will  be  thy  end ; 
Shame  serves  thy  life,  and  doth  thy  death  attend. 

[Eiit. 

Q.  Eliz.   Though  far  more  cause,  yet  much  less 
spirit  to  curse 
Abides  in  me  ;   I  say  amen  to  her.  [Going. 

K.  Rich.  Stay,  madam,  I  must  speak  a  word  witli 
you. 

Q.  Eliz.   I  have  no  more  sons  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  thee  to  murder :   for  my  daughters,  Richard,  — 
They  shall  be  praying  nuns,  not  weeping  queens  j 
And  therefore  level  not  to  hit  their  lives. 

A".  Riclu  You  have  a  daugliter  call'd  —  Elizabeth, 
Virtuous  and  fair,  royal  and  gracious. 

Q.  Eliz.  And  must  she  die  for  this  ?  O,  let  her  live. 
And  I'll  corrupt  her  manners,  stain  her  beauty  ; 
Slander  myself,  as  false  to  Edward's  bed; 
Throw  over  her  the  veil  of  infamy  : 
So  she  may  live  unscarr'd  of  bleeding  slaughter, 
I  will  confess  she  was  not  Edward's  daughter. 

K.  Rich.  Wrong  not  her  birth,  she  is  of  royal  blood. 

Q.  Eliz.   To   save   her  life,    I'll    say  —  she   is 
not  so. 

K.  Rich.   Her  life  is  safest  only  in  her  birth. 

Q.  Eliz.  And  only  in  that  safety  died  her  brothers. 

K.  Rich.    Lo,  at  their  births,    good    stars  were 
opposite. 

Q.  Eliz.   No,  to  their  lives  bad  friends  were  con- 
trary. 

K.  Rich.   All  unavoided  *  is  the  doom  of  destiny. 

Q.  Eliz.  True,  when  avoided  grace  makes  destiny  : 
My  babes  were  destin'd  to  a  fairer  death, 
If  grace  had  bless'd  thee  with  a  fairer  life. 

A'.  Rich.   You  speak,  as  if  that  I  had  slain  my 
cousins. 

Q.  Eliz.  Cousins,  indeed ;  and  by  their  uncle  cozen'd 
Of  comfort,  kingdom,  kindred,  freedom,  life. 
WJiose  hands  soever  lanc'd  tlieir  tender  liearts. 
Thy  head,  all  indirectly,  gave  direction  : 
No  doubt  the  murderous  knife  was  dull  and  blunt. 
Till  it  was  whetted  on  thy  stone-hard  heart. 
To  revel  in  the  entrails  of  my  lambs. 
IJut  that  still  6  use  of  grief  makes  wild  grief  tame. 
My  tongue  should  to  thy  ears  not  name  my  boys, 
Till  that  my  nails  were  anchor'd  in  thine  eyes; 
And  I,  in  such  a  desperate  bay  of  death, 
JAke  a  poor  bark,  of  sails  and  tackling  reft, 
Uush  all  to  pieces  on  thy  rocky  bosom. 

A'.  Rich.   Madam,  so  thrive  I  in  my  enterprize, 
And  dangerous  success  of  bloody  wars. 
As  I  intend  more  good  to  you  and  yours, 
Tlian  ever  you  or  yours  by  me  were  harm'd  ! 
^  Unavoidable.  6  Constant. 


Q.  Eliz.  What  good  is  cover'd  with  the  face  of 
heaven. 
To  be  discover'd,  that  can  do  me  good  ? 

IT.  Rich-  The  advancement  of  your  children,  gentle 
lady. 

Q.  Eliz.    Up  to  some  scaffold,  there  to  lose  their 
heads? 

IT.  Rich.  No,  to  the  dignity  and  height  of  fortune. 
The  high  imperial  type  of  this  earth's  glory. 

Q.  Eliz.  Flatter  my  sorrows  with  report  of  it ; 
Tell  me,  what  state,  what  dignity,  what  honour. 
Canst  thou  demise  7  to  any  child  of  mine  ? 

A'.  Rich.  Even  all  I  have  ;  ay,  and  myself  and  all, 
Will  I  withal  endow  a  child  of  thine  ; 
So  in  the  Lethe  of  thy  angry  soul 
Thou  drown  the  sad  remembrance  of  those  wrongs, 
Which  thou  supposest,  I  have  done  to  thee. 

Q.  Eliz.    Be  brief,   lest  that  the  process  of  thy 
kindness 
Last  longer  telling  than  thy  kindness'  date. 

A'.  Rich.   Then  know,  that  from  my  soul  I  love 
thy  daughter. 

Q.  Eliz.  My  daughter's  mother  thinks  it  with  her 
soul. 

IT.  Rich.   What  do  you  think  ? 

Q.  Eliz.   That  thou  dost  love  my  daughter  from 
thy  soul. 
So,  from  thy  soul's  love,  didst  thou  love  her  brothers. 
And,  from  my  heart's  love,  I  do  thank  thee  for  it. 

A'.  Rich.  Be  not  so  hasty  to  confound  my  meaning : 
I  mean,  that  with  my  soul  I  love  thy  daughter. 
And  do  intend  to  make  her  queen  of  England. 

Q.  Eliz.   Well  then,  who  dost  thou  mean  shall  be 
her  king  ? 

A".  Rich.  Even  he,  that  makes  her  queen :   Who 
else  should  be? 

Q.  Eliz.   What,  thou  ? 

IT.  Rich.  Even  so :  What  think  you 

of  it,  madam  ? 

Q.  Eliz.   How  canst  thou  woo  her  ? 

A".  Rich.  That  I  would  learn  of  you. 

As  one  being  best  acquainted  with  her  humour. 

Q.  Eliz.   And  wilt  thou  learn  of  me  ? 

IT.  Rich.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart. 

Q.  Eliz.   Send  to  her,  by  the  man  that  slew  her 
brothers, 
A  pair  of  bleeding  hearts  ;  thereon  engrave, 
Edward,  and  York  ;  then,  haply  8,  will  she  weep  : 
Therefore  present  to  her,  —  as  sometime  Margaret 
Did  to  thy  father,  steep'd  in  Rutland's  blood,  — 
A  handkerchief;  which,  say  to  her,  did  drain 
The  purple  sap  from  her  sweet  brother's  body. 
And  bid  her  wipe  her  weeping  eyes  withal. 
If  this  inducement  move  her  not  to  love. 
Send  her  a  letter  of  thy  noble  deeds  ; 
Tell  her,  thou  mad'st  away  her  uncle  Clarence, 
Her  uncle  Rivers  ;  ay,  and  for  her  sake, 
Mad'st  quick  conveyance  with  her  good  aunt  Anne. 

jr.  Rich.  You  mock  me,  madam ;  this  is  not  the  way 
To  win  your  daughter. 

Q.  Eliz.  There  is  no  other  way  ; 

Unless  thou  couldst  put  on  some  other  shape, 
And  not  be  Richard  tliat  hath  done  all  this. 

A'  Rich.   Say,  that  I  did  all  this  for  love  of  her  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  Nay,  then  indeed,  she  cannot  choose  but 
have  thee, 
Having  bought  love  with  such  a  bloody  spoil. 

A'.  Rich.    Look,  what   is   done   cannot  l)e  now 
amended  ; 
7  Bequeath.  '  rcrhaofc 


560 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  IV. 


"Men  shall  deal  unadvisedly  sometimes, 

Which  after-hours  give  leisure  to  repent. 

If  I  did  take  the  kingdom  from  your  sons, 

To  make  amends,  I'l)  give  it  to  your  daughter. 

A  grandam's  name  is  little  less  in  love. 

Than  is  the  doting  title  of  a  mother  ! 

They  are  as  children,  but  one  step  below. 

Your  children  were  vexation  to  your  youth, 

But  mine  shall  be  a  comfort  to  your  age. 

The  loss  you  have,  is  but  —  a  son  being  king, 

And,  by  that  loss,  your  daughter  is  made  queen. 

I  cannot  make  you  what  amends  I  would, 

Therefore  accept  such  kindness  as  I  can. 

Dorset,  your  son,  that,  with  a  fearful  soul, 

Leads  discontented  steps  in  foreign  soil. 

This  fair  alliance  quickly  shall  call  home 

To  high  promotions  and  great  dignity : 

The  king,  that  calls  your  beauteous  daughter — wife. 

Familiarly  shall  call  thy  Dorset  —  brother  j 

Again  shall  you  be  mother  to  a  king. 

And  all  the  ruins  of  distressful  times 

Repair'd  with  double  riches  of  content. 

What !  we  have  many  goodly  days  to  see : 

The  liquid  drops  of  tears  that  you  have  shed. 

Shall  come  again,  transform'd  to  orient  pearl ; 

Advantaging  their  loan,  with  interest 

Of  ten-times  double  gain  of  happiness. 

Go  then,  my  mother,  to  thy  daughter  go  ; 

Make  bold  her  bashful  years  with  your  experience  : 

Prepare  her  ears  to  hear  a  wooer's  tale  : 

Put  in  her  tender  heart  the  aspiring  flame 

Of  golden  sovereignty  ;  acquaint  the  princess 

That,  when  this  arm  of  mine  hath  chastised 

The  petty  rebel,  dull-brain'd  Buckingham, 

Bound  with  triumphant  garlands  will  I  come. 

And  lead  thy  daughter  to  a  conqueror's  bed ! 

To  whom  T  will  retail  my  conquest  won. 

And  she  shall  be  sole  vict'ress,  Caesar's  Caesar. 

Q.  Eliz.   What  were  I  best  to  say  ?  her  father's 
brother 
Would  be  her  lord  ?  Or  shall  I  say,  her  uncle  ? 
Or,  he  that  slew  her  brothers  and  her  uncles  ? 
Under  what  title  shall  I  woo  for  thee. 
That  God,  the  law,  my  honour,  and  her  love. 
Can  make  seem  pleasing  to  her  tender  years  ? 

K.  Rich.  Infer  fair  England's  peace  by  this  alliance. 

Q.  Eliz.  Which  she  shall  purchase  with  still  lasting 
war. 

K.  Rich.   Tell  her,  the  king,  that  may  command, 
entreats. 

Q.  Eliz.  That  at  her  hands,  which  the  king's  King 
forbids.  9 

JT.  Rich.  Say,  she  shall  be  a  high  and  mighty  queen. 

Q.  Eliz.   To  wail  the  title,  as  her  mother  doth. 

K.  Rich.   Say,  I  will  love  her  everlastingly. 

Q.  Eliz.   But  how  long  shall  that  title,  ever,  last  ? 

K.  Rich.   Sweetly  in  force  unto  her  fair  life's  end. 

Q.  Eliz.   But  how  long  fairly  shall  her  sweet  life 
last? 

K.  Rich.  As  long  as  heaven,  and  nature,  lengthens  it. 

Q.  Eliz.  As  long  as  hell,  and  Richard,  likes  of  it. 

K.  Rich.  Say,  I,  her  sovereign,  am  her  subject  low. 

Q.  Eliz.  But  she,  your  subject,  loathes  such  sove- 
reignty. 

K.  Rich.    Be  eloquent,  in  my  behalf,  to  her. 

Q.  Eliz.  An  honest  tale  speeds  best,  being  plainly 
told. 

K.  Rich.  Then,  in  plain  terms  tell  her  my  loving 
tale. 
*  In  the  Levitical  Law,  chap,  xviii.  14. 


Q.  Eliz.  Plain,  and  not  honest,  is  too  harsh  a  style. 

K.  Rich.   Your  reasons  are  too  shallow,  and  too 
quick. 

Q.  Eliz.    O,  no,  my  reasons   are   too  deep  and 
dead ;  — 
Too  deep  and  dead,  poor  infants,  in  their  graves. 

JC.  Rich.   Harp  not  on  that  string,  madam,  that  is 
past. 

Q.  Eliz.   Harp  on  it  still  shall  I,  till  heart-strings 
break. 

IT.  Rich.   Now,  by  my  George,  my  garter  ',  and 
my  crown,  — 

Q-  Eliz.    Profan'd,    dishonour'd,   and  the  third 
usurp'd. 

IT.  Eich.    I  swear. 

Q.  Eliz.  By  nothing  ;  for  this  is  no  oath. 

Thy  George,  profan'd,  hath  lost  his  holy  honour ; 
Thy  garter,  blemish'd,  pawn'd  his  knightly  virtue ; 
Thy  crown,  usurp'd,  disgrac'd  his  kingly  glory: 
If  something  thou  wouldst  swear  to  be  believ'd. 
Swear  then  by  something  that  thou  hast  not  wrong'tl. 

IT.  Rich.   Now,  by  the  world,  — 

Q.  Eliz.  'Tis  full  of  thy  foul  wrongs. 

JT.  Rich.  My  father's  death,  — 

Q.  Eliz.  Thy  life  hath  that  dishonour'd. 

IT.  Rich.   Then,  by  myself,  — 

Q.  Eliz.  Thyself  is  self-misus'd. 

IT.  Rich.   Why  then,  by  God,  — 

Q.  Eliz.  God's  wrong  is  most  of  all. 

If  thou  hadst  fear'd  to  break  an  oath  by  him. 
The  unity,  the  king  thy  brother  made. 
Had  not  been  broken,  nor  my  brother  slain ; 
If  thou  hadst  fear'd  to  break  an  oath  by  him, 
The  imperial  metal,  circling  now  thy  head. 
Had  grac'd  the  tender  temples  of  my  child  ; 
And  both  the  princes  had  been  breathing  here, 
Which  now,  two  tender  bed-fellows  for  dust. 
Thy  broken  faith  hath  made  a  prey  for  worms. 
What  canst  thou  swear  by  now  ? 

jr.  Rich.  By  the  time  to  come. 

Q.  Eliz.  That  thou  hast  wrong'd  in  the  time  o'er- 
past; 
For  I  myself  have  many  tears  to  wash 
Hereafter  time,  for  time  past,  wrong'd  by  thee. 
The  children  live,  whose  parents  thou  hast  slaughter 'd, 
Ungovern'd  youth,  to  wail  it  in  their  age  : 
The  parents  live,  whose  children  thou  hast  butcher'd. 
Old  barren  plants,  to  wail  it  in  their  age : 
Sweai-  not  by  time  to  come  ;  for  that  thou  hast 
Misus'd,  ere  us'd,  by  times  ill-us'd  o'er-past. 

JT.  Rich.   As  I  intend  to  prosper,  and  repent, 
So  thrive  I  in  my  dangerous  attempt 
Of  hostile  arms  !  myself  myself  confound ! 
Heaven,  and  fortune,  bar  me  happy  hours ! 
Day  yield  me  not  thy  light ;  nor,  night,  thy  rest ! 
Be  opposite  all  planets  of  good  luck 
To  my  proceeding,  if,  with  pure  heart's  love. 
Immaculate  devotion,  holy  thoughts, 
I  tender  not  thy  beauteous  princely  daughter  ! 
In  her  consists  my  happiness,  and  thine ; 
Without  her,  follows  to  myself,  and  thee. 
Herself,  the  land,  and  many  a  christian  soul, 
DeatTi,  desolation,  ruin,  and  decay  : 
It  cannot  be  avoided,  but  by  this  ; 
It  will  not  be  avoided,  but  by  this. 
Therefore,  dear  mother,  (I  must  call  you  so,) 
Be  the  attorney  of  my  love  to  her. 
Plead  what  I  will  be,  not  what  I  have  been  ; 
Not  my  deserts,  but  what  I  will  deserve  : 

1  The  ensigns  of  the  Order  of  the  Garter. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


561 


Urge  the  necessity  and  state  of  times, 

And  be  not  peevish  '  found  in  great  designs. 

Q.  Eliz.   Sliall  I  be  tempted  of  the  devil  thus? 

K.  Rich.   Ay,  if  tlie  devil  tempt  thee  to  do  good. 

Q.  Eliz.    Shall  I  forget  myself  to  be  myself? 

K.  Rich.    Ay,  if  yourselfs  remembrance  wrong 
yourself. 

Q.  Eliz.   Shall  I  go  win  my  daughter  to  thy  will  ? 

K.  Rich.    And  be  a  happy  mother  by  the  deed. 

Q.  Eliz.   I  go.  — Write  to  me  very  shortly, 
And  you  shall  understand  from  me  her  mind. 

K.  Rich.    Bear   her  my  true  love's  kiss,  and  so 
farewell. 

{Kissing  her.        Exit  Q.  Elizabeth. 
Relenting  fool,  and  shallow,  changing  —  woman  ! 
How  now?  what  news? 

Enter  Ratcliff;   Catzs^y following. 
Rat.  Most  mighty  sovereign,  on  the  western  coast 
Rideth  a  puissant  navy  ;  to  the  shore 
Throng  many  doubtful  hollow-hearted  friends, 
Unarm'd,  and  unresolv'd  to  beat  them  back  : 
'Tis  thought  tliat  Richmond  is  their  admiral ; 
And  there  they  hull,  expecting  but  the  aid 
Of  Buckingham,  to  welcome  them  ashore. 
JT.  Rich.   Some  light-foot  friend  post  to  the  duke 
of  Norfolk  :  — 
Ratcliff,  thyself, — or  Catesby;  where  is  he? 
Cate.   Here,  my  good  lord. 

A'.  Rich.  Catesby,  fly  to  the  duke. 

Cole.    I  will,  my  lord,  with  all  convenient  haste. 

JC.  Rich.  Ratcliff,  come  hither:  Post  to  Salisbury ; 

When  thou  com'st  thither, —  Dull  unmindful  villain, 

[To  Catesby. 
Why  stay'st  thou  here,  and  go'st  not  to  the  duke  ? 
Cate.   First,  mighty  liege,  tell  me  your  highness' 
pleasure, 
What  from  your  grace  I  shall  deliver  to  him. 

IT.  Rich.   O,  true,  good  Catesby  ;  —  Bid  him  levy 
straight 
The  greatest  strength  and  power  he  can  make. 
And  meet  me  suddenly  at  Salisbury. 

Cate.   T  go.  [Erit. 

Rat.  What,  may  it    please  you,  shall  I  do    at 

Salisbury  ? 
JT.  Rich.  Why,  what  wouldst  thou  do  there,  before 

I  go? 
Rat,  Your  highness  told  me,  I  should  post  before. 

Enter  Stanley. 
JT.  Rich.  My  mind  is  chang'd.  —  Stanley,  what 

news  with  you  ? 
5/071.   None  good,  my  liege,  to  please  you  with 
the  hearing ; 
Nor  none  so  bad,  but  well  may  be  reported. 

JC.  Rich.  Heyday,  a  riddle  !  neither  good  nor  bad  ! 
T  hat  need'st  thou  run  so  many  miles  about. 
When  thou  mayst  tell  thy  tale  tlie  nearest  way  ? 
Once  more,  what  news? 

Stan.  Richmond  is  on  the  seas. 

A'.  Rich.   There  let  him  sink,  and  be  the  seas  on 
him  ! 
White-liver 'd  runagate,  wliat  doth  he  there  ? 

Stan.  I  know  not,  mighty  sovereign,  but  by  guess. 
A".  Rich.   Well,  as  you  guess  ? 
Stan.    Stirr'd  up  by  Dorset,   Buckingham,  and 
Morton, 
He  makes  for  England,  here  to  claim  the  crown. 
K.  Rich.   Is  the  chair  empty?  is  the  sword  un- 
sway'd  ? 

«  Fooliih. 


Is  the  king  dead  ?  the  empire  unpossess'd  ? 
What  heir  of  York  is  there  alive,  but  we? 
And  who  is  England's  king,  but  great  York's  heir? 
Then,  tell  me,  what  makes  he  upon  the  seas  ? 

Stan.    Unless  for  that,  my  liege,  I  cannot  guess. 

IT.  Rich.  Unless  for  that  he  comes  to  be  your  liege, 
You  cannot  guess  wherefore  the  Welshman  comes. 
Thou  wilt  revolt,  and  fly  to  him,  I  fear. 

Stan.  No,  mighty  liege ;  therefore  mistrust  me  not. 

A'.  Rich.   Where  is  thy  power  then,  to  beat  him 
back? 
Where  be  thy  tenants,  and  thy  followers  ? 
Are  they  not  now  upon  the  western  shore, 
Safe-conducting  the  rebels  from  their  ships? 

Stan.   No,  my  good  lord,  my  friends  are  m  the 
north. 

A".  Rich.  Cold  friends  to  me :   what  do  they  in  the 
north. 
When  they  should  serve  their  sovereign  in  the  west  ? 

Stan.   They  have  not  been  commanded,  mighty 
king: 
Pleaseth  your  majesty  to  give  me  leave, 
I'll  muster  up  my  friends ;  and  meet  your  grace. 
Where,  and  what  time,  your  majesty  shall  please. 

JT.  Rich.  Ay,  ay,  thou  wouldst  be  one  to  join  with 
Richmond  : 
I  will  not  trust  you,  sir. 

Stan.  Most  mighty  sovereiprn. 

You  have  no  cause  to  hold  my  friendship  doubtlul ; 
I  never  was,  nor  never  will  be  false. 

AT.  Rich.   Well,  go,  muster  men.      But,  hear  you, 
leave  behind 
Your  son,  George  Stanley ;  look  your  heart  be  firm. 
Or  else  his  head's  assurance  is  but  frail. 

Stan.   So  deal  with  him,  as  I  prove  true  to  you. 
[Exit  Stanley. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  gracious  sovereign,  now  in  Devonshire, 
As  I  by  friends  am  well  advertised. 
Sir  Edward  Courteney,  and  the  haughty  prelate. 
Bishop  of  Exeter,  his  elder  brother, 
With  many  more  confederates,  are  in  arms. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

2  Mess.   In  Kent,  my  liege,  the  Guildfords  are  in 

arms; 
And  every  hour  more  competitors' 
Flock  to  the  rebels,  and  their  power  grows  strong. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

3  Mess.   My  lord,  the   army  of  great  Bucking- 

ham— 

JT.  Rich.   Out  on  ye,  owls !  nothing  but  songs  of 
death?  [He  strikes  him. 

There,  take  thou  that,  till  thou  bring  better  news. 

3  Mess.    The  news  I  have  to  tell  your  majesty, 
Is, —  that,  by  sudden  floods  and  fall  of  waters, 
Buckingham's  army  is  dispers'd  and  scatter'd  ; 
And  he  himself  wander'd  away  alone, 
No  man  knows  whither. 

jr.  Rich.  O,  I  cry  you  mercy : 

There  is  my  purse  to  cure  that  blow  of  thine. 
Hath  any  well-advised  friend  proclaim'd 
Reward  to  him  that  brings  the  traitor  in  ? 

3  Mess.   Such  proclamation  hath  been  made,  my 

liege. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

4  Mess.    Sir  Thomas  LotcI,  and    lord  marquis 

Dorset, 

*  Auociatr. 
Oo 


562 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  V 


'Tis  said,  my  liege,  in  Yorkshire  are  in  arms. 
But    this   good  comfort  bring   I    to    your   high- 
ness, — 
The  Bretagne  navy  is  dispers'd  by  tempests : 
Richmond,  in  Dorsetshire,  sent  out  a  boat 
Unto  tlie  shore,  to  ask  those  on  the  banks, 
If  they  were  his  assistants,  yea,  or  no ; 
Who  answer'd  him,  they  came  from  Buckingham 
Upon  his  party;  he,  mistrusting  them, 
Hois'd  sail,  and  made  his  course  again  for  Bre- 
tagne. 
K,  Rich.  March  on,  march  on,  since  we  are  up 
in  arms; 
If  not  to  fight  with  foreign  enemies, 
Yet  to  beat  down  these  rebels  here  at  home. 

Enter  Catesby. 
Cate.  My  liege,  the  duke  of  Buckingham  is  taken. 
That  is  the  best  news ;  That  the  earl  of  Richmond 
Is  with  a  mighty  power  landed  at  Milford, 
Is  colder  news,  but  yet  they  must  be  told. 

K.  Rich.  Away  towards  Salisbury ;  while  we  reason 
here, 
A  royal  battle  might  be  won  and  lost :  — 
Some  one  take  order,  Buckingham  be  brought 
To  Salisbury ;  —  the  rest  march  on  with  me. 

\_Exeunt. 


SCENE  v.  — A  Room  in  Lord  Stanley'*  Huiisc. 

Enter  Stanley,  and  Sir  Christopher  Urswick.  ^ 

Stan.   Sir  Christopher,  tell  Richmond  this  from 
me:  — 
That,  in  the  sty  of  this  most  bloody  boar. 
My  son  George  Stanley  is  frank'd  ^  up  in  hold  ; 
If  I  revolt,  off  goes  young  George's  head  ; 
The  fear  of  that  withholds  my  present  aid. 
But,  tell  me,  where  is  princely  Richmond  now  ? 

Chris.   At  Pembroke,   or    at  Ha'rford-west,    in 
Wales. 

Stan.   What  men  of  name  resort  to  him  ? 

Chris.   Sir  Walter  Herbert,  a  renowned  soldier ; 
Sir  Gilbert  Talbot,  sir  William  Stanley ; 
Oxford,  redoubted  Pembroke,  sir  James  Blunt, 
And  Rice  ap  Thomas,  with  a  valiant  crew ; 
And  many  other  of  great  fame  and  worth  : 
And  towards  London  do  they  bend  their  course. 
If  by  the  way  they  be  not  fought  withal. 

Stan.  Well,  hie  thee  to  thy  lord ;  commend  me  to 
him ; 
Tell  him,  the  queen  hath  heartily  consented 
He  shall  espouse  Elizabeth  her  daughter. 
These  letters  will  resolve  him  of  my  mind. 
Farewell.  [Gives  Papers  to  Sir  Christopher. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  — Salisbury.   Jn  open  Place. 

Enter  the  Sheriff,  and  Guard,  with  Buckingham, 
led  to  Execution. 

Buck.  Will  not  king  Richard  let  me  speak  with  him? 

Sher.   No,  my  good  lord ;  therefore  be  patient. 

Buck.   Hastings,  and  Edward's  children,  Rivers, 
Grey, 
Holy  king  Henry,  and  thy  fair  son  Edward, 
Vaughan,  and  all  that  have  miscarried 
By  underhand  corrupted  foul  injustice  ; 
If  that  your  moody  discontented  souls 
Do  through  the  clouds  behold  this  present  hour 
Even  for  revenge  mock  my  destruction  !  ■ 

This  is  All-Soul's  day,  fellows,  is  it  not  ? 

Sher.   It  is,  my  lord. 

Buck.   Why,  then  All- Souls'  day  is  my  body's 
doomsday. 
This  is  the  day,  which,  in  king  Edward's  time, 
I  wish'd  might  fall  on  me,  when  I  was  found 
False  to  his  children,  or  his  wife's  allies  : 
This  is  the  day,  wherein  I  wish'd  to  fall 
By  the  false  faith  of  him  whom  most  1  trusted ; 
This,  this  All-Souls'  day  to  my  fearful  soul. 
Is  the  determined  respite  of  my  wrongs.  * 
That  high  All-seer  which  I  dallied  with. 
Hath  turned  my  feigned  prayer  on  my  head, 
And  given  in  earnest  what  I  begg'd  in  jest. 
Thus  doth  he  force  the  swords  of  wicked  men 
To  turn  their  own  points  on  their  masters'  bosoms : 
Thus  Margaret's  curse  falls  heavy  on  my  neck,  — 
When  he,  quotii  she,  shall  split  thy  heart  with  sorrow, 
Remember  Margaret  was  a  prophetess.  — 
Come,  sirs,  convey  me  to  the  block  of  shame ; 
Wrong  hath  but  wrong,  and  blame  the  due  of  blame. 
[Exeunt  Buckingham,  ^c. 
*  Injurious  practices. 


SCENE  IL  — Plain  near  Tamworth. 

Enter,  with  Drum  amd  Colours,  Richmond,  Oxford, 

Sir  James  Blunt,  Sir  Walter  Herbert,  and 

others,  urith  Forces,  marching. 

Richm.   Fellows  in  arms,  and  my  most  loving 
friends, 
Bruis'd  underneath  the  yoke  of  tyranny, 
Thus  far  into  the  bowels  of  the  land 
Have  we  march'd  on  without  impediment ; 
And  here  receive  we  from  our  father  Stanley 
Lines  of  fair  comfort  and  encouragement. 
The  wretched,  bloody,  and  usurping  boar. 
That  spoil'd  your  summer  fields,  and  fruitful  vines, 
Lies  now  even  in  the  center  of  this  isle, 
Near  to  the  town  of  Leicester,  as  we  learn : 
From  Tamworth  thither,  is  but  one  day's  march. 
In  God's  name,  cheerly  on,  courageous  friends, 
To  reap  the  harvest  of  perpetual  peace 
By  this  one  bloody  trial  of  sharp  war. 

Oocf.  Every  man's  conscience  is  a  thousand  swords, 
To  fight  against  that  bloody  homicide. 

Herb.   I  doubt  not,  but  his  friends  will  turn  to  us. 

Blunt.   He  hath  no  friends,  but  who  are  friends 
for  fear ; 
Which,  in  his  dearest  need,  will  fly  from  him. 

Richm.  All  for  our  vantage.  Then,  in  God's  name, 
march.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  Bosworth  Field. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  Forces;  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  others. 
K.  Rich.    Here  pitch  our  tents,  even  here  in  Bos- 
worth field.  — 
My  lord  of  Surrey,  why  look  you  so  sad  ? 
6  Chaplain  to  the  countess  of  Richmond. 
6  A  frank  is  a  sty  in  which  hogs  are  fattened. 


Scene  III. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


563 


Sur.  My  heart  is  ten  times  lighter  than  my  looks. 

S'.Rich.   My  lord  of  Norfolk, 

Nor.  Here,  most  gracious  liege. 

IT.  Rich.   Norfolk,  we  must  have  knocks  ;    Ha  ! 
must  we  not? 

Nor.  We  must  both  give  and  take,  my  loving  lord. 

IT.  Rich.    Up  with   my  tent:    Here   will    I   lie 
to-night. 

{^Soldiers  begin  to  set  up  the  King'^  tent. 
But  where,  to-morrow  ? — Well,  all's  one  for  that.  — 
Who  hath  descried  the  number  of  the  traitors  ? 

Nor.  Six  or  seven  thousand  is  their  utmost  power. 

JC.  Rich.  Why,  our  battalia  trebles  that  account : 
Besides,  the  king's  name  is  a  tower  of  strength, 
Which  they  upon  the  adverse  faction  want. 
Up  with  the  tent.  —  Come,  noble  gentlemen, 
Let  us  survey  the  vantage  of  the  ground ;  — 
Call  for  some  men  of  sound  directions:  — 
Let's  want  no  discipline,  make  no  delay ; 
For,  lords,  to-morrow  is  a  busy  day,  [Exeunt. 

Enter,  on  the  other  Side  of  the  Field,  Richmond,  Sir 
William  Brandon,  Oxford,  and  other  Lords, 
Some  of  the  Soldiers  pitch  Richmond's  Tent. 

Richm.   The  weary  sun  hath  made  a  golden  set, 
And,  by  the  bright  track  of  his  fiery  car, 
Gives  token  of  a  goodly  day  to-morrow.  — 
Sir  William  Brandon,  you  shall  bear  my  standard.  — 
Give  me  some  ink  and  paper  in  my  tent ;  — 
I'll  draw  the  form  and  model  of  our  battle. 
Limit  each  leader  to  his  several  charge. 
And  part  in  just  proportion  our  small  power. 
My  lord  of  Oxford,  —  you,  sir  William  Brandon. — 
And  you,  sir  Walter  Herbert,  stay  with  me : 
The  earl  of  Pembroke  keeps  his  regiment ;  — 
Good  captain  Blunt,  bear  my  good  night  to  him, 
And  by  the  second  hour  in  the  morning 
Desire  the  earl  to  see  me  in  my  tent :  — 
Yet  one  thing  more,  good  captain,  do  for  me ; 
Where  is  lord  Stanley  quarter'd,  do  you  know  ? 

Blunt.    Unless  I  have  mista'en  his  colours  much, 
(Which,  well  I  am  assur'd,  I  have  not  done,) 
His  regiment  lies  half  a  mile  at  least 
South  from  the  mighty  power  of  the  king. 

Richm.   If  without  peril  it  be  possible. 
Sweet  Blunt,  make  some  good  means  to  speak  with 

him. 
And  give  him  from  me  this  most  needful  note. 

Blunt.    Upon  my  life,  my  lord,  I'll  undertake  it; 
And  so,  heaven  give  you  quiet  rest  to  night ! 

Richm*   Good  night,  good  obtain  Blunt.    Come, 
gentlemen. 
Let  us  consult  upon  to-morrow's  business ; 
In  to  my  tent,  the  air  is  raw  and  cold. 

IThey  withdraw  into  tlie  Tent. 
Enter,    to    his    Tent,    King   Richard,    Norfolk, 
Ratcliff,  and  Catesbt. 

K.  Rich.   What  is't  o'clock  ? 

CcUe.  It's  supper  tim6,  my  lord  : 

It's  nine  o'clock. 

K.  Rich.  I  will  not  sup  to-night.  — 

Give  me  some  ink  and  paper.  — 
What,  is  my  beaver  easier  than  it  was  ?  — 
And  all  my  armour  laid  into  my  tent  ? 

Cale.   It  is,  my  liege  ;  and  all  things  are  in  rea- 
diness. 

K.  Rich.   Good  Norfolk,  hie  thee  to  thy  charge ; 
Use  careful  watch,  choose  trusty  sentinels. 

Nor.    I  go,  my  lord. 


K.  Rich.   Stir  with    the    lark  to-morrow,   gentle 
Norfolk. 

Nor    I  warrant  you,  my  lord.  [^Ejcit, 

K.  Rich.    Ratcliff, 

Rat.    My  lord  ? 

IT.  Rich.  Send  out  a  pursuivant  at  arms 

To  Stanley's  regiment ;  bid  him  bring  his  power 
Before  sun-rising,  lest  his  son  George  fall 
Into  the  blind  cave  of  eternal  night.  — 
Fill  me  a  bowl  of  wine.  —  Give  me  a  watch  7  :  — 

[To  Catesby. 
Saddle  white  Surrey  for  the  field  to-morrow.  — 
Look  that  my  staves  8  be  sound,  and  not  too  heavy. 
Ratcliff, 

Rat.   My  lord? 

IT.  Rich.   Saw'st  thou  the  melancholy  lord  North- 
umberland ? 

Rat.   Thomas  the  earl  of  Surrey,  and  himself, 
Much  about  cock-shut  ^  time,  from  troop  to  troop 
Went  through  the  army,  cheering  up  the  soldiers. 

IT.  Rich.  1  am  satisfied.     Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine: 
I  have  not  that  alacrity  of  spirit. 
Nor  cheer  of  mind,  that  I  was  wont  to  have.  — 
So,  set  it  down.  —  Is  ink  and  paper  ready  ? 

Rat.    It  is,  my  lord. 

A'.  Rich.  Bid  my  guard  watch  ;  leave  me. 

About  tlie  mid  of  night,  come  to  my  tent. 
And  help  to  arm  me.  —  Leave  me,  I  say. 

[Kino  Richard  retires  into  his  Tent.     Exeunt 
Ratcliff  and  Catesbt. 

RichmoSd'5  Tent  opens,  and  discovers  him,  and  hi* 
Officers,  ^c 

Enter  Stanley. 

Stan.    Fortune  and  victory  sit  on  thy  helm  ! 

Richm.  All  comfort  that  the  dark  night  can  afford, 
Be  to  thy  person,  noble  father-in-law  ! 
Tell  me,  how  fares  our  loving  mother  ? 

Stan.   I,  by  attorney,  bless  thee  from  thy  mother. 
Who  prays  continually  for  Richmond's  good  : 
So  much  for  that.  —  The  silent  hours  steal  oh, 
And  flaky  darkness  breaks  within  the  east. 
In  brief,  for  so  the  season  bids  us  be. 
Prepare  thy  battle  early  in  the  morning ; 
And  put  thy  fortune  to  the  arbitrement 
Of  bloody  strokes,  and  mortal-staring  war. 
I,  as  I  may,  (that  which  I  would,  I  cannot,) 
With  best  advantage  will  deceive  the  time, 
And  aid  thee  in  this  doubtful  shock  of  arms : 
But  on  thy  side  I  may  not  be  too  forward. 
Lest,  being  seen,  thy  brother  tender  George 
Be  executed  in  his  father's  sight. 
Farewell :   The  leisure  and  the  fearful  time 
Cuts  off  the  ceremonious  vows  of  love, 
And  ample  interchange  of  sweet  discourse. 
Which  so  long-sunder'd  friends  should  dwell  upon ; 
Heaven  give  us  leisure  for  these  friendly  rites ! 
Once  more,  adieu :  —  Be  valiant,  and  speed  well 

Richm.  Good  lords,  conduct  him  to  his  regiment ; 
I'll  strive,  with  troubled  thoughts,  to  take  a  nap ; 
Lest  leaden  slumber  peise  '  me  down  to-morrow, 
When  I  should  mount  with  wings  of  victory : 
Once  more,  good  night,  kind  lords  and  gentlemen. 
[Exeunt  Lords,  ^c.  vnth  Stahlky. 
O  Thou  !  whose  captain  I  account  myself, 
Look  on  my  forces  with  a  gracious  eye  ; 
Put  in  their  hands  thy  bruising  irons  of  wrath, 
That  they  may  crush  down  with  a  heavy  fall 
J  A  walch.light,  "  Woo*,  of  the  lances. 

»  Twilight  '  Weigh. 

Oo  2 


564^ 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Act  V 


The  usurping  helmets  of  our  adversaries ! 
Make  us  thy  ministers  of  chastisement, 
That  we  may  praise  thee  in  thy  victory  ! 
To  thee  I  do  commend  my  watchful  soul, 
Ere  I  let  fall  the  windows  of  mine  eyes ; 
Sleeping,  and  waking,  O,  defend  me  still !   {Sleeps. 

The  Ghost  of  Prikce  Edward,  son  to  Henry  the 
Sixth,  rues  between  the  two  Tents. 
Ghost.   Let  me  sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to-morrow  ! 
[2V>  King  Richard. 
Think,  how  thou  stab'dst  me  in  my  prime  of  youth 
At  Tewksbury  ;   Despair,  therefore,  and  die  !  — 
Be  cheerful,  Richmond  ;  for  the  wronged  souls 
Of  butcher'd  princes  fight  in  thy  behalf: 
King  Henry's  issue,  Richmond,  comforts  thee. 

The  Ghost  o/"  King  Henry  the  Sixth  rises. 
Ghost.   When  I  was  mortal,  my  anointed  body 

[To  King  Richard. 
By  thee  was  punched  full  of  deadly  holes : 
Think  on  the  Tower,  and  me ;   Despair,  and  die  ! 
Harry  the  Sixth  bids  thee  despair  and  die.  — 
Virtuous  and  holy,  be  thou  conqueror  ! 

[To  Richmond. 
Harry,  that  prophesied  thou  shouldst  be  king. 
Doth  comfort  thee  in  thy  sleep  j  Live,  and  flourish  ! 

The  Ghost  of  Clarence  rises. 
Ghost.   Let  me  sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to-morrow  ! 
[To  King  Richard. 
I,  that  was  wash'd  to  death  with  fulsome  wine. 
Poor  Clarence,  by  thy  guile  betray'd  to  death ! 
To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me, 
And  fall  thy  edgeless  sword  ;  Despair,  and  die  !  — 
Thou  offspring  of  the  house  of  Lancaster, 

[  To  Richmond. 
The  wronged  heirs  of  York  do  pray  for  thee ; 
Good  angels  guard  thy  battle  !  Live,  and  flourish  ! 

The  Ghosts  of  Rivers,  Grey,  and  Vaughan,  rise. 
Riv.   Let  me  sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to-morrow, 

[To  King  Richard. 
Rivers,  that  died  at  Pomfret !   Despair,  and  die  ! 
Grey.   Think  upon  Grey,  and  let  thy  soul  despair! 
[To  King  Richard. 
Vaugh.   Think  upon  Vaughan ;  and,  with  guilty 
fear. 
Let  fall  thy  lance  !   Despair,  and  die  !  — 

[To  King  Richard, 
jiill.   Awake !  and  think,  our  wrongs  in  Richard's 
bosom  [To  Richmond. 

Will  conquer  him  ;  —  Awake,  and  win  the  day  ! 

The  Ghost  o/*  Hastings  rises. 

Ghost.   Bloody  and  guilty,  guiltily  awake ; 

[2'o  King  Richard. 
And  in  a  bloody  battle  end  thy  days ! 
Think  on  lord  Hastings  ;  and  despair,  and  die  !  — 
Quiet  untroubled  soul,  awake,  awake  ! 

[To  Richmond. 
Arm,  fight,  and  conquer,  for  fair  England's  sake  ! 

The  Ghosts  of  the  two  young  Princes  rise. 

Ghosts-  Dream  on  thy  cousins  smother'd  in  the 
Tower ; 
Let  us  be  lead  within  thy  bosom,  Richard, 
And  weigh  thee  down  to  ruin,  shaine,  and  death  ! 
Thy  nephews'  souls  bid  thee  despair,  and  die.  — 


Sleep,  Richmond,  sleep  in  peace,  and  wake  in  joy  ^ 
Good  angels  guard  thee  from  the  boar's  annoy  ! 
Live,  and  beget  a  happy  race  of  kings ! 
Edward's  unhappy  sons  do  bid  thee  flourish. 

The  Ghost  of  Queen  Anne  rises. 

Ghost.   Richard,  thy  wife,  that  wretched    Anne 
thy  wife. 
That  never  slept  a  quiet  hour  with  thee, 
Now  fills  thy  sleep  with  perturbations : 
To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me, 
And  fall  thy  edgeless  sword  ;   Despair,  and  die  !  — 
Thou,  quiet  soul,  sleep  tliou  a  quiet  sleep ; 

[To  Richmond. 
Dream  of  success  and  happy  victory ; 
Thy  adversary's  wife  doth  pray  for  thee. 

The  Ghost  o/"  Buckingham  rises. 
Ghost.   The  first  was  I,  that  help'  d  thee  to  the 
crown;  [To  King  Richard. 

The  last  was  I,  that  felt  thy  tyranny  : 
O,  in  the  battle  think  on  Buckingham, 
And  die  in  terror  of  thy  guiltiness  ! 
Dream  on,  dream  on,  of  bloody  deeds  and  death  ; 
Fainting,  despair  ;  despairing,  yield  thy  breath  !  — 
1  died  for  hope,  ere  I  could  lend  thee  aid : 

[To  Richmond. 
But  cheer  thy  heart,  and  be  thou  not  dismay'd  : 
God,  and  good  angels,  fight  on  Richmond's  side ; 
And  Richard  falls  in  height  of  all  his  pride. 

[The  Ghosts  vanish.      King  Richard  stores 
out  of  his  dream. 
K.  Rich.    Give  me  another  horse,  —  bind  up  my 
wounds,  — 
Have  mercy,  Jesu  !  —  Soft ;   I  did  but  dream.  — 

0  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  afflict  me  !  - 
The  lights  burn  blue.  —  It  is  now  dead  midnight. 
Cold  fearful  drops  stand  on  my  trembling  flesh. 
What  do  I  fear?  myself?  there's  none  else  by  : 
Richard  loves  Richard  ;  that  is,  I  am  I. 

Is  there  a  murderer  here  ?  No ;  —  Yes  ;   I  am ; 
Then  fly,  —  What,  from  myself?   Great  reason : 

Why? 
Lest  I  revenge.     What  ?  Myself  on  myself? 

1  love  myself.      Wherefore  ?  for  any  good. 
That  I  myself  have  done  unto  myself? 

O,  no  :   alas,  I  rather  hate  myself, 

For  hateful  deeds  committed  by  myself. 

I  am  a  villain :    Yet  I  lie,  I  am  not. 

Fool,  of  thyself  speak  well :  —  Fool,  do  not  flatter. 

My  conscience  hath  a  thousand  several  tongues. 

And  every  tongue  brings  in  a  several  tale. 

And  every  tale  condemns  me  for  a  villain. 

Perjury,  perjury,  in  the  high'st  degree. 

Murder,  stem  murder,  in  the  dir'st  degree  ; 

All  several  sins,  all  us'd  in  each  degree, 

Throng  to  the  bar,  crying  all,  —  Guilty  !  guilty  ! 

I  shall  despair.  —  There  is  no  creature  loves  me ; 

And,  if  I  die,  no  soul  will  pity  me :  — 

Nay,  wherefore  should  they  ?  since  that  I  myself 

Find  in  myself  no  pity  to  myself. 

Methought,  the  souls  of  all  that  I  had  murder'd 

Came  to  my  tent :   and  every  one  did  threat 

To-morrow's  vengeance  on  the  head  of  Richard. 

Enter  Ratcliff. 

Rat.   My  lord, 

K.  Rich.   Who's  there  ? 

Rat.  Ratcliff,  my  lord ;  'tis  I.   The  early  village 
cock 


Scene  III. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


565 


Hath  twice  done  salutation  to  the  morn  ; 

Your  friends  are  up,  and  buckle  on  their  armour. 

K.  Rich.   O,  Ratcliff,  I  have  dream'd  a  fearful 
dream ! 
What  thinkcst  thou  ?  will  our  friends  prove  all  true  ? 

Rat.   No  doubt,  my  lord. 

r.  Rich.  RatcUff,  I  fear,  I  fear,  — 

Rat.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  afraid  of  sha- 
dows. 

JT.  Rich.   By  the  apostle  Paul,  shadows  to-night 
Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard, 
That  can  the  substance  of  ten  thousand  soldiers, 
Armed  in  proof,  and  led  by  sliallow  Richmond. 
It  is  not  yet  near  day.      Come,  go  with  me ; 
Under  our  tents  I'll  play  the  eaves-dropper. 
To  hear,  if  any  mean  to  shrink  from  me. 

[Exeunt  Kino  Richard  and  Ratcliff. 

Richmond  wakes.     Enter  Oxford  and  others. 

Lords.   Good  morrow,  Richmond. 

Richm.  'Cry  mercy,  lords,  and  watchful  gentlemen, 
That  you  have  ta'en  a  tardy  sluggard  here. 

Lords.   How  have  you  slept,  my  lord  ? 

Richm.  The  sweetest  sleep,   and  fairest-boding 
dreams. 
That  ever  enter'd  in  a  drowsy  head. 
Have  I  since  your  departure  had,  my  lords. 
Methought,  their  souls,  whose  bodies  Richard  mur- 

der'd. 
Came  to  my  tent,  and  cried  —  On  !  victory  ! 
I  promise  you,  my  heart  is  very  jocund 
In  the  remembrance  of  so  fair  a  dream. 
How  far  into  the  morning  is  it,  lords  ? 

Lords.   Upon  the  stroke  of  four. 

Uichin,   Why,  then  'tis  time  to  arm,  and  give  di- 
rection. —        [He  advances  to  the  Troops. 
More  than  I  have  said,  loving  countrymen. 
The  leisure  and  enforcement  of  the  time 
Forbids  to  dwell  on  :    Yet  remember  this,  — 
God,  and  our  good  cause,  fight  upon  our  side ; 
The  prayers  of  holy  saints,  and  wronged  souls. 
Like  high-rear'd  bulwarks,  stand  before  our  faces  ; 
Richard  except,  those,  whom  we  fight  against. 
Had  rather  have  us  win,  than  him  they  follow. 
For  what  is  he  they  follow  ?  truly,  gentlemen, 
A  bloody  tyrant,  and  a  homicide ; 
One  rais'd  in  blood,  and  one  in  blood  establish 'd ; 
One  that  made  means  to  come  by  what  he  hath, 
And  slaughter'd  those  that  were  the  means  to  help 

him; 
A  base  foul  stone,  made  precious  by  the  foil 
Of  England's  chair,  where  he  is  falsely  set ; 
One  that  hath  ever  been  God's  enemy  : 
Tlien,  if  you  fight  against  God's  enemy, 
God  will  vouchsafe  to  ward  2  you  as  his  soldiers ; 
If  you  do  sweat  to  put  a  tyrant  down, 
You  sleep  in  peace,  the  tyrant  being  slain ; 
If  you  do  fight  against  your  country's  foes. 
Your  country's  fat  shall  pay  your  pains  the  hire  ; 
If  you  do  fight  in  safeguard  of  your  wives, 
>  ('ur  wives  shall  welcome  home  the  conquerors ; 
If  you  do  free  your  children  from  the  sword. 
Your  children's  children  quit  ^  it  in  your  age. 
Then,  in  the  name  of  Go<l,  and  all  these  rights. 
Advance  your  standards,  draw  your  willing  swords: 
For  me,  the  ransom  of  my  bold  attempt 
Shall  be  this  cold  corpse  on  the  earth's  cold  face  ; 
But  if  I  thrive,  the  gain  of  my  attempt 
The  least  of  you  shall  share  his  part  thereof. 
«  Guard.  »  Requite. 


Sound,  drums  and  trumpets,  boldly  and  cheerfully; 
God,  and  Saint  George !   Richmond,  and  victory ! 

[Exeunt, 

Re-enter  }^iso  Richard,  Ratcliff,  Attendants,  and 
Forces. 

K.  Rich.  What  said  Northumberland,  as  touching 
Richmond  ? 

Rat.  That  he  was  never  trained  up  in  arms. 

JC.  Rich.  He  said  the  truth  :  And  what  said  Surrey 
then? 

Rat.  Hesmil'd  and  said,  the  better  for  our  purpose. 

A'.  Rich.  He  was  i'the  right ;  and  so,  indeed,  it  is. 

[Clock  strikes. 
Tell  the  clock  there.  —  Give  me  a  calendar.  — 
Who  saw  the  sun  to-day  ? 

Rat.  Not  I,  my  lord. 

JT.  Rich.   Then  he  disdains  to  shine  ;  for,  by  the 
book. 
He  should  have  brav'd  the  east  an  hour  ago : 
A  black  day  will  it  be  to  somebody.  — 
Ratcliff, 

Rat.   My  lord  ? 

JC.  Rich.  The  sun  will  not  be  seen  to-day ; 

The  sky  doth  frown  and  lour  upon  our  anny. 
I  would,  these  dewy  tears  were  from  the  ground. 
Not  shine  to-day  !   Why,  what  is  that  to  me. 
More  than  to  Richmond  ?  for  the  self-same  heaven, 
That  frowns  on  me,  looks  sadly  upon  him. 

Enter  Norfolk. 

Nor.   Arm,  arm,  my  lord ;  the  foe  vaunts  in  the 

field. 
IT.  Rich.   Come,  bustle,  bustle ;  —  Caparison  my 

horse ; 
Call  up  lord  Stanley,  bid  him  bring  his  power :  — 
I  will  lead  forth  my  soldiers  to  the  plain, 
And  thus  my  battle  shall  be  order'd. 
My  foreward  shall  be  drawn  out  all  in  length. 
Consisting  equally  of  horse  and  foot ; 
Our  archers  shall  be  placed  in  tlie  midst : 
John  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  earl  of  Surrey, 
Shall  have  the  leading  of  tliis  foot  and  hoi-se. 
They  thus  directed,  we  ourself  will  follow 
In  the  main  battle  ;  whose  puissance  on  either  side 
Shall  be  well  winged ;  with  our  chiefcst  horse. 
This,  and  Saint  George  to  boot !  —  What  think'st 

thou,  Norfolk  ? 
Nor.    A  good  direction,  warlike  sovereign.  — 
Tliis  found  I  on  my  tent  this  morning. 

[Givi7}g  a  Scroll. 
K.  Rich.  Jocky  of  Norfolk  be  not  too  bold,  [Reads. 

For  Dickon  ^  thi/  master  is  bought  and  sold. 
A  thing  devised  by  the  enemy.  — 
Go,  gentlemen,  every  man  unto  his  charge : 
Let  not  our  babbling  dreams  affright  our  souls : 
Conscience  is  but  a  word  that  cowards  use, 
Devis'd  at  first  to  keep  the  strong  in  awe ; 
Our  strong  arms  be  our  conscience,  swords  our  law. 
March  on,  join  bravely,  let  us  to't  jwll-mell ; 
If  not  to  heaven,  then  hand  in  hand  to  hell.  ■ 

What  shall  I  say  more  than  I  have  inferr'd  ? 
Remember  whom  you  are  to  cope  withal ;  — 
A  sort  *  of  vagabonds,  rascals,  and  run-aways, 
A  scum  of  Bretagnes,  and  base  lackey  peasants. 
Whom  tlieir  o'er-cloyed  country  vomits  forth 
To  des|>erate  ventures  and  assur'd  destruction. 
You  sleeping  safe,  they  bring  you  to  unrest ; 
You  having  lands,  and  bless'd  with  beauteous  wives, 
*  The  ancient  (amiliariiation  of  Richard.       ^  Comj^any. 
Oo  3 


566 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Acr  V. 


They  would  restrain  the  one,  disdain* the  other. 
And  who  doth  lead  them,  but  a  paltry  fellow, 
Long  kept  in  Bretagne  at  our  inotlier's  cost  ? 
A  milk-sop,  one  that  never  in  his  life 
Felt  so  much  cold  as  over  shoes  in  snow  ? 
Let's  whip  these  stragglers  o'er  the  seas  again ; 
Lash  hence  these  over-weening  rags  of  France, 
These  famish 'd  beggars,  weary  of  their  lives  ; 
Who,  but  for  dreaming  on  this  fond  exploit, 
For  want  of  means,  poor  rats,  had  hang'd  themselves : 
If  we  be  conquer'd,  let  men  conquer  us, 
And  not  these  bastard  Bretagnes ;  whom  our  fathers 
Have  in  their  own  land  beaten,  bobb'd,  and  thump'd, 
And,  on  record,  left  them  the  heirs  of  shame. 
Shall  tliese  enjoy  our  lands  ?  lie  with  our  wives  ? 
Ravish  our  daughters  ?  —  Hark,  I  hear  their  drum. 

l^Drum  afar  off. 
Fight,  gentlemen  of  England  !  fight,  bold  yeomen  ! 
Draw,  archers,  draw  your  arrows  to  the  head  ! 
Spur  your  proud  horses  hard,  and  ride  in  blood  ; 
Amaze  the  welkin  with  your  broken  staves  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

What  says  lord  Stanley  ?  will  he  bring  his  power  ? 

Mess.   My  lord,  he  doth  deny  to  come. 

K.  Rich.  Off  instantly  with  his  son  George's  head. 

AW.   My  lord,  the  enemy  is  pass'd  the  marsh  j 
After  the  battle  let  George  Stanley  die. 

JC.  Rich.   A  thousand  hearts  are  great  within  my 
bosom; 
Advance  our  standards,  set  upon  our  foes  ; 
Our  ancient  word  of  courage,  fair  Saint  George, 
Inspire  us  with  the  spleen  of  fiery  dragons  ! 
Upon  them  !  Victory  sits  on  our  helms.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE   J  V.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum  :  Excursions.  Enter  Norfolk,  and  Forces ; 
to  him  Catesby. 
Cate.  Rescue,  my  lord  of  Norfolk  rescue,  rescue ! 
The  king  enacts  more  wonders  than  a  man. 
Daring  an  opposite  to  every  danger  ; 
His  horse  is  slain,  and  all  on  foot  he  fights. 
Seeking  for  Richmond  in  the  throat  of  death  : 
Rescue,  fair  lord,  or  else  the  day  is  lost ! 

Alarum.     Enter  King  Richard. 
JC.  Rich.   A  horse  !  a  horse  !  my  kingdom  for  a 

horse ! 
Cate.  Withdraw,  my  lord,  I'll  help  you  to  a  horse. 
IT.  Rich.   Slave,  I  have  set  my  life  upon  a  cast, 
And  I  will  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die : 


I  think  there  be  six  Richmonds  in  the  field ; 
Five  have  I  slain  to-day,  instead  of  him  :  — 
A  horse  !  a  horse  !  my  kingdom  for  a  horse  ! 

[Exetint. 
Alarums.     Enter  King  Richard  and  Richmond  ; 

a?id  exeunt  fighting.   Retreat,  and  Flourish.    Then 

enter    Richmond,    Stanley  bearing  the  Crown, 

with  divers  other  Lords,  and  Forces. 

Richm.  God,  and  your  arms,  be  prais'd,  victorious 
friends ; 
The  day  is  ours,  the  bloddy  dog  is  dead. 

Stan.  Courageous  Richmond,  well  hast  thou  acquit 
thee! 
Lo,  here,  this  long-usurped  royalty. 
From  the  dead  temples  of  this  bloody  wretch 
Have  I  pluck'd  off,  to  grace  thy  brows  withal; 
Wear  it,  enjoy  it,  and  make  much  of  it. 

Richm.  Great  God  of  heaven,  say,  amen,  to  all :  — 
But,  tell  me  first,  is  young  George  Stanley  living  ? 

Stan.   He  is,  my  lord,  and  safe  in  Leicester  town, 
Whither,  if  it  please  you,  we  may  now  withdraw  us.. 

Richm.  What  men  of  name  are  slain  on  either  side? 

Stan.  John  duke  of  Norfolk,  Walter  lord  Ferrers, 
Sir  Robert  Brackenbury,  and  sir  William  Brandon. 

Richm.  Inter  their  bodies  as  becomes  their  births. 
Proclaim  a  pardon  to  the  soldiers  fled, 
Tliat  in  submission  will  return  to  us ; 
And,  then,  as  we  have  ta'en  the  sacrament. 
We  will  unite  the  white  rose  with  the  red :  — 
Smile  heaven  upon  this  fair  conjunction, 
That  long  hath  frown'd  upon  their  enmity  !  — 
What  traitor  hears  me,  and  says  not —  Amen? 
England  hath  long  been  mad,  and  scarr'd  herself; 
The  brother  blindly  shed  the  brother's  blood, 
The  father  rashly  slaughter'd  his  own  son, 
The  son,  compell'd,  been  butcher  to  the  sire ; 
All  this  divided  York  and  Lancaster, 
Divided,  in  their  dire  division.  — 
O,  now,  let  Richmond  and  Elizabeth, 
The  true  succeeders  of  each  royal  house. 
By  heaven's  fair  ordinance  conjoin  together ! 
And  let  their  heirs,  (God,  if  thy  will  be  so,) 
Enrich  the  time  to  come  with  smooth-fac'd  peace. 
With  smiling  plenty,  and  fair  prosperous  days  ! 
Abate  the  edge  of  traitors,  gracious  Lord, 
That  would  reduce  these  bloody  days  again. 
And  make  poor  England  weep  in  streams  of  blood  ! 
Let  them  not  live  to  taste  this  land's  increase. 
That  would  with  treason  wound  this  fair  land's  peace ! 
Now  civil  wounds  are  stopp'd,  peace  lives  again  j 
That  she  may  long  live  here,  God  say  —  Amen. 

[Exeunt. 


i 


KING     HENRY     VIII. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  Henry  the  Eighth. 

Cardinal  Wolsey. 

Cardinal  Campeius. 

Capucius,  Ambassador  from  the  Emperor  Charles  V. 

Cranmer,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Duke  of  Norfolk. 

Duke  of  Buckingham. 

Duke  of  Suffolk. 

Earl  of  Surrey. 

Lord  Chamberlain. 

Lord  Chancellor. 

Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester. 

Bishop  of  Lincoln. 

Lord  Abergavenny. 

Lord  Sands. 

Sir  Henry  Guildford. 

Sir  Thomas  Lovell. 

Sir  Anthony  Denny. 

Sir  Nicholas  Vaux. 

Secretaries  to  Wolsey. 

Cromwell,  Servant  to  Wolsey. 

SCENE,  chiejly  in  London  and 


Griffith,  Gentleman-usher  to  Queen  Katharine. 

Three  other  Gentlemen. 

Doctor  Butts,  Physician  to  the  King. 

Garter  King  at  Arms. 

Surveyor  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham. 

Brandon,  and  a  Sergeant  at  Arms. 

Door-keeper  of  the  Council-chamber. 

Porter  and  his  Man. 

Page  to  Gardiner. 

A  Crier. 

Queen  Katharine,    Wife  to  King  Henry,  cfter- 

wards  divorced. 
Anne  Bullen,    her  Maid  of  Honour ;  afterwards 

Queen. 
An  old  Lady,  Friend  to  Anne  Bullen. 
Patience,  Woman  to  Queen  Katharine. 

Several  Lords   and    Ladies    in    the   dumb    shows; 
Women  attending  upon  the  Queen  ;  Sjririts,  which 
appear  to    her;    Scribes,    Officers,    Guards,    and 
other  Attendants. 
Westminster ;  once  at  Kimbolton. 


/-  '- 


COOKe     R    A.fl 


O   1X>KD    AROB  BISHOP, 

TBO0   BAST    MADE    MS   NOW    K    MAN. 


KING    HENRY    VIII 


PROLOGUE. 


1  come  no  moru  to  make  you  laugh  ;  things  now, 
That  Ixjar  a  weiphty  and  a  serious  brow, 
Sad,  high,  and  working,  i'uU  of  state  and  woe, 
Such  noble  scenes  as  draw  tlie  eye  to  flow, 
We  now  present.      Tl>ose  that  can  pity,  here 
May,  if  they  think  it  well,  let  fall  a  tear  ; 
The  subject  will  deserve  it.      Such  as  give 
Their  money  out  of  hojie  they  may  l>elieve, 
May  here  find  truth  too.      Those,  that  come  to  see 
Only  a  sJiow  or  two,  and  so  agree. 
The  play  may  pass ;  if  they  be  still  and  willing, 
I'll  undertake,  may  see  away  their  shilling 
Richly  in  two  short  hours.      Only  they, 
That  come  to  hear  a  merry,  wanton  play, 
A  noise  of  targets  ;  or  to  see  a  fellow 
In  a  long  motley  coat,  guarded  >  with  yellow, 

>  Laced. 


Will  be  deceiv'd  ;  for,  gentle  hearers,  know, 

To  rank  our  chosen  truth  with  such  a  show 

As  fool  and  fight  is,  beside  forfeiting 

Our  own  brains,  and  the  opinion  that  we  bring, 

(To  make  that  only  true  we  now  intend*,) 

Will  leave  us  never  an  imderstanding  friend. 

Therefore,  for  gootlness'  sake,  and  as  you  are  known 

The  first  and  happiest  hearers  of  the  town, 

Be  sad,  as  we  would  make  ye :    TTiink,  ye  see 

The  very  persons  of  our  noble  story, 

As  they  were  living ;  think  you  see  tliem  great, 

And  follow 'd  with  the  general  throng,  and  sweat, 

Of  thousand  friends :   then,  in  a  moment,  see 

How  soon  this  mightiness  meets  misery  ! 

And,  if  you  can  be  merry  then,  I'll  say, 

A  man  may  weep  upon  his  wedding  day. 

=  Pretend 


568 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  I. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.  —  London.      An  Ante-chamber  in  the 

Palace. 
Enter  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,   at  one  Door;  at  the 
other  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  and  the  Loiii> 
Abergavenny. 

Buck.    Good  morrow,  and  well  met.     How  have 
you  done, 
Since  last  we  saw  in  France  ? 

Nor.  I  thank  your  grace : 

Healthful ;  and  ever  since  a  fresh  admirer 
Of  what  I  saw  there. 

Buck.  An  untimely  ague 

Stay'd  me  a  prisoner  in  my  chamber,  when 
Those  suns  of  glory,  those  two  lights  of  men  ', 
Met  in  the  vale  of  Arde. 

Nor.  'Twixt  Guynes  and  Arde: 

I  was  then  present,  saw  them  salute  on  horseback  ; 
Beheld  them,  when  they  lighted,  how  they  clung 
In  their  embracement,  as  they  grew  together ; 
Which  had  they,  what  four  thron'd  ones  could  have 

weigh'd 
Such  a  compounded  one  ? 

Buck.  All  the  whole  time 

I  was  my  chamber's  prisoner. 

Nor.  Then  you  lost 

The  view  of  earthly  glory  :   Men  might  say. 
Till  this  time,  pomp  was  single ;  but  now  married 
To  one  above  itself.      Each  following  day 
Became  the  next  day's  master,  till  the  last 
Made  former  wonders  it's  :    To-day,  the  French, 
All  clinquant  2,  all  in  gold,  like  heathen  gods, 
Shone  down  the  English  :   and,  to-morrow,  they 
Made  Britain,  India :   every  man  that  stood, 
Show'd  like  a  mine.      Their  dwarfish  pages  were 
As  cherubin,  all  gilt :    the  madams  too, 
Not  us'd  to  toil,  did  almost  sweat  to  bear 
The  pride  upon  them,  that  their  very  labour 
Was  to  them  as  a  painting :   now  this  mask 
Was  cry'd  incomparable  ;  and  the  ensuing  night 
Made  it  a  fool,  and  beggar.      The  two  kings. 
Equal  in  lustre,  were  now  best,  now  worst, 
As  presence  did  present  them  ;  him  in  eye. 
Still  him  in  praise :   and,  being  present  both, 
'Twas  said,  they  saw  but  one ;  and  no  discerner 
Durst  wag  his  tongue  in  censure.  3    When  these  suns 
(For  so  they  phrase  them,]  by  their  heralds  chal- 

leng'd 
The  noble  spirits  to  arms,  they  did  perform 
Beyond  thought's  compass  ;  that  former  fabulous 

story. 
Being  now  seen  possible  enough,  got  credit, 
That  Bevis  ^  was  believ'd. 

Buck.  O,  you  go  far. 

Nor.  As  I  belong  to  worship,  and  affect 
In  honour  honesty,  the  tract  of  every  thing 
Would  by  a  good  discourser  lose  some  life. 
Which  action's  self  was  tongue  to.  All  was  royal ; 
To  the  disposing  of  it  nought  rebell'd. 
Order  gave  each  thing  view ;  the  office  did 
Distinctly  his  full  function. 

Buck.  Who  did  guide, 

I  mean,  who  set  the  body  and  the  limbs 
Of  this  great  sport  together,  as  you  guess  ? 

'  J^^"'"y  VIII.  and  Francis  I.  king  of  France. 

2  Glittering,  shining.    3  ]„  opinion,  which  wAs  most  noble. 

^  Sir  Bevis,  an  oliJ  romance. 


Nor.   One,  certes  *  that  promises  no  element  ^ 
In  such  a  business. 

Buck.  I  pray  you,  who,  my  lord  ? 

Nor.    All  this  was  order'd  by  the  good  discretion 
Of  the  right  reverend  cardinal  of  York. 

Buck.  The  devil  speed  him  !  no  man's  pie  is  free'd 
From  his  ambitious  finger.      What  had  he 
To  do  in  these  fierce  vanities?    I  wonder. 
That  such  a  keech  '  can  with  his  very  bulk 
Take  up  the  rays  o'the  beneficial  sun. 
And  keep  it  from  the  earth. 

Nor.  Surely,  sir, 

There's  in  him  stuff  that  puts  him  to  these  ends  : 
For,  being  not  propp'd  by  ancestry,  (whose  grace 
Chalks  successors  their  way,)  nor  call'd  upon 
For  high  feats  done  to  the  crown  ;  neither  allied 
To  eminent  assistants,  but,  spider-like. 
Out  of  his  self-drawing  web,  he  gives  us  note, 
The  force  of  his  own  merit  makes  his  way  ; 
A  gift  that  heaven  gives  for  him,  which  buys 
A  place  next  to  the  king. 

Aher.  I  cannot  tell 

Wliat  heaven  hath  given  him,  let  some  graver  eye 
Pierce  into  that ;  but  I  can  see  his  pride 
Peep  through  each  part  of  him  :     Whence  has  ho 

that? 
If  not  from  hell,  the  devil  is  a  niggard  ; 
Or  has  given  all  before,  and  he  begins 
A  new  hell  in  himself. 

Buck.  Why  the  devil. 

Upon  this  French  going-out,  took  he  upon  him, 
Without  the  privity  o'  the  king,  to  appoint 
Who  should  attend  on  him  ?    He  makes  up  the  file 
Of  all  the  gentry  ;  for  the  most  part  such 
Too,  whom  as  great  a  charge  as  little  honour 
He  meant  to  lay  upon  :   and  his  own  letter  8, 
The  honourable  board  of  council  out. 
Must  fetch  him  in  the  papers. 

Aber.  I  do  know 

Kinsmen  of  mine,  three  at  the  least,  that  have 
By  this  so  sicken'd  their  estates,  that  never 
They  shall  abound  as  formerly. 

Buck.  O,  many 

Have  broke  their  backs  with  laying  manors  on  them 
For  this  great  journey.     What  did  this  vanity. 
But  minister  communication  of 
A  most  poor  issue  ? 

Nor.  Grievingly  I  think 

The  peace  between  the  French  and  us  not  values 
The  cost  that  did  conclude  it. 

Buck.  Every  man. 

After  the  hideous  storm  that  follow'd,  was 
A  thing  inspir'd  :   and,  not  consulting,  broke 
Into  a  general  prophecy,  —  That  this  tempest, 
Dashing  the  garment  of  this  peace,  aboded 
The  sudden  breach  on't. 

Nor.  Which  is  budded  out ; 

For  France  hath  flaw'd  the  league,  and  hath  attach 'd 
Our  merchants'  goods  at  Bourdeaux. 

Aber.  Is  it  therefore 

The  ambassador  is  silenc'd? 

Nor.  Marry,  is't. 

Aber.    A  proper  title  of  a  peace  ;  and  purchas'd 
At  a  superfluous  rate  ! 
^  Certainly.  ••  Practice.  "  Lump  of  fat. 

8  Sets  down  in  his  letter  without  consulting  the  council 


I 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


569 


Buck.  Why,'  all  this  business 

Our  reverend  cardinal  carried.  9 

Nor.  'Like  it,  your  grace, 

The  state  takes  notice  of  the  private  difference 
Betwixt  you  and  the  cardinal.      I  advise  you, 
(And  take  it  from  a  heart  that  wishes  towards  you 
Honour  and  plenteous  safety,)  that  you  read 
The  cardinal's  malice  and  his  potency 
Together  :   to  consider  further,  that 
What  his  high  hatred  would  effect,  wants  not 
A  minister  in  his  power :   You  know  his  nature. 
That  he's  revengeful ;  and  I  know,  his  sword 
Hath  a  sharp  edge  :  it's  long,  and,  it  may  be  said, 
It  reaches  far ;  and  where  'twill  not  extend, 
Thither  he  darts  it.      Bosom  up  my  counsel, 
You'll  find  it  wholesome.  Lo,  where  comes  that  rock, 
That  I  advise  your  shunning. 

Enter  Cardinal  Wolsey,  {the  Purse  borne  before 
him,)  certain  of  the  Guard,  and  two  Secretaries 
with  Papers.  The  Carhinav  in  his  passage  Jlxeth 
his  eye  on  Buckingham,  and  Buckingham  on  him, 
both  full  of  disdain. 

Wol.   The  duke  of  Buckingham's  surveyor  ?  ha  ? 
Where's  his  examination  ? 

1  Seer.  Here,  so  please  you. 

Wol.   Is  he  in  person  ready  ? 

1  Sccr.  Ay,  please  your  grace. 

Wol.  Well,  we  shall  then  know  more  ;  and  Buck- 
ingham 
Shall  lessen  this  big  look. 

[^Exeunt  Wolsey,  and  Train. 

Buck.    This  butcher's   cur  '    is  venom-mouth'd, 
and  I 
Have  not  the  power  to  muzzle  him  :  therefore  best 
Not  wake  him  in  his  slumber.      A  beggar's  book 
Out-worths  a  noble's  blood. 

North.  Wliat,  are  you  chafd? 

Ask  heaven  for  temperance ;  that's  the  appliance 

only : 
Which  your  disease  requires. 

Buck.  I  read  in  his  looks 

Matter  against  me  ;  and  his  eye  revil'd 
Mc,  as  his  abject  object :  at  this  instant 
He  bores  -  me  witli  some  trick  :    He's  gone  to  the 

king; 
I'll  follow,  and  out-stare  him. 

Nor.  Stay,  my  lord, 

And  let  your  reason  with  your  choler  question 
What  'tis  you  go  about :    To  climb  steep  hills 
Requires  slow  pace  at  first :    Anger  is  like 
A  full-hot  horse ;  who  being  allow'd  his  way. 
Self-mettle  tires  him.     Not  a  man  in  England 
Can  advise  me  like  you ;  be  to  yourself 
As  you  would  to  your  friend. 

Buck.  I'll  to  the  king, 

And  from  a  mouth  of  honour  quite  cry  down 
This  Ipswich  fellow's  insolence  ;  or  proclaim. 
There's  difference  in  no  persons. 

Nor.  Be  advis'd : 

Heat  not  a  furnace  for  your  foe  so  hot 
Tliat  it  do  singe  yourself :   We  may  out-run, 
By  violent  swiftness,  that  which  we  run  at, 
And  lose  by  over-nmning.      Know  you  not. 
The  fire,  that  mounts  the  liquor  till  it  run  o'er. 
In  seeming  to  augment  it,  wastes  it?   Be  advis'd  : 
I  say  again,  there  is  no  English  soul 
More  stronger  to  direct  you  than  yourself ; 

•Conducted.     >  Wobey  was  the  ion  oT  a  butcher.     *  SUbt. 


If  with  the  sap  of  reason  you  would  quench, 
Or  but  allay,  the  fire  of  passion. 

Buck.  Sir, 

I  am  thankful  to  you :  and  I'll  go  along 
By  your  prescription  :  —  but  this  top-proud  fellow, 
( Whom  from  the  flow  of  gall  I  name  not,  but 
From  sincere  motions,)  by  intelligence, 
And  proofs  as  clear  as  founts  in  July,  when 
We  see  each  grain  of  gravel,  I  do  know 
To  be  corrupt  and  treasonous. 

Nor.  Say  not,  treasonous. 

Buck.   To  the  king  I'll  say't ;  and  make  my  vouch 
as  strong 
As  shore  of  rock.      Attend.     This  holy  fox, 
Or  wolf,  or  both,  (for  he  is  equal  ravenous, 
As  he  is  subtle ;  and  as  prone  to  mischief, 
As  able  to  perform  it :   his  mind  and  place 
Infecting  one  another,  yea,  reciprocally,) 
Only  to  show  his  pomp  as  well  in  France 
As  here  at  home,  suggests  ^  the  king  our  master 
To  this  last  costly  treaty,  the  interview. 
That  swallow'd  so  much  treasure,  and  like  a  glass 
Did  break  i*  the  rinsing. 

Nor.  'Faith,  and  so  it  did. 

Btick.   Pray,  give  me  favour,-  sir.     This  cunning 
cardinal 
The  articles  o'  the  combination  drew, 
As  himself  pleas'd  ;  and  they  were  ratified, 
As  he  cried,  Thus  let  be :  to  as  much  end, 
As  give  a  crutch  to  the  dead :  But  our  count-cardinal 
Has  done  this,  and  'tis  well  j  for  worthy  Wolsey, 
Who  cannot  err,  he  did  it.      Now  this  follows, 
(Which,  as  I  take  it,  is  a  kind  of  puppy 
To  the  old  dam,  treason, )  —  Charles  the  emperor. 
Under  pretence  to  see  the  queen  his  aunt, 
(For  'twas,  indeed,  his  colour ;  but  he  came 
To  whisper  Wolsey,)  here  makes  visitation : 
His  fears  were,  that  the  interview,  betwixt 
England  and  France,  might,  through  their  amity. 
Breed  him  some  prejudice  ;  for  from  this  league 
Peep'd  arms  that  menac'd  him  :   He  privily 
Deals  with  our  cardinal ;  ar.d,  as  I  trow,  — 
Which  I  do  well ;  for,  I  am  sure,  the  emperor 
Paid  ere  he  promis'd ;  whereby  his  suit  was  granted. 
Ere  it  was  ask'd ;  —  but  when  the  way  was  made. 
And  pav'd  with  gold,  the  emperor  thus  desir'd ;  — 
That  he  would  please  to  alter  the  king's  course 
And  break  the  foresaid  peace.     Let  the  king  know, 
(As  soon  he  shall  by  me,)  that  thus  the  cardinal 
Does  buy  and  sell  his  honour  as  he  pleases. 
And  for  his  own  advantage. 

Nor.  I  am  sorry 

To  hear  this  of  him  ;  and  could  wish,  he  were 
Something  mistaken  in't. 

Buck.  No,  not  a  syllable ; 

I  do  pronounce  him  in  that  very  shape. 
He  shall  appear  in  proof. 

Enter  Brandon  ;  a  Sergeant  at  Arms  before  him, 
and  two  or  three  of  the  Guard. 

Bran.   Your  office,  sergeant ;  execute  it. 

Serg.  Sir, 

My  lord  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  and  earl 
Of  Hereford,  Stafford,  and  Northampton,  I 
Arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  in  the  name 
Of  our  most  sovereign  king. 

Buck.  Lo  you,  my  lord. 

The  net  has  fall'n  upon  me  ;   I  shall  perish 
Under  device  and  practice.  * 

3  Excite*.  *  Unfair  •tratagem, 


570 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  I. 


Bran.  I  am  sorry 

To  see  you  ta'en  from  liberty,  to  look  on 
The  business  present :  'Tis  his  highness*  pleasure 
You  shall  to  the  Tower. 

Buck.  It  will  help  me  nothing, 

To  plead  mine  innocence  ;  for  that  dye  is  on  me, 
Which  makes  my  whitest  part  black.     The  will  of 

heaven 
Be  done  in  this  and  all  things  !  —  I  obey.  — 

0  my  lord  Aberga'ny,  fare  you  well. 

Bran.   Nay,  he  must  bear  you  company :  —  The 
king  [To  Abergavenny. 

Is  pleas'd,  you  shall  to  the  Tower,  till  you  know 
How  he  determines  further. 

Aber.  As  the  duke  said, 

The  will  of  heaven  be  done,  and  the  king's  pleasure 
By  me  obey'd. 

Bran.  Here  is  a  warrant  from 

The  king,  to  attach  lord  Montacute ;  and  the  bodies 
Of  tlie  duke's  confessor,  John  de  la  Court, 
One  Gilbert  Peck,  his  chancellor,  — 

Buck.  So,  so ; 

These  are  the  limbs  of  the  plot :  no  more,  I  hope. 

Bran.   A  monk  o'  the  Chartreux, 

Buck.  O,  Nicholas  Hopkins? 

Bran.  He. 

Buck.  My  surveyor  is  false ;  the  o'er-great  cardinal 
Hath  show'd  him  gold :  my  life  is  spann'd  already ; 

1  am  the  shadow  of  poor  Buckingham ; 
Whose  figure  even  this  instant  cloud  puts  on. 
By  darkening  my  clear  sun.  —  My  lord,  farewell. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II The  CouncU-chamber. 

Comets.  Enter  Kino  Henry,  Cardinal  Wolsey, 
the  Lords  of  the  Council,  Sir  Thomas  Lovell, 
Officers,  and  Attendants.  The  King  enters,  lean- 
ing on  the  Cardinal's  Shoulder. 

K.  Hen.  My  life  itself  and  the  best  heart  of  it. 
Thanks  you  for  this  great  care  :   I  stood  i'  the  level 
Of  a  full-charg'd  confederacy,  and  give  thanks 
To  you  that  chok'd  it.  —  Let  be  call'd  before  us 
That  gentleman  of  Buckingham's :  in  person 
I'll  hear  him  his  confessions  justify ; 
And  point  by  point  the  treasons  of  his  master 
He  shall  again  relate. 

The  King  takes  his  State.  ^  The  Lords  of  the  Council 
take  their  several  Places.  The  Cardinal  places  him- 
self under  the  King's  Feet,  on  his  right  Side. 

A  Noise  within,  crying,  Room  for  the  Queen.  Enter 
the  Queen,  ushered  by  the  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and 
Suffolk  :  she  kneels.      The  King  risethfrom  his 
State,  takes  her  up,  kisses,  and  placeth  her  by  him. 
Q,  Kath,   Nay,  we  must  longer  kneel ;   I  am  a 

sviitor. 
K.  Hen.  Arise,  and  take  place  by  us :  —  Half 
your  suit 

Never  name  to  us  ;  you  have  half  our  power  : 

The  other  moiety,  ere  you  ask,  is  given ; 

Repeat  your  will,  and  take  it. 

Q.  Kath.  Thank  your  majesty. 

That  you  would  love  yourself;  and  in  that  love. 

Not  unconsider'd  leave  your  honour,  nor 

The  dignity  of  your  office,  is  the  point 

Of  my  petition. 

K.  Hen.  Lady  mine,  proceed. 

Q.  Kath.   I  am  solicited,  not  by  a  few, 

And  those  of  true  condition,  that  your  subjects 
*  Chair  of  state,  threne. 


Arc  in  great  grievance:  there  hath  been  commissions 

Sent  down  among  them,  which  hath  flaw'd  the  heart 

Of  all  their  loyalties :  —  wherein,  although, 

My  good  lord  cardinal,  they  vent  reproaches 

Most  bitterly  on  you,  as  putter-on 

Of  these  exactions,  yet  the  king  our  master, 

(Whose  honour  heaven  shield  from  soil!)  even  he 

escapes  not 
Language  unmannerly,  yea,  such  which  breaks 
The  sides  of  loyalty,  and  almost  appears, 
In  loud  rebellion. 

Nor.  Not  almost  appears, 

It  doth  appear  ;  for,  upon  these  taxations. 
The  clothiers  all,  not  able  to  maintain 
The  many  to  them  'longing,  have  put  off 
The  spinsters,  carders,  fullers,  weavers,  who, 
Unfit  for  other  life,  compell'd  by  hunger 
And  lack  of  other  means,  in  desperate  manner 
Daring  the  event  to  the  teeth,  are  all  in  uproar, 
And  danger  serves  among  them. 

K.  Hen.  Taxation ! 

Wherein  ?  and  what  taxation  ?  —  My  lord  cardinal, 
You  that  are  blam'd  for  it  alike  with  us. 
Know  you  of  this  taxation  ? 

Wol.  Please  you,  sir, 

I  know  but  of  a  single  part,  in  aught 
Pertains  to  the  state  ;  and  front  but  in  that  file 
Where  others  tell  steps  vnth  me.  ^ 

Q.  Kath.  No,  my  lord. 

You  know  no  more  than  others  :  but  you  frame 
Things,  that  are  known  alike  ;  which  are  not  whole- 
some 
To  those  which  would  not  know  them,  and  yet  must 
Perforce  be  their  acquaintance.     These  exactions. 
Whereof  my  sovereign  would  have  note,  they  are 
Most  pestilent  to  the  hearing ;  and  to  bear  them. 
The  back  is  sacrifice  to  the  load.     They  say. 
They  are  devis'd  by  you ;  or  else  you  suffer 
Too  hard  an  exclamation. 

K.  Hen.  Still  exaction  ! 

The  nature  of  it  ?  In  what  kind,  let's  know 
Is  this  exaction  ? 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  much  too  venturous 

In  tempting  of  your  patience  j  but  am  bolden'd 
Under  your  promis'd  pardon.      The  subject's  grief 
Comes  through  commissions,  which  compel  from  each 
The  sixth  part  of  his  substance,  to  be  levied 
Without  delay  ;  and  the  pretence  for  this 
Is  nam'd,  your  wars  in  France  :   This  makes  bold 

mouths : 
Tongues  spit  their  duties  out,  and  cold  hearts  freeze 
Allegiance  in  them  ;  their  curses  now, 
Live  where  their  prayers  did ;  and  it's  come  to  pass, 
That  tractable  obedience  is  a  slave 
To  each  incensed  will.     I  would,  your  highness 
Would  give  it  quick  consideration,  for 
There  is  no  primer  7  business. 

K.  Hen.  By  my  life. 

This  is  against  our  pleasure. 

Wol.  And  for  me, 

I  have  no  farther  gone  in  this,  than  by 
A  single  voice ;  and  that  not  pass'd  me,  but 
By  learned  approbation  of  the  judges. 
If  I  am  traduc'd  by  tongues,  which  neither  know 
My  faculties,  nor  person,  yet  will  be 
The  chronicles  of  my  doing,  —  let  me  say, 
'Tis  but  the  fate  of  place,  and  the  rough  brake  8 
That  virtue  must  go  through.    We  must  not  stint 

6  I  am  only  one  among  the  other  counsellors. 

7  More  important  e  Thicket  of  thorns. 


i 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


571 


Our  necessary  actions,  in  the  fear 

To  cope  9  malicious  censurers ;  which  ever, 

As  ravenous  fishes,  do  a  vessel  follow 

That  is  new  trimm'd  ;  but  benefit  no  further 

Than  vainly  longing.     What  we  oft  do  best, 

13y  sick  interpreters,  once  '  weak  ones,  is 

Not  ours,  or  not  allow'd  •' ;  what  worst,  as  oft, 

Hitting  a  grosser  quality,  is  cried  up 

For  our  best  act.     If  we  shall  stand  still. 

In  fear  our  motion  will  be  mock'd  or  carp'd  at, 

We  should  take  root  here  where  we  sit,  or  sit 

State  statues  only. 

K.  Hen.  Things  done  well, 

And  with  a  care,  exempt  themselves  from  fear  ; 
Things  done  without  example,  in  their  issue 
Are  to  be  fear'd.      Have  you  a  precedent 
Of  this  commission  ?    I  believe,  not  any. 
We  must  not  rend  our  subjects  from  our  laws, 
And  stick  them  in  our  will.     Sixth  part  of  each  ? 
A  trembling  contribution  !  Why,  we  take. 
From  every  tree,  lop,  bark,  and  part  o'  the  timber ; 
And  though  we  leave  it  with  a  root,  thus  hack'd, 
The  air  will  drink  the  sap.     To  every  county. 
Where  this  is  question'd,  send  our  letters,  with 
Free  pardon  to  each  man  that  has  denied 
The  force  of  this  commission :   Pray,  look  to't ; 
1  put  it  to  your  care. 

Wol.  A  word  with  you.    \To  the  Secretary. 

Let  there  be  letters  writ  to  every  shire. 
Of  the   king's  grace   and   pardon.      The  griev'd 

commons 
Hardly  conceive  of  me ;  let  it  be  nois'd, 
That  through  our  intercession,  this  revokement 
And  pardon  comes :   I  shall  anon  advise  you 
Further  in  the  proceeding.  \^Exit  Secretary. 

Enter  Surveyor. 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  sorry  that  the  duke  of  Buckingham 
Is  run  in  your  displeasure. 

K.  Hen.  It  grieves  many : 

The  gentleman  is  leam'd,  and  a  most  rare  speaker. 
To  nature  none  more  bound  ;  his  training  such. 
That  he  may  furnish  and  instruct  great  teachers, 
And  never  seek  for  aid  out  of  himself. 
Yet  see 

When  these  so  noble  benefits  shall  prove 
Not  well  dispos'd,  the  mind  growing  once  corrupt, 
They  turn  to  vicious  forms,  ten  times  more  ugly 
Than  ever  they  were  fair.     This  man  so  complete. 
Who  was  enroll'd  'mongst  wonders,  and  when  we, 
Almost  with  ravish'd  listening,  could  not  find 
His  hour  of  speech  a  minute  ;  he,  my  lady. 
Hath  into  monstrous  habits  put  the  graces 
That  once  were  his,  and  is  become  as  black 
As  if  besmear'd  in  hell.     Sit  by  us  :  you  shall  hear 
(This  was  Iiis  gentleman  in  trust,)  of  him 
Things  to  strike  honour  sad.  —  Bid  him  recount 
The  fore-recited  practices  ;  whereof 
We  cannot  feel  too  little,  hear  too  much. 

Wol.  Stand  forth ;  and  with  bold  spirit  relate  what 
you. 
Most  like  a  careful  subject,  have  collected 
Out  of  the  duke  of  Buckingham. 

A'.  Hen.  Speak  freely. 

Surv.    First,  it  was  usual  with  him,  every  day 
It  would  infect  his  speech,  That  if  the  king 
Should  witliout  issue  die,  he'd  carry  it  so 
To  make  the  scepter  his  :   These  very  words 
I  liave  heard  him  utter  to  his  son-in-law, 

>  Encounter.  '  Sometime.  >  Approved. 


Lord  Aberga'ny ;  to  whom  by  oath  he  menaced 
Revenge  upon  the  cardinal. 

Wol.  Please  your  highness,  note 

This  dangerous  conception  in  tliis  point. 
Not  friended  by  his  wish,  to  your  high  person 
His  will  is  most  malignant ;  and  it  stretches 
Beyond  you,  to  your  friends. 

Q.  Kath.  My  leam'd  lord  cardinal, 

Deliver  all  with  charity. 

K.  Hen.  Speak  on  : 

How  grounded  he  his  title  to  the  crown, 
Upon  our  fail  ?  to  this  point  hast  tliou  heard  him 
At  any  time  speak  aught  ? 

Surv.  He  was  brought  to  this 

By  a  vain  prophecy  of  Nicholas  Hopkins. 

K.  Hen.  What  was  that  Hopkins? 

Surv.  Sir,  a  Churtreux  friar. 

His  confessor,  who  fed  him  every  minute 
With  words  of  sovereignty. 

K.  Hen.  How  know'st  thou  this  ? 

Surv.  Not  longbefore  your  highness  sped  to  France, 
The  duke  being  at  the  Rose  \  witliin  the  parish 
Saint  Lawrence  Poultney,  did  of  me  demand 
What  was  the  speech  amongst  the  Londoners 
Concerning  the  French  journey  :   I  replied. 
Men  fear'd,  the  French  would  prove  perfidious. 
To  the  king's  danger.      Presently  the  duke 
Said,  'Twas  the  fear,  indeed  ;  and  that  he  doubted, 
'Twould  prove  the  verity  of  certain  words 
Spoke  by  a  holy  monk ;   That  ofty  says  he. 
Hath  sent  to  me,  ivishing  me  to  permit 
John  ae  la  Court,  my  chaplain,  a  choice  hour 
To  hear  from  him  a  maiter  of  some  moment: 
Whom  after  under  the  confession's  seal 
He  solemnly  had  sworn,  that  what  he  spoke. 
My  chaplain  to  no  creature  living,  but 
To  me,  should  utter,  with  demure  confidence 
Thispausinglyensud,  —  Neither  the  king,  nor  his  heirs, 
( Tell  you  the  duke)  shall  prosjier  :  bid  him  strive 
To  gain  the  love  of  the  commonalty ;  the  duke 
Shall  govern  Ejigland. 

Q.  Kath.  If  I  know  you  well, 

You  were  the  duke's  surveyor,  and  lost  your  office 
On  the  complaint  o'the  tenants :   Take  good  heed, 
You  charge  not  in  your  spleen  a  noble  person. 
And  spoil  your  nobler  soul !   I  say,  take  heed ; 
Yes,  heartily  beseech  you. 

K  Hen.  Let  him  on :  — 

Go  forward. 

Surv.  On  my  soul,  I'll  speak  but  trutli. 

I  told  my  lord  the  duke,  by  the  devil's  illusions 
The  monk  might  be  deceiv'd;  and  that 'twas  dang'rous 

for  him. 
To  ruminate  on  this  so  far,  until 
It  forg'd  him  some  design,  which,  being  believ'd, 
It  was  much  like  to  do :   He  answer'd.  Tush  I 
It  can  do  me  no  damage :  adding  further. 
That,  had  the  king  in  his  last  sickness  fail'd, 
The  cardinal's  and  sir  Thomas  Lovell's  heads 
Should  have  gone  off. 

K.Hen.  Ha !  what,  so  rank  ?  Ah,  ha ! 

There's  mischief  in  this  man  : Canst  thou  say 

further? 

Surv.   I  can,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  Proceed. 

Surv.  Being  at  Greenwich, 

After  your  highness  had  reprov'd  the  duke 
About  sir  William  Blomer,  — 

K.  Hen.  I  remember, 

<  Nov  Merchant  Taylors*  SchooL 


572 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  I. 


Of  such  a  time  :  —  Being  my  servant  sworn, 

The  duke  retain'd  him  his. Buton;  Whathence? 

Surv.   If,  quoth  he,  I  for  this  had  been  committed. 
As  to  the  Tower,  I  thought,  —  /  would  have  playd 
The  part  my  father  meant  to  act  upon 
The  usurper  Richard :  who,  being  at  Salisbury, 
Made  suit  to  come  in  his  presence  ;  which  if  granted, 
As  he  made  semblance  of  his  duty,  would 
Have  put  his  knife  into  him. 

K  Hen.  A  giant  traitor ! 

Wol.    Now,    madam,    may  his  highness  live  in 
freedom. 
And  this  man  out  of  prison? 

Q.  Kdth.  Heaven  mend  all ! 

A"".  Hen.   There's  something  more  would  out  of 
tliee  ;   What  say'st  ? 

Surv.    After  —  the  duke   his  father,  —  with  the 
knife,  — 
He  stretch'd  liim,  and,  with  one  hand  on  his  dagger, 
Another  spread  on  his  breast,  mounting  his  eyes. 
He  did  discharge  a  horrible  oath ;  whose  tenour 
Was,  —  Were  he  evil  us'd,  he  would  out-go 
His  father,  by  as  much  as  a  performance 
Does  an  irresolute  purpose. 

A".  Hen.  Tliere's  his  period. 

To  sheath  his  knife  in  us.      He  is  attach'd ; 
Call  him  to  present  trial :   if  he  may 
Find  mercy  in  the  law,  'tis  his ;  if  none. 
Let  him  not  seek't  of  us  :    By  day  and  night, 
He's  traitor  to  the  height.  [  Sxenjit. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  the  Palace, 
winter  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  and  Lord  Sands. 

Cham.   Is  it  possible,  the  spells  of  France  should 
juggle 
Men  into  such  strange  mysteries  ? 

Sands.  New  customs. 

Though  they  be  never  so  ridiculous. 
Nay,  let  them  be  unmanly,  yet  are  follow'd. 

Cham.   As  far  as  I  see,  all  the  good  our  English 
Have  got  by  the  late  voyage,  if  but  merely 
A  fit -1  or  two  o'  the  face  ;  but  they  are  shrewd  ones ; 
For  when  they  hold  them,  you  would  swear  directly, 
Their  very  noses  had  been  counsellors 
To  Pepin,  or  Clotharius,  they  keep  state  so. 

Sands.   They  have  all  new  legs,  and  lame  ones ; 
one  would  take  it. 
That  never  saw  them  pace  before,  the  spavin, 
A  springhalt  &  reign 'd  among  them. 

Cham.  Death  !  my  lord. 

Their  clothes  are  after  such  a  pagan  cut  too. 
That,  sure,  they  have  worn  out  Christendom.     How 

now? 
What  news,  sir  Thomas  Lovell  ? 

Enter  Sir  Thomas  Lovell. 

Lav.  'Faith,  my  lord, 

I  hear  of  none  but  the  new  proclamation 
That's  clapp'd  upon  the  court-gate. 

Cham.  What  is't  for  ? 

Lov.   The  reformation  of  our  travell'd  gallants, 
That  fill  the  court  with  quarrels,  talk,  and  tailors. 

Cf'am,  I  am  glad,  'tis  there  j  now  I  would  pray 
our  monsieurs 
To  think  an  English  courtier  may  be  wise, 
And  never  see  the  Louvre.  ^ 

Lov.  They  must  either 

*  Grimace.  *  Disease  iocident  to  horses. 

«  A  palace  at  Paris. 


( For  so  run  the  conditions,)  leave  these  remnants 

Of  fool,  and  feather,  tliat  they  got  in  France, 

With  all  their  honourable  points  of  ignorance. 

Pertaining  thereunto,  (as  fights,  and  fireworks  ; 

Abusing  better  men  than  they  can  be, 

Out  of  a  foreign  wisdom,)  renouncing  clean 

The  faith  they  have  in  tennis,  and  tall  stockings. 

Short  blister'd  breeches,  and  those  types  of  travel, 

And  understand  again  like  honest  men ; 

Or  pack  to  their  old  playfellows  :  there,  I  take  it. 

They  may,  cum  privilegio  7,  wear  away 

The  lag  end  of  their  wildness,  and  be  laugh'd  at. 

Sands. '  Tis  time  to  give  them  phy  sick,  their  diseases 
Are  grown  so  catching. 

Cham.  What  a  loss  our  ladies 

Will  have  of  these  trim  vanities  ! 

Lov.  Ay,  marry, 

There  will  be  woe  indeed. 

Sands.   I  am  glad,  they're  going  ; 
(For,  sure,  there's  no  converting  of  them;)  now 
An  honest  country  lord,  as  I  am,  beaten 
A  long  time  out  of  play,  may  bring  his  plain-song, 
And  have  an  hour  of  hearing ;  and,  by'r-lady. 
Held  current  musick  too. 

Cham.  Well  said,  lord  Sands ; 

Your  colt's  tooth  is  not  cast  yet. 

Sands.  No,  my  lord  ; 

Nor  shall  not,  while  I  have^a  stump. 

Cham.  Sir  Thomas. 

Wliither  were  you  a  going  ? 

I,ov.  To  the  cardinal's ; 

Your  lordship  is  a  guest  too. 

Cham.  O,  'tis  true  : 

This  night  he  makes  a  supper,  and  a  great  one, 
To  many  lords  and  ladies ;  there  will  be 
The  beauty  of  this  kingdom,  I'll  assure  you. 

Lov.   That  churchman  beafs  a  bounteous  mind 
indeed, 
A  hand  as  fruitful  as  the  land  that  feeds  us ; 
His  dews  fall  every  where. 

Cham.  No  doubt,  he's  noble  ; 

He  had  a  black  mouth,  that  said  other  of  him. 

Sands.  He  may,  my  lord,  he  has  wherewithal ;  in 
him. 
Sparing  would  show  a  worse  sin  than  ill  doctrine : 
Men  of  his  way  should  be  most  liberal. 
They  are  set  here  for  examples. 

Cham.  True,  they  are  so ; 

But  few  now  give  so  great  ones.    My  barge  stays ; 
Your  lordship  shall  along :  —  Come,  good  sir  Thomas, 
We  shall  be  late  else :   which  I  would  not  be. 
For  I  was  spoke  to,  with  sir  Henry  Guildford, 
This  night  to  be  comptrollers. 

Sands.  I  am  your  lordship's. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   IV.  —  The  Presence-Chamber  in  York- 
Place. 

Hautboys.  A  small  Table  under  a  Stale  for  the  Car- 
dinal, a  longer  Table  for  the  Guests.  Enter  at  one 
Door  Anne  Bullen,  and  divers  Lords,  Ladies, 
and  Gentlewomen,  as  Guests;  at  another  Door, 
enter  Sir  Henry  Guildford. 

Guild.   Ladies,  a  general  welcome  from  his  grace 
Salutes  ye  all :   This  night  he  dedicates 
To  fair  content,  and  you :  none  here,  he  hopes, 
In  all  this  noble  bevy  %  has  brought  with  her 
One  care  abroad ;  he  would  have  all  as  merry 


7  With  authority. 


Company. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


573 


As  first-good  company,  good  wine,  good  welcome 

Can  make  good  people. O,  my  lord,  you  are 

tardy  ; 

Enter  Lord  Chamberlain,  Lo»D  Sands,  a7id  Sir 

Thomas  Lovell. 
The  very  thought  of  this  fair  company 
Clapp'd  wings  to  me. 

Cham.  You  are  young,  sir  Harry  Guildford. 

Sweet  ladies,  will  it  please  you  sit  ?  Sir  Harry, 
Place  you  that  side,  I'll  take  the  charge  of  this : 
His  grace  is  ent'ring.  —  Nay,  you  must  not  freeze; 
Two  women  plac'd  together  makes  cold  weather :  — 
My  lord  Sands,  you  are  one  will  keep  them  waking  ; 
Pray,  sit  between  these  ladies. 

Sa7ids.  By  my  faith, 

And  thank  your  lordship.  —  By  your  leave,  sweet 
ladies ; 

[Seats  himself  between  Annk  Bullen  and 
another  Lady. 
If  I  chance  to  talk  a  little  wild,  forgive  me  ; 
1  had  it  from  my  father. 

^7ine.  Was  he  mad,  sir  ? 

Sands.   O,  very  mad,  exceeding  mad,  in  love  too : 
But  he  would  bite  none  ;  just  as  I  do  now. 
He  would  kiss  you  twenty  with  a  breath. 

{A''isses  her. 

Cham.  Well  said,  my  lord.  — 

So,  now  you  are  fairly  seated  :  —  Gentlemen, 
The  penance  lies  on  you,  if  these  fair  ladies 
Pass  away  frowning. 

Sands.  For  my  little  cure, 

Let  me  alone. 

Hautboys.    Enter  Cardinal  Wolsey,  attended;  and 
takes  his  State. 

WoL   You  are  welcome,   my  fair  guests ;  that 
noble  lady. 
Or  gentleman,  that  is  not  freely  merry. 
Is  not  my  friend  :   This,  to  confirm  my  welcome ; 
And  to  you  all  good  health.  [Drinks. 

Sands.  Your  grace  is  noble ;  — 

Let  me  have  such  a  bowl  may  hold  my  thanks, 
And  save  me  so  much  talking. 

ff^ol.  My  lord  Sands, 

I  am  beholden  to  you  :   cheer  your  neighbours.  — 
Ladies,  you  are  not  merry  j  —  Gentlemen, 
Whose  fault  is  this? 

Sands.  The  red  wine  first  must  rise 

In  their  fair  cheeks,  my  lord ;  then  we  shall  have 

them 
Talk  us  to  silence. 

Anne.  You  are  a  merry  gamester, 

My  lord  Sands. 

Sands.  Yes,  if  I  make  my  play.  9 

Here's  to  your  ladyship  ;  and  pledge  it,  madam. 

[Drum  and  Trumpets  within :   C/tambers  ' 
disdiarged. 

WoL  Wliat'sthat? 

Chanu  Look  out  there,  some  of  you. 

[Exit  a  Servant. 

ff^ol.  What  warlike  voice? 

And  to  what  end  is  this  ?  —  Nay,  ladies,  fear  not ; 
By  all  the  laws  of  war  you  are  privileg'd. 

Re-enter  Servant, 
Cham.   How  now  ?  what  is't  ? 
Serv.  A  noble  troop  of  strangers ; 

For  so  they  seem :   they  have  left  their  barge,  and 
landed  ; 
*  Choose  my  game.  '  Small  cannon. 


And  hither  make,  as  great  ambassadors 
From  foreign  princes. 

f^ol.  Good  lord  chamberlain, 

Go,  give  them  welcome,  you  can  speak  the  French 

tongue ; 
And,  pray,  receive  them  nobly,  and  conduct  them. 
Into  our  presence,  where  this  heaven  of  beauty 
Shall  shine  at  full  upon  them :  —  Some  attend  him.  — 
[Exit  Chamberlain,  attended.     All  arise, 
and  Tables  removed* 
You  have  now  a  broken  banquet :  but  we'll  mend  it. 
A  good  digestion  to  you  all :   and,  once  more, 
I  shower  a  welcome  on  you ;  —  Welcome  all. 

Hautboys.  Enter  the  King,  and  twelve  others,  as 
Maskers,  habited  like  Shepherds,  with  sixteen  Torch- 
bearers  ;  ushered  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  They 
pass  directly  before  the  Cardinal,  and  gracefully 
salute  him. 

A  noble  company  !  what  are  their  pleasures  ? 
Cham.  Because  they  speak  no  English,  thus  they 
pray'd 
To  tell  your  grace :  —  That,  having  heard  by  fame 
Of  this  so  noble  and  so  fair  assembly 
This  night  to  meet  here,  they  could  do  no  less, 
Out  of  the  great  respect  they  bear  to  beauty. 
But  leave  their  flocks  ;  and,  under  your  fair  conduct 
Crave  leave  to  view  these  ladies,  and  entreat 
An  hour  of  revels  with  them. 

ff^ol.  Say,  lord  chamberlain, 

They  have  done  my  poor  house  grace ;  for  which  I 

pay  them 
A  thousand  thanks,  and  pray  them  take  their  pi  easu  res. 
[Ladies  chosen  for  the  Dance.      The  King 
chooses  Anne  Bullen. 
JT.  Hen.   The  fairest  hand  I  ever  touched !    O, 
beauty. 
Till  now  I  never  knew  thee.  [Musick.     Dance. 

Wol.   My  lord, 

Cham.  Your  grace  ? 

Wol.  Pray  tell  them  thus  much  from  me  : 

There  should  be  one  amongst  them,  by  his  person. 
More  worthy  this  place  than  myself;  to  whom, 
If  I  but  knew  him,  with  my  love  and  duty 
I  would  surrender  it. 

Cham.  I  will,  my  lord. 

[Cham,  goes  to  the  Company,  and  returns. 
Wol.   What  say  they  ? 

Cham.  Such  a  one,  they  all  confess. 

There  is,  indeed;  which  they  would  have  your  grace. 
Find  out,  and  he  will  take  it. 

Wol.   Let  me  see,  then.  —  [Comes from  his  State. 
By  all  your  good  leaves,  gentlemen ;  —  Here  I  '11  make 
My  royal  choice. 
K.  Hen.  You  have  found  him,  cardinal : 

[  Unmasking. 
You  hold  a  fair  assembly  ;  you  do  well,  lord  : 
You  are  a  churchman,  or,  I'll  tell  you,  cardinal, 
I  should  judge  now  unhappily.  * 

Wol.  I  am  glad, 

Your  grace  is  grown  so  pleasant. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  chamberlain, 

Pr'ythee,  come  hither :    What  fair  lady's  that  ? 
Cham.    An't  plea.se  your  grace,  sir  Thomas  Bul- 
len's  daughter, 
The  viscount  Rochford,  one  of  her  highness'  women. 
K.  Hen.    By  heaven,   she  is   a    dainty    one.  — 
Swi-ctheart, 
1  were  unmannerly  to  take  you  out, 
*  MUchievoiuiy. 


574. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


And  not  to  kiss  you.  —  A  health,  gentlemen, 
Let  it  go  round, 

Wol.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  is  the  banquet  ready 
I*  the  privy  chamber  ? 

Lov.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Wol.  Your  grace, 

I  fear  with  dancing  is  a  little  heated. 

A".  Hen.   I  fear  too  much. 

JFol.  There's  fresher  wr,  my  lord, 

In  the  next  chamber. 


Act  II. 

Sweet 


JT.  Hen.  Lead  in  your  ladies,  everyone, 
partner, 
I  must  not  yet  forsake  you :   Let's  be  merry :  — 
Good  my  lord  cardinal,  I  have  half  a  dozen  health: 
To  drink  to  these  fair  ladies,  and  a  measure  3 
To  lead  them  once  again ;  and  then  let's  dream 
Who's  best  in  favour.  —  Let  the  musick  knock  it. 
{Exeunt,  with  Trumpets. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.  — A  Street. 
Enter  two  Gentlemen,  meeting. 

1  Gent.   Whither  away  so  fast  ? 

2  Gent.  O,  —  save  you,  sir. 
Even  to  the  hall,  to  hear  what  shall  become 

Of  the  great  duke  of  Buckingham. 

1  Gent.  I'll  save  you 
That  labour,  sir.   All's  now  done,  but  the  ceremony 
Of  bringing  back  the  prisoner. 

2  Gent.  Were  you  there  ? 

1  Gent.   Yes,  indeed,  was  I. 

2  Gent.  Pray  speak,  what  has  happen'd  ? 

1  Gent.   You  may  guess  quickly  what. 

2  Gent.  Is  he  found  guilty? 

1  Gent.  Yes,  truly  is  he,  and  condemn'd  upon  it. 

2  Gent.   I  am  sorry  for't. 

1  Gent.  So  are  a  number  more. 

2  Gent.   But,  pray,  how  pass'd  it  ? 

1  Gent.   I'll  tell  you  in  a  little.     The  great  duke 
Came  to  the  bar  ;  where,  to  his  accusations. 

He  pleaded  still  not  guihy,  and  alleg'd 

Many  sharp  reasons  to  defeat  the  law. 

The  king's  attorney,  on  the  contrary, 

Urg'd  on  the  examinations,  proofs,  confessions 

Of  divers  witnesses  ;  which  the  duke  desir'd 

To  him  brought,  viva  voce,  to  his  face  : 

At  which  appear'd  against  him,  his  surveyor ; 

Sir  Gilbert  Peck,  his  chancellor  ;  and  John  Court, 

Confessor  to  him  ;  with  that  devil-monk, 

Hopkins,  that  made  this  mischief. 

2  Gent.  That  was  he 
That  fed  him  with  his  prophecies  ? 

1  Gent.  The  same. 
All  these  accus'd  him  strongly  ;  which  he  fain 
Would  have  flung  from  him,  but,  indeed,  he  could 

not: 
And  so  his  peers,  upon  this  evidence 
Have  found  him  guilty  of  high  treason.      Much 
He  spoke,  and  learnedly,  for  life  :   but  all 
Was  either  pitied  in  him,  or  forgotten. 

2  Gent.   After  all  this,  how  did  he  bear  himself? 

1  Gent.  When  he  was  brought  again  to  the  bar,  — 

to  hear 
His  knell  rung  out,  his  judgment,  —  he  was  stirr'd 
With  such  an  agony,  he  sweat  extremely. 
And  something  spoke  in  choler,  ill  and  hasty : 
But  he  fell  to  himself  again,  and  sweetly, 
In  all  the  rest  show'd  a  most  noble  patience. 

2  Gent.    I  do  not  think  he  fears  death. 

1  Gent.  Sure,  he  does  not. 
He  never  was  so  womanish  ;  the  cause 

He  may  a  little  grieve  at. 

2  Gent.  Certainly, 
The  cardinal  is  the  end  of  this. 


1  Gent.  'Tis  likely, 
By  all  conjectures  :   First,  Kildare's  attainder, 
Then  deputy  of  Ireland  ;  who  remov'd. 
Earl  Surrey  was  sent  thither,  and  in  haste  too, 
Lest  he  should  help  his  father. 

2  Gent.  That  trick  of  state 
Was  a  deep  envious  one. 

1  Gent.  At  his  return. 
No  doubt,  he  will  requite  it.      This  is  noted. 
And  generally ;  whoever  the  king  favours. 
The  cardinal  instantly  will  find  employment. 
And  far  enough  from  court  too. 

2  Gent.  AH  the  commons 
Hate  him  perniciously,  and,  o'  my  conscience. 
Wish  him  ten  fathom  deep  :   this  duke  as  much 
They  love,  and  dote  on  ;  call  him,  bounteous  Buck- 
ingham, 

The  mirror  of  all  courtesy  ;  — 

1  Gent.  Stay  there,  sir, 
And  see  the  noble  ruin'd  man  you  speak  of 

Enter  Buckingham  from  his  Arraignment ;  Tip- 
staves before  him,  the  Axe  with  the  Edge  towards 
him;  Halberds  on  each  Side :  with  him  Sir  Thomas 
Lovell,  Sir  Nicholas  Vaux,  Sir  William 
Sands,  a7id  common  People. 

2  C^nt.   Let's  stand  close,  and  behold  him. 
Buck.  AH  good  people, 

You  that  thus  far  have  come  to  pity  me. 
Hear  what  I  say,  and  then  go  home  and  lose  me. 
I  have  this  day  receiv'd  a  traitor's  judgment, 
And  by  that  name  must  die ;  yet,  heaven  bear  witness. 
And,  if  I  have  a  conscience,  let  it  sink  me. 
Even  as  the  axe  falls,  if  I  be  not  faithful ! 
The  law  I  bear  no  malice  for  my  death. 
It  has  done,  upon  the  premises,  but  justice  : 
But  those  that  sought  it,  I  could  wish  more  Chris- 
tians : 
Be  what  they  will,  I  heartily  forgive  them  : 
Yet  let  them  look  they  glory  not  in  mischief. 
Nor  build  their  evils  on  the  graves  of  great  men  ; 
For  then  my  guiltless  blood  must  cry  against  them. 
For  further  life  in  this  world  I  ne'er  hope. 
Nor  will  I  sue,  although  the  king  have  mercies 
More  than  I  dare  make  faults.      You  few  that  lov'd 

me, 
And  dare  be  bold  to  weep  for  Buckingham, 
His  noble  friends,  and  fellows,  whom  to  leave 
Is  only  bitter  to  him,  only  dying, 
Go,  with  me,  like  good  angels,  to  my  end  ; 
And,  as  the  long  divorce  of  steel  falls  on  me. 
Make  of  your  prayers  one  sweet  sacrifice, 
And  lift  my  soul  to  heaven.  —  Lead  on,  o'  God's 
name. 

3  Dance. 


Scene  I 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


575 


Lov.  I  do  beseech  your  grace,  for  charity, 
If  ever  any  malice  in  your  heart 
Were  hid  against  me,  now  to  forgive  me  frankly. 

Buck.   Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  I  as  free  forgive  you, 
As  I  would  be  forgiven  :   I  forgive  all ; 
There  cannot  be  those  numberless  offences 
'Gainst  me,  I  can't  take  peace  with :  no  black  envy 
Shall  make  my  grave.  — Commend  me  to  his  grace  j 
And,  if  he  speak  of  Buckingham,  pray,  tell  him. 
You  met  him  half  in  heaven  :  my  vows  and  prayers 
Yet  are  the  king's ;  and,  till  my  soul  forsake  me, 
Shall  cry  for  blessings  on  him  :   May  he  live 
Longer  than  I  have  time  to  tell  his  years ! 
Ever  belov'd,  and  loving,  may  his  rule  be ! 
And,  when  old  time  shadl  lead  him  to  his  end. 
Goodness  and  he  fill  up  one  monument ! 

Lov.  To  the  water  side  I  must  conduct  your  grace ; 
Then  give  my  charge  up  to  sir  Nicholas  Vaux, 
Who  undertaJ^es  you  to  your  end. 

Vaux.  Prepare  there. 

The  duke  is  coming  :  see,  the  barge  be  ready; 
A  nd  fit  it  with  such  furniture,  as  suits 
The  greatness  of  his  person. 

Buck.  Nay,  sir  Nicholas, 

Let  it  alone ;  my  state  now  will  but  mock  me. 
When  I  came  hither,  I  was  lord  high  constable. 
And  duke  of  Buckingham  ;    now,  poor  Edward 

Bohun  : 
Yet  I  am  richer  than  my  base  accusers, 
That  never  knew  what  truth  meant :   I  now  seal  it ; 
And  with  that  blood  will  make  them  one  day  groan 

for't. 
My  noble  father,  Henry  of  Buckingham, 
Who  first  rais'd  head  against  usurping  Richard, 
Flying  for  succour  to  his  servant  Banister, 
Being  distress'd,  was  by  that  wretch  betray 'd, 
And  without  trial  fell ;   God's  peace  be  with  him  ! 
Henry  the  Seventh  succeeding,  truly  pitying 
My  father's  loss,  like  a  most  royal  prince, 
Restor'd  me  to  my  honours,  and,  out  of  ruins. 
Made  my  name  once  more  noble.      Now  his  son, 
Henry  the  Eighth,  life,  honour,  name,  and  all 
Tliat  made  me  happy,  at  one  stroke  has  taken 
For  ever  from  the  world.      I  had  my  trial. 
And,  must  needs  say,  a  noble  one  ;  which  makes  me 
A  little  happier  than  my  wretched  father  : 
Yet  thus  far  we  are  one  in  fortunes :  —  Both 
Fell  by  our  servants,  by  those  men  we  lov'd  most ; 
A  most  unnatural  and  faithless  service ! 
Heaven  has  an  end  in  all :    Yet,  you  that  hear  me. 
This  from  a  dying  man  receive  as  certain  : 
Where  you  are  liberal  of  your  loves,  and  counsels, 
Be  sure,  you  be  not  loose ;  for  those  you  make  friends. 
And  give  your  hearts  to,  when  they  once  perceive 
The  least  rub  in  your  fortunes,  fall  away 
Like  water  from  ye,  never  found  again 
But  where  they  mean  to  sink  ye.      All  good  people, 
Pray  for  me  !  I  must  now  forsake  ye ;  the  last  hour 
Of  my  long  weary  life  is  come  upon  me. 
Farewell : 

And  when  you  would  say  something  that  is  sad, 
Si)cak  how  I  fell.  —  I  have  done ;  and  God  forgive 
me  !        [Exncnl  Buckingham  avd  Traiiu 

1  Gent.   O,  this  is  full  of  pity  !  —  Sir,  it  calls, 
I  fear,  too  many  curses  on  their  heads. 

That  were  the  authors. 

2  Geiit.  If  the  duke  be  guiltless, 
'Tis  full  of  woe :   yet  I  can  give  you  inkling 

Of  an  ensuing  evil,  if  it  fall. 
Greater  than  this. 


1  Gent.  Good  angels  keep  it  from  us ! 
Where  may  it  be  ?  you  do  not  doubt  my  faith,  sir  ? 

2  Gent.   This  secret  is  so  weighty,  'twill  require 
A  strong  faith  to  conceal  it. 

1  Gent.  Let  me  have  it ; 
I  do  not  talk  much. 

2  Gent.  I  am  confident ; 

You  shall,  sir :    Did  you  not  of  late  days  hear 
A  buzzing,  of  a  separation 
Between  the  king  and  Katharine  ? 

1  Gent.  Yes,  but  it  held  not ; 
For  when  the  king  once  heard  it,  out  of  anger 

He  sent  command  to  the  lord  mayor  stra^ht 
To  stop  the  rumour,  and  allay  those  tongues 
Tliat  durst  disperse  it. 

2  Gent.  But  that  slander,  sir. 
Is  found  a  truth  now :  for  it  grows  again 
Fresher  than  e'er  it  was ;  and  held  for  certain. 
The  king  will  venture  at  it.     Either  the  cardinal. 
Or  some  about  him  near,  have,  out  of  malice 

To  the  good  queen,  possess'd  him  with  a  scruple 
That  will  undo  her  :    To  confirm  this  too. 
Cardinal  Campeius  is  arriv'd,  and  lately ; 
As  all  think,  for  this  business. 

1  Gent.  'Tis  the  cardinal ; 
And  merely  to  revenge  him  on  the  emperor. 

For  not  bestowing  on  him,  at  his  asking, 

The  archbishoprick  of  Toledo,  this  is  purpos'd. 

2  Gent.   I  think,  you  have  hit  the  mark :  but  is't 

not  cruel. 
That  she  should  feel  the  smart  of  this  ?  The  cardinal 
Will  have  his  will,  and  she  must  fall. 

1  Gent.  'Tis  wofiil. 

We  are  too  open  here  to  argue  this ; 
Let's  think  in  private  more.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  An  Ante-chamber  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  reading  a  Letter. 
Cham.  My  lord,  —  The  horses  your  lordship  sent 
for,  with  all  the  care  I  had,  I  saw  well  chosen,  ridden, 
and  furnished.  They  were  young,  and  handsome; 
and  of  the  best  breed  in  the  north.  When  ttiey  were 
ready  to  set  out  for  London,  a  man  of  my  lord  cordi- 
riafs,  by  commission,  and  main  pou<er,  took  'em  from 
me;  with  this  reason,  —  His  mtister  would  be  served 
before  a  sul)ject,  if  not  before  tlie  king;  which  sto]>j)ed 
our  mouths,  sir. 

I  fear,  he  will,  indeed ;  Well,  let  him  have  them : 
He  will  have  all,  I  think. 

Enter  the  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk. 

Nor.  Well  met,  my  good 

Lord  chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good  day  to  both  your  graces. 

Suf.   How  is  the  king  employ'd  ? 

Cham.  I  left  him  private, 

Full  of  sad  thoughts  and  troubles. 

Nor.  What's  the  cause  ? 

Cham.   It  seems,  the  marriage  with  his  brother's 
wife 
Has  crept  too  near  his  conscience. 

Suf  No,  his  conscience 

Has  crept  too  near  another  lady. 

Nor.  'Tis  so ; 

This  is  the  cardinal's  doing,  the  king-cardinal  : 
That  blind  priest,  like  the  eldest  son  of  fortune, 
Tumswhat  ne  lists.  The  king  will  know  him  oneday. 

Suf.   Pray  neavtn,  he  du !  he'll  never  know  him- 
self else. 


576 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  II, 


Ns/r.   How  holily  he  works  in  all  his  business  ! 
And  with  what  zeal !   For  now  he  has  crack'd  the 

league 
Between  us  and  the   emperor,   the  queen's  great 

nephew. 
He  dives  into  the  king's  soul ;  and  there  scatters 
Dangers,  doubts,  wringing  of  the  conscience. 
Fears,  and  despairs,  and  all  these  for  his  marriage : 
And,  out  of  all  these  to  restore  the  king, 
He  counsels  a  divorce :   a  loss  of  her, 
That,  like  a  jewel,  has  hung  twenty  years 
About  his  neck,  yet  never  lost  her  lustre ; 
Of  her,  that  loves  him  with  that  excellence 
That  angels  love  good  men  with  ;  even  of  her 
That,  when  the  greatest  stroke  of  fortune  falls. 
Will  bless  the  king :    And  is  not  this  course  pious  ? 

Cham.  Heaven  keep  me  from  such  counsel !  'Tis 
most  true. 
These  news  are  every  where ;  every  tongue  speaks 

them. 
And  every  true  heart  weeps  for't :    All,  that  dare 
Look  into  these  affairs,  see  this  main  end,  — 
The  French  king's  sister.    Heaven  will  one  day  open 
The  king's  eyes,  that  so  long  have  slept  upon 
This  bold  bad  man. 

Svf.  And  free  us  from  his  slavery. 

Nor.   We  had  need  pray, 
And  heartily,  for  our  deliverance  ; 
Or  this  imperious  man  will  work  us  all 
From  princes  into  pages  :   all  men's  honours 
Lie  in  one  lump  before  him,  to  be  fashion'd 
Into  what  pitch  he  please. 

Svf.  For  me,  my  lords, 

I  love  him  not,  nor  fear  him  ;  there's  my  creed  : 
As  I  am  made  without  him,  so  I'll  stand, 
If  the  king  please  ;  his  curses  and  his  blessings 
Touch  me  alike,  they  are  breath  I  not  believe  in. 
I  knew  him,  and  I  know  him  ;  so  I  leave  him 
To  him,  that  made  him  proud,  the  pope. 

Nor.  Let's  in ; 

And,  with  some  other  business,  put  the  king 
From  these  sad  thoughts,  that  work  too  much  upon 

him  :  — 
My  lord,  you'll  bear  us  company  ? 

Cham.  Excuse  me ; 

The  king  hath  sent  me  other-where :  besides. 
You'll  find  a  most  unfit  time  to  disturb  him  : 
Health  to  your  lordships. 

Nor.  Thanks,  my  good  lord  chamberlain. 

{^Exit  Lord  Chamberlain. 
Norfolk  opens  a  Folding-door.      The  King  is  dis- 
covered sitting  and  reading  pensively. 

Suf.  How  sad  he  looks  !  sure,  he  is  much  afflicted. 

K.  Hen.   Who  is  there  ?  ha  ? 

Nor.  'Pray  heaven  he  be  not  angry. 

K.  Hen.  Who's  there,  I  say  ?  How  dare  you  thrust 
yourselves 
Into  my  private  meditations  ? 
Who  am  I  ?  ha  ? 

Nor,    A  gracious  king,  that  pardons  all  offences 
Malice  ne'er  meant :   our  breach  of  duty,  this  way. 
Is  business  of  estate  ;  in  which,  we  come 
To  know  your  royal  pleasure. 

K.  Hen.  You  are  too  bold  ; 

Go  to  ;   I'll  make  ye  know  your  times  of  business : 
Is  this  an  hour  for  temporal  affairs  ?  ha  ?  — 

Enter  Wolsey  and  Campeius. 
Who's  there  ?    my  good    lord    cardinal  ?  —  O  my 
Wolsey, 


t 


Aside. 


The  quiet  of  my  wounded  conscience. 
Thou  art  a  cure  fit  for  a  king.  —  You're  welcome, 

[I'o  Campeius. 
Most  learned  reverend  sir,  into  our  kingdom  ; 
Use  us,  and  it :  —  My  good  lord,  have  great  car 
I  be  not  found  a  talker.  [  To  Wolsey. 

U^ol.  Sir,  you  cannot. 

I  would  your  grace  would  give  us  but  an  hour 
Of  private  conference. 

JT.  Hen.  We  are  busy  ;  go. 

[To  Norfolk  and  Suffolk. 

Nor.   This  priest  has  no  pride  in  him  ?  "^ 

Suf.  Not  to  speak  of; 

I  would  not  be  so  sick  though"*,  for  his 

place : 
But  this  cannot  continue. 

Nor.  If  it  do, 

I'll  venture  one  heave  at  him. 

Siif.  I  another.  _ 

[Exeunt  Norfolk  and  Suffolk. 

IFol.  Your  grace  has  given  a  precedent  of  wisdom 
Above  all  princes,  in  committing  freely 
Your  scruple  to  the  voice  of  Christendom : 
Who  can  be  angry  now  ?  what  envy  reach  you  ? 
The  Spaniard,  tied  by  blood  and  favour  to  her, 
Must  now  confess,  if  they  have  any  goodness. 
The  trial  just  and  noble.      All  the  clerks, 
I  mean,  the  learned  ones,  in  Christian  kingdoms. 
Have  their  free  voices ;  Rome,  the  nurse  of  judgment, 
Invited  by  your  noble  self,  hath  sefit 
One  general  tongue  unto  us,  this  good  man. 
This  just  and  learned  priest,  cardinal  Campeius ; 
Whom,  once  more,  I  present  unto  your  highness. 

JT.  Hen.  And,  once  more,  in  mine  arms,  I  bid  him 
welcome. 
And  thank  the  holy  conclave  for  their  loves ; 
They  have  sent  me  such  a  man  I  would  have  wish'd 
for. 

Cam.  Your  grace  must  needs  deserve  all  strangers' 
loves, 
You  are  so  noble :   To  your  highness'  hand 
I  tender  my  commission ;  by  whose  virtue, 
(The  court  of  Rome  commanding,)  —  you,  my  lord 
Cardinal  of  York,  are  join'd  with  me  their  servant, 
In  the  impartial  judging  of  this  business. 

IT.  Hen.   Two  equal  men.      The  queen  shall  be 
acquainted 
Forthwith,  for  what  you  come :  —  Where's  Gardiner? 

IFol.   I  know  your  majesty  has  always  lov'd  her 
So  dear  in  heart  not  to  deny  her  that 
A  woman  of  less  place  might  ask  by  law. 
Scholars,  allow'd  freely  to  argue  for  her, 

IT.  Hen.  Ay,  and  the  best  she  shall  have  ;  and  my 
favour 
To  him  that  does  best ;   God  forbid  else.   Cardinal, 
Pr'ythee,  call  Gardiner  to  me,  my  new  secretary ; 
I  find  him  a  fit  fellow.  [Exit  Wolsey. 

Re-enter  Wolsey,  with  Gardiner. 

Wol.    Give  me  your  hand :  much  joy  and  favour 
to  you ; 
You  are  the  king's  now. 

Gard.  But  to  be  commanded 

For  ever  by  your  grace,  whose  hand  has  rais'd  me. 

[Aside. 
K.  Hen.   Come  hither,  Gardiner. 

[  They  converse  apart. 
Cam.   My  lord  of  York,  was  not  one  doctor  Pace 
In  this  man's  place  before  him  ? 

4  So  sick  as  he  is  proud. 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


577 


IFol.  Yes,  he  was. 

Cam.   Was  he  not  held  a  learned  man  ? 

Wol.  Yes,  surely. 

Ca7n.  Believe  me,  there's  an  ill  opinion  spread  then 
Even  of  yourself,  lord  cardinal. 

trol.  How!  of  me! 

Cam.  They  will  not  stick  to  say  you  envied  him  ; 
And,  fearing  he  would  rise,  he  was  so  virtuous, 
Kept  him  a  foreign  man  ^  still  j  which  so  griev'd  him, 
That  he  ran  mad,  and  died. 

IVol.  Heaven's  peace  be  with  him  ! 

That's  Christian  care  enough :  for  living  munnurers, 
There's  places  of  rebuke.      He  was  a  fool ; 
For  he  would  needs  be  virtuous  :    TJiat  good  fellow, 
If  I  command  him,  follows  my  appointment ; 
I  will  have  none  so  near  else.      Learn  this,  brother, 
We  live  not  to  be  grip'd  by  meaner  persons. 

A'.  Hen.   Deliver  tliis  with  modesty  to  the  queen. 
{^Exit  Gardiner. 
The  most  convenient  place  that  I  can  think  of, 
For  such  receipt  of  learning,  is  Black- Friars ; 
There  ye  sliall  meet  about  this  weighty  business :  — 
My  Wolsey,  see  it  furnish 'd.  —  O  my  lord, 
Would  it  not  grieve  an  able  man,  to  leave 
So  sweet  a  bedfellow?  But,  conscience,  conscience,— 
O,  'tis  a  tender  place,  and  I  must  leave  her. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  III.    An  Ante-chamber  in  the  Queen '« 
Apartments. 

Enter  Anne  Bullen,  and  an  old  Lady. 

Anne.   Not  for  that  neither ;  —  Here's  the  pang 
that  pinches : 
His  highness  having  liv'd  so  long  with  her :  and  she 
So  good  a  lady,  that  no  tongue  could  ever 
Pronounce  dishonour  of  her,  —  by  my  life. 
She  never  knew  harm-doing  ;  —  O  now,  after 
So  many  courses  of  the  sun  enthron'd. 
Still  growing  in  a  majesty  and  pomp,  —  the  wliich 
To  leave  is  a  thousand-fold  more  bitter,  than 
'Tis  sweet  at  first  to  acquire,  —  after  this  process, 
To  give  her  the  avaunt !  it  is  a  pity 
Would  move  a  monster. 

Old  L.  Hearts  of  most  hard  temper 

Melt  and  lament  for  her. 

Anne.  O !  much  better, 

She  ne'er  had  known  pomp :  though  it  be  temporal. 
Yet,  if  that  quarrel  ^,  fortune,  do  divorce 
It  from  the  bearer,  'tis  a  sufferance,  panging 
As  soul  and  body  severing. 

Old  L.  Alas,  poor  lady  ! 

She's  a  stranger  now  again. 

■^iine.  So  much  the  more 

Must  pity  drop  upon  her.     Verily, 
I  swear,  'tis  better  to  be  lowly  bom, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief. 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

Old  L.  Our  content 

Is  our  best  having.  7 

•^nne.  By  my  troth,  I  vow 

I  would  not  be  a  queen. 

Old  L.  Beshrew  me,  but  I  would. 

And  so  would  you, 
For  all  this  spice  of  your  hypocrisy : 
You,  that  have  so  fair  parts  of  woman  on  you, 
Have  too  a  woman's  heart ;  which  ever  yet 
Affected  eminence,  wealth,  sovereignty ; 

»  Out  of  the  king's  pretence. 

•  Quarrcller.  7  Poswwion. 


Which,  to  say  sooth  8,  are  blessings  :  and  wliich  gift, 
( Saving  your  mincing)  the  capacity 
Of  your  soft  cheverils  conscience  would  receive, 
If  you  might  please  to  stretch  it. 

Anne.  Nay,  good  troth, — 

Old  L.   Yes,  troth,  and  trotli, —  You  would  not 
be  a  queen  ? 

Anne.   No,  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven. 

Old  L.   *Tis  strange,  a  three-pence  bow'd  '  would 
hire  me. 
Old  as  I  am,  to  queen  it :    But,  I  pray  you. 
What  think  you  of  a  duchess  ?  have  you  limbs 
To  bear  that  load  of  title  ? 

Anne.  No,  in  truth. 

Old  L.   Then  you  are  weakly  made  :    Pluck  off* 
a  little  ; 
I  would  not  be  a  young  count  in  your  way. 

Anne.   How  you  do  talk  ! 
I  swear  again,  I  would  not  be  a  queen 
For  all  the  world. 

Old  L.  In  faith,  for  little  England 

You'd  venture  an  emballing :    I  myself 
Would  for  Carnarvonshire,  although  there  'long'd 
No  more  to  the  crown  but  that.     Lo,  who  comes 
here? 

Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.    Good  morrow,  ladies.    What  wer't  worth 
to  know 
The  secret  of  your  conference  ? 

Anne.  My  good  lord. 

Not  your  demand  ;  it  values  not  your  asking  : 
Our  mistress'  sorrows  we  were  pitying. 

Cham.   It  was  a  gentle  business,  and  becoming 
The  action  of  good  women :  there  is  hope. 
All  will  be  well. 

Anne.  Now  I  pray  heaven,  amen  ! 

Cham.   You  bear  a  gentle  mind,  and  heavenly 
blessings 
Follow  such  creatures.     Tliat  you  may,  fair  lady, 
Perceive  I  speak  sincerely,  and  high  note's 
Ta'en  of  your  many  virtues,  the  king's  majesty 
Commends  liis  good  opinion  to  you,  and 
Does  purpose  honour  to  you  no  less  flowing 
Than  marchioness  of  Pembroke  ;  to  which  title 
A  thousand  pound  a  year,  annual  support. 
Out  of  his  grace  he  adds. 

Anne.  I  do  not  know. 

What  kind  of  my  obedience  I  should  tender ; 
More  than  my  all  is  nothing :  nor  my  prayers 
Are  not  words  duly  hallow'd,  nor  my  wishes 
More  worth  than  empty  vanities ;  yet  prayers,  and 

wishes, 
Are  all  I  can  return.     'Beseech  your  lordship, 
Vouchsafe  to  speak  my  thanks,  and  my  obedience, 
As  from  a  blushing  handmaid,  to  his  highness ; 
Whose  health,  and  royalty,  I  pray  for. 

Cham,  Lady, 

I  shall  not  fail  to  approve  the  fair  conceit  * 
The  king  hath  of  you.  —  I  have  perus'd  her  well ; 

[Aside. 
Beauty  and  honour  in  her  are  so  mingled, 
'fhat  they  have  caught  the  king :  and  who  knows  yet. 
But  from  this  lady  may  proceed  a  gem. 
To  lighten  all  this  isle?  —  I'll  to  the  king, 
And  say,  I  spoke  with  you. 

Anne.  My  honour'd  lord. 

[Exit  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Old  L.  Why,  this  it  is  ;  see,  see  ! 

*  Truth.  >  Kid-skin.         >  Crook'd.        >  Opinion. 

Pp 


578 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  II. 


I  have  been  begging  sixteen  years  in  court, 

(Am  yet  a  courtier  beggarly,)  nor  could 

Come  pat  betwixt  too  early  and  too  late, 

For  any  suit  of  pounds  :   and  you,  (O  fate  !) 

A  very  fresh-fish  here,  (fye,  fye  upon 

This  compell'd  fortune!)  have  your  mouth  fill'd  up, 

Before  you  open  it. 

Anne.  This  is  strange  to  me. 

Old  L.  How  tastes  it  ?  is  it  bitter  ?  forty  pence,  no. 
There  was  a  lady  once,  ('tis  an  old  story,) 
That  would  not  be  a  queen,  that  would  she  not, 
For  all  the  mud  in  Egypt :  —  Have  you  heard  it  ? 

Anne.   Come,  you  are  pleasant. 

Old  L.  With  your  theme,  I  could 

O'ermount  the  lark.    The  marchioness  of  Pembroke ! 
A  thousand  pounds  a  year !   for  pure  respect  j 
No  other  obligation :    By  my  life, 
Tliat  promises  more  thousands :    Honour's  train 
Is  longer  than  his  foreskirt.      By  this  time, 
I  know,  your  back  will  bear  a  duchess ;  —  Say, 
Are  you  not  stronger  than  you  were  ? 

Anne.  Good  lady. 

Make  yourself  mirth  with  your  particular  fancy, 
And  leave  me  out  on't.     'Would  I  had  no  being, 
If  this  salute  my  blood  a  jot ;  it  faints  me, 
To  think  what  follows. 
The  queen  is  comfortless,  and  we  forgetful 
In  our  long  absence:    Pray,  do  not  deliver 
What  here  you  have  heard,  to  her. 

Old  L.  What  do  you  think  me  ? 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — ^  Hall  in  Black- Friars. 

Trumpets,  Sennets  ^,  and  Cornets.  Enter  two  Vergers, 
wUh  short  silver  Wands ;  next  them,  two  Scribes  in 
the  habits  of  Doctors ;  after  them  the  Archbishop 
OF  Canterbury,  alone  ;  after  him,  the  Bishops  of 
Lincoln,  Ely,  Rochester,  and  Saint  Asaph  ; 
next  them,  loithsome  small  distance,  follows  a  Gen- 
tleman bearing  the  Purse,  with  the  great  Seal,  and 
a  Cardinal's  Hat ;  then  two  Priests,  bearing  each  a 
silver  Cross  ;  then  a  Gentleman- Usher  iare-Aearferf, 
accompanied  with  a  Sergeant  at  Arms  bearing  a 
silver  Mace ;  then  two  Gentlemen,  bearing  two  great 
silver  Pillars'*;  after  them,  side  by  side,  the  two 
Cardinals,  Wolsey  and  Campeius  ;  two  Noblemen 
with  the  Sword  and  Mace.  Then  enter  the  King 
and  Queen,  anrf  their  Trains.  The  King  takes 
place  under  the  Cloth  of  State ;  the  two  Cardinals 
sit  under  him  as  Judges.  The  Queen  takes  place  at 
some  distance  from  the  King.  The  Bishops  ;j/rtce 
themselves  on  each  side  the  Court,  in  manner  of  a 
Consistory;  between  them,  the  Scribes.  The  Loids 
sU  next  the  Bishops.  The  Ci-ier  and  the  rest  of 
the  Attendants  stand  in  convenient  order  about  the 
Stage. 

Wol.   Whilst  our  commission  from  Rome  is  read 
Let  silence  be  commanded. 

A".  Hen.  What's  the  need  ? 

It  hath  already  publickly  been  read. 
And  on  all  sides  the  authority  allow'd ; 
You  may  then  spare  that  time. 

Wol.  Be't  so  :  —  Proceed. 

Scribe.    Say,  Henry  king  of  England,  come  into 
the  court. 

Crier.   Henry  king  of  England,  &c. 

A'.  Hen.   Here. 

3  Flourish  on  cornets. 

*  Ensigns  of  dignity  carried  before  cardinals. 


Scribe.   Say,  Katharine  queen  of  England,  come 

into  court. 
Crie7:   Katharine  queen  of  England,  &c. 

[The  Queen  makes  no  answer,  rises  out  of  her  Chair, 
goes  about  the  Court,  comes  to  the  King,  and  kneeU 
at  his  feet;  then  speaks. 

Q.  Kath.  Sir,  I  desire  you  do  me  right  and  justice ; 
And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me  ;  for 
I  am  a  most  poor  woman,  and  a  stranger. 
Born  out  of  your  dominions ;  having  here 
No  judge  indifferent,  nor  no  more  assurance 
Of  equal  friendship  and  proceeding.     Alas,  sir, 
In  what  have  I  ofiended  you?  what  cause 
Hath  my  behaviour  given  to  your  displeasure, 
That  thus  you  should  proceed  to  put  me  off, 
A  nd  take  your  good  gracefrom  me  ?  Heaven  witness, 
I  have  been  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife, 
At  all  times  to  ycur  will  conformable : 
Ever  in  fear  to  kindle  your  dislike. 
Yea,  subject  to  your  countenance ;  glad,  or  sorry, 
As  I  saw  it  inclin'd.    When  was  the  hour, 
I  ever  contradicted  your  desire. 
Or  made  it  not  mine  too  ?  Or  which  of  your  friends 
Have  I  not  strove  to  love,  although  I  knew 
He  were  mine  enemy  ?  what  friend  of  mine 
That  had  to  him  deriv'd  your  anger,  did  I 
Continue  in  my  liking  ?  nay,  gave  notice 
He  was  from  thence  discharg'd?    Sir,  call  to  mind 
That  I  have  been  your  vrife,  in  this  obedience, 
Upward  of  twenty  years,  and  have  been  blest 
With  many  children  by  you :    If,  in  the  course 
And  process  of  this  time,  you  can  report, 
And  prove  it  too,  against  mine  honour  aught, 
My  bond  to  wedlock,  or  my  love  and  duty. 
Against  your  sacred  person,  in  God's  name. 
Turn  me  away ;  and  let  the  foul'st  contempt 
Shut  door  upon  me,  and  so  give  me  up 
To  the  sharpest  kind  of  justice.     Please  you,  sir. 
The  king,  your  father,  was  reputed  for 
A  prince  most  prudent,  of  an  excellent 
And  unmatch'd  wit  and  judgment :   Ferdinand, 
My  father,  king  of  Spain,  was  reckon'd  one 
The  wisest  prince,  that  there  had  reign'd  by  many 
A  year  before  :    It  is  not  to  be  question'd 
That  they  had  gather'd  a  wise  council  to  them 
Of  every  realm,  that  did  debate  this  business, 
Who  deem'd  our   marriage   lawful:    Wherefore  . 

humbly 
Beseech  you,  sir,  to  spare  me,  till  I  may 
Be  by  my  friends  in  Spain  advis'd ;  whose  counsel 
I  will  implore  :   If  not,  i'  the  name  of  Heaven, 
Your  pleasure  be  fulfill'd  ! 

Wol.  You  have  here,  lady, 

(And  of  your  choice,)  these  reverend  fathers;  men 
Of  singular  integrity  and  learning, 
Yea,  the  elect  of  the  land,  who  are  assembled 
To  plead  your  cause  :   It  shall  be  therefore  bootless^, 
That  longer  you  desire  the  court ;  as  well 
For  your  own  quiet,  as  to  rectify 
What  is  unsettled  in  the  king. 

Cam.  His  grace 

Hath  spoken  well  and  justly  :    Therefore,  madam. 
It's  fit  this  royal  session  do  proceed  j 
And  that,  without  delay,  their  arguments 
Be  now  produc'd  and  heard. 

Q.  Kath.  Lord  cardinal,  — 

To  you  I  speak. 

Wol.  Your  pleasure,  madam? 

5  Useless. 


4 


I 


M 


Scene  IV. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


579 


Sir, 


Q.  Kath. 

I  am  about  to  weep  ;  but,  thinking  that 
We  are  a  queen,  (or  long  have  dream'd  so,)  certain 
The  daugliter  of  a  king,  my  drops  of  tears 
I'll  turn  to  sparks  of  fire. 

Wol.  Be  patient  yet. 

Q.  Kath.  I  will,  when  you  are  humble;  nay,  before, 
Or  God  will  punish  me.      I  do  believe, 
Induc'd  by  potent  circumstances,  that 
You  are  mine  enemy ;  and  make  my  challenge. 
You  shall  not  be  my  judge  :   for  it  is  you 
Have  blown  this  coal  betwixt  my  lord  and  me,  — 
Which  heaven's  dew  quench  !  —  Therefore,   I  say 

again, 
1  utterly  abhor,  yea,  from  my  soul, 
Refuse  you  for  my  judge  ;  whom,  yet  once  more, 
I  hold  my  most  malicious  foe,  and  think  not 
At  all  a  friend  to  truth. 

Wol.  I  do  profess 

You  speak  not  like  yourself;  who  ever  yet 
Have  stood  to  charity,  and  display'd  the  effects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 
O'ertopping  woman's  power.     Madam,  you  do  me 

wrong : 
I  have  no  spleen  against  you  ;  nor  injustice 
For  you  or  any  :   how  far  I  have  proceeded, 
Or  how  far  further  shall,  is  warranted 
By  a  commission  from  the  consistory. 
Yea,  the  vvhole  consistory  of  Rome.   You  charge  me. 
That  I  have  blown  this  coal :    I  do  deny  it : 
The  king  is  present :   if  it  be  known  to  him. 
That  I  gainsay  my  deed,  how  may  he  wound. 
And  wortliily,  my  falsehood  ?  yea,  as  much 
As  you  have  done  my  truth.      But  if  he  know 
That  I  am  free  of  your  report,  he  knows, 
I  am  not  of  your  wrong.      Therefore  in  him 
It  lies,  to  cure  me ;  and  the  cure  is,  to 
Remove  these  thoughts  from  you  :  The  which  before 
His  highness  shall  speak  in,  I  do  beseech 
You,  gracious  madam,  to  unthink  your  speaking, 
And  to  say  so  no  more. 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 
To    oppose   your   cunning.     You  are  meek,  and 

humble-mouth'd ; 
You  sign  your  place  and  calling,  in  full  seeming. 
With  meekness  and  humility  :  but  your  heart 
Is  cramm'd  with  arrogancy,  spleen,  and  pride. 
You  have  by  fortune,  and  his  highness'  favours. 
Gone  slightly  o'er  low  steps ;  and  now  are  mounted 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers :   and  your  words, 
Domesticks  to  you,  serve  your  will,  as't  please 
Yourself  pronounce  their  office.      I  must  tell  you. 
You  tender  more  your  person's  honour,  than 
Your  high  profession  spiritual :    That  again 
I  do  refuse  you  for  my  judge  ;  and  here. 
Before  you  all,  appeal  unto  the  pope. 
To  bring  my  whole  cause  'fore  his  holiness. 
And  to  be  judg'd  by  him. 

[iS/iff  curtesies  to  the  King,  and  offers  to  depart. 

Cam.  The  queen  is  obstinate. 

Stubborn  to  justice,  apt  to  accuse  it,  and 
Disdainful  to  be  try'd  by  it ;  'tis  not  well. 
She's  going  away. 

K.  Hen.  Call  her  again. 

Crier.    Katharine,  queen  of  England,  come  into 
the  court. 

Grif.   Madam,  you  are  call'd  back. 

Q.  Kath.  What  need  you  note  it  ?  pray  you,  keep 
your  way : 


When  you  are  call'd,  return.  —  Now  the  Lord  help, 
They  vex  me  past  my  patience  !  — Pray  you,  pass  on  : 
I  will  not  tarry  :   no,  nor  ever  more. 
Upon  this  business,  my  appearance  make 
In  any  of  their  courts. 

[Exeunt  Queen,  Griffith,  and  her  other 
Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  Go  thy  ways,  Kate  : 

That  man  i'  the  world  who  shall  report  he  has 
A  better  wife,  let  him  not  be  trusted, 
For  speaking  false  in  that :    Thou  art,  alone, 
(If  tliy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness. 
Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wife-like  government,  — 
Obeying  in  commanding,  —  and  thy  parts 
Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out,) 
The  queen  of  earthly  queens  :  —  She  is  noble  born  ; 
And,  like  her  true  nobility,  she  has 
Carried  herself  towards  me. 

fVol.  Most  gracious  sir, 

In  humblest  manner  I  require  your  highness. 
That  it  shall  please  you  to  declare  in  hearing 
Of  all  these  ears,  (for  where  I'm  robb'd  and  bound, 
There  must  I  be  unloos'd  ;  although  not  there 
At  once  and  fully  satisfied,)  whether  ever  I 
Did  broach  this  business  to  your  highness ;  or 
Laid  any  scruple  in  your  way,  which  miglit 
Induce  you  to  the  question  on't  ?  or  ever 
Have  to  you,  —  but  with  thanks  to  Heaven  for  such 
A  royal  lady,  —  spake  one  the  least  word,  im'ght 
Be  to  the  prejudice  of  her  present  state, 
Or  touch  of  her  good  person  ? 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  cardinal, 

I  do  excuse  you,  yea,  upon  mine  honour, 
I  free  you  from't.   You  are  not  to  be  taught 
That  you  have  many  enemies,  that  know  not 
Why  they  are  so,  but,  like  to  village  curs, 
Bark  when  their  fellows  do :   by  some  of  these 
The  queen  is  put  in  anger.     You  are  excus'd : 
But  will  you  be  more  justified  ?  you  ever 
Have  wish'd  the  sleeping  of  this  business  ;  never 
Desir'd  it  to  be  stirr'd ;  but  oft  have  hinder'd  ;  oft 
The  passages  made  ^  toward  it :  —  on  my  honour, 
I  speak  my  good  lord  cardinal  to  this  point. 
And  thus  far  clear  him.  Now,  what  mov'd  me  to't, — 
I  will  be  bold  with  time  and  your  attention  :  — 
Then  mark  the  inducement.     Thus  it  came ;  —  give 

heed  to't. 
My  conscience  first  receiv'd  a  tenderness, 
Scruple,  and  pain,  on  certain  speeches  utter'd 
By  the  bishop  of  Bayonne,  then  French  ambassador ; 
Who  had  been  hither  sent  on  the  debating 
A  marriage,  'twixt  the  duke  of  Orleans  and 
Our  daughter  Mary  :   I'  the  progress  of  this  busines. 
Ere  a  determinate  resolution,  he 
(I  mean  the  bishop)  did  require  a  respite  ; 
Wherein  he  might  the  king  his  lord  advertise 
Whether  our  daughter  were  legitimate, 
Respecting  this  our  marriage  with  the  dowager. 
Sometime  our  brother's  wife.     This  respite  shook 
The  lx)som  of  my  conscience,  enter'd  me, 
Yea,  with  a  splitting  power,  and  made  to  tremble 
The  region  of  my  breast ;  which  forc'd  such  way. 
That  many  maz'd  considerings  did  throng, 
And  press'd  in  with  this  caution.     First,  methought, 
I  stood  not  in  the  smile  of  heaven  ;  who  had 
Commanded  nature,  tliat  my  lady's  womb, 
If  it  conceiv'd  a  male  child  by  me,  should 
Do  no  more  offices  of  life  to't  than 
The  grave  does  to  the  dead :  for  her  male  issue 
6  Closed,  or  fastened. 

r  p  2 


580 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  III. 


Or  died  where  they  were  made,  or  sliortly  after 
This  world  had  air'd  them  :    Hence  I  took  a  thought 
Tliis  was  a  judgment  on  me  ;  that  my  kingdom, 
Well  worthy  the  best  heir  o'  the  world,  should  not 
Be  gladded  in't  by  me  :    Then  follows,  tliat 
1  weigh'd  the  danger  which  my  realms  stood  in 
By  this  my  issue's  fail ;  and  that  gave  to  me 
Many  a  groaning  throe.      Thus  hulling  7  in 
The  wild  sea  of  my  conscience,  I  did  steer 
Toward  this  remedy,  whereupon  we  are 
Now  present  here  together  ;  that's  to  say, 
I  meant  to  rectify  my  conscience,  —  which 
I  then  did  feel  full  sick,  and  yet  not  well,  — 
By  all  tlie  reverend  fathers  of  the  land. 
And  doctors  learn'd.  —  First,  I  began  in  private 
With  you,  my  lord  of  Lincoln ;  you  remember 
How  under  my  oppression  I  did  reek  % 
When  I  first  mov'd  you. 

Lin.  Very  well,  my  liege. 

A".  Hen.   I  have  spoke  long  ;  be  pleas'd  yourself 
to  say 
How  far  you  satisfied  me. 

Lin.  So  please  your  highness, 

The  question  did  at  first  so  stagger  me,  — 
Bearing  a  state  of  mighty  moment  in't, 
And  consequence  of  dread,  —  that  I  committed 
The  daring'st  counsel  which  1  had,  to  doubt ; 
And  did  entreat  your  highness  to  this  course, 
Which  you  are  running  here. 


A'. Hen.  I  then  mov'd  you. 

My  lord  of  Canterbury  ;  and  got  your  leave 
To  make  this  present  summons  :  —  Unsolicited 
I  left  no  reverend  person  in  this  court : 
But  by  particular  consent  proceeded, 
Under  your  hands  and  seals.      Therefore,  go  on  : 
For  no  dislike  i'  the  world  against  the  person 
Of  the  good  queen,  but  the  sharp  thorny  points 
Of  my  alleged  reasons,  drive  this  forward  ; 
Prove  but  our  marriage  lawful,  by  my  life. 
And  kingly  dignity,  we  are  contented 
To  wear  our  mortal  state  to  come,  with  her, 
Katharine  our  queen,  before  the  primest  creature 
Tliat's  paragoned  '  o'  the  world. 

Cam.  So  please  your  highness, 

The  queen  being  absent,  'tis  a  needful  fitness 
That  we  adjourn  this  court  till  further  day  : 
Mean  while  must  be  an  earnest  motion 
Made  to  the  queen,  to  call  back  her  appeal 
She  intends  unto  his  holiness.      [  Thej/  rise  to  depart. 

K.  Hen.  I  may  perceive,   \Aside. 

These  cardinals  trifle  with  me  :    I  abhor 
This  dilatory  sloth,  and  tricks  of  Rome. 
My  learn'd  and  well-beloved  servant,  Cranmer, 
Pr'ythee  return  !  with  thy  approach,  I  know, 
My  comfort  comes  along.      Break  up  the  court : 
I  say,  set  on.     \Exeunty  in  manner  as  they  entered. 


ACT  III, 


SCENE  I.  —  Palace  at  Bridewell.     A  Room  in 
the  Queen's  Apartment. 

The  Queen,  and  some  of  her  Women  at  Work. 

Q.  Kath.   Take  thy  lute,  wench  :  my  soul  grows 
sad  with  troubles ; 
Sing,    and    disperse    them,    if   thou  canst:    leave 
working. 

SONG. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees, 
And  the  mountain-tops,  that  freeze, 

Bow  themselves,  when  he  did  sing  : 
To  his  musick,  plants,  and  flowers. 
Ever  sprung  ;  as  sun,  and  showers, 

There  had  been  a  lasting  spring. 
Every  thing  that  heard  him  play. 
Even  the  billows  of  the  sea. 

Hung  their  heads,  and  then  lay  by. 
In  sweet  musick  is  such  art ; 
Killing  care,  and  grief  of  heart. 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Q.  Kath.   How  now  ? 

Gent.    An't  please  your  grace,  the  two  great  car- 
dinals 
Wait  in  the  presence.  9 

Q,.  Kath.  Would  they  speak  with  me  ? 

Gent.   They  will'd  me  say  so,  madam. 
Q.  Kath.  Pray  their  graces 

To  come  near.     \^Exit  Gent.]     What  can  be  their 
business 


7  Floating  without  guidance. 
9  Presence  chamber. 


8  Waste,  or  wear  away. 


With  me,  a  poor  weak  woman,  fall'n  from  favour  ? 
I  do  not  like  their  coming,  now  I  think  on't. 
They  should  be  good  men ;  their  affairs  as  righteous : 
But  all  hoods  make  not  monks. 

Enter  Wolsey  and  Campeius. 

Wol.  Peace  to  your  highness  ! 

Q.  Kath.    Your   graces  find  me  here   part  of  a 
housewife ; 
I  would  be  all,  against  the  worst  may  happen. 
What  are  your  pleasures  with  me,  reverend  lords  ? 

Wol.   May  it  please  you,  noble  madam,  to  with- 
draw 
Into  your  private  chamber,  we  shall  give  you 
The  full  cause  of  our  coming. 

Q.  Kath.  Speak  it  here  ; 

There's  nothing  I  have  done  yet,  o'  my  conscience, 
Deserves  a  corner :   'Would,  all  other  women 
Could  speak  this  with  as  free  a  soul  as  I  do ! 
My  lords,  I  care  noty  (so  much  I  am  happy 
Above  a  number,)  if  my  actions 
Were  tried  by  every  tongue,  every  eye  saw  them. 
Envy  and  base  opinion  set  against  them, 
I  know  my  life  so  even  :    If  your  business 
Seek  me  out,  and  that  way  I  am  wife  in. 
Out  with  it  boldly ;   Truth  loves  open  dealing. 

Wol.    Tanta  est  ergd  te  mentis  integritas,  regina 
serenissima,  — 

Q.  Kath.    O,  good  my  lord,  no  Latin  ; 
I  am  not  such  a  truant  since  my  coming,  Hii 

As  not  to  know  the  language  I  have  liv'd  in :  ^|P 

A  strange  tongue  makes  my  cause  more  strange, 
suspicious  ; 

'  Without  compare. 


Il 


Scene  I 


KING  HENRY  Vlll. 


581 


I 


Pray,  speak  in  English  :  here  are  some  will  thank 

you, 
If  you  speak  truth,  for  their  poor  mistress'  sake  ; 
Believe  me,  she  has  had  much  wrong  ;  Lord  cardinal, 
The  willing'st  sin  I  ever  yet  committed. 
May  be  absolv'd  in  English. 

trol.  Noble  lady, 

I  am  sorry,  my  integrity  should  breed, 
(And  service  to  his  majesty  and  you,) 
So  deep  suspicion,  where  all  faith  was  meant. 
We  come  not  by  the  way  of  accusation. 
To  taint  that  honour  every  good  tongue  blesses ; 
Nor  to  betray  you  any  way  to  sorrow  ; 
You  have  too  much,  good  lady  :   but  to  know 
How  you  stand  minded  in  the  weighty  difference 
Between  the  king  and  you  ;  and  to  deliver, 
Like  free  and  honest  men,  our  just  opinions, 
And  comforts  to  your  cause. 

Cam.  Most  honour'd  madam, 

My  lord  of  York,  —  out  of  his  noble  nature, 
Zeal  and  obedience  he  still  bore  your  grace ; 
Forgetting,  like  a  good  man,  your  late  censure 
Both  of  his  truth  and  him,   (which  was  too  far,)  — 
Offers,  as  I  do,  in  a  sign  of  peace, 
His  service  and  his  counsel. 

Q.  Kath.  To  betray  me.  {^Aside. 

My  lords,  I  thank  you  both  for  your  good  wills, 
Ye  speak  like  honest  men,  (pray  heaven  ye  prove  so !) 
But  how  to  make  you  suddenly  an  answer. 
In  such  a  point  of  weigiit,  so  near  mine  honour, 
(More  near  my  life,  I  fear,)  with  my  weak  wit. 
And  to  such  men  of  gravity  and  learning. 
In  trutli,  I  know  not.     I  was  set  at  work 
A  mong  my  maids ;  full  little.  Heaven  knows,  looking 
Either  for  such  men,  or  such  business. 
For  her  sake  that  I  have  been,  (for  I  feel 
The  last  fit  of  my  greatness,)  good  your  graces. 
Let  me  have  time,  and  counsel,  for  my  cause ; 
Alas  !  I  am  a  woman,  friendless,  hopeless. 

Wd.  Madam,  you  wrong  the  king's  love  with  these 
fears ; 
Your  hopes  and  friends  are  infinite. 

Q.  Kath'  In  England, 

But  little  for  my  profit :    Can  you  think,  lords, 
That  any  Englishman  dare  give  me  counsel  ? 
Or  be  a  known  friend,  'gainst  his  highness'  pleasure, 
(Though  he  be  grown  so  desperate  to  be  honest,) 
And  live  a  subject  ?   Nay,  forsooth,  my  friends. 
They  that  must  weigh  out  ^  my  afflictions, 
They  that  my  trust  must  grow  to,  live  not  here ; 
They  are,  as  all  my  other  comforts,  far  hence, 
In  mine  own  country,  lords. 

Cam,  I  would,  your  grace 

Would  leave  your  griefs,  and  take  my  counsel. 

Q' Kath.  How,  sir? 

Cam.   Put  your  main  cause  into  the  king's  pro- 
tection ; 
He's  loving,  and  most  gracious;  'twill  be  much 
Both  for  your  honour  better,  and  your  cause  ; 
For,  if  the  trial  of  the  law  o'ertake  you, 
You'll  part  away  disgrac'd. 

WW.  He  tells  you  rightly. 

Q.  Kath.  Ye  tell  me  what  ye  wish  for  both,  my  ruin : 
Is  this  your  christian  counsel?  out  upon  ye  ! 
Heaven  is  above  all  yet ;  there  sits  a  Judge, 
That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

Cam.  Your  rage  mistakes  us. 

Q.  Kath.   The  more  sluune  for  ye ;  holy  men  I 
thought  ye, 

'  Outweigh. 


Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues : 
But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow  hearts,  I  fear  ye : 
Mend  them  for  shame,  my  lords.     Is  this  your  com- 
fort? 
The  cordial  that  ye  bring  a  wretched  lady  ? 
A  woman  lost  among  ye,  laugh'd  at,  scorn'd  ? 
I  will  not  wish  ye  half  my  miseries, 
I  have  more  charity  :    But  say,  I  warn'd  ye ; 
Take  heed,  for  heaven's  sake,  take  heed,  lest  at  once 
The  burden  of  my  sorrows  fall  upon  ye. 

Wol.   IVIadam,  this  is  a  mere  distraction  j 
You  turn  the  good  we  offer  into  envy. 

Q.  Kath.  Ye  turn  me  into  nothing :    Woe  upon  ye, 
And  all  such  false  professors !   Would  ye  have  me 
(If  you  have  any  justice,  any  pity  ; 
If  ye  be  any  thing  but  churchmen's  habits,) 
Put  my  sick  cause  into  his  hands  tliat  hates  me  ? 
Alas  !  he  has  banisli'd  me  his  bed  already  ; 
His  love,  too,  long  ago  :    I  am  old,  my  lords, 
And  all  the  fellowship  I  hold  now  with  him 
Is  only  my  obedience.      What  can  happen 
To  me,  above  this  wretchedness  ?  all  your  studies 
Make  me  a  curse  like  this. 

Cam.  Your  fears  are  worse. 

Q.  Kath.   Have  I  liv'd  thus  long  —  (let  me  speak 
myself. 
Since  virtue  finds  no  friends,)  —  a  wife,  a  true^one  ? 
A  woman  (I  dare  say,  without  vain-glory,) 
Never  yet  branded  with  suspicion  ? 
Have  I  with  all  my  full  affections 
Still  met  the  king  ?  lov'd  him  next  heaven  ?  obey'd 

him  ? 
Been,  out  of  fondness,  superstitious  to  hiir  ? 
Almost  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him  ? 
And  am  I  thus  rewarded  ?  'tis  not  well,  lords. 
Bring  me  a  constant  woman  to  her  husband, 
One  that  ne'er  dreara'd  a  joy  beyond  his  pleasure  ; 
And  to  that  woman,  when  she  has  done  most, 
Yet  will  I  add  an  honour,  —  a  great  patience. 

Wol.  Madam,  you  wander  from  the  good  we  aim  at. 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,   I  dare  not  make  myself  so     \^ 

guilty,  y^ 

To  give  up  willingly  that  noble  title  Id  * 

Your  master  wed  me  to  ;  nothing  but  death     -'^  ^ 
Shall  e'er  divorce  my  dignities. 

Wol.  'Pray,  hear  me. 

Q.  Kath.   'Would  I  had  never  trod  this  Engli 
earth. 
Or  felt  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it ! 
Ye  have  angels'  faces,  but  Heaven  knows  your  hearts. 
What  will  become  of  me  now,  wretched  lady  ? 
I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living.  — 
Alas !  poor  wenches,  where  are  now  your  fortunes  ? 

[  To  her  Women. 
Shipwreck'd  upon  a  kingdom,  where  no  pity. 
No  friends,  no  hope  ;  no  kindred  weep  for  me. 
Almost  no  grave  allow'd  me  :  —  Like  the  lily, 
That  once  was  mistress  of  tlie  field,  and  flourish 'd, 
I'll  hang  my  head  and  perish. 

Wol.  If  your  grace 

Could  but  be  brought  to  know,  our  ends  are  honest, 
You'd  feel  more  comfort :  why  should  we,  good  lady. 
Upon  what  cause,  wrong  you  ?  alas  !  our  places. 
The  way  of  our  profession  is  against  it ; 
We  are  to  cure  siich  sorrows,  not  to  sow  them. 
For  goodness'  sake,  consider  what  you  do  ; 
How  you  may  hurt  yourself,  ay,  utterly 
Grow  from  the  king's  acquaintance,  by  this  carriage. 
The  hearts  of  princes  kiss  obedience, 
So  much  tlicv  love  it ;  but,  to  stubborn  spirits, 
P  I.  :) 


le.y^ 
glish 


582 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  III. 


They  swell,  and  grow  as  terrible  as  storms. 
I  know,  you  have  a  gentle,  noble  temper, 
A  soul  as  even  as  a  calm :    Pray,  think  us 
Those  we  profess,  peace-makers,  friends,  andservants. 
Cavi.  Madam,  you'll  find  it  so.    You  wrong  your 

virtues 
With  these  weak  women's  fears.      A  noble  spirit. 
As  yours  was  put  into  you,  ever  casts 
Such  doubts,  as  false  coin,  from  it.      The  king  loves 

you ; 
Beware  you  lose  it  not :    For  us,  if  you  please 
To  trust  us  in  your  business,  we  are  ready 
To  use  our  utmost  studies  in  your  service. 

Q.  Kalh.   Do  what  ye  will,  my  lords  :    And,  pray, 

forgive  me, 
If  I  have  us'd  3  myself  unmannerly  ; 
You  know,  I  am  a  woman,  lacking  wit 
To  make  a  seemly  answer  to  such  perso'ns. 
Pray,  do  my  service  to  his  majesty  : 
He  has  my  heart  yet ;  and  shall  have  my  prayers, 
While  I  shall  have  my  life.    Come,  reverend  fathers. 
Bestow  your  counsels  on  me :   she  now  begs, 
That  little  thought,  when  she  set  footing  here. 
She  should  have  bought  her  dignities  so  dear. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Ante-chamber  to  the  King'^  Apart- 
ment. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  the  Duke  of  Suffolk, 

the  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

JVor.   If  you  will  now  unite  in  your  complaints. 
And  force  ^  them  with  a  constancy,  the  cardinal 
Cannot  stand  under  them  :    If  you  omit 
The  offer  of  this  time,  I  cannot  promise. 
But  that  you  shall  sustain  more  new  disgraces. 
With  these  you  bear  already. 

Sur.  I  am  joyful 

To  meet  the  least  occasion,  that  may  give  me 
Remembrance  of  my  father-in-law,  the  duke. 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Suf.  Which  of  the  peers 

Have  uncontemn'd  gone  by  him,  or  at  least 
Strangely  neglected  ?  when  did  he  regard 
The  stamp  of  nobleness  in  any  person. 
Out  of  himself? 

Cham.  My  lords,  you  speak  your  pleasures : 

What  he  deserves  of  you  and  me,  I  know ; 
What  we  can  do  to  him,  (though  now  the  time 
Gives  way  to  us,)  I  much  fear.      If  you  cannot 
Bar  his  access  to  the  king,  never  attempt 
Any  thing  on  him  ;  for  he  hath  a  witchcraft 
Over  the  king  in  his  tongue. 

Nor.  O,  fear  him  not ; 

His  spell  in  that  is  out :   the  king  hath  found 
Matter  against  him,  that  for  ever  mars 
The  honey  of  his  language.      No,  he's  settled. 
Not  to  come  off,  in  his  displeasure. 

Sur.  Sir, 

I  should  be  glad  to  hear  such  news  as  this 
Once  every  hour. 

Nor.  Believe  it,  this  is  true. 

In  the  divorce,  his  contrary  proceedings 
Are  all  unfolded ;  wherein  he  appears, 
As  I  could  wish  mine  enemy. 

Sur.  How  came 

His  practices  to  light  ? 

Suf.  Most  strangely. 

Sur.  O,  how,  how  ? 

Siif.   The  cardinal's  letter  to  the  pope  miscarried, 
s  Behaved.  ■»  Enforce. 


And  came  to  the  eye  o'the  king  :  wherein  was  read, 

How  that  the  cardinal  did  entreat  his  holiness 

To  stay  the  judgment  o'the  divorce  :    For  if 

It  did  take  place,  /  do,  quoth  he,  perceive 

My  king  is  tangled  in  affection  to 

A  creature  of  the  queen  s,  lady  Anne  Bullen. 

Sur.   Has  the  king  this  ? 

Suf.  Believe  it. 

Sur.  Will  this  work  ? 

Cham.   The  king  in  this  perceives  him  how  he 
coasts. 
And  hedges,  his  own  way.      But  in  this  point 
All  his  tricks  founder,  and  he  brings  his  physick 
After  his  patient's  death  :   the  king  already 
Hath  married  the  fair  lady. 

Sur.  'Would  he  had  ! 

Suf    May  you  be  happy  in  your  wish,  my  lord  ! 
For,  I  profess,  you  have  it. 

Sur.  Now  all  my  joy 

Trace  ^  the  conjunction  ! 

Sif.  My  amen  to't ! 

Nor.  AH  men's. 

Suf    There's  order  given  for  her  coronation : 
Marry,  this  is  yet  but  young,  and  may  be  left 
To  some  ears  unrecounted.  —  But,  my  lords, 
She  is  a  gallant  creature,  and  complete 
In  mind  and  feature :    I  persuade  me,  from  her 
Will  fall  some  blessing  to  this  land,  which  shall 
In  it  be  memoriz'd.^ 

Sur.  But,  will  the  king 

Digest  this  letter  of  the  cardinal's  ? 
The  Lord  forbid  ! 

Nor.  Marry,  amen ! 

Suf.  No,  no ; 

There  be  more  wasps  that  buz  about  his  nose. 
Will  make  this  sting  the  sooner.    Cardinal  Campeius 
Is  stolen  away  to  Rome  ;  hath  ta'en  no  leave ; 
Has  left  the  cause  o'the  king  unhandled ;  and 
Is  posted,  as  the  agent  of  our  cardinal. 
To  second  all  his  plot.      I  do  assure  you. 
The  king  cry'd,  ha !  at  this. 

Cham.  Now,  heaven  incense  him, 

And  let  him  cry,  ha,  louder ! 

Nor.  But,  my  lord. 

When  returns  Cranmer  ? 

Suf   He  is  returned,  in  his  opinions ;  which 
Have  satisfied  the  king  for  his  divorce, 
Together  with  all  famous  colleges 
Almost  in  Christendom  :   shortly,  I  believe. 
His  second  marriage  shall  be  publish'd,  and 
Her  coronation.      Katharine  no  more 
Shall  be  call'd  queen ;  but  princess-dowager, 
And  widow  to  prince  Arthur. 

Nor.  This  same  Cranmer  s 

A  worthy  fellow,  and  hath  ta'en  much  pain 
In  the  king's  business. 

Siif.  He  has ;  and  we  shall  see  him 

For  it,  an  archbishop. 

Nor.  So  I  hear. 

Suf.  'Tis  so. 

The  cardinal  — 

Enter  Wolsey  and  Cromwell. 
Nor.  Observe,  observe,  he's  moody. 

TFol.  The  packet,  Cromwell,  gave  it  you  the  king  ? 
Cram.   To  his  own  hand,  in  his  bed-chamber. 
Wol.   Look'd  he  o'  the  inside  of  the  paper  ? 
Crom.  Presently 

He  did  unseal  them  :   and  the  first  he  view'd, 
»  FoUow.  6  Made  memorable. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENR\  VIII. 


583 


He  did  it  with  a  serious  mind ;  a  heed 
Was  ill  his  countenance  :  You,  he  bade 
Attend  liim  here  this  morning. 

IVol.  Is  he  ready 

To  come  abroad  ? 

Crom.  I  think,  by  this  he  is. 

IFol.    Leave  me  a  while.  —       [Exit  Cromwell. 
It  shall  be  to  the  duchess  of  Alen9on, 
The  Frencli  king's  sister :   he  shall  marry  her.  — 
AnneBullen!   No;   I'll  no  Anne  BuUcns  for  him  : 
There  is  more  in  it  than  fair  visage.  —  Bullen  ! 
No,  we'll  no  Bullens.  —  Speedily  I  wish 
To  hear  from  Rome.  —  The  marchioness  of  Pem- 
broke ! 
Hor.   He's  discontented. 

Suf.  May  be,  he  hears  the  king 

Does  whet  his  anger  to  him. 

Sur.  Sharp  enough, 

Lord,  for  thy  justice  ! 

If^ol.   The  late  queen's  gentlewoman  j  a  knight's 
daughter, 
To  be  her  mistress'  mistress  !  the  queen's  queen  !  — 
This  candle  burns  not  clear  :    'tis  I  must  snuff  it ; 
Then,  out  it  goes.  —  What  though  I  know  her  vir- 
tuous. 
And  well-deserving  ?  yet  I  know  her  for 
A  spleeny  Lutheran  ;  and  not  wholesome  to 
Our  cause,  that  she  should  lie  i'  the  bosom  of 
Our  hard-rul'd  king.      Again,  there  is  sprung  up 
An  heretick,  an  arch  one,  Cranmer ;  one 
Hath  crawl'd  into  the  favour  of  the  king. 
And  is  his  oracle. 

Nor.  He  is  vex'd  at  something. 

Si£f.  I  would,  'twere  something  that  would  fret 
the  string, 
The  master-cord  of  his  heart ! 

Enter  the  Kino,  reading  a  Schedtde ;  and  Lovell. 

Suf.  The  king,  the  king. 

K.  Hen.  What  piles  of  wealth  hath  he  accumulated 
To  his  own  portion  !  and  what  expence  by  the  hour 
Seems  to  flow  from  him !  How,  i'  the  name  of  thrift, 
Does  he  rake  this  together  ?  —  Now,  my  lords ; 
Saw  you  the  cardinsd  ? 

Nor.  My  lord,  we  have 

Stood  here  observing  him :  Some  strange  commotion 
Is  in  his  brain  :  he  bites  his  lip,  and  starts ; 
Stops  on  a  sudden,  looks  upon  the  ground. 
Then,  lays  his  finger  on  his  temple ;  straight. 
Springs  out  into  fast  gait  7;  then,  stops  again. 
Strikes  his  breast  hard ;  and  anon,  he  casts 
His  eye  against  the  moon  :  in  most  strange  postures 
We  have  seen  him  set  himself. 

K.  Hen.  It  may  well  be ; 

There  is  a  mutiny  in  his  mind.     This  morning 
Papers  of  state  he  sent  me  to  peruse, 
As  I  requir'd ;  and  wot*  you,  what  I  found 
There  ;  on  my  conscience,  put  unwittingly  ? 
Forsooth,  an  inventory,  thus  importing,  — 
The  several  parcels  of  his  plate,  his  treasure. 
Rich  stuffs  and  ornaments  of  household  ;  which 
I  find  at  such  proud  rate,  that  it  outspeaks 
Possession  of  a  subject. 

Nor.  It's  heaven's  will ; 

Some  spirit  put  this  paper  in  the  packet. 
To  bless  your  eye  withal. 

K.  Hen.  If  we  did  think 

His  contemplation  were  above  tlie  earth, 
And  fix'd  on  spiritual  object,  he  should  still, 
^  Step*.  "  Know. 


Dwell  in  his  musings :    but,  I  am  afraid, 
His  thinkings  are  below  the  moon,  not  worth 
His  serious  considering. 

[i/e  takes  his  Seat,  and  whispers  Lovkll, 
who  goes  to  WoLSEV. 

IFol.  Heaven  forgive  me  ! 

Ever  God  bless  your  highness  ! 

K.  Hen.  Good,  my  lord, 

You  are  full  of  heavenly  stuff,  and  bear  tlie  in- 
ventory 
Of  your  best  graces  in  your  mind  ;  the  which 
You  were  now  running  o'er ;  you  have  scarce  time 
To  steal  from  spiritual  leisure  a  brief  sj)an  ; 
To  keep  your  eartlily  audit :    Sure,  in  that 
I  deem  you  an  ill  husband ;  and  am  glad 
To  have  you  therein  my  companion. 

frol.  Sir, 

For  holy  offices  I  have  a  time  ;  a  time 
To  think  upon  the  part  of  business,  which 
I  bear  i'  the  state ;  and  nature  docs  require 
Her  times  of  preservation,  whicli,  perforce, 
I,  her  frail  son,  amongst  my  brethren  mortal. 
Must  give  my  tendance  to. 

jr.  Hen.  You  have  said  well. 

}Fol.   And  ever  may  your  highness  yoke  togetlier 
As  I  will  lend  you  cause,  my  doing  well 
With  my  well  saying  ! 

IT.  Hen.  'Tis  well  said  again  : 

And  'tis  a  kind  of  good  deed,  to  say  well : 
And  yet  words  are  no  deeds.      My  father  lov'd  you  : 
He  said,  he  did  ;  and  with  his  deed  did  crown 
His  word  upon  you.      Since  I  had  my  office, 
I  have  kept  you  next  my  heart ;  have  not  alone 
Employ'd  you  where  high  profits  might  come  home, 
But  par'd  my  present  havings,  to  bestow 
My  bounties  upon  you. 

IFol.  What  should  this  mean  ? 

Sur.   Good  heaven  increase  this  business  !   [j4sicle. 

K.  Hen.  Have  I  not  made  you 

The  prime  man  of  the  state  ?    I  pray  you,  tell  me, 
If  what  I  now  pronounce,  you  have  found  true  : 
And,  if  you  may  confess  it,  say  withal, 
If  you  are  bound  to  us,  or  no.     What  say  you  ? 

Wol.   My  sovereign,  I  confess,  your  royal  graces, 
Shower'd  on  me  daily,  have  been  more,  than  could 
My  studied  purposes  requite ;  which  went 
Beyond  all  man's  endeavours :  —  my  endeavours 
Have  ever  come  too  short  of  my  desires. 
Yet,  fil'd  with  my  abilities  :    Mine  own  ends 
Have  been  mine  so,  that  evermore  they  pointed 
To  the  good  of  your  most  sacred  person,  and 
The  profit  of  the  state.      For  your  great  graces 
Heap'd  upon  me,  poor  undeserver,  I 
Can  nothing  render  but  allegiant  thanks ; 
My  prayers  to  heaven  for  you  ;  my  loyalty. 
Which  ever  has,  and  ever  shall  be  growing. 
Till  death,  that  winter,  kill  it. 

//.  Ken.  Fairly  answer'd  ; 

A  loyal  and  obedient  subject  is 
Therein  illustrated  :    The  honour  of  it 
Does  pay  tlie  act  of  it ;  as,  i'the  contrary, 
Tlie  foulness  is  the  punishment.      I  presume, 
That,  as  my  hand  has  open'd  bounty  to  you. 
My  heart  dropp'd  love,  my  power  rain'd  honour, 

more 
On  you,  than  any  ;  so  your  hand,  and  heart. 
Your  brain,  and  every  function  of  your  power, 
Should,  notwithstanding  that  your  bond  of  duty. 
As  'twere  in  love's  particular,  be  more 
To  me,  your  friend,  tlian  any. 
Pp  1 


584 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  III. 


Wol.  I  do  profess, 

Tliat  for  your  highness'  good  I  ever  labour'd 
More  than  mine  own ;  that  am,  have,  and  will  be, 
Though  all  the  world  should  crack  their  duty  to  you, 
And  tlirow  it  from  their  soul :  though  perils  did 
Abound,  as  tliick  as  thought  could  make  them,  and 
Appear  in  forms  more  horrid;  yet  my  duty, 
As  doth  a  rock  against  the  chiding  flood, 
Should  the  approach  of  this  wild  river  break. 
And  stand  unshaken  yours. 

JC.  Hen.  'Tis  nobly  spoken  : 

Take  notice,  lords,  he  has  a  loyal  breast, 
For  you  have  seen  him  open't.  —  Read  o'er  this  ; 

[  Giving  him  Papers. 
And,  after,  this  :   and  then  to  breakfast,  with 
What  appetite  you  have. 

[Ex'it  Kin G,frow7iing upon  Cardinal  Wolsey: 
the  Nobles  thi'ong  after  him,  smiling,  and 
whispering. 

Wol.  What  should  this  mean  ? 

What  sudden  anger's  this  ?   how  have  I  reap'd  it  ? 
He  parted  frowning  from  me,  as  if  ruin 
Leap'd  from  his  eyes :    So  looks  the  chafed  lion 
Upon  the  daring  huntsman  that  has  gall'd  him ; 
Then  makes  him  nothing.      I  must  read  this  paper ; 
I  fear,  the  story  of  his  anger.  -^'Tis  so; 
This  paper  has  undone  me  :  — 'Tis  the  account 
Of  all  that  world  of  wealth  I  have  drawn  together 
For  mine  own  ends  ;  indeed,  to  gain  the  popedom, 
And  fee  my  friends  in  Rome.      O  negligence, 
Fit  for  a  fool  to  fall  by  !    What  cross  devil 
Made  me  put  this  main  secret  in  the  packet 
I  sent  the  king?     Is  there  no  way  to  cure  this? 
No  new  device  to  beat  this  from  his  brains  ? 
I  know,  'twill  stir  him  strongly ;  yet  I  know 
A  way,  if  it  take  right,  in  spite  of  fortune 
Will  bring  me  off  again.  What's  this  —  To  the  Fope  9 
The  letter,  as  I  live,  with  all  the  business 
I  writ  to  his  holiness.      Nay  then,  farewell ! 
I  have  touch'd  the  highest  point  of  all  my  greatness ; 
And,  from  that  full  meridian  of  my  glory, 
I  haste  now  to  my  setting  :    I  shall  fall 
Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
And  no  man  see  me  more. 

lie-enter  the  Dckes  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk,  the 
Earl  of  Surrey,  and  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Nor.   Hear  the  king's  pleasure,  cardinal;  who 
commands  you 
To  render  up  the  great  seal  presently 
Into  our  hands  ;  and  to  confine  yourself 
To  Asher-House  ',  my  lord  of  Winchester's, 
Till  you  hear  further  from  his  highness. 

Wol.  Stay, 

Where's  your  commission,  lords  ?  words  cannot  carry 
Authority  so  weighty. 

Suf.  Who  dare  cross  them  ? 

Bearing  the  king's  will  from  his  mouth  expressly  ? 

Wol.  Till  I  find  more  than  will,  or  words,  to  do  it, 
(I  mean  your  malice,)  know,  officious  lords, 
I  dare,  and  must  deny  it.      Now  I  feel 
Of  what  coarse  metal  ye  are  moulded  —  envy 
How  eagerly  ye  follow  my  disgraces. 
As  if  it  fed  ye  !  and  how  sleek  and  wanton 
Ye  appear  in  every  thing  may  bring  my  ruin ! 
Follow  your  envious  courses,  men  of  malice  ; 
You  have  christian  warrant  for  them,  and,  no  doubt, 
In  time  will  find  their  fit  rewards.      That  seal, 

'  Eshcr  in  Surrey. 


You  ask  with  such  a  violence,  the  king, 
(Mine  and  your  master,)  with  his  own  hand  gave  me ; 
IJade  me  enjoy  it,  with  the  place  and  honours, 
During  my  life  ;  and,  to  confirm  his  goodness. 
Tied  it  by  letters  patents :    Now,  who'll  take  it  ? 

Sur.   The  king,  that  gave  it. 

Wol.  It  must  be  himself  then. 

Sur.   Thou  art  a  proud  traitor,  priest. 

Wol.  Proud  lord,  thou  liest ; 

Within  these  forty  hours,  Surrey  durst  better 
Have  burnt  that  tongue,  than  said  so. 

Sur.  Thy  ambition, 

Thou  scarlet  sin,  robb'd  this  .bewailing  land 
Of  noble  Buckingham,  my  father-in-law  : 
The  heads  of  all  thy  brother  cardinals, 
(With  thee,  and  all  thy  best  parts  bound  together,) 
Weigh'd  not  a  hair  of  his.      Plague  of  your  policy  ! 
You  sent  me  deputy  for  Ireland ; 
Far  from  his  succour,  from  the  king,  from  all 
That  might  have  mercy  on  the  fault  thou  gav'st  him ; 
Whilst  your  great  goodness,  out  of  holy  pity, 
Absolv'd  him  with  an  axe. 

Wol.  This,  and  all  else 

This  talking  lord  can  lay  Upon  my  credit, 
I  answer,  is  most  false.      The  duke  by  law 
Found  his  deserts :   how  innocent  I  was 
From  any  private  malice  in  his  end. 
His  noble  jury  and  foul  cause  can  witness. 
If  I  lov'd  many  words,  lord,  I  should  tell  you. 
You  have  as  little  honesty  as  honour ; 
That  I,  in  the  way  of  loyalty  and  truth 
Toward  the  king,  my  ever  royal  master, 
Dare  mate  ^  a  sounder  man  than  Surrey  can  be. 
And  all  that  love  his  follies. 

Sur.  By  my  soul, 

Your  long  coat,  priest,  protects  you ;  thou  shouldst 

feel 
My  sword  i'  the  life-blood  of  thee  else.  —  My  lords. 
Can  ye  endure  to  hear  this  arrogance  ? 
And  from  this  fellow  ?    If  we  live  thus  tamely. 
To  be  thus  jaded  3  by  a  piece  of  scarlet, 
Farewell  nobility  ;  let  his  grace  go  forward. 
And  dare  us  with  his  cap,  like  larks.  ^ 

Wol.  All  goodness 

Is  poison  to  thy  stomach. 

Sur.  Yes,  that  goodness 

Of  gleaning  all  the  land's  wealth  into  one, 
Into  your  own  hands,  cardinal,  by  extortion ; 
The  goodness  of  your  intercepted  packets. 
You  writ  to  the  pope,  against  the  king ,  your  goodness. 
Since  you  provoke  me,  shall  be  most  notorious.  — 
My  lord  of  Norfolk,  —  as  you  are  truly  noble. 
As  you  respect  the  common  good,  the  state 
Of  our  despis'd  nobility,  our  issues. 
Who,  if  he  live,  will  scarce  be  gentlemen,  — 
Produce  the  grand  sum  of  his  sins,  the  articles 
Collected  from  his  life  :  —  I'll  startle  you 
Worse  than  the  sacring  bell,  lord  cardinal. 

Wol-    How  much,  methinks,  1  could  despise  tliis 
man. 
But  that  I  am  bound  in  charity  against  it'. 

Nor.   Those  articles,  my  lord,  are  in  the  king's 
hand : 
But,  thus  much,  they  are  foul  ones. 

Wol.  So  much  fairer, 

And  spotless,  shall  mine  innocence  arise. 
When  the  king  knows  my  truth. 

'■2  Equal.  3  Ridden  down. 

'^  A  cardinal's  hat  is  scarlet,  and  the  method  of  daring  larki 
is  by  small  mirrors  on  scarlet  cloth. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VIIl. 


585 


i 


Sur.  This  cannot  save  you  : 

I  thank  my  memory,  I  yet  remember 
Some  of  these  articles  ;  and  out  they  shall. 
Now,  if  you  can  blush,  and  cry  guilty,  cardinal, 
You'll  show  a  little  honesty. 

yf^ol.  Speak  on,  sir  : 

I  dare  your  worst  objections  :    If  I  blush 
It  is,  to  see  a  nobleman  want  manners. 

Sur.  I'd  rather  want  tlmse,  than  my  head.     Have 
at  you. 
First,  tliat,  without  the  king's  assent,  or  knowledge. 
You  wrought  to  be  a  legate ;  by  which  power 
You  maim'd  the  jurisdiction  of  all  bishops. 

Nor.  Then,  that,  in  all  you  writ  to  Rome,  or  else 
To  foreign  princes.  Ego  et  Rex  mens 
Was  still  inscrib'd ;  in  which  you  brought  the  king 
To  be  your  servant. 

Snf.  Then,  that  without  the  knowledge 

Either  of  king  or  council,  when  you  went 
Ambassador  to  the  emperor,  you  made  bold 
To  carry  into  Flanders  the  great  seal. 

Sur.   Item,  you  sent  a  large  commission 
To  Gregory  de  Cassalis,  to  conclude, 
Without  tiie  king's  will,  or  the  state's  allowance, 
A  league  between  his  highness  and  Ferrara. 

Suf.   That,  out  of  mere  ambition,  you  have  caus'd 
Your  holy  hat  to  be  stamp'd  on  the  king's  coin. 
Sur.   Then,  that  you  have  sent  innumerable  sub- 
stance, 
(By  what  means  got,  I  leave  to  your  own  conscience,) 
To  furnish  Rome,  and  to  prepare  the  ways 
You  have  for  dignities ;  to  the  mere  ^  undoing 
Of  all  the  kingdom.      Many  more  there  are  ; 
Which,  since  they  are  of  you,  and  odious, 
I  will  not  taint  my  mouth  with. 

Cham.  O  my  lord, 

Press  not  a  falling  man  too  far ;  'tis  virtue : 
His  faults  lie  open  to  the  laws ;  let  them. 
Not  you,  correct  him.     My  heart  weeps  to  see  him 
So  little  of  his  great  self. 

Sur.  I  forgive  him. 

Suf.  Lord  cardinal,  the  king'sfurther  pleasure  is, — 
Because  all  those  things,  you  have  done  of  late 
By  your  power  legatine  within  this  kingdom, 
Fall  into  the  compass  of  a  prcemunire^, — 
That  therefore  such  a  writ  be  sued  against  you  ; 
To  forfeit  all  your  goods,  lands,  tenements, 
Chattels,  and  whatsoever,  and  to  be 
Out  of  the  king's  protection  :  — This  is  my  charge. 
Avr.    And  so  we'U  leave  you  to  your  meditations 
How  to  live  better.      For  your  stubborn  answer. 
About  the  giving  back  the  great  seal  to  us. 
The  king  shall  know  it,  and  no  doubt,  shall  thank 

you. 
So  fare  you  well,  my  little  good  lord  cardinal. 

[Exeimt  all  but  Wolsey. 
Wol.   So  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear  me. 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  ;  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope,  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him : 
The  tliird  day,  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And,  —  when  he  thinks,  gooid  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  — nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.      I  have  ventur'd. 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory  ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth  :   my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  me, 
*  Absolute  «  A  writ  incurring  a  penalty. 


Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp,  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  open'd  :    O,  how  wretched 
Is  tliat  poor  man,  that  hangs  on  princes'  favours  ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to. 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have  ; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again.  — 

Enter  Cromwell,  amazedly. 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell  ? 

Crom.   I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wol.  What,  amaz'd 

At  my  misfortunes  ?  can  thy  spirit  wonder, 
A  great  man  should  decline  ?  Nay,  an  you  weep, 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Wol.  Why,  well; 

Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 
I  know  myself  now ;  and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.   The  king  has  cur'd  me, 
I  humbly  thank  his  grace ;  and  from  these  shoulders. 
These  ruin'd  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy,  too  much  honour  j 
O,  'tis  a  burden,  Cromwell,  'tis  a  burden. 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven. 

Crom.   I  am  glad,  your  grace  has  made  that  right 
use  of  it. 

Wol.   I  hope,  I  have :   I  am  able  now,  metliinks, 
(Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  feel,) 
To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far, 
Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 
What  news  abroad  ? 

Crom.  The  heaviest  and  the  worst, 

Is  your  displeasure  with  the  king. 

Wol.  God  bless  him  ! 

Cronu  The  next  is,  that  sir  Tliomas  More  is  chosen 
Lord  chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wol.  That's  somewhat  sudden  : 

But  he's  a  learned  man.     May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness'  favour,  and  do  justice 
For  truth's  sake,  and  his  conscience ;  that  his  bones. 
When  he  has  run  his  course,  and  sleeps  in  blessings. 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphan's  tears  7  wept  on  'em  ! 
What  more  ? 

Crom.  That  Cranmer  is  return'd  with  welcome, 
Install'd  lord  archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Wol.   That's  news  indeed. 

Crom.  Last,  that  the  lady  Anne, 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 
This  day  was  view'd  in  open,  as  his  queen. 
Going  to  chapel ;  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation. 

Wol.   There  was  tlie  weight  that  pull'd  me  down. 
O  Cromwell, 
The  king  has  gone  beyond  me,  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever  : 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  fortli  mine  honours. 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.     Go,  get  tliee  from  me,  Cromwell, 
I  am  a  poor  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master  :    Seek  the  king ; 
That  sun,  1  pray,  may  never  set !     I  have  told  him 
What,  and  how  true  thou  art :   he  will  advance  tliee  ; 
Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him 
(I  know  his  noble  nature,)  not  to  let 

">  The  chancellor  Is  the  guardian  of  orphans. 


586 


KING  HENRY  Vlll. 


Act  IV. 


Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too :    Good  Cromwell, 
Neglect  him  not ;  make  use  8  now,  and  provide 
For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crom.  O,  my  lord. 

Must  I  then  leave  you  ?  Must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a  master  ? 
Bear  witness,  all,  that  have  liot  hearts  of  iron. 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord.  — 
The  king  shall  have  my  service  ;  but  my  prayers 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  shall  be  yours. 

Wol.   Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forc'd  me 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth  to  play  the  woman. 
Let's  dry  our  eyes :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell ; 
And,. — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be  ; 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of,  —  say,  I  taught  thee. 
Say,  Wolsey,  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour,  — 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin'd  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition ; 


By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by't  ? 
Love  thyself  last ;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee  { 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues.      Be  just,  and  fear  not  j 
Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at,  be  thy  country's. 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's ;  then  if  thou  fall'st,  O  Crom- 
well, 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.     Serve  the  king , 
And,  —  Pr'ythee  lead  me  in : 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have. 
To  the  last  penny :  'tis  the  king's :  my  robe, 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 
I  dare  now  call  mine  own.   O  Cromwell,  Cromwel 
Had  I  but  serv'd  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 

Crom.    Good  sir,  have  patience. 

Wol.  So  1  have.     Farewell/1 

The  hopes  of  court !  my  hopes  in  heaven  do  dwell. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  A  Street  in  Westminster. 
Enter  two  Gentlemen,  meeting. 

1  Gent.   You  are  well  met  once  again. 

2  Gent.  And  so  are  you. 

1  Gent.   You  come  to  take  your  stand  here,  and 

behold 
The  lady  Anne  pass  from  her  coronation  ? 

2  Gent.   'Tis  all  my  business.     At  our  last  en- 

counter. 
The  duke  of  Buckingham  came  from  his  trial. 

1  Gent.  'Tis  very  true :  but  that  time  oflfer'd  sorrow; 
This  general  joy. 

2  Gent.  'Tis  well :  the  citizens, 

I  am  sure,  have  shown  at  full  their  royal  minds  ; 
As,  let  them  have  their  rights,  they  are  ever  forward 
In  celebration  of  this  day  with  shows. 
Pageants,  and  sights  of  honour. 

1  Gent.  Never  greater, 
Nor,  I'll  assure  you,  better  taken,  sir. 

2  Gent.   May  1  be  bold  to  ask  what  that  contains. 
That  paper  in  your  hand  ? 

1  Gent.  Yes ;  'tis  the  list 
Of  those  that  claim  their  offices  this  day. 
By  custom  of  the  coronation. 

The  duke  of  Suffolk  is  the  first,  and  claims 

To  be  high  steward  ;  next,  the  duke  of  Norfolk, 

He  to  be  earl  marshal ;  you  may  read  the  rest. 

2  Gent.   I  thank  you,  sir  ;  had  I  not  known  those 

customs, 
I  should  have  been  beholden  to  your  paper. 
But,  I  beseech  you,  what  becomes  of  Katharine, 
The  princess-dowager  ?  how  goes  her  business  ? 
1  Gent.   That  I  can  tell   you    too.      The  arch- 
bishop 
Of  Canterbury,  accompanied  with  other 
Learned  and  reverend  fathers  of  his  order. 
Held  a  late  court  at  Dunstable,  six  miles  off 
From  Ampthill,  where  the  princess  lay ;  to  which 
She  oft  was  cited  by  them,  but  appear'd  not  : 
8  Interest. 


And,  to  be  short,  for  not  appearance,  and 
The  king's  late  scruple,  by  the  main  assent 
Of  all  these  learned  men  she  was  divorc'd. 
And  the  late  marriage  made  of  none  effect : 
Since  which,  she  was  removed  to  Kimbolton, 
Where  she  remains  now,  sick. 

2  Gent.  '  Alas,  good  lady !  — 

[Trumpets. 
The   trumpets  sound ;   stand  close,   the   queen  is 
coming. 

THE    ORDER    OF   THE    PROCESSION. 

A  lively  flourish  of  Trumjyets  ;  then  enter, 

1.  Two  Judges. 

2.  Lord  Chancellor,  with  the  purse  and  mace  before 

him. 

3.  Choristers  singing.  [Musick. 

4.  Mayor  of  London,  bearing  the  mace.    Then  Garter, 

in  his  coat  of  arms,  and,  on  his  head,  a  gilt  j 
copper  crown. 

5.  Marquis  Dorset,  bearing  a  scepter  of  gold,  on  hia\ 

head  a  demi-coronal  of  gold.  With  him,  the'i 
Earl  of  Surrey,  bearing  the  rod  of  silver,  j 
with  the  dove,  crowned  with  an  earVs  coronet* 
Collars  of  SS. 

6.  Duke  of  Suffolk,  in  his  robe  of  estate,  his  coronet 

on  his  head,  bearing  a  long  white  wand,  as 
high  steward.  With  him  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk, with  the  rod  of  marshalship,  a  coronet 
on  his  head.    Collars  of  SS. 

7.  A  canopy  borne  by  four  of  the  Cinque-ports  ;  under 

it,  the  Queen  in  her  robe;  in  her  hair,  richly 
adorned  with  pearl,  crowned.  On  each  side 
of  her,  the  Bishops  of  London  and  Win- 
chester. 

8.  The  old  Duchess  of  Norfolk,  in  a  coronal  of  gold, 

wrought  ivith  fowers,  bearing  the  Queen's 
train. 

9.  Certain  L^adies  or  Countesses,  with  plain  circles  of 

gold  without  flowers. 


Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


?87 


2  Gent.   A  royal   train,    believe   me, — These  I 
know ;  — 
"Who's  that,  that  bears  the  scepter  ? 

1  Gejit.  Marquis  Dorset : 
And  that  the  earl  of  Surrey,  with  the  rod. 

2  Gent.    A   bold    brave    gentleman :    And  that 

should  be 
The  duke  of  Suffolk. 

1  Gent.  'Tis  the  same  ;  high-steward. 

2  Gent.    And  that  my  lord  of  Norfolk  ? 

1  GerU.  Yes. 

2  Gent.  Heaven  bless  thee  ' 

{Looking  on  tfie  Queen. 
Thou  hast  the  sweetest  face  I  ever  look'd  on.  — 
Sir,  as  I  have  a  soul,  she  is  an  angel ; 
Our  king  has  all  tlie  Indies  in  his  arms, 
I  cannot  blame  his  conscience. 

1  Gent.  They,  that  bear 
The  cloth  of  honour  over  her,  are  four  barons 
Of  the  Cinque-ports. 

2  Gent.   Those  men  are  happy;  and  so  arc  all, 

are  near  her. 
I  take  it,  she  that  carries  up  the  train, 
Is  that  old  noble  lady,  duchess  of  Norfolk. 

1  Gent.   It  is ;  and  all  the  rest  are  countesses. 

2  Gent.   Their  coronets  say  so.      These  are  stars 

indeed. 

[Exit  Procession,  rmth  a  great  Jlourish  of 
Trumpets. 

Enter  a  Third  Gentleman. 

Heaven  save  you, sir  !  where  have  you  been  broiling? 

3  Gent.  Among  the  crowd  i'  tlie  abbey ;  where  a 

finger 
Could  not  be  wedg'd  in  more ;  and  I  am  stifled 
With  the  mere  rankness  of  their  joy. 

2  Gent.  You  saw 
Tlie  ceremony  ? 

3  Gent.  That  I  did. 

1  Gent.  How  was  it  ? 
3  Gent.  Well  worth  the  seeing. 

2  Gent.  Good  sir,  speak  it  to  us. 

3  Gent.  As  well  as  I  am  able.      The  rich  stream 
Of  lords,  and  ladies,  having  brought  the  queen 

To  a  prepar'd  place  in  the  choir,  fell  off 

A  distance  from  her ;  while  her  grace  sat  down 

To  rest  a  while,  some  half  an  hour,  or  so, 

In  a  rich  chair  of  state,  opposing  freely 

The  beauty  of  her  person  to  the  people. 

Believe  me,  sir,  she  is  the  goodliest  woman 

That  ever  sat  by  man :   which  when  the  people 

Had  the  full  view  of,  such  a  noise  arose 

As  the  shrouds  make  at  sea  in  a  stiff  tempest, 

As  loud,  and  to  as  many  tunes  :   hats,  cloaks, 

(Doublets,  I  think,)  flew  up;  and  had  their  faces 

Been  lose,  this  day  they  had  been  lost.      Such  joy 

I  never  saw  before.      No  man  living 

Could  say.  This  is  my  wife,  there ;  all  were  woven 

So  strangely  in  one  piece. 

2  GeTit.  But,  'pray,  what  foUow'd  ? 

3  Gent.  At  length  her  grace  rose,  and  with  modest 

paces 
Came  to  the  altar ;  where  she  kneel'd,  and,  saint-like, 
Cast  her  fair  eyes  to  heaven,  and  pray'd  devoutly. 
Then  rose  again,  and  bow'd  her  to  the  people : 
When  by  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury 
She  had  all  the  royal  makings  of  a  queen  ; 
As  holy  oil,  Edward  Confessor's  crown. 
The  rod,  and  bird  of  peace,  and  all  such  emblems 
Laid  nobly  on  her :   which  perform'd,  the  choir, 


With  all  the  choicest  musick  of  the  kingdom. 
Together  sung  Te  Deum.     So  she  parted, 
And  with  the  same  full  state  pac'd  back  again 
To  York-place,  where  the  feast  is  held. 

1  Gent.  Sir,  you 
Must  no  more  call  it  York-place,  that  is  past ; 
For,  since  the  cardinal  fell,  that  title's  lost ; 
'Tis  now  tlie  king's,  and  call'd  —  Whitehall. 

3  Gent.  I  know  it ; 

But  'tis  so  lately  alter'd,  that  the  old  name 
Is  fresh  about  me. 

2  Gent.  What  two  reverend  bishops 
Were  those  that  went  on  each  side  of  the  queen  ? 

3  Gent.  Stokesly  and  Gardiner;  the  one,  of  Win- 

chester, 
(Newly  preferr'd  from  the  king's  secretary,) 
The  other,  London. 

2  Gent.  He  of  Winchester 

Is  held  no  great  good  lover  of  the  archbishop's, 
The  virtuous  Cranmer. 

3  Gent.  All  the  land  knows  that : 
However,  yet  there's  no  great  breach ;  when  it  comes, 
Cranmer  will  find  a  friend  vnll  not  shrink  from  him. 

2  Gent.   Who  may  that  be,  I  pray  you  ? 

3  Gent.  Thomas  Cromwell ; 
A  man  in  much  esteem  with  the  king,  and  truly 
A  worthy  friend.  —  The  king 

Has  made  him  master  o'the  jewel-house. 
And  one,  already,  of  the  privy-council. 

2  Gent.   He  will  deserve  more. 

3  Gent.  Yes,  without  all  doubt. 
Come,  gentlemen,  ye  shall  go  my  way,  which 

Is  to  the  court,  and  there  ye  shall  be  my  guests ; 
Something  I  can  command.  As  I  walk  thitlier, 
I'll  tell  ye  more. 

Both.  You  may  command  us,  sir.   [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Kimbolton. 

Enter   Katharine,    Dowager,    sick ;    led   between 
Griffith  and  Patience. 

Grif.   How  does  your  grace  ? 

A^ath.  O,  Griflfith,  sick  to  death  : 

My  legs,  like  loaden  branches,  bow  to  the  earth. 
Willing  to  leave  their  burden  :    Reach  a  chair ;  — 
So,  —  now  methinks,  I  feel  a  little  ease. 
Didst  thou  not  tell  me,  Grifl5th,  as  thou  led'st  me. 
That  the  great  child  of  honour,  cardinal  Wolsey, 
Was  dead  ? 

Grif.   Yes,  madam  ;  but  I  think,  your  grace, 
Out  of  the  pain  you  suffer'd,  gave  no  ear  to't. 

ITath.  Pr'y  thee,  good  GriflBth,  tell  me  how  he  died: 
If  well,  he  stepp'd  before  me,  happily  9, 
For  my  example. 

Grif.  Well,  the  voice  goes,  madam : 

For  after  the  stout  earl  Northumberland 
Arrested  him  at  York,  and  brought  him  forward 
(As  a  man  sorely  tainted,)  to  his  answer. 
He  fell  sick  suddenly,  and  grew  so  ill 
He  could  not  sit  his  mule. 

A'ath.  Alas  !  poor  man  ! 

Gr^.  At  last,  with  easy  roads,  he  came  to  Leicester, 
Lodg'd  in  the  abbey  ;  where  tJie  reverend  abbot. 
With  all  his  convent,  honourably  receiv'd  him  ; 
To  whom  he  gave  tliesc  words,  —  0,  father  abbot. 
An  old  man,  broken  unth  t/te  slonns  of  state, 
Is  come  to  lay  his  weary  bones  among  ye  ; 
Give  him  a  little  earth  for  charity  ! 
So  went  to  bed  :   where  eagerly  his  sickne^ 
»  Haply. 


588 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  IV. 


Pursu'd  him  still ;  and  three  nights  after  this, 
About  the  hour  of  eight,  (which  he  himself 
Foretold  should  be  his  last,)  full  of  repentance. 
Continual  meditations,  tears,  and  sorrows, 
He  gave  his  honours  to  the  world  again, 
His  blessed  part  to  heaven,  and  slept  in  peace. 

Kath   So  may  he  rest ;  his  faults  lie  gently  on  him  ! 
Yet  thus  far,  Griffith,  give  me  leave  to  speak  him. 
And  yet  with  charity,  —  He  was  a  man 
Of  an  unbounded  stomach,  ever  ranking 
Himself  with  princes  ;  one  that  by  suggestion 
Ty'd  all  the  kingdom  :    simony  was  fair  play  ; 
His  own  opinion  was  his  law  ;   I'  the  presence  ^ 
He  would  say  untruths ;  and  be  ever  double 
Both  in  his  words  and  meaning  :    He  was  never, 
But  where  he  meant  to  ruin,  pitiful : 
His  promises  were,  as  he  then  was,  mighty ; 
But  his  performance,  as  he  is  now,  nothing. 

Grif.  Noble  madam. 

Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass ;  their  virtues 
We  write  in  water.      May  it  please  your  highness 
To  hear  me  speak  his  good  now  ? 

Kath.  Yes,  good  Griffith ; 

I  were  malicious  else. 

Grif.  This  cardinal, 

Tliough  from  an  humble  stock,  undoubtedly 
Was  fashion'd  to  much  honour.      From  his  cradle, 
He  was  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe  and  good  one ; 
Exceeding  wise,  fair  spoken,  and  persuading  : 
Lofty,  and  sour,  to  them  that  lov'd  him  not ; 
But,  to  those  men  that  sought  him,  sweet  as  summer. 
And  though  he  were  unsatisfied  in  getting, 
(Which  was  a  sin,)  yet  in  bestowing,  madam. 
He  was  most  princely :    Ever  witness  for  him 
Those  twins  of  learning,  that  he  raised  in  you, 
Ipswich,  and  Oxford  !  one  2  of  which  fell  with  him. 
Unwilling  to  outlive  the  good  that  did  it ; 
The  other,  though  unfinish'd,  yet  so  famous. 
So  excellent  in  art,  and  still  so  rising. 
That  Christendom  shall  ever  speak  his  virtue. 
His  overthrow  heap'd  happiness  upon  him  ; 
For  then,  and  not  till  then,  he  felt  himself. 
And  found  the  blessedness  of  being  little  : 
And,  to  add  greater  honours  to  his  age 
Than  man  could  give  him,  he  died,  fearing  God. 

Kath.   After  my  death  I  wish  no  other  herald. 
No  other  speaker  of  my  living  actions, 
To  keep  mine  honour  from  corruption. 
But  such  an  honest  chronicler  as  Griffith. 
Whom  I  most  hated  living,  thou  hast  made  me. 
With  thy  religious  truth,  and  modesty. 
Now  in  his  ashes  honour  :    Peace  be  with  him  !  — 
Patience,  be  near  me  still ;  and  set  me  lower : 
I  have  not  long  to  trouble  thee.  —  Good  Griffith, 
Cause  the  musicians  play  me  that  sad  note 
I  nam'd  my  knell,  whilst  I  sit  meditating 
On  that  celestial  harmony  I  go  to. 

Sad  and  solemn  Musick, 
Grif.   She  is  asleep  :   Good  wench,  let's  sit  down 
quiet. 
For  fear  we  wake  her  ;  —  Softly,  gentle  Patience. 

The  Vision.  Enter,  solemnly  tripping  one  after  an- 
other, six  Personages,  clad  in  white  robes,  wearing 
on  their  heads  garlands  of  bays  and  golden  vizards 
on  their  faces :  branches  of  bays  or  palm  in  their 
hands.  'They  first  congee  unto  her,  then  dance  ; 
and,  at  certain  changes,  the  first  two  hold  a  spare 
garland  over  her  head;  at  which,  the  other  four 
'  Of  the  king.  2  Ipswich 


7nake  reverend  courtesies ;  then  tJie  two  that  held  the 
garland,  deliver  the  same  to  the  other  next  ttoo,  who 
observe  the  same  order  in  their  changes,  and  holding 
the  garland  over  her  head  :  which  done,  they  deliver 
the  same  garland  to  the  last  two,  who  likeiviss  ob- 
serve the  same  order :  at  which,  {as  it  were  by 
inspiration, )  she  makes  in  her  sleep  signs  of  rejoicing, 
and  holdeth  up  her  hands  to  heaven :  and  so  in 
their  dancing  they  vanish,  carrying  the  garland 
with  them.      The  musick  continues. 

Kath.   Spirits  of  peace,  where  are  ye?   Are  ye  all 
gone? 
And  leave  me  here  in  wretchedness  behind  ye  ? 

Grif.   Madam,  we  are  here. 

Kath.  It  is  not  you  I  call  for  t  \ 

Saw  ye  none  enter,  since  I  slept  ? 

Grif.  None,  madam. 

Kath.  No?  Saw  you  not,  even  now,  a  blessed  troop. 
Invite  me  to  a  banquet ;  whose  bright  faces 
Cast  thousand  beams  upon  me,  like  the  sun  ? 
They  promis'd  me  eternal  happiness  ; 
And  brought  me  garlands,  Griffith,  which  I  feel 
I  am  not  worthy  yet  to  wear  :    I  shall. 
Assuredly. 

Grif.  I  am  most  joyful,  madam,  such  good  dreams 
Possess  your  fancy. 

Kath.  Bid  the  musick  leave. 

They  are  harsh  and  heavy  to  me.        [Musick  ceases. 

Pat.  Do  you  note, 

How  much  her  grace  is  alter'd  on  the  sudden  ? 
How  long  her  face  is  drawn?   How  pale  she  looks. 
And  of  an  earthy  cold?  Mark  you  her  eyes? 

Grif.    She  is  going,  wench  ;  pray,  pray. 

Pat.  Heaven  comfort  her  I 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   An't  like  your  grace,  — 

Kath.  You  are  a  saucy  fellow  : 

Deserve  we  no  more  reverence  ? 

Grif.  You  are  to  blame. 

Knowing,  she  will  not  lose  her  wonted  greatness, 
To  use  so  rude  behaviour :   go  to,  kneel. 

Mess.  I  humbly  do  entreat  your  highness'  pardon : 
My  haste  made  me  unmannerly  :  There  is  staying 
A  gentleman,  sent  from  the  king,  to  see  you. 

Kath.   Admit  him  entrance,   Griffith;     But  this 
fellow 
Let  me  ne'er  see  again. 

[Exeunt  Griffith  and  Messenger. 

Re-enter  Griffith,  ivith  Capucius. 

If  my  sight  fail  not. 
You  should  be  lord  ambassador  from  the  emperor, 
My  royal  nephew,  and  your  name  Capucius. 

Cap.   Madam,  the  same,  your  servant. 

Kath.  O,  my  lord, 

The  times,  and  titles,  now  are  alter'd  strangely 
With  me,  since  first  you  knew  me.   But,  I  pray  you,  ; 
What  is  your  pleasure  with  me  ? 

Cap.  Noble  lady, 

First,  mine  own  service  to  your  grace ;  the  next. 
The  king's  request  that  I  would  visit  you  ; 
Who  grieves  much  for  your  weakness,  and  by  me 
Sends  you  his  princely  commendations, 
And  heartily  entreats  you  take  good  comfort. 

Kath.   O  my  good  lord,  that  comfort  comes  too 
late ; 
'Tis  like  a  pardon  after  execution  : 
Tliat  gentle  physick,  given  in  time,  had  cur'd  me  j 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


589. 


But  now  I  am  past  all  comforts  Iicre,  but  prayers. 
How  does  his  highness? 

Cap.  Madam,  in  good  health. 

Kalh.   So  may  he  ever  do  !  and  ever  flourish, 
When  I  shall  dwell  with  worms,  and  my  poor  name 
Banish'd  the  kingdom  !  —  Patience,  is  tliat  letter, 
I  caus'd  you  write,  yet  sent  away  ? 

Pat.  No,  madam. 

[Givin-g  it  to  Katharine. 

ITath.    Sir,  I  most  humbly  pray  you  to  deliver 
This  to  my  lord  the  king. 

Cap.  Most  willing,  madam. 

JCath.  In  which  I  have  commended  to  his  goodness 
The  model  of  our  chaste  loves,  his  young  daugh- 
ter 3 :  — 
The  dews  of  heaven  fall  thick  in  blessings  on  her !  — 
IJeseeching  him,  to  give  her  virtuous  breeding ; 
(Slie  is  young,  and  of  a  noble  modest  nature; 
I  hope,  she  will  deserve  well ;)  and  a  little 
To  love  her  for  her  motlier's  sake,  that  lov'd  him, 
Heaven  knows  how  dearly.      My  next  poor  petition 
Is,  that  his  noble  grace  would  have  some  pity 
Upon  my  wretched  women,  that  so  long 
Have  foUow'd  both  my  fortunes  faithfully  : 
Of  which  there  is  not  one,  I  dare  avow, 
(And  now  I  should  not  lie,)  but  will  deserve 
For  virtue,  and  true  beauty  of  the  soul. 
For  honesty,  and  decent  carriage, 
A  right  good  husband,  let  him  be  a  noble ; 


And,  sure,  those  men  are  happy  that  shall  have  them. 
Tlie  last  is,  for  my  men  :  —  they  arc  the  poorest. 
But  poverty  could  never  draw  them  from  me  ;  — 
That  tliey  may  have  their  wages  duly  paid  them. 
And  something  over  to  remember  me  by ; 
If  heaven  had  pleas'd  to  have  given  me  longer  life. 
And  able  means,  we  had  not  parted  thus. 
These  are  the  whole  contents :  —  And,  good  my 

lord, 
By  that  you  love  the  dearest  in  this  world. 
As  you  wish  christian  peace  to  souls  departed,. 
Stand  these  poor  people's  friend,  and  urge  the  king 
To  do  me  this  last  right. 

Cap.  By  heaven,  I  will  ; 

Or  let  me  lose  the  fashion  of  a  man  ! 

ITath.   1  thank  you,  honest  lord.     Remember  me 
In  all  humility  unto  liis  highness  : 
Say,  his  long  trouble  now  is  passing 
Out  of  this  world  :   tell  him,  in  death  I  bless'd  him. 
For  so  I  will.  — Mine  eyes  grow  dim.  —  Farewell, 
My  lord.  —  Griffith,  farewell.  —  Nay,  Patience, 
You  must  not  leave  me  yet.      I  must  to  bed ; 

Call  in  more  women When  I  am  dead,  good  wench. 

Let  me  be  us'd  with  honour  ;  strew  me  over 
With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  know 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave  :   embalm  me. 
Then  lay  me  forth  :   although  unqueen'd,  yet  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me. 
I  can  no  more. [Exeunt,  leading  Katharine. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Gallery  in  the  Palace. 

Enter   Gardiner,   Bishop  of  Winchester,  a  Page 
tviih  a  Torch  before  him,    met   by   Sir   Thomas 

LoVELL. 

Gar.    It's  one  o'clock,  boy,  is't  not  ? 

Hoy.  It  hath  struck. 

Gar.   These  should  be  hours  for  necessities. 
Not  for  delights  ;  times  to  repair  our  nature 
With  comforting  repose,  and  not  for  us 
To  waste  these  times.  —  Good  hour  of  night,  sir 

Thomas ! 
Whither  so  late  ? 

Lov.  Came  you  from  the  king,  my  lord  ? 

Gar.   I  did,  sir  Thomas;  and  left  him  at  primero  * 
With  the  duke  of  Suffolk. 

Lov.  I  must  to  him  too. 

Before  he  go  to  bed.     I'll  take  my  leave. 

Gar.    Not  yet,  sir  Thomas  Lovell.      What's  the 
matter  ? 
It  seems,  you  are  in  haste  :   an  if  there  be 
No  great  offence  belongs  to't,  give  your  friend 
Some  touch  of  your  late  business  :  Affairs,  that  walk 
(As,  they  say,  spirits  do,)  at  midnight,  have 
In  them  a  wilder  nature,  than  the  business 
That  seeks  despatch  by  day. 

J.ov.  My  lord,  I  love  you  ; 

And  durst  commend  a  secret  to  your  car 
Much  weightier  than  tliis  work.     The  queen's  in 

labour, 
They  say,  in  great  extremity  ;  and  fear'd. 
She'll  with  the  labour  end. 

Gar.  The  fruit,  she  goes  witli, 

I  pray  for  heartily  ;  that  it  may  find 
Good  time,  and  live :  but  for  the  stock,  sir  Thomas, 
I  wish  it  grubb'd  up  now. 

3  Afterwards  queen  Mary.  *■  A  game  at  cardi. 


Lov.  Methinks,  I  could 

Cry  the  amen  ;  and  yet  my  conscience  says 
She's  a  good  creature,  and,  sweet  lady,  does 
Deserve  our  better  wishes. 

Gar.  But,  sir,  sir,  — 

Hear  me,  sir  Thomas :   you  are  a  gentleman 
Of  mine  own  way  ;   I  know  you  wise,  religious  ; 
And,  let  me  tell  you,  it  will  ne'er  be  well,  — 
'Twill  not,  sir  Thomas  Lovell,  take't  of  me. 
Till  Cranmer,  Cromwell,  her  two  hands,  and  she. 
Sleep  in  their  graves. 

Lov.  Now,  sir,  you  speak  of  tw  o 

The  most  remark'd  i'the  kingdom.     As  for  Crom- 
well, — 
Beside  that  of  the  jewel-house,  he's  made  master 
O'the  rolls,  and  the  king's  secretary  :   further,  sir. 
Stands  in  the  gap  and  trade  of  more  preferments. 
With  which  the  time  will  load  him  :    The  archbishop 
Is  the  king's  hand,  and  tongue;  And  who  dare  speak 
One  syllable  against  him? 

Gar.  Yes,  yes,  sir  Thomas, 

There  are  that  dare  ;  and  I  myself  have  ventur'd 
To  speak  my  mind  of  him  :   and,  indeed,  this  day. 
Sir,  (I  may  tell  it  you,)  I  think,  1  have 
Incens'd  *  the  lords  o'the  council,  that  he  is 
( For  so  I  know  he  is,  they  know  he  is,) 
A  most  arch  heretick,  a  pestilence 
That  does  infect  the  land  :  with  which  they  moved. 
Have  broken  with  ^  tiie  king  ;  who  hath  so  far 
Given  car  to  our  complaint,  (of  his  great  grace 
And  princely  care;  foreseeing  those  fell  mischiefs. 
Our  reasons  laid  before  him,)  he  hath  commanded, 
To-morrow  morning  to  the  council-board 
He  be  convented.  '     He's  a  rank  weed,  sir  Thomas, 
And  we  must  root  him  out.      PVom  your  affairs 
I  hinder  you  too  long :   good  night,  sir  Thomas. 
»  Set  on.        «  ToM  their  mindt  ta        7  Summoned. 


590 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  V. 


Lov.   Many  good  nights,  my  lord ;   I  rest  your 
servant.      [Exeunt  Gardiner  anrf  Page. 

As   LovELL  is  going  out,  enter   the   King  and  the 
Duke  of  Suffolk. 

JT.  Hen.   Charles,  I  will  play  no  more  to-night ; 
My  mind's  not  on't,  you  are  too  hard  for  me. 

Suf.    I  did  never  win  of  you  before. 

K.  Hen.    But  little,  Charles  ; 
Nor  shall  not,  when  my  fancy's  on  my  play.  — 
Now,  Lovell,  from  the  queen  what  is  the  news  ? 

Lov.    I  could  not  personally  deliver  to  her 
What  you  commanded  me,  but  by  her  woman 
I  sent  your  message  ;  who  return'd  her  thanks 
In  the  greatest  humbleness,  and  desir'dyour  highness 
Most  heartily  to  pray  for  her, 

K.  Hen.  What  say'st  thou  ?  ha  ! 

To  pray  for  her  ?  what,  is  she  crying  out  ? 

Lov.   So  said  her  woman  ;  and  that  her  sufferance 
made 
Almost  each  pang  a  death. 

K.  Hen.  Alas,  good  lady  ! 

Suf.    God  safely  quit  her  of  her  burden,  and 
With  gentle  travail,  to  the  gladding  of 
Your  highness  with  an  heir  ! 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  midnight,  Charles, 

Pr'ythee,  to  bed  ;  and  in  thy  prayers  remember 
The  estate  of  my  poor  queen.      Leave  me  alone  ; 
For  I  must  think  of  that,  which  company 
Will  not  be  friendly  to. 

Suf.  I  wish  your  highness 

A  quiet  night,  and  my  good  mistress  will 
Remember  in  my  prayers. 

K.  Hen.  Charles,  good  night. 

l^Exit  Suffolk. 
Enter  Sir  Anthony  Denny. 
Well,  sir,  what  follows  ? 

Den.  Sir,  I  have  brought  my  lord  the  archbishop, 
As  you  commanded  me. 

JC.  Hen.  Ha!   Canterbury? 

Den.    Ay^  my  good  lord. 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  true  :   Where  is  he,  Denny  ? 

Den.   He  attends  your  highness'  pleasure. 

K.  Hen.  Bring  him  to  us. 

[Exit  Denny. 

Lov.   This  is  about  that  which  the  bishop  spake  ; 
I  am  happily  come  hither.  [Aside. 

Re-enter  Denny,  wUh  Cranmer. 

K.  Hen.  Avoid  the  gallery, 

[LovELL  seems  to  stay. 
Ha !  —  I  have  said.  —  Be  gone. 
What —  [Exeunt  Lovell  and  Denny. 

Cran.  I  am  fearful :  —  Wherefore  frowns  he  thus  ? 
Tis  his  aspect  of  terror.      All's  not  well. 

K.  Hen.   How  now,  my  lord?  You  do  desire  to 
know 
Wherefore  I  sent  for  you. 

Cran.  It  is  my  duty, 

To  attend  your  highness'  pleasure. 

K.  Hen.  Pray  you,  arise, 

My  good  and  gracious  lord  of  Canterbury. 
Come,  you  and  I  must  walk  a  turn  together ; 
I  have  news  to  tell  you  :  Come,  come,  give  me  your 

hand. 
Ah,  my  good  lord,  I  grieve  at  what  I  speak, 
And  am  right  sorry  to  repeat  what  follows : 
I  have,  and  most  unwillingly,  of  late 
Heard  many  grievous,  I  do  say,  my  lord, 


Grievous  complaints  of  you ;  which,  being  consider'd, 
Have  mov'd  us  and  our  council,  that  you  shall 
This  morning  come  before  us  ;  where,  I  know, 
You  cannot  with  such  freedom  purge  yourself. 
But  that,  till  further  trial,  in  those  charges 
Which  will  require  your  answer,  you  must  take 
Your  patience  to  you,  and  be  well  contented 
To  make  your  house  our  I'ower  :   You  a  brother  of 

us  8, 

It  fits  we  thus  proceed,  or  else  no  witness 
Would  come  against  you. 

Cran.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness ; 

And  am  right  glad  to  catch  this  good  occasion 
Most  throughly  to  be  winnow'd,  where  my  chaff 
And  corn  shall  fly  asunder  :   for,  J  know, 
There's  none  stands  under  more  calumnious  tongues, 
Than  I  myself,  poor  man. 

K.  Hen.  Stand  up,  good  Canterbury; 

Thy  truth,  and  thy  integrity,  is  rooted 
In  us,  thy  friend  :    Give  me  thy  hand,  stand  up  ; 
Pr'ythee,  let's  walk.      Now,  by  my  holy-dame, 
What  manner  of  man  are  you  ?  My  lord,  I  look'd 
You  would  have  given  me  your  petition,  that 
I  should  have  ta'en  some  pains  to  bring  together 
Yourself  and  your  accusers  ;  and  to  have  heard  you 
Without  indurance,  further. 

Cran.  Most  dread  liege. 

The  good  I  stand  on  is  my  truth,  and  honesty ; 
If  they  shall  fail,  I,  with  mine  enemies. 
Will  triumph  o'er  my  person ;  which  I  weigh  not. 
Being  of  those  virtues  vacant.      I  fear  nothing 
What  can  be  said  against  me. 

K.  Hen.  Know  you  not  how 

Your  state  stands i'the  world,  with  the  whole  world? 
Your  enemies 

Are  many,  and  not  small ;  their  practices 
Must  bear  the  same  proportion :   and  not  ever 
The  justice  and  the  truth  o'the  question  cairies 
The  due  o'the  verdict  with  it :    At  what  ease 
Might  corrupt  minds  procure  knaves  as  corrupt 
To  swear  against  you  ?  such  things  have  been  done. 
You  are  potently  oppos'd  ;  and  with  a  malice 
Of  as  great  size.      Ween  9  you  of  better  treatment, 
I  mean  in  perjur'd  witness,  than  your  Master, 
Whose  minister  you  are,  whiles  here  he  liv'd 
Upon  this  naughty  earth  ?   Go  to,  go  to  ; 
You  take  a  precipice  for  no  leap  of  danger. 
And  woo  your  own  destruction. 

Cran.  God,  and  your  majesty, 

Protect  mine  innocence,  or  I  fall  into 
The  trap  is  laid  for  me  ! 

K.  Hen.  Be  of  good  cheer ; 

They  shall  no  more  prevail,  than  we  give  way  to. 
Keep  comfort  to  you  ;  and  this  morning  see 
You  do  appear  before  them  :   if  they  shall  chance, 
In  charging  you  with  matters,  to  commit  you. 
The  best  persuasions  to  the  contrary 
Fail  not  to  use,  and  with  what  vehemency 
The  occasion  shall  instruct  you  :   if  entreaties 
Will  render  you  no  remedy,  this  ring 
Deliver  them,  and  your  appeal  to  us 
There  make  before  them.  —  Look,  the  good  man 

weeps  ! 
He's  honest,  on  mine  honour. 
I  swear,  he  is  true-hearted ;  and  a  soul 
None  better  in  my  kingdom.  —  Get  you  gone. 
And  do  as  I  have  bid  you.  —  [Exit  Cranmer.]   He 

has  strangled 
His  language  in  his  tears. 

s  One  of  the  council.  ^  Think. 


Scene  II. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


591 


Enter  an  old  Lady. 

Gent.    [IFithin.]    Comeback;   What  mean  you  ? 

Lady.    I'll  not  come  back  :  the  tidings  that  I  bring 
Will  make  my  boldness  manners.  —  Now    good 

angels 
Fly  o'er  thy  royal  head,  and  shade  thy  person 
Under  their  blessed  wings  ! 

K.  Hen.  Now,  by  thy  looks 

I  guess  thy  message.      Is  the  queen  deliver'd  ? 
Say,  ay  ;  and  of  a  boy. 

Lady.  Ay,  ay,  my  liege  ; 

And  of  a  lovely  boy  :    The  God  of  heaven 
Both  now  and  ever  bless  her  !  —  'tis  a  girl, 
Promises  boys  hereafter.      Sir,  your  queen 
Desires  your  visitation,  and  to  be 
Acquainted  with  this  stranger ;  'tis  as  like  you 
As  cherry  is  to  cherry. 

K.  Hen.  Lovell,  — 

Enter  Lovell. 

I.ov.  Sir. 

K.  Hen.   Give  her  an  hundred  marks.    I'll  to  the 
queen.  [Exit  King. 

Lady.    An    hundred  marks !  by  this  light,  I'll 
have  more. 
An  ordinary  groom  is  for  such  payment. 
I  will  have  more,  or  scold  it  out  of  him. 
Said  I  for  this,  the  girl  is  like  to  him  ? 
I  will  have  more,  or  else  unsay't ;  and  now 
While  it  is  hot,  I'll  put  it  to  the  issue.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.  —  Lobby  before  the  Council-Chamber. 

Enter  Cranmer  ;  Servants,  Door-Keeper,  ^c. 
attending. 

Cran.   I  hope,  I  am  not  too  late ;  and  yet  the  gen- 
tleman, 
That  was  sent  to  me  from  the  council,  pray'd  me 
To  make  great  haste.     All  fast  ?  what  means  this  ? 

—  Hoa! 
Who  waits  there  ?  —  Sure  you  know  me  ? 

D.  Keep.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

But  yet  I  cannot  help  you. 

Cran.  Why? 

D.  JTeeju  Your  grace  must  wait  till  you  be  call'd 
for. 

Enter  Doctor  Butts. 

Cran.  So. 

Butts.   This  is  a  piece  of  malice,  I  am  glad 
T  came  this  way  so  happily :    The  king 
Shall  understand  it  presently.  [Exit  Butts. 

Cra7i.   [yiside.]  'Tis  Butts, 

Tlie  king's  physician  :    As  he  past  along, 
How  earnestly  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  me  ! 
Pray  heaven,  he  sound  not  my  disgrace  !  For  certain, 
Tliis  is  of  purpose  lay'd,  by  some  that  hate  me, 
(God  turn  their  hearts!  I  never  sought  their  malice,) 
To  quench  mine  honour :  they  would  shame  to  make 

me 
Wait  else  at  door  ;  a  fellow-counsellor, 
Among    boys,  grooms,  and    lackeys.       But    their 

pleasures 
Must  be  fulfiU'd,  and  I  attend  with  patience. 

Enterj  at  a  Window  d>ove,  the  Kino  and  Butts. 
Butts.  I'll  show  your  grace  the  strangest  sight,  — 
IT.  Hen.  What's  that,  Butts? 

Butts.  I  think  your  highness  saw  this  many  a  day. 


JT.  Hen.   Body  o'  me,  where  is  it  ? 

Butts.  There,  my  lord  : 

The  high  promotion  of  his  grace  of  Canterbury  ; 
Who  holds  his  state  at  door,  'mongst  pursuivants, 
Pages,  and  foot-boys. 

JC.  Hen.  Ha  !  'Tis  he,  indeed  : 

Is  this  the  honour  they  do  one  another  ? 
'Tis  well,  there's  one  above  them  yet.    I  had  thought, 
They  had  parted  so  much  honesty  amongst  them, 
(At  least,  good  manners,)  as  not  thus  to  suffer 
A  man  of  his  place,  and  so  near  our  favour, 
To  dance  attendance  on  their  lordships'  pleasures. 
And  at  the  door  too,  like  a  post  with  packets. 
By  holy  Mary,  Butts,  there's  knavery  : 
Let  them  alone,  and  draw  the  curtain  close  ; 
We  shall  hear  more  anon.  —  [Exeunt. 

The  Council-Chamber. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  Duke  of  Suffolk, 
Earl  of  Surrey,  Lord  Chamberlain,  GARniNER, 
and  Cromwell.  The  Chancellor  places  himself 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  Table^  on  the  left  hand;  a 
Seat  being  left  void  above  him,  as  for  llie  Archbi- 
shop OF  Canterbury.  The  rest  seat  themselves  in 
order  on  each  side.  Cromwell  at  the  lower  end, 
as  Secretary. 

Chan.   Speak  to  the  business,  master  secretary : 
Why  are  we  met  in  council  ? 

Crom.  Please  your  honours. 

The  chief  cause  concerns  his  grace  of  Canterbury. 

Gar.   Has  he  had  knowledge  of  it  ? 

Crom.  Yes. 

iVbr.  Who  waits  there  ? 

D.  Keep.   Without,  my  noble  lords  ? 

Gar.  Yes. 

D.  Keep.  My  lord  archbishop  , 

And  has  done  half  an  hour,  to  know  your  pleasures 

Chan.   Let  him  come  in. 

D.  Keep.  Your  grace  may  enter  now. 

[Cranmer  apjyroaches  the  Council-  Table. 

Chan.   My  good  lord  archbishop,  I  am  very  sorry 
To  sit  here  at  this  present,  and  behold 
That  chair  stand  empty  :   But  we  all  are  men. 
In  our  own  natures  frail ;  out  of  which  frailty, 
And  want  of  wisdom,  you,  that  best  should  teach  us. 
Have  misdemean'd  yourself,  and  not  a  little. 
Toward  the  king  first,  then  his  laws,  in  filling 
The  whole  realm,  by  your  teaching,  and  your  chap 

lains, 
(  For  so  we  are  inform'd,)  with  new  opinions. 
Divers  and  dangerous,  which  are  heresies, 
And,  not  reform 'd,  may  prove  pernicious. 

Gar.   Which  reformation  must  be  sudden  too, 
My  noble  lords :   for  those  that  tame  wild  horses. 
Pace  tliem  not  in  their  hands  to  make  them  gentle  ; 
But  stop  their  moutlis  with  stubborn  bits,  and  spur 

them. 
Till  they  obey  tlie  manage.      If  we  suffer 
(Out  of  our  easiness  and  childish  pity 
To  one  man's  honour)  tliis  contagious  sickness. 
Farewell,  all  physick  :    And  what  follows  then? 
Commotions,  uproars,  with  a  general  taint 
Of  tlie  whole  state  :  as,  of  late  days,  our  neighbours. 
The  upper  Germany,  can  dearly  witness, 
Yet  freshly  pitied  in  our  memories. 

Cran.   Rly  good  lords,  hitherto,  in  all  the  progress 
Both  of  my  life  and  office,  I  have  labour'd. 
And  with  no  little  study,  tliat  my  teaching. 
And  the  strong  course  of  my  authority, 


592 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


Act  V. 


Might  go  one  way,  and  safely  ;  and  the  end 

Was  ever,  to  do  well :   nor  is  tlicrc  living 

(I  speak  it  with  a  single  heart,  my  lords,) 

A  man,  that  more  detests,  more  stirs  against. 

Both  in  his  private  conscience,  and  his  place, 

Defacers  of  a  public  peace,  than  I  do. 

'Pray  heaven,  the  king  may  never  find  a  heart 

With  less  allegiance  in  it !   Men,  that  make 

Envy,  and  crooked  malice,  nourishment, 

Dare  bite  the  best.      I  do  beseech  your  lordships, 

That,  in  this  case  of  justice,  my  accusers, 

Be  what  they  will,  may  stand  forth  face  to  face, 

And  freely  urge  against  me. 

Suf.  Nay,  my  lord, 

That  cannot  be  ;  you  are  a  counsellor, 
And,  by  that  virtue,  no  man  dare  accuse  you. 

Gar.   My  lord,  because  we  have  business  of  more 
moment. 
We  will   be    short  with   you.     'Tis  his  highness' 

pleasure, 
And  our  consent,  for  better  trial  of  you. 
From  hence  you  be  committed  to  the  Tower  j 
Where,  being  but  a  private  man  again. 
You  shall  know  many  dare  accuse  you  boldly, 
More  than,  I  fear,  you  are  provided  for. 

Cran.   Ah,  my  good  lord  of  Winchester,  I  thank 
you. 
You  are  always  my  good  friend  ;  if  your  will  pass, 
I  shall  both  find  your  lordship  judge  and  juror. 
You  are  so  merciful :    I  see  your  end, 
'Tis  my  undoing  :   Love,  and  meekness,  lord, 
Become  a  churchman  better  than  ambition ; 
Win  straying  souls  with  modesty  again, 
Cast  none  away.      That  I  shall  clear  myself. 
Lay  all  the  weight  ye  can  upon  my  patience, 
I  make  as  little  doubt,  as  you  do  conscience, 
In  doing  daily  wrongs.      I  could  say  more. 
But  reverence  to  your  calling  makes  me  modest. 

Gar.   My  lord,  my  lord,  you  are  a  sectary. 
That's  the  plain  truth ;  your  painted  gloss  discovers, 
To  men  that  understand  you,  words  and  weakness. 

Crom.   My  lord  of  Winchester,  you  are  a  little, 
By  your  good  favour,  too  sharp  ;  men  so  noble, 
However  faulty,  yet  should  find  respect 
For  what  they  have  been  :   'tis  a  cruelty, 
To  load  a  falling  man. 

Gar.  Good  master  secretary, 

I  cry  your  honour  mercy ;  you  may,  worst 
Of  all  this  table,  say  so. 

Crom.  Why,  my  lord  ? 

Gar.   Do  not  I  know  you  for  a  favourer 
Of  this  new  sect  ?  ye  are  not  sound. 

Crom.  Not  sound  ? 

Gar.   Not  sound,  I  say. 

Crom.  'Would  you  were  half  so  honest! 

Men's  prayers  then  would  seek  you,  not  their  fears. 

Gar.   I  shall  remember  this  bold  language. 

Crom.  Do. 

Remember  your  bold  life  too. 

C/ian.  This  is  too  much  ; 

Forbear,  for  shame,  my  lords. 

Gar.  I  have  done. 

Crom.  And  I. 

Chan.   Then  thus  for  you,  my  lord,  —  It  stands 
agreed, 
I  take  it,  by  all  voices,  that  forthwith 
You  be  convey'd  to  the  Tower  a  prisoner ; 
There  to  remain,  till  the  king's  further  pleasure 
Be  known  unto  us  :    Are  you  all  agreed,  lords  ? 

Jill.   We  are. 


Cran.  Is  there  no  other  way  of  mercy, 

But  I  must  needs  to  the  Tower,  my  lords? 

Gar.  What  other 

Would  you  expect?  You  are  strangely  troublesome ! 
Let  some  o'the  guard  be  ready  there. 

Eiiter  Guard. 

Cran.  For  me? 

Must  I  go  like  a  traitor  thither  ? 

Gar.  Receive  him. 

And  see  him  safe  i'the  Tower. 

Cran.  Stay,  good  my  lor 

I  have  a  little  yet  to  say.     Look  there,  my  lords  ; 
By  virtue  of  that  ring,  I  take  my  cause 
Out  of  the  gripes  of  cruel  men,  and  give  it 
To  a  most  noble  judge,  the  king  my  master. 

Cham.   This  is  the  king's  ring. 

Sur.  'Tis  no  counterfeit. 

Suf.  'Tis  the  right  ring,  by  heaven  :  I  told  ye  all. 
When  we  first  put  this  dangerous  stone  a  rolling, 
'Twould  fall  upon  ourselves. 

Nor.  Do  you  think,  my  lords, 

The  king  will  suffer  but  the  little  finger 
Of  this  man  to  be  vex'd? 

Cham.  'Tis  now  too  certain  : 

How  much  more  is  his  life  in  value  with  him  ? 
'Would  I  were  fairly  out  on't. 

Crom.  My  mind  gave  me. 

In  seeking  tales,  and  informations, 
Against  this  man,  (whose  honesty  the  devil 
And  his  disciples  only  envy  at,) 
Ye  blew  the  fire  that  burns  ye  :   Now  have  at  ye. 

Enter  'K.nso,  frowning  on  them;  takes  his  Seat. 

Gar.   Dread  sovereign,  how  much  are  we  bound 
to  heaven 
In  daily  thanks,  that  gave  us  such  a  prince  ; 
Not  only  good  and  wise,  but  most  religious : 
One  that,  in  all  obedience,  makes  the  church 
The  chief  aim  of  his  honour ;  and,  to  strengthen 
That  holy  duty,  out  of  dear  respect, 
His  royal  self  in  judgment  comes  to  hear 
The  cause  betwixt  her  and  this  great  offender. 

K.  Hen.  You  were  ever  good  at  sudden  commend- 
ations. 
Bishop  of  Winchester.      But  know,  I  come  not 
To  hear  such  flattery  now,  and  in  my  presence ; 
They  are  too  thin  and  base  to  hide  offences. 
To  me  you  cannot  reach,  you  play  the  spaniel. 
And  think  with  wagging  of  your  tongue  to  win  me  ; 
But,  whatsoe'er  thou  tak'st  me  for,  I  am  sure. 
Thou  hast  a  cruel  nature,  and  a  bloody.  — 
Goodman,  \^To  Cranmer.]  sit  down.    Now  let  me 

see  the  proudest 
He,  that  dares  most,  but  wag  his  finger  at  thee  : 
By  all  that's  holy,  he  had  better  starve. 
Than  but  once  think  this  place  becomes  thee  not. 

Sur.   May  it  please  your  grace,  — 

K.  Hen.  No,  sir,  it  does  not  please  me. 

I  had  thought,   I  had   had   men  of   some  under- 
standing 
And  wisdom,  of  my  council ;  but  I  find  none. 
Was  it  discretion,  lords,  to  let  this  man, 
This  good  man,  (few  of  you  deserve  that  title,) 
This  honest  man,  wait  like  a  lousy  footboy 
At  chamber  door  ?  and  one  as  great  as  you  are  ? 
Why,  what  a  shame  was  this  ?  Did  my  commission 
Bid  ye  so  far  forget  yourselves  ?  I  gave  ye 
Power  as  he  was  a  counsellor  to  try  him. 
Not  as  a  groom  ;   There's  some  of  ye,  I  see, 


I 


Scene  III. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


593 


More  out  of  malice  tlian  integrity, 

Would  try  him  to  the  utmost,  had  ye  mean ; 

Which  ye  shall  never  have,  while  I  live. 

Chan.  Thus  far, 

My  most  dread  sovereign,  may  it  like  your  grace 
To  let  my  tongue  excuse  all.      What  was  purpos'd 
Concerning  his  imprisonment,  was  rather 
(If  there  be  faith  in  men)  meant  for  his  trial. 
And  fair  purgation  to  the  world,  than  malice  ; 
I  am  sure,  in  me. 

IT.  Hen.  Well,  well,  my  lords,  respect  him ; 

Take  him,  and  use  him  well,  he's  worthy  of  it. 
I  will  say  thus  much  for  him.   If  a  prince 
May  be  beholden  to  a  subject,  I 
Am,  for  his  love  and  service,  so  to  him. 
Make  me  no  more  ado,  but  all  embrace  him  ; 
Be  friends,  for  shame,  my  lords.  —  My  lord  of  Can- 
terbury, 
I  have  a  suit  which  you  must  not  deny  me ; 
That  is,  a  fair  young  maid  that  yet  wants  baptism. 
You  must  be  godfatlier,  and  answer  for  her. 

Cran.  The  greatest  monarch  now  alive  may  glory 
In  such  an  honour ;   How  may  I  deserve  it. 
That  am  a  poor  and  humble  subject  to  you  ? 

iT.  Hen.  Come,  come,  my  lord,  you'd  spare  your 
spoons ' ;  you  shall  have 
Two  noble  partners  with  you  ;  the  old  duchess  of 

Norfolk, 
And  lady  marquis  Dorset ;  Will  these  please  you  ? 
Once  mofe,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  1  charge  you. 
Embrace,  and  love  this  man. 

Gar.  With  a  true  heart, 

And  brother-love,  I  do  it. 

Cran.  And  let  heaven 

Witness,  how  dear  I  hold  tliis  confirmation. 

IT.  Hen.   Good  man,  those  joyful  tears  show  thy 
true  heart. 
The  common  voice,  I  see,  is  verified 
Of  thee,  which  says  thus.  Do  mi/ lord  of  Canterbury 
yl  shretvd  turn,  and  he  is  your  friend  for  ever.  — 
Come,  lords,  we  trifle  time  away  ;    I  long 
To  have  this  young  one  made  a  Christian. 
As  I  have  made  ye  one,  lords,  one  remain ; 
So  I  grow  stronger,  you  more  honour  gain. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — The  Palace  Yard. 

Noise  and  Tumult  within.     Enter  Porter  and  his 
Man. 

Port.  You'll  leave  your  noise  anon,  ye  rascals  : 
Do  you  take  the  court  for  Paris-garden  *  ?  ye  rude 
slaves,  leave  your  gaping.  3 

[Within.]  Good  master  porter,  I  belong  to  the 
larder. 

Port.  Belong  to  the  gallows,  and  be  hanged,  you 
rogue  :  Is  this  the  place  to  roar  in  ?  —  Fetch  me  a 
dozen  crab- tree  staves,  and  strong  ones  ;  these  are 
but  switches  to  them.  —  I'll  scratch  your  heads  : 
You  must  be  seeing  christenings  ?  Do  you  look  for 
ale  and  cake  here,  you  rude  rascals  ? 

Man.  Pray,  sir,  be  patient ;  'tis  as  much  impossible 
(Unless  we  sweep  them  from  the  door  with  cannons,) 
To  scatter  them,  as  'tis  to  make  them  sleep 
On  May-day  morning  ;  which  will  never  be  : 
We  may  as  well  pusli  against  Paul's,  as  stir  them. 

Port.   How  got  they  in,  and  be  hang'd  ? 

'  It  was  an  ancient  custom  for  sponsors  to  present  tpooM  to 
their  god.childrcn. 
'  The  bear  garden  on  the  Bank-side.  >  Roaring. 


Man.    Alas,  I  know  not;   How  gets  the  tide  in? 
As  much  as  one  sound  cudgel  of  four  foot 
( You  see  the  poor  remainder)  could  distribute, 
I  made  no  spare,  sir. 

Port.  You  did  nothing,  sir. 

Man.  I  am  not  Samson,  nor  sir  Guy,  nor  Col- 
brand  ^,  to  mow  them  down  before  me  :  but,  if  I 
spared  any,  that  had  a  head  to  hit,  either  young 
or  old,  he  or  she,  let  me  never  hope  to  see  a  chine 
again. 

[fVithin.]    Do  you  hear,  master  porter? 

Port.  I  shall  be  with  you  presently,  good  master 
puppy.  —  Keep  the  door  close,  sirrali. 

Man.   What  would  you  have  me  do  ? 

Port.  What  should  you  do,  but  knock  them  down 
by  the  dozens  ?    Is  this  Moorfields  to  muster  in  ? 

Man.  There  is  a  fellow  somewhat  near  the  door, 
he  should  be  a  brazier  by  his  face,  for,  o'  my  con- 
science, twenty  of  the  dog-days  now  reign  in's 
nose ;  all  that  stand  about  him  are  under  tlie  line, 
they  need  no  other  penance  :  That  fire-drake  did  I 
hit  three  times  on  the  head,  and  three  times  was 
his  nose  discharged  against  me ;  he  stands  there, 
like  a  mortar-piece,  to  blow  us.  Tliere  was  a 
haberdasher's  wife  of  small  wit  near  him,  that  railed 
upon  me  till  her  pink'd  porringer  ^  fell  off  her  head, 
for  kindling  such  a  combustion  in  the  state.  I 
miss'd  the  meteor  6  once,  and  hit  that  woman,  who 
cried  out  clubs  !  when  I  might  see  from  far  some 
forty  truncheoneers  draw  to  her  succour,  which  were 
the  hope  of  the  Strand,  where  she  was  quartered. 
They  fell  on ;  I  made  good  my  place  ;  at  length 
they  came  to  the  broomstaft'  with  me,  I  defied  them 
still ;  when  suddenly  a  file  of  boys  behind  them, 
loose  shot,  delivered  such  a  shower  of  pebbles,  that 
I  was  fain  to  draw  mine  honour  in,  and  let  them 
win  the  work  :  The  devil  was  amongst  them,  I  think, 
surely. 

Port.  These  are  the  youths  that  thunder  at  a 
play-house,  and  fight  for  bitten  apples ;  that  no 
audience,  but  the  Tribulation  of  Tower-hill,  or  the 
limbs  of  Limehouse,  their  dear  brothers,  are  able  to 
endure.  I  have  some  of  them  in  Limbo  Patrum  7, 
and  there  they  are  like  to  dance  these  three  days ; 
besides  the  running  banquet  of  two  beadles  ^,  diat 
is  to  come. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Mercy  o'  me,  what  a  multitude  are  here ! 
They  grow  still  too,  from  all  parts  they  are  coming. 
As  if  we  kept  a  fair  here  !  Where  are  these  porters. 
These  lazy  knaves  ?  —  Ye  have  made  a  fine  hand, 

fellows. 
There's  a  trim  rabble  let  in  :   Are  all  these 
Your  faithful  friends  o'  the  suburbs  ?  We  shall  have 
Great  store  of  room,  no  doubt,  left  for  the  ladies, 
When  they  pass  back  from  the  christening. 

Port.  A  n't  please  your  honour, 

We  are  but  men ;  and  what  so  many  may  do, 
Not  being  torn  a  pieces,  we  have  done  : 
An  army  cannot  rule  them. 

Cham.  As  I  live. 

If  the  king  blame  me  for't,  I'll  lay  ye  all 
By  the  heels,  and  suddenly  ;  and  on  your  heads 
Clap  round  fines,  for  neglect :    You  are  lazy  knaves; 
And  here  ye  lie  baiting  of  bombards  9,  when 

*  Guy  of  Warwick,  nor  Colbrand  the  Danish  giant 
»  Pink'd  cap.  «  The  hnirier. 

J  Place  of  confinement  «  A  dessert  of  whipping. 

»  Black  leather  vessels  to  hold  beer. 


594 


KING  IIENllY  VIII. 


Act  V. 


Ye  should  do  service.      Hark,  tlie  trumpets  sound; 
They  are  come  already  from  the  christening  : 
Go,  break  among  tlie  press,  and  find  a  way  out 
To  let  the  troop  pass  fairly  ;  or  I'll  find 
A  Marshalsea,  shall  hold  you  play  these  two  months. 

Port.   Make  way  tliere  for  tlie  princess. 

Man.  You'  great  fellow,  stand  close  up,  or  I'll 
make  your  head  ache. 

Port.  You  i*  the  camblet,  get  up  o'the  rail ;  I'll 
pick '  you  o'er  the  pales  else.  \^Exeimt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  The  Palace.  2 

Enter  Ti'umpets,  sounding;  then  two  Aldermen, 
Lord  Mayor,  Garter,  Cranmeu,  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk, witli  his  MarhaVs  Staff,  Duke  of  Suffolk, 
two  Noblemen  bearing  great  standing  Boivls  for 
the  Christening  Gifts;  then  four  Noblemen,  bear- 
ing a  Canopy,  under  which  the  Duchess  of  Nor- 
folk, Godmother,  bearing  the  Child  richly  habited  in 
a  Mantle,  ^c.  Train  borne  by  a  Lady  ;  then  follows 
the  Marchioness  of  Dorset,  the  other  Godmother, 
and  Ladies.  The  Troop  pass  once  about  the  Stage, 
and  Garter  speaks. 

Gart.  Heaven,  from  thy  endless  goodness,  send 
prosperous  life,  long,  and  ever  happy,  to  the  high 
and  mighty  princess  of  England,  Elizabeth. 

Flourish.     Enter  King,  and  Train. 

Cran.    [Kneeling.']   And  to  your  royal  grace,  and 
the  good  queen, 
My  noble  partners,  and  myself,  thus  pray :  — 
All  comfort,  joy,  in  this  most  gracious  lady. 
Heaven  ever  laid  up  to  make  parents  happy, 
May  hourly  fall  upon  ye  ! 

K.  Hen.  Thank  you,  good  lord  archbishop  ; 

What  is  her  name  ? 

Craii.  Elizabeth. 

K.  Hen.  Stand  up,  lord.  — 

[  The  King  kisses  the  Child. 
With  this  kiss  take  my  blessing  :  God  protect  thee  ! 
Into  whose  hands  I  give  thy  life. 

Cran.  Amen. 

K.  Hen.   My  noble   gossips,   ye   have  been    too 
prodigal  : 
I  thank  ye  heartily ;  so  shall  this  lady. 
When  she  has  so  much  English. 

Cran.  Let  me  speak,  sir, 

For  heaven  now  bids  me  ;  and  the  words  I  utter 
Let  none  think  flattery,  for  they'll  find  them  truth. 
This  royal  infant,  (Heaven  still  move  about  her  !) 
Though  in  her  cradle,  yet  now  promises 
Upon  this  land  a  thousand  thousand  blessings. 
Which  time  shall  bring  to  ripeness  :    She  shall  be 
(But  few  now  living  can  behold  that  goodness,) 
A  pattern  to  all  princes  living  with  her, 
And  all  that  shall  succeed  :    Sheba  was  never 
More  covetous  of  wisdom,  and  fair  virtue, 


Than  this  pure  soul  shall  be  :   all  princely  graces, 
That  mould  up  such  a  mighty  piece  as  this  is. 
With  all  the  virtues  that  attend  the  good. 
Shall  still  be  doubled  on  her :  truth  shall  nurse  her, 
Holy  and  heavenly  thoughts  still  counsel  her : 
She  shall  be  lov'd,  and  fear'd  :   Her  own  shall  bless 

her : 
Her  foes  shake  like  a  field  of  beaten  com, 
And  hang  their  heads  with  sorrow:   Good  grows 

with  her : 
In  her  days,  every  man  shall  eat  in  safety 
Under  his  own  vine,  what  he  plants ;  and  sing 
The  merry  songs  of  peace  to  all  his  neighbours. 
God  shall  be  truly  known ;  and  those  about  her 
From  her  shall  read  the  perfect  ways  of  honour, 
And  by  those  claim  their  greatness,  not  by  blood. 
[Nor  3  shall  this  peace  sleep  with 'her  :  But  as  when 
The  bird  of  wonder  dies,  the  maiden  phoenix, 
Her  ashes  new  create  another  heir. 
As  great  in  admiration  as  herself; 
So  shall  she  leave  her  blessedness  to  one, 
(When   heaven    shall  call   her  from  this  cloud  of 

darkness,) 
Who,  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  her  honour, 
Shall  star-like  rise,  as  great  in  fame  as  she  was. 
And  so  stand  fix'd :  Peace,  plenty,  love,  truth,  terror, 
That  were  the  servants  to  this  chosen  infant, 
Shall  then  be  his,  and  like  a  vine  grow  to  him  ; 
Wherever  the  bright  sun  of  heaven  shall  shine. 
His  honour  and  the  greatness  of  his  name 
Shall  be,  and  make  new  nations  :   He  shall  flourish. 
And,  like  a  mountain  cedar,  reach  his  branches 

To  all  the  plains  about  him : Our  children's 

children 
Shall  see  this,  and  bless  heaven. 

K.  Hen.  Thou  speakest  wonders.] 

Cran.   She  shall  be,  to  the  happiness  of  England, 
An  aged  princess ;  many  days  shall  see  her. 
And  yet  no  day  without  a  deed  to  crown  it. 
'Would  I  had  known  no  more  !  but  she  must  die. 
She  must,  the  saints  must  have  her;  yet  a  virgin, 
A  most  unspotted  lily  shall  she  pass 
To  the  ground,  and  all  the  world  shall  mourn  her. 

X.  Hen.    O  lord  archbishop. 
Thou  hast  made  me  now  a  man  ;  never,  before 
This  happy  child,  did  I  get  any  thing : 
This  oracle  of  comfort  has  so  pleas'd  me, 
That,  when  I  am  in  heaven,  I  shall  desire 
To  see  what  this  child  does,  and  praise  my  Maker.  — 
I  thank  ye  all :  —  To  you,  my  good  lord  mayor, 
And  your  good  brethren,  I  am  much  beholden ; 
I  have  received  much  honour  by  your  presence, 
And  ye  shall  find  me  thankful.    Lead  the  way,  lords; 
Ye  must  all  see  the  queen,  and  she  must  thank  ye, 
She^will  be  sick  else.      This  day,  no  man  think 
He  has  business  at  his  house ;  for  all  shall  stay  : 
This  little  one  shall  make  it  holiday.  [Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 


'Tis  ten  to  one,  this  play  can  never  please 
All  that  are  here  :    Some  come  to  take  their  ease. 
And  sleep  an  act  or  two ;  but  those,  we  fear, 
We  have  frighted  with  our  trumpets ;   so,  'tis  clear. 
They'll  say,  'tis  naught :   others,  to  hear  the  city 
Abus'd  extremely,  and  to  cry,  —  thaVs  witty/ 
Which  we  have  not  done  neither :   that,  I  fear. 
All  the  expected  good  we  are  like  to  hear 

1  Pitch.  2  At  Greenwich. 


For  this  play  at  this  time,  is  only  in 
The  merciful  construction  of  good  women  ; 
For  such  a  one  we  show'd  them  ;   If  they  smile. 
And  say,  'twill  do,  I  know,  within  a  while 
All  the  best  men  are  ours ;  for,  'tis  ill  hap. 
If  they  hold,  when  their  ladies  bid  them  clap. 

3  This  and  the  following  seventeen  lines  were  probably 
written  by  B.  Jonson,  after  the  accession  of  king  James. 


4^^ 


TKOILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Priam,  ITing  of  Troy. 

Hector, 

Troilus, 

Paris,  J-  his  Sons, 

Deiphobus, 

Helenus, 

NEAs,  I  rj,-^^  Commanders. 

Antenor,     J         *' 

Calchas,  a  Trojan  Priest,  taJdtig  part  with  the  Greeks. 
Pandarus,  Uncle  to  Cressida. 
Agamemnon,  the  Grecian  General. 
Menelaus,  his  Brother. 
Achilles,    "j 

Ajax,  I  Grecian  Commanders. 

Ulysses,       I 


;]■ 


Nestor, 

DioMEDEs,    J-  Grecian  Commanders. 
Patroclu5, 

Thersites,  a  deformed  and  scurrilous  Grecian. 
Alexander,  Servant  to  Cressida. 
Servant  to  Troilus ;    Servant  to  Paris  j    Servant  to 
Diomedes. 


Helen,  Wife  to  Menelaus. 
Andromache,  Wife  to  Hector. 
Cassandra,  Daughter  to  Priam,  a  Prophetess. 
Cressida,  Daughter  to  Calchas. 


Trojan  and  Greek  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE,  Troy,  and  the  Grecian  Camp  before  it. 


I 


AS    t    KISS    rHIItt— NAT,    DO    HOT   SSATCB   IT   PROM    UI 


TROILUS    AND    CRESSIDA 


PROLOGUE. 


In  Troy  there  lies  the  scene.  From  isles  of  Greece 
The  princes  orgulous  ',  their  high  blood  chaf  d, 
Have  to  the  port  of  Athens  sent  their  sliips, 
Fraught  with  the  ministers  and  instruments 
or  cruel  war :    Sixty,  and  nine,  that  wore 
Tlieir  crownets  regal,  from  the  Athenian  bay 
Put  forth  toward  Phrygia  :   and  their  vow  is  made, 
To  ransack  Troy  ;  within  whose  strong  immures 
The  ravisli'd  Helen,  Menelaus'  queen. 
With  wanton  Paris  sleeps  ;  and  that's  the  quarrel. 
To  Tenedos  they  come  ; 

And  the  deep-drawing  barks  do  there  disgorge 
Their  warlike  fraughtage  -':   Now  on  Dardan  plains 
The  fresh  and  yet  unbruiseil  Greeks  do  pitch 
Tlieir  brave  pavilions  :    Priam's  six-gated  city, 
Dardan,  and  Tymbria,  Ilias,  Clietas,  Trojan, 


And  Antenorides,  with  massy  staples, 

And  corresponsive  and  fulfilling  bolts, 

Speer  '»  up  the  sons  of  Troy. 

Now,  expectation,  tickling  skittish  spirits, 

On  one  and  other  side,  Trojan  and  Greek 

Sets  all  on  liazard  :  —  And  hither  am  I  come 

A  prologue  arm'd.  — but  not  in  confidence 

Of  author's  pen,  or  actor's  voice  ;  but  suited 

In  like  conditions  as  our  argument,  — 

To  tell  you,  fair  beholders,  that  our  play 

Leaps  o'er  the  vaunt  ^  and  firstlings  of  those  broils 

'Ginning  in  the  middle  ;  starting  thence  away 

To  what  may  be  digesteil  in  a  play. 

Like,  or  find  fault ;  do  as  your  pleasures  are  ; 

Now  gooti,  or  bad,  'tis  but  the  chance  of  war. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  L  —  Troy.     Before  Priam**  Palace. 

Enter  Troilus  armetl,  and  Pandari's. 
Tro.   Call  here  my  varlet  %  I'll  unarm  again  : 
Why  should  I  war  witliout  the  walls  of  Troy, 


Proud,  disdainful. 


2  Frciglit 


That  find  such  cruel  battle  here  within  ? 
Kach  Trojan,  that  is  master  of  his  lieart, 
I^t  him  to  field  ;   Troilus,  alas !  hath  none. 
Van.    Will  this  gecr '"'  ne'er  l>e  mended  ? 
Tro.   The  Greeks  are  strong,  and  skilful  to  their 

strength, 
^  Shut        »  A  vaunt,  what  went  before.         «  Habit 


596 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  I. 


Fierce  to  their  skill,  and  to  their  fierceness  valiant ; 
But  I  am  weaker  than  a  woman's  tear, 
Tamer  than  sleep,  fonder  7  than  ignorance ; 
And  skill-less  as  unpractis'd  infancy. 

Pan.  Well,  I  have  told  you  enough  of  this :  for 
my  part,  I'll  not  meddle  nor  make  no  further.  He, 
that  will  have  a  cake  out  of  the  wheat,  must  tarry 
the  grinding 

Tro.   Have  I  not  tarried  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  the  grinding ;  but  you  must  tarry  the 
bolting. 

Tro.   Have  I  not  tarried? 

Pan.  Ay,  the  bolting ;  but  you  must  tarry  the 
leavening. 

Tro.   Still  have  I  tarried. 

Pan.  Ay,  to  the  leavening ;  but  here's  yet  in  the 
word  —  hereafter,  the  kneading,  the  making  of  the 
cake,  the  heating  of  the  oven,  and  the  baking ;  nay, 
you  must  stay  the  cooling  too,  or  you  may  chance  to 
burn  your  lips. 

Tro.   Patience  herself,  what  goddess  e'er  she  be. 
Doth  lesser  blench  «  at  sufferance  than  I  do. 
At  Priam's  royal  table  do  I  sit ; 
And  when  fair  Cressid  comes  into  my  thoughts,  — 

So,  traitor  !  —  when  she  comes  ! When  is  she 

thence  ? 

Pan.  Well,  she  look'd  yesternight  fairer  than  ever 
I  saw  her  look,  or  any  woman  else. 

Tro.   I  was  about  to  tell  thee,  —  When  my  heart. 
As  wedged  with  a  sigh,  would  rive  9  in  twain ; 
Lest  Hector  or  my  father  should  perceive  me, 
I  have  (as  when  the  sun  doth  light  a  storm,) 
Bury'd  this  sigh  in  wrinkle  of  a  smile  : 
But  sorrow,  that  is  couch'd  in  seeming  gladness. 
Is  like  that  mirth  fate  turns  to  sudden  sadness. 

Pan.  An  her  hair  were  not  somewhat  darker  than 
Helen's,  (well,  go  to,)  there  were  no  more  com- 
parison between  the  women,  —  But,  for  my  part, 
she  is  my  kinswoman ;  I  would  not,  as  they  term  it, 
praise  her,  —  But  I  would  somebody  had  heard  her 
talk  yesterday,  as  I  did.  I  will  not  dispraise  your 
sister  Cassandra's  wit;  but  — 

Tro.   O  Pandarus  !   I  tell  thee,  Pandarus,  — 
When  I  do  tell  thee,  there  my  hopes  lie  drown'd. 
Reply  not  in  how  many  fathoms  deep 
They  lie  indrench'd.      I  tell  thee,  I  am  mad 
In  Cressid's  love  :    Thou  answerst.  She  is  fair ; 
Pour'st  in  the  open  ulcer  of  my  heart 
Her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  cheek,  her  gait,  her  voice ; 
Handiest  in  thy  discourse,  O,  that  her  hand. 
In  whose  comparison  all  whites  are  ink, 
Writing  their  own  reproach ;  to  whose  soft  seizure 
The  cygnet's  down  is  harsh,  and  spirit  of  sense 
Hardas  the  palm  of  ploughman  !   Thisthou  tell'stme. 
As  true  thou  tell'st  me,  when  1  say,  —  I  love  her  ; 
But,  saying  thus,  instead  of  oil  and  balm. 
Thou  lay'st  in  every  gash  that  love  hath  given  me 
The  knife  that  made  it. 

Pan.   I  speak  no  more  than  truth. 

Tro.   Thou  dost  not  speak  so  much. 

Pan.  'Faith,  I'll  not  meddle  in't.     Let  her  be  as 
she  is  :   if  she  be  fair,  'tis  the  better  for  her  ;  an  she 
be  not,  she  has  the  mends  in  her  own  hands. 
Tro.    Good  Pandarus  !  how  now,  Pandarus  ? 

Pan.   I  have  had  my  labour  for  my  travel ;  ill- 
thought  on  of  her,  and  ill-thought  on  of  you  :   gone 
between  and  between,  but  small  thanks  for  my  labour. 
Tro.  What,  art  thou  angry,  Pandarus  ?  what,  with 
me? 
?  Weaker.  « shrink.  » Split. 


Pan.  Because  she  is  kin  to  me,  therefore,  she's 
not  so  fair  as  Helen :  an  she  were  not  kin  to  me, 
she  would  be  as  fair  on  Friday,  as  Helen  is  on  Sun- 
day. But  what  care  I  ?  I  care  not,  an  she  were  a 
black-a-moor  ;  'tis  all  one  to  me. 

Tro.   Say  I,  she  is  not  fair  ? 

Pan.  I  do  not  care  whether  you  do  or  no.  She's 
a  fool  to  stay  behind  her  father  ;  let  her  to  the 
Greeks  ;  and  so  I'll  tell  her  the  next  time  1  see  her : 
For  my  part,  I'll  meddle  nor  make  no  more  in  the 
matter. 

Tro.    Pandarus,  — 

Pan.   Not  I. 

Tro.  Sweet  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Pray  you,  speak  no  more  to  me  j  I  will 
leave  all  as  I  found  it,  and  there  an  end. 

\^Exit  Pandarus.    An  Alarum. 

Tro.   Peace,  you   ungracious  clamours !    peace, 
rude  sounds  I 
Fools  on  both  sides  !   Helen  must  needs  be  fair, 
When  with  your  blood  you  daily  paint  her  thus. 
I  cannot  fight  upon  this  argument ; 
It  is  too  starv'd  a  subject  for  my  sword. 
But,  Pandarus  —  O  gods,  how  do  you  plague  me  ! 
I  cannot  come  to  Cressid,  but  by  Pandar ; 
And  he's  as  tetchy  to  be  woo'd  to  woo. 
As  she  is  stubborn-chaste  against  all  suit. 
Tell  me,  Apollo,  for  thy  Daphne's  love. 
What  Cressid  is,  what  Pandar,  and  what  we  ? 
Her  bed  is  India  ;  there  she  lies,  a  pearl : 
Between  our  Ilium,  and  where  she  resides. 
Let  it  be  call'd  the  wild  and  wandering  flood  ; 
Ourself,  the  merchant ;  and  this  sailing  Pandar, 
Our  doubtful  hope,  our  convoy,  and  our  bark. 

Alarum.     Enter  ^neas. 

JEne.   How  now,  prince  Troilus  ?  wherefore  not 

a-field  ? 
Tro.   Because  not  there  :   This  woman's  answer 
sorts  ', 
For  womanish  it  is  to  be  from  thence. 
What  news,  -lEneas,  from  the  field  to-day  ? 
JEne.   That  Paris  is  returned  home,  and  hurt. 
Tro.    By  whom? 
JEne.  By  Menelaus. 

Tro.  Let  him  bleed. 

{^Alarum. 
jEne.   Hark  !  what  good  sport  is  out  of  town  to- 
day ! 
Tro.  Better  at  home,  {{would  I  might,  were  maT/. — 
But,  to  the  sport  abroad ;  —  Are  you  bound  thither? 
jEne.   In  all  swift  haste. 

Tro.  Come,  go  we  then  together. 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street. 

Enter  Cressida  and  Alexander. 

Cres.   Who  were  those  went  by  ? 

Alex.  Queen  Hecuba,  and  Helen. 

Cres.   And  whither  go  they  ? 

Alex.  Up  to  the  eastern  tower, 

Whose  height  commands  as  subject  all  the  vale. 
To  see  the  battle.      Hector,  whose  patience 
Is,  as  a  virtue,  fix'd,  to-day  was  mov'd  : 
He  chid  Andromache,  and  struck  his  armourer  ; 
And,  like  as  there  were  husbandry  in  war. 
Before  the  sun  rose,  he  was  harness'd  light, 
1  Suits. 


Scene  II. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


597 


And  to  the  field  goes  he ;  where  every  flower. 
Did,  as  a  prophet,  weep  what  it  foresaw 
In  Hector's  wrath. 

Cres.  What  was  his  cause  of  anger  ? 

Alex.   The  noise  goes,  this ;   There  is  among  the 
Greeks 
A  lord  of  Trojan  blood,  nephew  to  Hector ; 
They  call  him  Ajax. 

Cres.  Good  ;  and  what  of  him  ? 

Alex.   They  say  he  is  a  very  man  per  se  ■*, 
And  stands  alone. 

Cres.  So  do  all  men ;  unless  they  are  drunk,  sick, 
or  have  no  legs. 

Alex.  This  man,  lady,  hath  robbed  many  beasts 
of  their  particular  additions  ' ;  he  is  as  valiant  as  tlie 
lion,  churlish  as  the  bear,  slow  as  the  elephant :  a 
man  into  whom  nature  hath  so  crowded  humours, 
that  his  valour  is  crushed  into"*  folly,  his  folly  sauced 
with  discretion ;  there  is  no  man  hath  a  virtue  that 
he  hath  not  a  glimpse  of;  nor  any  man  an  attaint, 
but  he  carries  some  stain  of  it :  he  is  melancholy 
without  cause,  and  merry  against  the  hair  * :  He  hath 
the  joints  of  every  thing  ;  but  every  thing  so  out  of 
joint,  that  he  is  a  gouty  Briareus,  many  hands  and 
no  use ;  or  purblind  Argus,  all  eyes  and  no  sight. 

Cres.  But  how  should  this  man,  that  makes  me 
smile,  make  Hector  angry  ? 

Alex.  They  say,  he  yesterday  coped  Hector  in 
the  battle,  and  struck  him  down  ;  the  disdain  and 
shame  whereof  hath  ever  since  kept  Hector  fasting 
and  waking. 

Enter  Pandarus. 

Cres.   Who  comes  here? 

Alex.  Madam,  your  uncle  Fandarus. 

Cres.   Hector's  a  gallant  man. 

Alex.    As  may  be  in  the  world,  lady. 

Pan.   What's  that?  what's  that? 

Cres.    Good  morrow,  uncle  Pandarus. 

Pan.  Good  morrow,  cousin  Cressid :  what  do 
you  talk  of?  —  Good  morrow,  Alexander.  —  How 
do  you,  cousin  ?  When  were  you  at  Ilium  ? 

Cres.   This  morning,  uncle. 

Pan.  What  were  you  talking  of  when  I  came  ? 
Was  Hector  armed,  and  gone,  ere  ye  came  to  Ilium  ? 
Helen  was  not  up,  was  she  ? 

Cres.    Hector  was  gone  ;  but  Helen  was  not  up. 

Pan.    E'en  so  ;   Hector  was  stirring  early. 

Cres.   That  were  we  talking  of,  and  of  his  anger. 

Pan.   Was  he  angry  ? 

Cres.   So  he  says,  here. 

Pan.  True,  he  was  so  ;  I  know  the  cause  too ; 
he'll  lay  about  him  to-day,  I  can  tell  them  that :  and 
there  is  Troilus  will  not  come  far  behind  him ;  let 
them  take  heed  of  Troilus ;  I  can  tell  them  that  too. 

Cres.    What,  is  he  angry,  too  ? 

Pan.  Who,  Troilus  ?  Troilus  is  the  better  man 
of  the  two. 

Cres.   O,  Jupiter !  there's  no  comparison. 

Pan.  What,  not  between  Troilus  and  Hector? 
Do  you  know  a  man,  if  you  see  him  ? 

Cres.  Ay,  if  ever  I  saw  him  Ijefore,  and  knew  him. 

Pan.    Well,  I  say,  Troilus  is  Troilus. 

Cres.  Then  you  say  as  I  say ;  for  I  am  sure  he  is 
not  Hector. 

Pan.  No,  nor  Hector  is  not  Troilus,  in  some 
degrees. 

Cres.  'Tis  just  to  each  of  them  ;  he  is  himself. 


•■«  By  himself. 
*  Mingled  with. 


'  Characters. 
»  Grain. 


Pan.  Himself?  Alas,  poor  Troilus  !  I  would  he 
were,  — 

Cres.    So  he  is. 

Pan.  — 'Condition  I  had  gone  barefoot  to  InSia. 

Cres.    He  is  not  Hector. 

Pan.  Himself  ?  no,  he's  not  himself.  —  'Would 
*a  were  himself !  Well,  the  gods  are  above  ;  Time 
must  friend,  or  end :  Well,  Troilus,  well,  —  I  would 
my  heart  were  in  her  body  !  —  No,  Hector  is  not  a 
better  man  than  Troilus. 

Cres.   Excuse  me. 

Pan.    He  is  elder. 

Cres.   Pardon  me,  pardon  me. 

Pan.  The  other's  not  come  to't ;  you  shall  tell  me 
another  tale,  when  the  other's  come  to't.  Hector 
shall  not  have  his  wit  this  year. 

Cres.   He  shall  not  need  it,  if  he  have  his  own. 

Pan.    Nor  his  qualities  ;  — — 

Cres.    No  matter. 

Pan.    Nor  his  beauty. 

Cres.  'Twould  not  become  him,  his  own's 
better. 

Pan.  You  have  no  judgment,  niece :  Helen  her 
self  swore  the  other  day,  that  Troilus,  for  a  brown 
favour,  (for  so  'tis,  I  must  confess,)  —  Not  brown 
neither. 

Cres.   No,  but  brown. 

Pan.   'Faith,  to  say  truth,  brown  and  not  brown. 

Cres.    To  say  the  truth,  true  and  not  true. 

Pan.   She  prais'd  his  complexion  above  Paris. 

Cres.   Why,  Paris  hath  colour  enough. 

Pan.    So  he  has. 

Cres.  Then  Troilus  should  have  too  much  :  if  she 
praised  him  above,  his  complexion  is  higher  tlian 
his  J  he  having  colour  enough,  and  the  other  higher, 
is  too  flaming  a  praise  for  a  good  complexion.  I 
had  as  lief  Helen's  golden  tongue  had  commended 
Troilus  for  a  copper  nose. 

Pan.  I  swear  to  you,  I  think  Helen  loves  him 
better  than  Paris. 

Cres.   Then  she's  a  merry  Greek,  indeed. 

Pan.  Nay,  I  am  sure  she  does.  She  came  to 
him  the  other  day  into  a  compassed  ^  window, — 
and,  you  know,  he  has  not  past  three  or  four  hairs 
on  his  chin. 

Cres.  Indeed,  a  tapster's  arithmetick  may  soon 
bring  his  particulars  therein  to  a  total. 

Pan.  Why,  he  is  very  young ;  and  yet  will  he, 
within  three  pound,  lift  as  much  as  his  brotherHector. 

Cres.  Is  he  so  young  a  man,  and  so  old  a  lifter  ?  ^ 

Pan.  But,  to  prove  to  you  that  Helen  loves  liim  ; 
—  she  came,  and  puts  me  her  white  hand  to  his 
cloven  cliin, — 

Cres.  Juno  have  mercy  !  —  How  came  it  cloven  ? 

Pan.  Why,  you  know,  'tis  dimpled  :  I  think,  his 
smiling  becomes  him  better  than  any  man  in  all 
Piirygia. 

Cres.   O,  he  smiles  valiantly. 

Pan.   Does  he  not? 

Cres.   O  yes,  an  'twere  a  cloud  in  autumn. 

Pan.  Why,  go  to  then :  —  But  to  prove  to  you 
that  Helen  loves  Troilus, 

Cres.  Troilus  will  stand  to  the  proof,  if  you'll 
prove  It  so. 

Pan.  Troilus  ?  why  he  esteems  her  no  more  than 
I  esteem  an  addle  egg. 

Cres.  If  you  love  an  addle  egg  as  well  as  you  love 
an  idle  head,  you  would  eat  chickens  i'the  shell. 

Pan.  I  cannot  choose  but  laugh,  to  think  liow  she 

•*  Bow  7  Thief. 

Qq3 


598 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  I. 


tickled  his  chin ;  —  Indeed,  she  has  a  marvellous 
white  hand,  I  must  needs  confess. 

Cres,    Without  the  rack. 

Pan.  And  she  takes  upon  her  to  spy  a  white  hair 
on  his  chin. 

Cres.   Alas,  poor  chin  !  many  a  wart  is  richer. 

Pan.  But,  there  was  such  laughing; — Queen 
Hecuba  laughed,  that  her  eyes  ran  o'er. 

Cres.   With  mill-stones.  8 

Pan.   And  Cassandra  laughed. 

Cres.  But  there  was  a  more  temperate  fire  under 
the  pot  of  her  eyes ;  —  Did  her  eyes  run  o'er  too  ? 

Pan.   And  Hector  laughed. 

Cres.   At  what  was  all  this  laughing  ? 

Pan.  Marry,  at  the  white  hair  that  Helen  spied 
on  Troilus'  chin. 

Cres.  An't  had  been  a  green  hair,  I  should  have 
laughed  too. 

Pan.  They  laughed  not  so  much  at  the  hair  as  at 
his  pretty  answer. 

Cres.   What  was  his  answer  ? 

Pan.  Quoth  she,  Here's  but  one  and  fifty  hairs  on 
your  chin,  and  one  of  them  is  white. 

Cres.   This  is  her  question. 

Pan.  That's  true  ;  make  no  question  of  that.  One 
and  fifty  hairs,  quoth  he,  and  one  ivhite  :  That  white 
hair  is  my  father,  and  all  the  rest  are  his  sons.  Ju- 
piter !  quoth  she,  which  of  these  hairs  is  Paris  my 
husband  ?  The  forked  one,  quoth  he  ;  pluck  it  out, 
and  give  it  him.  But,  there  was  such  laughing ! 
and  Helen  so  blushed,  and  Paris  so  chafed,  and  all 
the  rest  so  laughed,  that  it  passed.  9 

Cres.  So  let  it  now  ;  for  it  has  been  a  great  while 
going  by. 

Pan.  Well,  cousin,  I  told  you  a  thing  yesterday ; 
think  on't. 

Cres.   So  I  do. 

Pan.  I'll  be  sworn,  'tis  true ;  he  will  weep  you 
an  'twere  a  man  born  in  April. 

Cres.  And  I'll  spring  up  in  his  tears,  an  'twere  a 
nettle  against  May,  [A  Retreat  somided. 

Pan.  Hark,  they  are  coming  from  the  field  :  Shall 
we  stand  up  here,  and  see  them,  as  they  pass  toward 
Ilium  ?  good  niece,  do  ;  sweet  niece  Cressida. 

Cres.   At  your  pleasure. 

Pan.  Here,  here,  here's  an  excellent  place ;  here 
we  may  see  most  bravely  :  I'll  tell  you  them  all  by 
their  names,  as  they  pass  by ;  but  mark  Troilus 
above  the  rest. 

JE^v^As  passes  over  the  Stage. 

Cres.   Speak  not  so  loud. 

Pan.  That's  ^neas ;  Is  not  that  a  brave  man  ? 
he's  one  of  the  flowers  of  Troy,  I  can  tell  you  :  But 
mark  Troilus  ;  you  shall  see  anon. 

Cres.   Who's  that  ? 

AyiTE's OK  passes  over. 

Pan.  That's  Antenor ;  he  has  a  shrewd  wit,  I 
can  tell  you  ;  and  he's  a  man  good  enough :  he's 
one  o'the  soundest  judgments  in  Troy,  whosoever, 
and  a  proper  man  of  person  :  —  When  comes  Troi- 
lus?—  I'll  show  j-ou  Troilus  anon  j  if  he  see  me, 
you  shall  see  him  nod  at  me. 

Cres.   Will  he  give  you  the  nod  ?  ' 

Pan.   You  shall  see. 

Cres.   If  he  do,  the  rich  shall  have  more. 

8  A  proverbial  saying. 

9  Went  beyond  bounds. 

*  A  term  in  the  game  at  cards  called  noddy. 


Hector  passes  over. 

Pan.  That's  Hector,  that,  that,  look  you,  that : 
There's  a  fellow  !  —  Go  thy  way.  Hector ;  —  There's 
a  brave  man,  niece.  —  O  brave.  Hector  !  —  Look, 
how  he  looks  !  there's  a  countenance :  Is't  not  a 
brave  man  ? 

Cres.   O,  a  brave  man  ! 

Pan.  Is  'a  not  ?  It  does  a  man's  heart  good.  — 
Look  you  what  hacks  are  on  his  helmet  ?  look  you 
yonder,  do  you  see  ?  look  you  there  !  There's  no 
jesting  :  there's  laying  on  ;  tak't  off  who  will,  as 
they  say  :   there  be  hacks  ! 

Cres.  Be  those  with  swords  ? 

Fakis  passes  over. 

Pan.  Swords?  anything,  he  cares  not:  an  the 
devil  come  to  him,  it's  all  one :  —  Yonder  comes 
Paris,  yonder  comes  Paris  :  look  ye  yonder,  niece ; 
Is't  not  a  gallant  man,  too,  is't  not  ? — Why,  this  is 
brave  now.  —  Who  said,  he  came  hurt  home  to-day? 
he's  not  hurt:  why  this  will  do  Helen's  heart  good 
now.  Ha !  would  I  could  see  Troilus  now  !  —  you 
shall  see  Troilus  anon. 

Cres.    Who's  that  ? 

Helen  us  passes  over. 

Pan.  That's  Helenus, —  I  marvel,  where  Troilus 
is  :  —  That's  Helenus  ;  —  I  think  he  went  not  forth 
to-day :  —  That's  Helenus. 

Cres.   Can  Helenus  fight,  uncle  ? 

Pan.  Helenus  ?  no ;  —  yes,  he'll  fight  indifferent 
well :  —  I  marvel,  where  Troilus  is  !  —  Hark  ;  do 
you  not  hear  the  people  cry,  Troilus  ?  —  Helenus  is 
a  priest. 

Cres.   What  sneaking  fellow  comes  yonder  ? 
Troilus  passes  over. 

Pan.  Where  ?  yonder  ?  that's  Deiphobus  :  'Tis 
Troilus  !  there's  a  man,  niece  !  —  Hem  !  —  Brave 
Troilus  !  the  prince  of  chivalry  ! 

Cres.   Peace,  for  shame,  peace  ! 

Pan.   Mark  him  ;  note  him  ;  —  O  brave  Troilus  ! 

—  look  well  upon  him,  niece ;  look  you,  how  his 
sword  is  bloodied,  and  his  helm  more  hack'd  than 
Hector's ;   And  how  he  looks,  and  how  he  goes  ! 

—  O  admirable  youth  !  he  ne'er  saw  three  and 
twenty.  Go  thy  way,  Troilus,  go  thy  way  ;  had  I 
a  sister  were  a  grace,  or  a  daughter  a  goddess,  he 
should  take  his  choice.      O  admirable  man  !   Paris  ? 

—  Paris  is  dirt  to  him  ;  and,  I  warrant,  Helen,  to 
change,  would  give  an  eye  to  boot. 

Forces  pass  over  the  Stage. 

Cres.   Here  come  more. 

Pan.  Asses,  fools,  dolts !  chaff  and  bran,  chaff 
and  bran  ;  porridge  after  meat !  I  could  live  and  die 
i'the  eyes  of  Troilus.  Ne'er  look,  ne'er  look  ;  the 
eagles  are  gone  ;  crows  and  daws,  crows  and  daws  ! 
I  had  rather  be  such  a  man  as  Troilus,  than  Aga- 
memnon and  all  Greece. 

Cres.  There  is  among  the  Greeks,  Achilles;  a 
better  man  than  Troilus. 

Pa7i.  Achilles  ?  a  drayman,  a  porter,  a  very  camel. 

Cres.   Well,  well. 

Pan.  Well,  well  ?  —  Why,  have  you  any  discre- 
tion ?  have  you  any  eyes  ?  Do  you  know  what  a 
man  is  ?  Is  not  birth,  beauty,  good  shape,  discourse, 
manhood,  learning,  gentleness,  virtue,  youth,  liberal- 
ity, and  such  like,  the  spice  and  salt  that  season  a 
man  ? 


J 


I 


Scene  III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


599 


Ores.   Ay,  a  minced  man  :  and  then  to  be  baked  | 
with  no  date  -  in  the  pye,  —  for  then  the  man*s  date 
is  out. 

Enter  Troilus'  Boy. 

Boy.  Sir,  my  lord  would  instantly  speak  with  you. 

Tan.   Where? 

Burj.    At  your  own  house ;  there  he  unarms  him. 

Pan.    Good  boy,  tell  liim  I  come  :    \^Exit  Boy.] 
I  doubt  he  be  hurt.  —  Fare  ye  well,  good  niece. 

Cres>    Adieu,  uncle. 

Van,   I'll  be  with  you,  niece,  by  and  by. 

Cres.   To  bring,  uncle, 

-      Pan.    Ay,  a  token  from  Troilus. 

Cres.    By  the  same  token  —  you  are  a  pimp. 

\Exit  Panda Rus. 
Words,  vows,  griefs,  tears,  and  love's  full  sacrifice, 
He  offers  in  another's  enterprize  : 
But  more  in  Troilus  thousand  fold  I  see 
Than  in  the  glass  of  Pandar's  praise  may  be  : 
Yet  hold  I  off. 
That  she  belov'd   knows  nought,  that  knows  not 

this,  — 
Men  prize  the  thing  ungain'd  more  than  it  is  : 
That  she  was  never  yet  tliat  ever  knew 
Love  got  so  sweet,  as  when  desire  did  sue  : 
Therefore  this  maxim  out  of  love  I  teach,  — 
Achievement  is  command ;  ungain'd,  beseech  : 
Then  though  my  heart's  content  firm  love  doth  bear, 
Notliing  of  that  shall  from  mine  eyes  appear.    \ExiZ. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Grecian  Camp.     Before 
Agamemnon'^  Tent. 

Trumjiets.     Enter  Agamemnon,  Nestor,  Ulysses, 
Menelaus,  and  others. 

Agam.    Princes, 
Wiuit  grief  hath  set  the  jaundice  on  your  cheeks? 
The  ample  proposition,  tliat  hope  makes 
In  all  designs  begun  on  earth  below, 
Fails  in  the  promis'd  largeness ;  checks  and  disasters 
Grow  in  the  veins  of  actions  highest  rear'd  ; 
As  knots,  by  the  conflux  of  meeting  sap. 
Infect  the  sound  pine,  and  divert  his  grain 
Tortive  and  errant  3  from  his  course  of  growth. 
Nor,  princes,  is  it  matter  new  to  us, 
ITiat  we  come  short  of  our  suppose  so  far. 
That,  after  seven  years'  siege,  yet  Troy  walls  stand  j 
Sith  ^  every  action  that  hath  gone  before. 
Whereof  we  have  record,  trial  did  draw 
Bias  and  thwart,  not  answering  the  aim. 
And  that  unbodied  figure  of  the  thought 
That  gav't  surmised  shape.     Why  then,  you  princes. 
Do  you  with  cheeks  abash'd  behold  our  works  ; 
And  think  them  shames,  wliich  are,  indeed,  nought 

else 
But  the  protractive  trials  of  great  Jove, 
To  find  persistive  constancy  in  men? 
The  fineness  of  which  metal  is  not  found 
In  fortune's  love  :   for  them,  the  bold  and  coward. 
The  wise  and  fool,  the  artist  and  unread, 
The  hard  and  soft,  seem  all  affin'd  ^  and  kin  : 
But,  in  the  wind  and  tempest  of  her  frown. 
Distinction,  with  a  broad  and  powerful  fan, 
Puffing  at  all,  winnows  the  light  away  : 
And  what  hath  mass,  or  matter,  by  itself 
Lies,  rich  in  virtue,  and  unmingled. 

2  Dates  were  an  ingredient  in  ancient  |wstry  of  almost  every 
kind.  3  Twisted  and  rambling. 

•»  Since.  *  Joined  by  affinity. 


Nest.    Witli  due  observance  of  thy  godlike  seat, 
Great  Agamemnon,  Nestor  shall  apply 
Thy  latest  words.      In  the  reproof  of  chance. 
Lies  the  true  proof  of  men  :    The  sea  being  smootli. 
How  many  shallow  bauble  boats  dare  sail 
Upon  lier  patient  breast,  making  their  way 
With  those  of  nobler  bulk. 
But  let  the  ruffian  Boreas  once  enrage 
Tlie  gentle  Thetis,  and,  auon,  behold 
The  strong-ribb'ilbark  through  liquid  mountains  cut. 
Bounding  between  the  two  moist  elements. 
Like  Perseus'  horse  :    Wliere's  then  the  saucy  boat. 
Whose  weak  untimber'd  sides  but  even  now 
Co-rival'd  greatness  ?  either  to  harbour  fled, 
Or  made  a  toast  for  Neptune.      Even  so 
Doth  valour's  show,  and  valour's  worth,  divij^e. 
In  storms  of  fortune :    For,  in  her  ray  and  briglit- 

ness. 
The  herd  hath  more  annoyance  by  the  brize^, 
Tlian  by  the  tiger  :   but  wljen  the  splitting  wind 
Makes  flexible  the  knees  of  knotted  oaks, 
And  flies  fled  under  shade,  why,  tlien,  the  thing  of 

courage. 
As  rous'd  with  rage,  with  rage  doth  sympathize. 
And,  with  an  accent  tun'd  the  self-same  key. 
Returns  to  chiding  fortune. 

Ulyss.  Agamemnon,  — 

Thou  great  commander,  nerve  and  bone  of  Greece, 
Heart  of  our  numbers,  soul  and  only  spirit, 
In  whom  the  tempers  and  the  minds  of  all 
Should  be  shut  up,  —  hear  what  Ulysses  speaks. 
Besides  the  applause  and  approbation. 
The    which,  —  most   mighty    for    thy   place    and 

sway,  —  {To  Agamemnon. 

And  thou  most  reverend  for  thy  stretch'd-out  life,  — 

[To  Nestor. 
I  give  to  both  your  speeches,  —  which  were  such. 
As  Agamemnon  and  the  hand  of  Greece 
Should  hold  up  high  in  brass  ;  and  such  again, 
As  venerable  Nestor,  hatch'd  in  silver. 
Should  with  a  bond  of  air  (strong  as  the  axle-tree 
On  which  heaven  rides,)  knit  all  tlie  Greekish  ears 
To   his    experienc'd    tongue,  —  yet   let   it    please 

both,  — 
Thou  great,  —  and  wise,  —  to  hear  Ulysses  speak. 
Again.   Speak,  prince  of  Ithaca ;  and  be't  of  less 

expect? 
That  matter  needless,  of  importless  burden, 
Divide  thy  lips  :   than  we  are  confident. 
When  rank  Thersites  opes  his  mastiff  jaws. 
We  shall  hear  musick,  wit,  and  oracle. 

Ulyss.   Troy,  yet  upon  his  basis,  had  been  down. 
And  the  great  Hector's  sword  had  lack'd  a  master, 
But  for  these  instances. 
The  specialty  of  rule  "^  hath  been  neglected  : 
And,  look,  how  many  Grecian  tents  do  stand 
Hollow  upon  this  plain,  so  many  hollow  factions. 
When  that  the  general  is  not  like  the  hive. 
To  whom  the  foragers  shall  all  repair. 
What  honey  is  expected  ?   Degree  being  vizardcd^. 
The  unworthiest  shows  as  fairly  in  the  mask. 
The  heavens  themselves,  the  planets,  and  this  center, 
Observe  degree,  priority,  and  place, 
Insisture',  course,  proportion,  season,  form, 
Office,  and  custom,  in  all  line  of  order ; 
And  therefore  is  the  glorious  planet,  Sol, 
In  noble  eminence  enthron'd  and  spher'd 
Amidst  tlie  other;  whose  med'cinable  eye 

"  The  gad.flv  that  stings  cattle.  '  Expectation. 

«  Ri«hU  of  authority.  '•»  MaskctL  '  ConsUncy. 

Qq  4 


600 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  1. 


Corrects  the  ill  aspects  of  planets  evil, 

And  posts,  like  the  commandment  of  a  king, 

Sans*  check,  to  good  and  bad:  But  when  the  planets, 

In  evil  mixture,  to  disorder  wander. 

What  plagues,  and  what  portents  ?  what  mutiny  ? 

"What  raging  of  the  sea  ?  shaking  of  earth  ? 

Commotion  in  the  winds?  frights,  changes,  horrors. 

Divert  and  crack,  rend  and  deracinate  * 

The  unity  and  married  calm  of  states 

Quite  from  their  fixture  ?   O,  when  degree  is  shak'd, 

Which  is  the  ladder  of  all  high  designs, 

The  enterprize  is  sick  ?  How  could  communities. 

Degrees  in  schools,  and  brotherhoods  in  cities, 

Peaceful  commerce  from  dividable  •*  shores, 

The  primogenitive  and  due  of  birth, 

Prerojjative  of  age,  crowns,  scepters,  laurels. 

But  by  degree,  stand  in  authentick  place  ? 

Take  but  degree  away,  untune  that  string. 

And,  hark,  what  discord  follows  !  each  thing  meets 

In  mere  ^  oppugnancy  :    The  bounded  waters 

Should  lift  their  bosoms  higher  than  the  shores. 

And  make  a  sop  of  all  this  solid  globe : 

Strength  should  be  lord  of  imbecility, 

And  the  rude  son  shall  strike  his  father  dead : 

Force  should  be  right ;  or,  rather,  right  and  wrong, 

(Between  whose  endless  jar  justice  resides,) 

Should  lose  their  names,  and  so  should  justice  too. 

Then  every  thing  includes  itself  in  power. 

Power  into  will,  will  into  appetite  ; 

And  appetite,  an  universal  wolf, 

So  doubly  seconded  with  will  and  power 

Must  make  perforce  an  universal  prey. 

And,  last,  eat  up  himself.      Great  Agamemnon, 

This  chaos,  when  degree  is  suffocate. 

Follows  the  choking. 

And  this  noglection  of  degree  it  is. 

That  by  a  pace  goes  backward,  with  a  purpose 

It  hath  to  climb.      The  general's  disdain'd 

By  him  one  step  below ;  he,  by  the  next ; 

That  next  by  him  beneath  :   so  every  step, 

Exampled  by  the  first  pace  that  is  sick 

Of  his  superior,  grows  to  an  envious  fever 

Of  pale  and  bloodless  emulation  : 

And  'tis  this  fever  that  keeps  Troy  on  foot, 

Not  her  own  sinews.      To  end  a  tale  of  length, 

Troy  in  our  weakness  stands,  not  in  her  strength. 

N^est.    Most  wisely  hath  Ulysses  here  discover'd 
The  fever  whereof  all  our  power  is  sick. 

Again.  The  nature  of  the  sickness  found,  Ulysses, 
Wliat  is  the  remedy  ? 

Ulyss.  The  great  Achilles, — whom  opinion  crowns 
The  sinew  and  the  forehand  of  our  host,  — 
Having  his  ear  full  of  his  airy  fame, 
Grows  dainty  of  his  worth,  and  in  his  tent 
Lies  mocking  our  designs  :    With  him,  Patroclus, 
Upon  a  lazy  bed  the  live-long  day 
Breaks  scurril  jests 

And  with  ridiculous  and  awkward  action 
(Which,  slanderer,  he  imitation  calls,) 
He  pageants''  us.      Sometime,  great  Agamemnon, 
Thy  topless?  deputation  he  puts  on ; 
And,  like  a  strutting  player,  —  whose  conceit 
Lies  in  his  hamstring,  and  doth  think  it  rich 
To  hear  the  wooden  dialogue  and  sound 
'Twixt  his  stretch'd  footing  and  the  scaffoldage^. 
Such  to-be-pitied  and  o'er-wrestcd  5  seeming 
He  acts  thy  greatness  in  :   and  when  he  speaks, 

2  Without.  3  Force  up  by  the  roots. 

*  Divided,  5  Absolute. 

°  In  modern  language,  takes  us  pff.  '  Supreme. 

•  Stage.  9  Bevon 


'  Beyond  the  trutl 


ipri 
>h. 


'Tis  like  a  chime  amending;  with  terms  unsquar'd, 

Which,  from  the  tongue  of  roaring  Typhon  dropp'd. 

Would  seem  hyperboles.      At  this  fusty  stufl". 

The  large  Achilles,  on  his  press'd  bed  lolling. 

From  his  deep  chest  laughs  out  a  loud  applause ; 

Cries  —  Excellent!  'tis  Agannemnon  just.  — 

Now  play  rue  Nestor  ;  —  hem,  and  stroke  thy  beard. 

As,  he  being  drest  to  some  oration. 

That's  done ;  —  as  near  as  the  extremest  ends 

Of  parallels ;  as  like  as  Vulcan  and  his  wife : 

Yet  good  Achilles  still  cries,  Excellent  ! 

'  7'w  Nestor  right !   Now  play  him  me,  Patroclus, 

Arming  to  answer  in  a  night  alarm. 

And  then,  forsooth,  the  faint  defects  of  age 

Must  be  the  scene  of  mirth  ;  to  cough  and  spit. 

And  with  a  palsy-fumbling  on  his  gorget. 

Shake  in  and  out  the  rivet;  —  and  at  this  sport. 

Sir  Valour  dies  ;  cries,  0/  —  enough,  Patroclus ;  — 

Or  give  me  ribs  of  steel !  I  shall  split  all 

In  pleasure  of  my  spleen.      And  in  this  fashion. 

All  our  abilities,  gifts,  natures,  shapes, 

Sevcrals  and  generals  of  grace  exact, 

Achievements,  plots,  orders,  preventions. 

Excitements  to  the  field,  or  speech  for  truce. 

Success,  or  loss,  what  is,  or  is  not,  serves 

As  stuff  for  these  two  to  make  paradoxes. 

Nest.   And  in  the  imitation  of  these  twain 
(Whom,  as  Ulysses  says,  opinion  crowns 
With  an  imperial  voice,)  many  are  infect, 
Ajax  is  grown  self-will'd ;  and  bears  his  head 
In  such  a  rein,  in  full  as  proud  a  place 
As  broad  Achilles  :   keeps  his  tent  like  him  ; 
Makes  factious  feasts  ;  rails  on  our  state  of  war. 
Bold  as  an  oracle  :   and  sets  Thersites 
(A  slave,  whose  gall  coins  slanders  like  a  mint,) 
To  match  us  in  comparisons  with  dirt ; 
To  weaken  and  discredit  our  exposure, 
How  rank  soever  rounded  in  with  danger. 

Ulyss.  They  tax  our  policy,  and  call  it  cowardice  ; 
Count  wisdom  as  no  member  of  the  war ; 
Forestall  prescience,  and  esteem  no  act 
But  that  of  hand  :   the  still  and  mental  parts,  — 
That  do  contrive  how  many  hands  shall  strike. 
When  fitness  calls  them  on  ;  and  know,  by  measure 
Of  their  observant  toil,  the  enemies'  weight,  — 
Why,  this  hath  not  a  finger's  dignity  : 
They  call  this  — bed- work,  mappery,  closet- war  : 
So  that  the  ram,  that  batters  down  the  wall, 
For  the  great  swing  and  rudeness  of  his  poize. 
They  place  before  his  hand  that  made  the  en^'ne  . 
Or  those,  that  with  the  fineness  of  their  souls 
By  reason  guide  his  execution. 

Nest.   Let  this  be  granted,  and  Achilles'  horse 
Makes  many  Thetis'  sons.  [Trum}>ets  sounded. 

Agam.  What  trumpet  ?  look,  Menelaus. 

Enter  JEneas. 

Men.    From  Troy. 

A'^am.  What  would  you  'fore  our  tent  ? 

jEne.  Is  this 

Great  Agamemnon's  tent,  I  pray? 

Agam.  Even  this. 

jEne.   May  one  that  is  a  herald,  and  a  prince. 
Do  a  fair  message  to  his  kingly  ears  ? 

Again.  With  surety  stronger  than  Achilles'  arm 
'Fore  all  the  Greekish  heads,  which  with  one  voice 
Call  Agamemnon  head  and  general. 

JEiie.    Fair  leave  and  large  security.      How  may 
A  stranger  to  those  most  imperial  looks 
Know  them  from  eyes  of  other  mortals  ? 


Scene  III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA, 


601 


u4gani.  How  ? 

JEne.   Ay; 
I  ask,  that  I  might  waken  reverence, 
And  liid  the  cheek  be  ready  with  a  blush 
Modest  as  morning  when  she  coldly  eyes 
The  youthful  Phoebus  : 
Which  is  that  god  in  office,  guiding  men  ? 
Which  is  the  high  and  mighty  Agamemnon  ? 

Ai^am.   Tliis  Trojan  scorns  us ;  or  the  men  of 
Troy 
Are  ceremonious  courtiers. 

jEne.    Courtiers  as  free,  as  debonair,  unarm'd, 
As  bending  angels ;  that's  their  fame  in  peace  : 
But  when  tliey  would  seem  soldiers,  they  have  galls, 
Good  arms,  strong  joints,  true  swords  j  and,  Jove's 

accord, 
Nothing  so  full  of  heart.      But  peace,  iEneas, 
Peace,  Trojan  ;  lay  thy  finger  on  thy  lips  ! 
The  worthiness  of  praise  disdains  his  worth, 
If  that  the  prais'd  himself  bring  the  praise  forth  : 
But  what  the  repining  enemy  commends. 
That  breath  fame  follows;  that  praise,  sole  pure, 
transcends. 

Agam.  Sir,  you  of  Troy,  call  you  yourself  iEneas  ? 

uEne.   Ay,  Greek,  that  is  my  name. 

jigam.  What's  your  affair,  I  pray  you  ? 

JEne.   Sir,  pardon  ;  'tis  for  Agamemnon's  ears. 

Aganu   He  hears  nought  privately,  that  comes 
from  Troy. 

^ne.  Nor  I  from  Troy  come  not  to  whisper  him: 
I  bring  a  trumpet  to  awake  his  ear  : 
To  set  his  sense  on  the  attentive  bent, 
And  then  to  speak. 

Agam.  Speak  frankly,  as  the  wind  ; 

It  is  not  Agamemnon's  sleeping  hour : 
That  thou  shalt  know,  Trojan,  he  is  awake. 
He  tells  thee  so  himself. 

^ne.  Trumpet,  blow  loud, 

Send  thy  brass  voice  through  all  these  lazy  tents;  — 
And  every  Greek  of  mettle,  let  him  know. 
What  Troy  means  fairly,  shall  be  spoke  aloud. 

[Trumpet  sounds. 
We  have,  groat  Agamemnon,  here  in  Troy 
A  prince  called  Hector,  (Priam  is  his  father,) 
Who  in  this  dull  and  long-continued  truce 
Is  rusty  grown  :  he  bade  me  take  a  trumpet. 
And  to  this  purpose  speak.      Kings,  princes,  lords! 
If  there  be  one,  among  the  fair'st  of  Greece, 
That  holds  his  honour  higher  than  his  ease ; 
Tliat  seeks  his  praise  more  than  he  fears  his  peril ; 
That  knows  his  valour,  and  knows  not  his  fear ; 
That  loves  his  mistress  more  than  in  confession. 
(Witli  truant  vows  to  her  own  lips  he  loves,) 
And  dare  avow  her  beauty  and  her  worth, 
In  other  arms  than  hers,  —  to  him  this  challenge. 
Hector,  in  view  of  Trojans  and  of  Greeks, 
Shall  make  it  good,  or  do  his  best  to  do  it. 
He  hath  a  lady,  wiser,  fairer,  truer. 
Than  ever  Greek  did  compass  in  his  arms; 
And  will  to-morrow  with  his  trumpet  call. 
Mid-way  between  your  tents  and  walls  of  Troy, 
To  rouse  a  Grecian  that  is  true  in  love  : 
If  any  come.  Hector  shall  honour  him  ; 
If  none,  he'll  say  in  Troy,  when  he  retires. 
The  Grecian  dames  are  sun-bum'd,  and  not  worth 
The  splinter  of  a  lance.      Even  so  much. 

Jgam,  This  shall  be  told  our  lovers,  lord  JEneas ; 
If  none  of  them  have  soul  in  such  a  kind, 
We  left  them  all  at  home :    But  we  are  soldiers ; 
And  may  that  soldier  a  mere  recreant  prove, 


That  means  not,  hath  not,  or  is  not  in  love ! 

If  then  one  is,  or  hath,  or  means  to  be. 

That  one  meets  Hector ;  if  none  else,  I  am  he. 

A'es/.   Tell  him  of  Nestor,  one  that  was  a  man 
When  Hector's  grandsire  suck'd  :   he  is  old  now  ; 
But,  if  there  be  not  in  our  Grecian  host 
One  noble  man,  that  hath  one  spark  of  fire 
To  answer  for  his  love.  Tell  him  from  me,  — 
I'll  hide  my  silver  beard  in  a  gold  beaver. 
And  in  my  vantbrace  '  put  tliis  wither'd  brawn  ; 
And,  meeting  him,  will  tell  him,  That  my  lady 
Was  fairer  than  his  grandame,  and  as  chaste 
As  may  be  in  the  world :   His  youth  in  flood, 
I'll  prove  this  truth  with  my  tliree  drops  of  blood. 

^7ie.  Now  heaven  forbid  such  scarcity  of  youth ! 

Ulyss.  Amen. 

Agam.  Fair  lord  ^neas,  let  me  touch  your  hand ; 
To  our  pavilion  shall  I  lead  you,  sir. 
Achilles  shall  have  word  of  this  intent ; 
So  shall  each  lord  of  Greece,  from  tent  to  tent : 
Yourself  shall  feast  with  us  before  you  go, 
And  find  the  welcome  of  a  noble  foe. 

{^Exeunt  all  but  Ulysses  and  Nestor. 

Vlyss.   Nestor, 

Nest.   What  says  Ulysses? 

Ulyss.   I  have  a  young  conception  in  my  brain, 
Be  you  my  time  to  bring  it  to  some  shape. 

Nest.   What  is't  ? 

Ulyss.   This  'tis  : 
Blunt  wedges  rive  hard  knots :   The  seeded  pride 
That  hath  to  this  maturity  blown  up 
In  rank  Achilles,  must  or  now  be  cropp'd. 
Or,  shedding,  breed  a  nursery  of  like  evil. 
To  overbulk  us  all. 

Nest.  Well,  and  how  ? 

Ulyss.  This  challenge  that  the  gallant  Hector 
sends, 
However  it  is  spread  in  general  name, 
Relates  in  purpose  only  to  Achilles. 

Nest.   The  purpose  is  perspicuous  even  as  sub- 
stance, 
Whose  grossness  little  characters  sum  up  : 
And,  in  the  publication,  make  no  strain, 
But  that  Achilles,  were  his  brain  as  barren 
As  banks  of  Libya,  — though,  Apollo  knows, 
'Tis  dry  enough,  —  will  with  great  speed  of  judg- 
ment, 
Ay,  with  celerity,  find  Hector's  purpose 
Pointing  on  him. 

Ulyss.  And  wake  him  to  tlie  answer,  think  you  ? 

Nest.  Yes, 

It  is  most  meet :   Whom  may  you  else  oppose. 
That  can  from  Hector  bring  those  honours  off. 
If  not  Achilles?    Though't  be  a  sportful  combat. 
Yet  in  the  trial  much  opinion  dwells ; 
For  here  the  Trojans  taste  our  dear'st  repute 
With  their  fin'st  palate :    And  trust  to  me,  Ulysses, 
Our  imputation  shall  be  oddly  pois'd 
In  this  wild  action  :   for  the  success, 
Although  particular,  shall  give  a  scantling* 
Of  goo<l  or  bad  unto  the  general ; 
And  in  such  indexes,  although  small  points 
To  their  subsequent  volumes,  there  is  seen 
The  baby  figure  of  the  giant  mass 
Of  things  to  come  at  large.      It  is  suppos'd, 
He,  that  meets  Hector,  issues  from  our  choice: 
And  choice,  being  mutual  act  of  all  our  souls. 
Makes  merit  her  election  ;  and  doth  boil, 
As  'twere  from  forth  us  all,  a  man  distill'd 
1  An  armour  for  the  arm.  *  Sixe,  measure. 


602 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  11. 


Out  of  her  virtues ;  Who  miscarrying, 
What  heart  receives  from  hence  a  conquering  part, 
To  steel  a  strong  opinion  to  themselves? 
Which  entertain'd,  limbs  are  his  instruments, 
In  no  less  working,  than  are  swords  and  bows 
Directive  by  the  limbs. 

Ulyss.   Give  pardon  to  my  speech  ;  — 
Therefore  'tis  meet,  Achilles  meet  not  Hector. 
Let  us,  like  merchants,  show  our  foulest  wares. 
And  think,  perchance,  they'll  sell ;  if  not, 
The  lustre  of  the  better  shall  exceed. 
By  showing  the  worst  first.      Do  not  consent. 
That  ever  Hector  and  Achilles  meet ; 
For  both  our  honour  and  our  shame,  in  this. 
Are  dogg'd  with  two  strange  followers. 

Net>l.  I  see  them  not  with  my  old  eyes ;  what 
are  they? 

Ubjss.     What   glory    our  Achilles    shares  from 
Hector, 
Were  he  not  proud,  we  all  should  share  with  him : 
But  he  already  is  too  insolent ; 
And  we  were  better  parch  in  Africk  sun, 
Than  in  the  pride  and  salt  scorn  of  his  eyes, 


Should  he  'scape  Hector  fkir :   If  he  were  foil'd. 

Why,  then  we  did  our  main  opinion  *  crush 

In  taint  of  our  best  man.      No,  make  a  lottery; 

And,  by  device,  let  blockish  Ajax  draw 

The  sort  6  to  fight  with  Hector  :  Among  ourselves, 

Give  him  allowance  for  the  better  man. 

For  that  will  physick  the  great  Myrmidon, 

Who  broils  in  loud  applause ;  and  make  him  fall 

His  crest,  that  prouder  than  blue  Iris  bends. 

If  the  dull  brainless  Ajax  come  safe  off. 

We'll  dress  him  up  in  voices  :    If  he  fail. 

Yet  go  we  under  our  opinion  ^  still 

That  we  have  better  men.      But,  hit  or  miss, 

Our  project's  life  this  shape  of  sense  assumes,  — 

Ajax,  employ'd,  plucks  down  Achilles'  plumes. 

Nest.  Ulysses, 
Now  I  begin  to  relish  thy  advice ; 
And  I  will  give  a  taste  of  it  forthwith 
To  Agamemnon  :   go  we  to  him  straight. 
Two  curs  shall  tame  each  other;   Pride  alone 
Must  tarre  8  the  mastiffs  on,  as  'twere  their  bone. 

[^Exeunt. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I Another  Part  of  the  Grecian  Camp. 

E7iter  Ajax  and  Thersites. 

Ajax.   Thersites,  learn  me  the  proclamation. 

2Vier.    Thou  art  proclaimed  a  fool,  I  think. 

Ajax.    I  say,  the  proclamation, 

Ther.  Thou  grumblest  and  railest  every  hour  on 
Achilles ;  and  thou  art  as  full  of  envy  at  his  great- 
ness, as  Cerberus  is  at  Proserpina's  beauty,  ay,  that 
thou  barkest  at  him. 

Ajax.    Mistress  Thersites  ! 

I'lier.   Thou  shouldest  strike  him. 

Ajax.    Cobloaf ! 

21ier.  He  would  pun  3  thee  into  shivers  with  his 
fist,  as  a  sailor  breaks  a  biscuits 

Ajax.   You  cur  !  [^Beating  him. 

Ther.    Do,  do. 

Ajax.   Thou  stool  for  a  witch  ! 

Ther.  Ay,  do,  do;  thou  sodden-wittedlord!  thou 
hast  no  more  brain  than  I  have  iu  mine  elbows ;  an 
assinego  "*  may  tutor  thee  :  Thou  scurvy  valiant  ass  ! 
thou  art  here  put  to  thrash  Trojans  ;  and  thou  art 
bought  and  sold  among  those  of  any  wit,  like  a 
Barbarian  slave.  If  thou  use  to  beat  me,  I  will 
begin  at  thy  heel,  and  tell  what  thou  art  by  inches, 
thou  thing  of  no  bowels,  thou  ! 

Ajax,   You  dog  ! 

Tker.    You  scurvy  lord  I 

Ajax.   You  cur  !  yBeating  him. 

Ther.  Mars  his  idiot !  do,  rudeness ;  do,  camel, 
do,  do. 

Enter  Achilles  and,  Patroclus. 

Achil.   Why,  how  now,  Ajax  ?  wherefore  do  you 
thus? 
How  now,  Thersites  ?  what's  the  matter,  man  ? 
Ther.    You  see  him  there,  do  you? 
Achil.    Ay  ;  what's  the  matter  ? 
T'her.    Nay,  look  upon  him. 
Achil    So  I  do ;   What's  the  matter  ? 
3  Pound.  *  Ass,  a  cant  term  for  a  foolish  fcHow. 


Ther.   Nay,  but  regard  him  well. 

Achil.   Well,  why  I  do  so. 

Ther.  But  yet  you  look  not  well  upon  him  :  for 
whosoever  you  take  him  to  be,  he  is  Ajax. 

Achil.   I  know  that,  fool. 

Ther.   Ay,  but  that  fool  knows  not  himself. 

Ajax.   Therefore  I  beat  thee. 

Ther.  Lo,  lo,  lo,  lo,  what  modicums  of  wit  he 
utters  !  his  evasions  have  ears  thus  long.  I  have 
bobbed  his  brain,  more  than  he  has  beat  my  bones : 
This  lord,  Achilles,  Ajax,  —  who  wears  his  wit  in 
his  belly,  instead  of  his  head,  —  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  say  of  him. 

Achil.   What? 

Ther.   I  say  this,  Ajax  — — 

Achil.   Nay,  good  Ajax. 

[Ajax  offers  to  strike  him,  Achilles 
interjwses. 

Ther.    Has  not  so  much  wit  — 

Achil.   Nay,  I  must  hold  you. 

Ther.  As  will  stop  the  eye  of  Helen's  needle,  for 
whom  he  comes  to  fight. 

Achil.    Peace,  fool ! 

Ther.  I  would  have  peace  and  quietness,  but  the 
fool  will  not :   he  there  ;  that  he  ;  look  you  there. 

Ajax.   O  thou  cur!   I  shall 

Achil.   Will  you  set  your  wit  to  a  fool's  ? 

Ther.  No,  I  warrant  you ;  for  a  fool's  will 
shame  it. 

Pair.    Good  words,  Thersites. 

Achil.    What's  the  quarrel  ? 

Ajax.  I  bade  the  vile  owl,  go,  learn  me  the  tenor 
of  the  proclamation,  and  he  rails  upon  me. 

Ther.   I  serve  thee  not. 

Ajax.   Well,  go  to,  go  to. 

Ther.    I  serve  here  voluntary. 

Achil.  Your  last  service  was  suflTerance,  'twas  not 
voluntary ;  no  man  is  beaten  voluntary ;  Ajax  was 
here  the  voluntary,  and  you  as  under  an  impress. 


Kstimation  of  character. 
Character. 


6    TvOt. 

f  Provoke, 


Scene  II. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


603 


Ther.  Even  so? — a  great  deal  of  your  wit  too 
lies  in  your  sinews,  or  else  there  be  liars,  Hector 
shall  have  a  great  catch,  if  he  knock  out  cither  of 
your  brains ;  'a  were  as  good  crack  a  fusty  nut  with 
no  kernel. 

jichil.   What,  with  me  too,  Thersites  ? 

Ther.  There's  Ulysses,  and  old  Nestor,  whose 
wit  was  mouldy,  ere  your  grandsires  had  nails  on 
their  toes,  —  yoke  you  like  draught  oxen,  and  make 
you  plough  ui^tlie  wars. 

AchU.   What,  what  ? 

Ther.  Yes,  good  sooth  ;  to,  Acliilles !  to,  Ajax  ! 
to! 

Jjax.   I  shall  cut  out  your  tongue. 

Ther.  'Tis  no  matter;  I  shall  speak  as  much  as 
thou,  afterwards. 

Patr.   No  more  words,  Thersites ;  peace. 

Ther.  I  will  liold  my  peace  when  Achilles'  brach  9 
bids  me,  shall  I  ? 

AchU.   There's  for  you,  Patroclus. 

Ther,  I  will  see  you  hanged,  like  clotpoles,  ere 
I  come  any  more  to  your  tents  ;  I  will  keep  where 
there  is  wit  stirring,  and  leave  the  faction  of  fools. 

lExU. 

Fair.    A  good  riddance. 

AchU.   Marry,  this,  sir,  is  proclaimed  through  all 
our  host : 
That  Hector,  by  the  first  hour  of  the  sun. 
Will,  with  a  trumpet,  'tmxt  our  tents  and  Troy, 
To-morrow  morning  call  some  knight  to  arms. 
That  hath  a  stomach  ;  and  such  a  one,  that  dare 
INIaintain  —  I  know  not  what ;  'tis  trash  :  Farewell. 

Ajax.    Farewell.      Who  shall  answer  him? 

AchU.  I  know  not,  it  is  put  to  lottery  ;  otherwise. 
He  knew  his  man. 

Ajax.  O,  meaning  you  :  — I'll  go  learn  more  of  it. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Troy.     A  Room  in  Priam'i  Palace. 

Enter  Priam,  Hector,  Troilus,  Paris,  and 
Helenus. 

Pri.   After  so  many  hours,  lives,  speeches,  spent. 
Thus  once  again  says  Nestor  from  the  Greeks  : 
Deliver  Helen,  and  all  damage  else  — 
As  honour,  loss  of  time,  travel,  exj)ence. 
Wounds,  friends,  and  what  else  dear  that  is  consumed 
In  hot  digestion  of  thus  cormorant  war,  — 
Shall  be  struck  off:  —  Hector,  what  say  you  to't  ? 

Hect.   Though  no  man  lesser  fears  the  Greeks 
than  I, 
As  far  as  toucheth  my  particular,  yet. 
Dread  Priam, 

There  is  no  lady  of  more  softer  bowels, 
IVIore  spungy  to  suck  in  the  sense  of  fear. 
More  reatly  to  cry  out —  Who  knows  what  follows  9 
Than  Hector  is  :   The  wound  of  peace  is  surety. 
Surety  secure ;  but  modest  doubt  is  call'd 
'llie  l>eacon  of  the  wise,  the  tent  tliat  searches 
To  the  bottom  of  the  worst.      Let  Helen  go  : 
Since  the  first  sword  was  drawn  about  this  question. 
Every  tithe  soul,  'mongst  many  thousand  dismes  ', 
Hatli  been  as  dear  as  Helen  ;   1  mean  of  ours  : 
If  we  have  lost  so  many  tenths  of  ours. 
To  guard  a  thing  not  ours  ;  not  worth  to  us. 
Had  it  our  name,  the  value  of  one  ten  ; 
Wliat  merit's  in  that  reason,  which  denies 
Djc  yielding  of  her  up  ? 

Tro.  Fye,  fyc,  my  brother  ! 

»  Bitch,  hound.  '  Tenth*. 


Weigh  you  the  worth  and  honour  of  a  king, 

So  great  as  our  dread  father,  in  a  scale 

Of  common  ounces  ?  will  you  with  counters  sum 

Tlie  past-proportion  of  his  infinite? 

And  buckle-in  a  waist  most  fathomless. 

With  spans  and  inches  so  diminutive 

As  fears  and  reasons?  fye,  for  godly  shame  ! 

Hel.   No   marvel,    though  you  bite  so  sharp  at 
reasons. 
You  are  so  emjjty  of  them.     Should  not  our  father 
Bear  the  great  sway  of  his  affairs  with  reasons. 
Because  your  speech  hath  none,  that  tells  him  so  ? 
Tro.   You  are  for  dreams  and  slumbers,  brother 
priest. 
You  fur  your  gloves  with  reason.     Here  are  your 

reasons : 
You  know,  an  enemy  intends  you  harm  ; 
You  know,  a  sword  employ'd  is  perilous. 
And  reason  flies  the  object  of  all  harm : 
Who  marvels  then,  when  Helenus  beholds 
A  Grecian  and  his  sword,  if  he  do  set 
The  very  wings  of  reason  to  his  heels ; 
And  fly  like  chidden  Mercury  from  Jove, 
Or  like  a  star  disorb'd  ?  —  Nay,  if  we  talk  of  reason, 
Let's  shut  our  gates  and  sleep :  Manhood  and  honour 
Should  have  hare  hearts,  would  they  but  fat  their 

thoughts 
With  this  cramm'd  reason  :  reason  and  respect  2 
Make  livers  pale,  and  lustihood  deject. 

Hect.  Brother,  she  is  not  worth  what  she  doth  cost 
The  holding. 

Tro.  What  is  aught,  but  as  'tis  valued  ? 

Hect.   But  value  dwells  not  in  particular  will ; 
It  holds  his  estimate  and  dignity 
As  well  wherein  'tis  precious  of  itself 
As  in  the  prizer :   'tis  mad  idolatry. 
To  make  the  service  greater  than  the  god ; 
And  the  will  dotes,  that  is  attributive 
To  what  infectiously  itself  aflPects, 
Without  some  imag*  of  the  aflfected  merit. 

Tro.  I  take  to-day  a  wife,  and  my  election 
Is  led  on  in  the  conduct  of  my  will  : 
My  will  enkindled  by  mine  eyes  and  ears. 
Two  traded  pilots  'twixt  the  dangerous  shores 
Of  will  and  judgment :    How  may  I  avoid. 
Although  my  will  distaste  what  it  elected. 
The  wife  I  chose  ?  there  can  be  no  evasion 
To  blench  3  from  this,  and  to  stand  firm  by  honour : 
We  turn  not  back  the  silks  upon  the  merchant. 
When  we  have  soil'd  them ;  nor  the  remainder  viands 
We  do  not  throw  in  unrespective  sieve. 
Because  we  now  are  full.     It  was  thought  meet, 
Paris  should  do  some  vengeance  on  the  Greeks : 
Your  breath  with  full  consent  bellied  his  sails ; 
The  seas  and  winds  (old  wranglers)  took  a  truce. 
And  did  him  service  :   he  touch'd  the  ports  desir'd  ; 
And,  for  an  old  aunt^,  whom  theGreeks  held  captive. 
He  brought  a  Grecian  qneen,    whose  youth  and 

freshness 
Wrinkles  Apollo's,  and  makes  pale  the  morning. 
Why  keej)  we  her  ?  the  Grecians  keep  our  aunt : 
Is  she  wortli  keeping  ?  why,  she  is  a  pearl. 
Whose  price  hath  launch'd  above  a  thousand  ships, 
And  tum'd  crown'd  kings  to  merchants. 
If  you'll  avouch,  'twas  wisdom  Paris  went, 
(As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  cry'd —  Go,  go,) 
If  you'll  confess,  he  brought  home  noble  prize, 
(As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  clapp'd  your  hands. 

Caution.  »  Shrink,  or  fly  oflE 

'*  I'riam's  sister,  Hcsione. 


604- 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  II. 


And  cry'd  —  Inestimable/)  why  do  you  now 
The  issue  of  your  proper  wisdoms  rate ; 
And  do  a  deed  that  fortune  never  did, 
Beggar  the  estimation  which  you  priz'd 
Richer  than  sea  Or  land  ?  O  theft  most  base  ; 
That  we  have  stolen  what  we  do  fear  to  keep  ! 
But,  thieves  unworthy  of  a  thing  so  stolen, 
That  in  their  country  did  them  that  disgrace. 
We  fear  to  warrant  in  our  native  place  ! 

Cas.    lirithin.'\    Cry,  Trojans,  cry  ! 

Pri.  What  noise  ?  what  shriek  is  this  ? 

Tro.   'Tis  our  mad  sister,  I  do  know  her  voice. 

Cas.    [JVithin.}    Cry,  Trojans! 

Hect.   It  is  Cassandra. 

Enter  Cassandra,  raving. 

Cas.  Cry,  Trojans,  cry !  lend  me  ten  thousand  eyes, 
And  I  will  fill  them  with  prophetick  tears. 

Hect,    Peace,  sister,  peace. 

Cas.   Virgins  and  boys,  mid-age,  and  wrinkled 
elders. 
Soft  infancy,  that  nothing  canst  but  cry. 
Add  to  my  clamours  !  let  us  pay  betimes 
A  moiety  of  that  mass  of  moan  to  come. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry !  practise  your  eyes  with  tears  ! 
Troy  must  not  be,  nor  goodly  llion  stand  ; 
Our  fire-brand  brother,  Paris,  burns  us  all. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  a  Helen  and  a  woe  : 
Cry,  cry  !  Troy  burns,  or  else  let  Helen  go.      [Exit. 

Hect.   Now,  youthful  Troilus,  do  not  these  high 
strains 
Of  divination  in  our  sister  work 
Some  touches  of  remorse  ?  or  is  your  blood 
So  madly  hot,  that  no  discourse  of  reason, 
Nor  fear  of  bad  success  in  a  bad  cause, 
Can  qualify  the  same  ? 

Tro.  Why,  brother  Hector, 

We  may  not  think  the  justness  of  each  act 
Such  and  no  other  than  event  doth  form  it ; 
Nor  once  deject  the  covirage  of  our  minds. 
Because  Cassandra's  mad  ;  her  brain-sick  raptures 
Cannot  distaste  ^  the  goodness  of  a  quarrel, 
Which  hath  our  several  honours  all  engag'd 
To  make  it  gracious.      For  my  private  part, 
I  am  no  more  touch'd  than  all  Priam's  sons : 
And  Jove  forbid,  there  should  be  done  amongst  us 
Such  things  as  might  offend  the  weakest  spleen 
To  fight  for  and  maintain  ! 

Par.   Else  might  the  world  convince  ^  of  levity 
As  well  my  undertakings  as  your  counsels  j 
But  I  attest  the  gods,  your  full  consent 
Gave  wings  to  my  propension,  and  cut  off 
All  fears  attending  on  so  dire  a  project. 
For  what,  alas,  can  these  my  single  arms  ? 
What  propugnation  7  is  in  one  man's  valour 
To  stand  the  push  and  enmity  of  those 
This  quarrel  would  excite  ?  Yet,  I  protest, 
Were  I  alone  to  pass  the  difficulties. 
And  had  as  ample  power  as  I  have  will, 
Paris  should  ne'er  retract  what  he  hath  done. 
Nor  faint  in  the  pursuit. 

Pri.  Paris,  you  speak 

Like  one  besotted  on  your  sweet  delights  : 
You  have  the  honey  still,  but  these  the  gall ; 
So  to  be  valiant,  is  no  praise  at  all. 

Par.   Sir,  I  propose  not  merely  to  myself 
The  pleasures  such  a  beauty  brings  with  it ; 


*  Corrupt,  change  to  a  worse  state. 
7  Defence. 


Convict 


But  I  would  have  the  soil  of  her  fair  rape 

Wip'd  off",  in  honourable  keeping  her. 

What  treason  were  it  to  the  ransack'd  queen,  ^ 

Disgrace  to  your  great  worths,  and  shame  to  me, 

^ow  to  deliver  her  possession  up, 

On  terms  of  base  compulsion?   Can  it  be. 

That  so  degenerate  a  strain  as  this. 

Should  once  set  footing  in  your  generous  bosoms? 

There's  not  the  meanest  spirit  on  our  party, 

Without  a  heart  to  dare,  or  sword  to  draw, 

When  Helen  is  defended ;  nor  none  so  noble. 

Whose  life  were  ill  bestow'd,  or  death  unfam'd, 

Where  Helen  is  the  subject :  then,  I  say. 

Well  may  we  fight  for  her,  whom,  we  know  well, 

The  world's  large  spaces  cannot  parallel. 

Hect.  Paris,  and  Troilus,  you  have  both  said  well : 
And  on  the  cause  and  question  now  in  hand 
Have  gloz'd  8,  —  but  superficially  ;  not  much 
Unlike  young  men,  whom  Aristotle  thought 
Unfit  to  hear  moral  philosophy  : 
The  reasons,  you  allege,  do  more  conduce 
To  the  hot  passion  of  distemper'd  blood. 
Than  to  make  up  a  free  determination 
'Twixt  right  and  wrong  ;  For  pleasure,  and  revenge, 
Have  ears  for  ever  deaf  unto  the  voice 
Of  any  true  decision.      Nature  craves. 
All  dues  be  render'd  to  their  owners  j  Now 
What  nearer  debt  in  all  humanity. 
Than  wife  is  to  the  husband  ?  if  this  law  , 

Of  nature  be  corruj.ted  through  affection  ; 
And  that  great  minds,  of  9  partial  indulgence 
To  their  benumbed  wills,  resist  the  same  ; 
There  is  a  law  in  each  well-order'd  nation, 
To  curb  those  raging  appetites  that  are 
Most  disobedient  and  refractory. 
If  Helen  then  be  wife  to  Sparta's  king,  — 
As  it  is  known  she  is,  — these  moral  laws 
Of  nature,  and  of  nations,  speak  aloud 
To  "have  her  back  return'd  :    Thus  to  persist 
In  doing  wrong,  extenuates  not  wrong. 
But  makes  it  much  more  heavy.      Hector's  opinion 
Is  this,  in  way  of  truth :   yet  ne'ertheless, 
My  spritely  brethren,  I  propend  '  to  you 
In  resolution  to  keep  Helen  still ; 
For  'tis  a  cause  that  hath  no  mean  dependance 
Upon  our  joint  and  several  dignities. 

Tro.  Why,  there  you  touch'd  the  life  of  our  design : 
Were  it  not  glory  that  we  more  affected. 
Than  the  performance  of  our  heaving  spleens, 
I  would  not  wish  a  drop  of  Trojan  blood 
Spent  more  in  her  defence.      But,  worthy  Hector, 
She  is  a  theme  of  honour  and  renown  ; 
A  spur  to  valiant  and  magnanimous  deeds ; 
Whose  present  courage  may  beat  down  our  foes. 
And  fame,  in  time  to  come,  canonize  us : 
For,  I  presume,  brave  Hector  would  not  lose 
So  rich  advantage  of  a  promis'd  glory. 
As  smiles  upon  the  forehead  of  this  action. 
For  the  wide  world's  revenue. 

Hect.  I  am  yours. 

You  valiant  oflTspring  of  great  Priamus.  — 
I  have  a  roisting  '^  challenge  sent  amongst 
The  dull  and  factious  nobles  of  the  Greeks, 
Will  strike  amazement  to  their  drowsy  spirits : 
I  was  adv^rtis'd,  their  great  general  slept, 
Whilst  emulation  3  in  the  army  crept ; 
This,  I  presume,  will  wake  him.  [Exeunt. 


8  Commented. 
1  Incline. 
3  Envy. 


9  Through. 
2  Blustering. 


Scene  III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


605 


SCENE  III.  —  The  Grecian  Camp.     Before 
Achilles'  Tent. 

Enter  Thersites. 

Ther.  How,  now,  Thersites?  what,  lost  in  the 
labyrinth  of  thy  fury?  Shall  the  elephant  Ajax 
carry  it  thus  ?  he  beats  me,  and  I  rail  at  him  :  O 
worthy  satisfaction  !  'would,  it  were  otherwise  ;  that 
I  could  beat  him,  whilst  he  railed  at  me :  I'll  learn 
to  conjure  and  raise  devils,  but  I'll  see  some  issue 
of  my  spiteful  execrations.  Then  there's  Achilles, 
—  a  rare  engineer.  If  Troy  be  not  taken,  till  these 
two  undermine  it,  the  walls  will  stand  till  they  fall 
of  themselves.  O  thou  great  thunder-darter  of 
Olympus,  forget  that  thou  art  Jove  the  king  of 
gods ;  and.  Mercury,  lose  all  the  serpentine  craft 
of  thy  Caduceus  ^ ,-  if  ye  take  not  that  little  little 
less-than-little  wit  from  them  that  they  have  !  which 
short-armed  ignorance  itself  knows  is  so  abundant 
scarce,  it  will  not  in  circumvention  deliver  a  fly 
from  a  spider,  without  drawing  their  massy  irons, 
and  cutting  the  web.  After  this,  the  vengeance  on 
the  whole  camp  !  Wliat,  ho !  my  lord  Achilles ! 

Enter  Patroclus. 

Patr.  Who's  there?  Thersites?  Good  Thersites, 
come  in  and  rail. 

Thcr.  If  I  could  have  remembered  a  gilt  coun- 
terfeit, thou  wouldest  not  have  slipped  out  of  my 
contemplation  :  but  it  is  no  matter  ;  Thyself  upon 
thyself!  The  common  curse  of  mankind,  folly  and 
ignorance,  be  thine  in  great  revenue  !  heaven  bless 
thee  from  a  tutor,  and  discipline  come  not  near 
tliee !  Let  thy  blood  be  thy  direction  till  thy 
death !  then  if  she,  that  lays  thee  out,  says  — -  thou 
art  a  fair  corse,  I'll  be  sworn  and  sworn  upon't,  she 
never  shrouded  any  but  lazars.  ^  Amen.  —  Where's 
Achilles  ? 

Patr.  What,  art  thou  devout  ?  wast  thou  in 
prayer  ? 

Tlier.   Ay  ;  The  heavens  hear  me ! 

Enter  Achilles. 

JchU.   Who's  there? 

Patr.  Thersites,  my  lord. 

Achil.  Where,  where  ?  —  Art  thou  come  ?  Why, 
my  cheese,  my  digestion,  why  hast  thou  not  served 
thyself  in  to  my  table  so  many  meals  ?  Come ; 
what's  Agamemnon? 

Ther.  Thy  commander,  Achilles ;  —  Then  tell 
me,  Patroclus,  what's  Achilles  ? 

Patr.  Thy  lord,  Thersites  j  Then  tell  me,  I  pray 
thee,  what's  thyself? 

Ther.  Thy  knower,  Patroclus;  Then  tell  me, 
Patroclus,  what  art  thou  ? 

Patr.   Thou  mayst  tell,  that  knowest. 

AchU.   O,  tell,  teU. 

Ther.  I'll  decline  the  whole  question.  Agamem- 
non commands  Achilles ;  Achilles  is  my  lord  ;  I  am 
Patroclus'  knower  ;  and  Patroclus  is  a  fool. 

Patr.    You  rascal  ! 

Ther.   Peace,  fool ;   I  have  not  done. 

AchU.  He  is  a  privileged  man.  —  Proceed,  Ther- 
■ites. 

Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool ;  Achilles  is  a  fool ; 
Thersites  is  a  fool ;  and,  as  aforesaid,  Patroclus  is 
a  fool. 

AchiL   Derive  this ;  come. 

*  The  wand  of  Mercury,  which  is  wreathed  with  serpents. 
'  Leprous  persons. 


Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool  to  offer  to  command 
Achilles ;  Achilles  is  a  fool  to  be  commanded  of 
Agamemnon  ;  Thersites  is  a  fool  to  serve  such  a 
fool ;  and  Patroclus  is  a  fool  positive. 

Pair.  Why  am  I  a  fool  ? 

Ther.  Make  that  demand  of  the  proven  —  It  suf- 
fices me,  thou  art.     Look  you,  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Agamemnon,  Ulysses,  Nestor,  Diomedes, 
and  Ajax. 

AchU.  Patroclus,  I'll  speak  with  nobody :  — 
Come  in  with  me,  Thersites.  [Exit. 

Ther.  Here  is  such  patchery,  such  juggling,  and 
such  knavery  !  [Exit. 

Agam.   Where  is  Achilles? 

Patr.   Within  his  tent ;  but  ill-dispos'd,  my  lord. 

Agam.   Let  it  be  known  to  him,  that  we  are  here. 
He  shent  ^  our  messengers  ;  and  we  lay  by 
Our  appertainments  '  visiting  of  him  : 
Let  him  be  told  so  ;  lest,  perchance,  he  think 
We  dare  not  move  the  question  of  our  place. 
Or  know  not  what  we  are. 

Pair.  I  shall  say  so  to  him.    [Exit. 

Ulyss.   We  saw  him  at  the  opening  of  his  tent ; 
He  is  not  sick. 

Ajax.  Yes,  lion-sick,  sick  of  proud  heart :  you 
may  call  it  melancholy,  if  you  will  favour  the  man  ; 
but,  by  my  head,  'tis  pride :  But  why,  why  ?  let 
him  show  us  a  cause.  —  A  word,  my  lord. 

[Takes  Agamemnon  aside. 

Nest.  What  moves  Ajax  thus  to  bay  at  him  ? 

Ulyss.   Achilles  hath  inveigled  his  fool  from  him. 

Nest.   Who?  Thersites? 

Ulyss.   He. 

Nest.  Then  will  Ajax  lack  matter,  if  he  have  lost 
his  argument.  8 

Ulyss.  No ;  you  see,  he  is  his  argument,  that  has 
his  argument ;   Achilles. 

Nest.  All  the  better ;  their  fraction  is  more  our 
wish,  than  their  faction  :  But  it  was  a  strong  com- 
posure, a  fool  could  disunite. 

Ulyss.  The  amity  that  wisdom  knits  not,  foUy  may 
easily  untie.     Here  comes  Patroclus. 

Re-enter  Patroclus. 

Nest.   No  Achilles  with  him. 

Ulyss.  The  elephant  hath  joints,  but  none  for 
courtesy  ;  his  legs  are  legs  for  necessity,  not  for 
flexure. 

Patr.   Achilles  bids  me  say  —  he  is  much  sorry, 
If  any  thing  more  than  your  sport  and  pleasure 
Did  move  your  greatness,  and  this  noble  state, 
To  call  upon  him  ;  he  hopes,  it  is  no  other, 
But,  for  your  health  and  your  digestion  sake. 
An  after-dinner's  breath.  9 

Agam.  Hear  you,  Patroclus ;  — 

We  are  too  well  acquainted  with  these  answers : 
But  his  evasion,  wing'd  thus  swift  with  scorn. 
Cannot  outfly  our  apprehensions. 
Much  attribute  he  hatli ;  and  much  the  reason 
Why  we  ascribe  it  to  him  :   yet  all  his  virtues,  — 
Not  virtuously  on  his  own  part  beheld,  — 
Do,  in  our  eyes,  begin  to  lose  their  gloss ; 
Yea,  like  fair  fruit  in  an  unwholesome  dish. 
Are  like  to  rot  untasted.      Go  and  tell  him, 
We  come  to  speak  with  him :   And  you  shall  not  sin. 
If  you  do  say  —  we  think  him  over-proud. 
And  under-honest ;  in  self-assumption  greater. 


«  Rebuked,  rated. 
•  Subject 


'  Appendage  of  rank  or  dignity. 
»  Exercise. 


606 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  II. 


Than  in  the  note  of  judgment ;  and  worthier  than 

himself 
Here  tend  '  the  savage  strangeness  he  puts  on  ; 
Disguise  the  holy  strength  of  their  command, 
And  underwrite^  in  an  observing  kind 
His  humorous  predominance ;  yea,  watch 
His  pettish  lunes  3,  his  ebbs,  his  flows,  as  if 
The  passage  and  whole  carriage  of  this  action 
Rode  on  his  tide.      Go,  tell  him  this  ;  and  add. 
That,  if  he  overbold  his  price  so  much, 
We'll  none  of  him ;  but  let  him  like  an  engine 
Not  portable,  lie  under  this  report  — 
Bring  action  hither,  this  cannot  go  to  war : 
A  stirring  dwarf  we  do  allowance  <  give 
Before  a  sleeping  giant :  —  Tell  him  so. 

Patr.   I  shall ;  and  bring  his  answer  presently. 

[Exit. 

Agam.   In  second  voice  we'll  not  be  satisfied, 
We  come  to  speak  with  him.  —  Ulysses,  enter. 

[ExU  Ulysses. 

Ajax.   What  is  he  more  than  another  ? 

Agam.   No  more  than  what  he  thinks  he  is. 

Ajax.  Is  he  so  much?  Do  you  not  think,  he  thinks 
himself  a  better  man  than  I  am? 

Agam.    No  question. 

Ajax.  Will  you  subscribe  his  thought,  and  say — 
he  is  ? 

Agam.  No,  noble  Ajax;  you  are  as  strong,  as 
valiant,  as  wise,  no  less  noble,  much  more  gentle, 
and  altogether  more  tractable. 

Ajax.  Why  should  a  man  be  proud  ?  How  doth, 
pride  grow  ?  I  know  not  what  pride  is. 

Agam.  Your  mind's  the  clearer,  Ajax,  and  your 
virtues  the  fairer.  He  that  is  proud,  eats  up  him- 
self: pride  is  his  own  glass,  his  own  trumpet,  his 
own  chronicle ;  and  whatever  praises  itself  but  in 
the  deed,  devours  the  deed  in  the  praise. 

Ajax.  I  do  hate  a  proud  man,  as  I  hate  the  en- 
gendering of  toads. 

Nest.  And  yet  he  loves  himself:  Is  it  not 
strange  ?  [Aside. 

Re-enter  Ulysses. 

Ulyss.   Achilles  will  not  to  the  field  to-morrow. 

Agam.  What's  his  excuse  ? 

Ulyss.  He  doth  rely  on  none  ; 

But  carries  on  the  stream  of  his  dispose, 
Without  observance  or  respect  of  any. 
In  will  peculiar  and  in  self-admission. 

Agam.   Why  wdll  he  not,  upon  our  fair  request, 
Untent  his  person,  and  share  the  air  with  us  ? 

Ulyss.   Things  small  as  nothing,  for  request's  sake 
only. 
He  makes  important :  Possess'd  he  is  with  greatness  ; 
And  speaks  not  to  himself,  but  with  a  pride 
That  quarrels  at  self-breath  :   imagin'd  worth 
Holds  in  his  blood  such  swoln  and  hot  discourse. 
That,  'twixt  his  mental  and  his  active  parts, 
Kingdom'd  Achilles  in  commotion  rages. 
And  batters  down  himself:    What  should  I  say  ? 
He  is  so  plaguy  proud,  that  the  death-tokens  of  it 
Cry  —  No  recovery* 

Agam.  Let  Ajax  go  to  him.  — 

Dear  lord,  go  you  and  greet  him  in  his  tent : 
'Tis  said,  he  holds  you  well ;  and  will  be  led. 
At  your  request  a  little  from  himself. 

Ulyss.   O  Agamemnon,  let  it  not  be  so  ! 
We'll  consecrate  the  steps  that  Ajax  makes 


When  they  go  from  Achilles  :    Shall  the  proud  lord, 

'I'hat  bastes  his  arrogance  with  his  own  seam  * ; 

And  never  suffers  matter  of  the  world 

Enter  his  thoughts,  —  save  such  as  do  revolve 

And  ruminate  himself,  —  shall  he  be  worshipp'd 

Of  that  we  hold  an  idol  more  than  he  ? 

No,  this  thrice  worthy  and  right  valiant  lord 

Must  not  so  stale  his  palm,  nobly  acquir'd ; 

Nor,  by  my  will,  assubjugate  his  merit. 

As  amply  titled  as  Achilles  is, 

By  going  to  Achilles  : 

That  were  to  enlard  his  fat-already  pride  ; 

And  add  more  coals  to  Cancer,  when  he  burns 

With  entertaining  great  Hyperion. 

This  lord  go  to  him  !  Jupiter  forbid ; 

And  say  in  thunder  —  Achilles,  go  to  him. 

Nest.   O,  this  is  well ;  he  rubs  the  vein  of  him. 

[Adde. 

Dio.   And   how  his   silence   drinks  up  this  ap- 
plause !  [Aside. 

Ajax.   If  I  go  to  him,  with  my  arm'd  fist  I'll  pash  « 
him 
Over  the  face. 

Agam.  O,  no,  you  shall  not  go. 

Ajax.   An  he  be  proud  with  me,  I'll  pheeze?  his 
pride: 
Let  me  go  to  him. 

Ulyss.   Not  for  the  worth  that  hangs  upon  our 
quarrel. 

Ajax.   A  paltry,  insolent  fellow,  ■ 

Nest.  How  he  describes 

Himself !  [Aside. 

Ajax.   Can  he  not  be  sociable  ? 

Ulyss.  The  raven 

Chides  blackness.  [Aside. 

Ajax.  I  will  let  his  humours  blood. 

Agam.    He'll  be  physician,  that    should  be  the 
patient.  [Aside. 

Ajax.   An  all  men 
Were  o'my  mind, 

Ulyss.  Wit  would  be  out  of  fashion. 

[Adde. 

Ajax.   He  should  not  bear  it  so. 
He  should  eat  swords  first :    Shall  pride  carry  it? 

Nest.    An  'twould,  you'd  carry  half.  [Aside. 

Ulyss.  He'd  have  ten  shares. 

[Aside. 

Ajax.   I'll  knead  him,  I  will  make  him  supple ;  — 

Nest.   He's  not  yet  thorough  warm  :   forced  him 
with  praises : 
Pour  in,  pour  in  ;  his  ambition  is  dry.  [Aside. 

Ulyss.   My  lord,  you  feed  too  much  on  this  dislike. 
[To  Agamemnon. 

Nest.   O  noble  general,  do  not  do  so. 

Dio.   You  must  prepare  to  fight  without  Achilles. 

Ulyss.  Why,  'tis  this  naming  of  him  does  him  harm. 
Here  is  a  man —  But  'tis  before  his  face  ; 
I  will  be  silent. 

Nest.  Wherefore  should  you  so  ? 

He  is  not  emulous  ^,  as  Achilles  is. 

Ulyss.   Know  the  whole  world,  he  is  as  valiant. 

Ajax.  A  vile  dog,  that  shall  palter  '  thus  with  us  ! 
I  would,  he  were  a  Trojan  ! 

N^est.  What  a  vice 

Were  it  in  Ajax  now  — ^— 

Ulyss.  If  he  were  proud  ! 

Dio.   Or  covetous  of  praise  ? 

Ulyss.  Ay,  or  surly  borne  ? 


1  Attend. 

'  Fits  of  lunacy. 


2  Subscribe,  obey. 
•«  Approbation 


5  Fat. 
8  Stuff. 


6  Strike. 
9  Envious. 


7  Comb  or  curry. 
1  Trifle. 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


607 


Dlo.    Or  strange,  or  self-affected  ? 

Ulyss.   Thank  tlie  heavens,  lord,  thou  art  of  sweet 
composure ; 
Praise  him  that  got  thee,  she  that  gave  thee  suck  : 
Fam'd  be  thy  tutor,  and  thy  parts  of  nature 
Thrice-fam'd,  beyond  all  erudition  : 
IJut  he  that  disciplin'd  thy  arms  to  fight. 
Let  Mars  divide  eternity  in  twain, 
And  give  him  Imlf :   and,  for  thy  vigour, 
Bull-bearing  Milo  his  addition  -  yield 
To  sinewy  Ajax.      I  will  not  praise  thy  wisdom, 
Which,  like  a  bourn',  a  pale,  a  shore,  confines 
Thy  spacious  and  dilated  parts  :    Here's  Nestor,  — 
Instructed  by  the  anticjuary  times, 
He  must,  he  is,  he  cannot  but  be  wise ;  — 
I3ut  pardon,  father  Nestor,  were  your  days 


As  green  as  Ajax,  and  your  brain  so  tempered. 
You  should  not  have  the  eminence  of  him. 
But  be  as  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Shall  I  call  you  father  ? 

Nest.   Ay,  my  good  son. 

Dio.  Be  rul'd  by  him,  lord  Ajax. 

Ulyss.  There  is  no  tarrying  here;  the  hart  Acliilles 
Keeps  thicket.      Please  it  our  great  general 
To  call  together  all  his  state  of  war ; 
Fresh  kings  are  come  to  Troy  :   To-morrow, 
We  must  with  all  our  main  of  power  stand  fast ; 
And  here's  a  lord, — come  knights  from  east  to  west. 
And  cull  their  flower,  Ajax  shall  cope  the  best. 

jigam.    Go  we  to  council.      Let  Achilles  sleep  ; 
Light  boats  sail  swift,  though  greater  hulks  draw 
deep.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCIENE  I Troy.     A  Room  in  Priam's  Palace. 

Enter  Pandarus  and  a  Servant. 

Pim.  Friend  !  you  !  pray  you,  a  word :  Do  not 
you  follow  the  young  lord  Paris? 

Serv.    Ay,  sir,  when  he  goes  before  me. 

Pan.    You  do  depend  upon  him,  I  mean  ? 

Serv.    Sir,  I  do  depend  upon  that  lord. 

Pan.  You  do  depend  upon  a  noble  gentleman  ; 
You  know  me,  do  you  not? 

Serv.  'Faith,  sir,  superficially. 

Paju  Friend,  know  me  better;  I  am  the  lord 
Pandarus. 

Serv.   I  hope,  I  shall  know  your  honour  better. 
[^Musick  witliin. 

Pan.  Honour  and  lordship  are  my  titles :  — 
What  musick  is  this  ? 

Serv.  I  do  but  partly  know,  sir;  it  is  musick  in 
parts. 

Pan.   Know  you  the  musicians  ? 

St>rv.    Wholly,  sir. 

Pc:n.   Who  play  they  to? 

Serv.   To  the  hearers,  sir. 

Pan.    At  whose  pleasure,  friend  ? 

Serv.    At  mine,  sir,  and  theirs  that  love  musick. 

Pan.   Command,  I  mean,  friend. 

Serv,   Who  shall  I  command,  sir? 

Pan.  Friend,  we  understand  not  one  another  ;  1 
am  too  courtly,  and  thou  art  too  cunning  :  At 
whose  request  do  these  men  play  ? 

Serv.  That's  to't,  indeed,  sir  :  Marry,  sir,  at  the 
request  of  Paris  my  lord,  who  is  there  in  person  ; 
with  him  the  mortal  Venus,  the  heart-blood  of 
beauty,  love's  invisible  soul, 

Pan.   Who,  my  cousin  Cressida? 

Seti'.  No,  sir,  Helen ;  Could  you  not  find  out 
that  by  her  attributes  ? 

Pan.  It  should  seem,  fellow,  that  thou  hast  not 
seen  the  lady  Cressida.  I  come  to  speak  with  Paris 
from  the  prince  Troilus :  I  will  make  a  compli- 
mental  assault  upon  him,  for  my  business  seeths.  ^ 

Serv.  Sodden  business  !  there's  a  stewed  phrase, 
indeed  ! 

Enter  Paris  and  H«lkn,  attended. 

Pan.  Fair  be  to  you,  my  lord,  and  to  all  this  fair 
company  !  fair  desires,  in  all  fair  measure,  fairly 
*  Titles.  s  Boundary.  <  BoiU. 


I  guide  them  ;  especially  to  you,  fair    queen !    fair 
thoughts  be  your  fair  pillow  ! 

Helen.   Dear  lord,  you  are  full  of  fair  words. 

Pan.  You  speak  your  fair  pleasure,  sweet  queen. 
—  Fair  prince,  here  is  good  broken  musick. 

Par.  You  have  broke  it,  cousin :  and,  by  my 
life,  you  shall  make  it  whole  again  ;  you  sliall  piece 
it  out  with  a  piece  of  your  performance :  —  Nell, 
he  is  full  of  hamiony. 

Pan.   Truly,  lady,  no. 

Helen.   O,  sir, 

Pan.    Rude,  in  sooth ;  in  good  sooth,  very  rude. 

Par.  Well  said,  my  lord  !  well,  you  say  so  in 
fits.  6 

Pan.  I  have  business  to  my  lord,  dear  queen  :  — 
My  lord,  will  you  vouchsafe  me  a  word  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  this  shall  not  hedge  us  out :  we'll 
hear  you  sing  certainly. 

Pan.  Well,  sweet  queen,  you  are  pleasant  with 
me.  —  But  (marry)  thus,  my  lord,  —  My  dear  lord, 
and  most  esteemed  friend,  your  brother  Troilus,  — 

Helen.   My  lord  Pandarus  ;  honey  sweet  lord,  — 

Pan.  Go  to,  sweet  queen,  go  to  :  —  commends 
himself  most  affectionately  to  you. 

Helen.  You  shall  not  bob  us  out  of  our  melody ; 
If  you  do,  our  melancholy  upon  your  head  ! 

Pan.  Sweet  queen,  sweet  queen ;  that's  a  sweet 
queen,  i'faith. 

Helen.  And  to  make  a  sweet  lady  sad,  is  a  sour 
offence. 

Pan.  Nay,  that  shall  not  serve  your  turn ;  that 
shall  it  not,  in  truth,  la.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  such 
words ;  no,  no.  —  And,  my  lord,  he  desires  you, 
that,  if  the  king  call  for  liim  at  supper,  you  will 
make  his  excuse. 

Helen.   My  lord  Pandarus, 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen, — my  very  very 
sweet  queen  ? 

Par.  What  exploit's  in  hand  ?  where  sups  he  to- 
night ? 

Helen.   Nay,  but  my  lord,  — — 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen  ?  —  My  cousin 
will  fall  out  with  you.  You  must  not  know  where 
he  sups. 

Par.   I'll  lay  my  life,  with  my  disposer  Cressida. 

Pan.  No,  no,  no  such  matter,  you  are  wide"; 
come,  your  disposer  is  sick. 

»  Part*  of  a  song.  •  Wide  of  vour  mark. 


608 


Par.  Well,  I'll  make  excuse. 

Pan.  Ay,  good  my  lord.  Why  should  you  say 
—  Cressida  ?    no,  your  poor  disposer's  sick. 

Par.    I  spy. 

Pan.  You  spy  !  what  do  you  spy  ?  —  Come,  give 
me  an  instrument.  —  Now,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.   Why,  this  is  kindly  done. 

Pan.  My  niece  is  horribly  in  love  with  a  thing 
you  have,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  She  shall  have  it,  my  lord,  if  it  be  not  my 
lord  Paris. 

Pan.  He  !  no,  she'll  none  of  him.  —  Come,  come, 
I'll  hear  no  more  of  this ;   I'll  sing  you  a  song  now. 

Helen.  Ay,  ay,  pr'ythee  now.  By  my  troth, 
sweet  lord,  thou  hast  a  fine  forehead. 

Pan.   Ay,  you  may,  you  may. 

Helen.  Let  thy  song  be  love  :  this  love  will  undo 
us  all.     O,  Cupid,  Cupid,  Cupid  ! 

Pan.   Love  !  ay,  that  it  shall,  i'faith. 

Par.  Ay,  good  now,  love,  love,  nothing  but  love. 

Pan.   In  good  troth,  it  begins  so  : 

Love,  love,  nothing  but  love,  still  more  ! 

For,  oh,  love's  bow 

Shoots  buck  and  doe  : 

The  shaft  confounds. 

Not  that  it  wounds. 
But  tickles  stiU  the  sore. 

These  lovers  cry  —  Oh  !  oh  !  they  die  ! 
Yet  that  which  seems  the  wound  to  kill. 
Doth  turn  oh  I  oh  !  to  ha  !  ha  !  he  ! 

So  dying  love  lives  still  : 
Oh!  oh  I  a  while,  but  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Oh  !  oh  J  groans  out  for  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hey  ho ! 

Helen.  In  love,  i'faith,  to  the  very  tip  of  the  nose. 

Pan.   Sweet  lord,  who's  a-field  to-day  ? 

Par.  Hector,  Deiphobus,  Helenus,  Antenor,  and 
all  the  gallantry  of  Troy  :  I  would  fain  have  armed 
to-night,  but  my  Nell  would  not  have  it  so.  How 
chance  my  brother  Troilus  went  not? 

Helen.  He  hangs  the  lip  at  something;  —  you 
know  all,  lord  Pandarus. 

Pan.  Not  I,  honey  sweet  queen.  —  I  long  to  hear 
how  they  sped  to-day.  —  You'll  remember  your 
brother's  excuse  ? 

Par.   To  a  hair. 

Pan.   Farewell,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.   Commend  me  to  your  niece. 

Pan.   I  will,  sweet  queen.  \^Exit. 

[A  Retreat  sounded. 

Par.  They  are  come  from  field :  let  us  to  Priam's 
hall. 
To  greet  the  warriors.     Sweet  Helen,  I  must  woo 

you 
To  help  unarm  our  Hector :   his  stubborn  buckles. 
With  these  your  white  enchanting  fingers  touch'd. 
Shall  more  obey,  than  to  the  edge  of  steel. 
Or  force  of  Greekish  sinews :   you  shall  do  more 
Than  all  the  island  kings,  disarm  great  Hector. 

Helen.   'Twill  make  us  proud  to  be  his  servant, 
Paris : 
Yea,  what  he  shall  receive  of  us  in  duty, 
Give  us  more  palm  in  beauty  than  we  have  ; 
Yea,  overshines  ourself. 

Par.  Sweet,  above  thought  I  love  thee. 

[Exeunt. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA  Act  III. 

SCENE   II. —  Pandarus'  OrcAarrf. 


Eater  Pandarus  and  a  Servant,  meeting. 

Pan.  How  now  ?  where's  thy  master  ?  at  my 
cousin  Cressida's? 

Serv.  No,  sir ;  he  stays  for  you  to  conduct  him 
thither. 

Enter  Troilus. 

Pan.  O,  here  he  comes.  —  How  now,  how  now  ? 

Tro.   Sirrah,  walk  off.  [Exit  Servant. 

Pan.   Have  you  seen  my  cousin  ? 

Tro.   No,  Pandarus :    I  stalk  about  her  door. 
Like  a  strange  soul  upon  the  Stygian  banks 
Staying  for  waftage.      O,  be  thou  my  Charon, 
And  give  me  swift  transportance.      Pandarus, 
From  Cupid's  shoulder  pluck  his  painted  wings, 
And  fly  with  me  to  Cressid ! 

Pan.  Walk  here  i'the  orchard,  I'll  bring  her 
straight.  [Exit  Pandarus. 

Tro.   I  am  giddy ;  expectation  whirls  me  round. 
The  imaginary  relish  is  so  sweet 
That  it  enchants  my  sense ;  and  I  do  fear 
That  I  shall  lose  distinction  in  my  joys  ; 
As  doth  a  battle,  when  they  charge  on  heaps 
The  enemy  flpng. 

Re-enter  Pandarus. 
Pan.  She's  making  her  ready,  she'll  come  straight: 
you  must  be  witty  now.      She  does  so  blush,  I'll 
fetch  her.      It  is  the  prettiest  villain  :  —  she  fetches 
her  breath  as  short  as  a  new-ta'en  sparrow. 

[Exit  Pandarus. 
Tro.     Even  such  a   passion  doth   embrace   my 
bosom : 
My  heart  beats  thicker  than  a  feverous  pulse ; 
And  all  my  powers  do  their  bestowing  lose. 
Like  vassalage  at  unawares  encount'ring 
The  eye  of  majesty. 

Enter  Pandarus  and  Cressida. 

Pan.  Come,  come,  what  need  you  blush  ?  shame's 

a  baby Here  she  is  now  :  swear  the  oaths  now  to 

her,  that  you  have  sworn  to  me What,  are  you 

gone  again  ?  you  must  be  watched  ere  you  be  made 
tame,  must  you?  Come  your  ways,  come  your 
ways ;  an  you  draw  backward,  we'll  put  you  i'  the 
fills.  7  —  Why  do  you  not  speak  to  her  ? 

Tro.   You  have  bereft  me  of  all  words,  lady. 

Pan.  Words  pay  no  debts.  Come  in,  come  in  ; 
I'll  go  get  a  fire.  [Exit  Pandarus. 

Cres.   Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Tro.  O  Cressida,  how  often  have  I  wished  me 
thus? 

Cres.  Wished,  my  lord  ? —  The  gods  grant !  —  O 
my  lord ! 

Tro.  What  should  they  grant  ?  what  makes  this 
pretty  abruption  ?  Wliat  too  curious  dreg  espies 
my  sweet  lady  in  the  fountain  of  our  love  ? 

Cres.  More  dregs  than  water,  if  my  fears  have 
eyes. 

Tro.   Fears  never  see  truly. 

Cres.  Blind  fear,  that  seeing  reason  leads,  finds 
safer  footing  than  blind  reason  stumbling  without 
fear :    To  fear  the  worst,  oft  cures  the  worst. 

Tro.  O,  let  my  lady  apprehend  no  fear :  in  all 
Cupid's  pageant  there  is  presented  no  monster. 

Cres,   Nor  nothing  monstrous  neither  ? 
7  Shafts  of  a  carriage. 


I 

I 


Scene  II. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


609 


Tro.  Nothing,  but  our  undertakings :  when  we 
vow  to  weep  seas,  live  in  fire,  eat  rocks,  tame  tigers : 
thinking  it  harder  for  our  mistress  to  devise  im- 
position enough,  than  for  us  to  undergo  any  difficulty 
imposed.     This  is  the  monstruosity  in  love,  lady. 

Cres.  They  that  have  the  voice  of  lions,  and  the 
act  of  hares,  are  they  not  monsters  ? 

Tro.  Are  there  such  ?  such  are  not  we :  Praise 
us  as  we  are  tasted,  allow  us  as  we  prove ;  our  head 
shall  go  bare,  till  merit  crown  it :  no  perfection  in 
reversion  shall  have  a  praise  in  present :  we  will 
not  name  desert,  before  his  birth  ;  and,  being  born, 
his  addition  8  shall  be  humble.  Few  words  to  fair 
faith :  Troilus  shall  be  such  to  Cressid,  as  what  envy 
can  say  worst,  shall  be  a  mock  for  his  truth ;  and 
what  truth  can  speak  truest,  not  truer  tlian  Troilus  ? 

Cres.   Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Re-enter  Pandarus. 

Fan.   What,  blushing  still  ? 

Cres.  Well,  uncle,  what  folly  I  commit,  I  dedi- 
cate to  you. 

Pan.  I  thank  you  for  that ;  be  true  to  my  lord : 
if  he  flinch,  chide  me  for  it. 

Tro.  You  know  now  your  hostages ;  your  uncle's 
word,  and  my  firm  faith. 

Pan.  Nay,  I'll  give  my  word  for  her  too ;  our 
kindred,  though  they  be  long  ere  they  are  wooed, 
they  are  constant,  being  won:  they  are  burs,  I  can 
tell  you ;  they'll  stick  where  they  are  thrown. 

Cres.   Boldness  comes  to  me  now,  and  brings  me 
heart :  — 
Prince  Troilus,  I  have  lov'd  you  night  and  day 
For  many  weary  months. 

Tro.   Why  was  my  Cressid  then  so  hard  to  win  ? 

Cres.  Hard  to  seem  won ;  but  I  was  won,  my  lord. 
With  the  first  glance  that  ever  —  Pardon  me ;  — 
If  I  confess  much,  you  will  play  the  tyrant. 
I  love  you  now ;  but  not,  till  now,  so  much 
But  1  might  master  it :  —  in  faith,  I  lie ; 
My  thoughts  were  like  unbridled  children,  grown 
Too  headstrong  for  their  mother :   See,  we  fools ! 
Why  have  I  blabb'd  ?  who  shall  be  true  to  us, 
When  we  are  so  unsecret  to  ourselves  ? 
But,  though  I  lov'd  you  well,  I  woo'd  you  not ; 
And  yet,  good  faith,  I  wish'd  myself  a  man  ; 
Or  that  we  women  had  men's  privilege 
Of  speaking  first.     Sweet,  bid  me  hold  my  tongue ; 
For,  in  this  rapture,  I  shall  surely  speak 
The  thing  I  shall  repent.     See,  see  your  silence. 
Cunning  in  dumbness,  from  my  wedcness  draws 
My  very  soul  of  counsel :    Stop  my  mouth. 

Tro.   And  shall,  albeit  sweet  music  issues  thence. 

Pan.   Pretty,  i'  faith. 

Cres.  My  lord,  I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me ; 
'Twas  not  my  purpose,  thus  to  beg  a  kiss  : 

I  am  ashamed ;  —  O  heavens  !  what  have  I  done? 

For  thJ«  time  will  1  take  my  leave,  my  lord, 

7^0.   Your  leave,  sweet  Cressid  ? 

Cres.   Pray  you,  content  you. 

Tro.  What  oflTends  you,  lady  ? 

Cres.  Sir,  mine  own  company. 

Tro.  You  cannot  shun 

Yourself. 

Cres.     Let  me  go  and  try : 
I  have  a  kind  of  self  resides  with  you  ; 
But  an  unkind  self,  that  itself  will  leave, 
To  be  another's  fool.     I  would  be  gone : 
Where  is  my  wit  ?  I  know  not  what  I  speak. 
»  Titles 


Tro.  Well  know  they  what  they  speak,  that  speak 
so  wisely. 

Cres.  Perchance,  my  lord,  I  show  more  craft  than 
love ; 
And  fell  so  roundly  to  a  large  confession, 
To  angle  for  your  thoughts  :    But  you  are  wise ; 
Or  else  you  love  not ;  for  to  be  wise  and  love. 
Exceeds  man's  might ;  that  dwells  with  gods  above. 

Tro.   O,  that  I  thought  it  could  be  in  a  woman, 
(As,  if  it  can,  I  will  presume  in  you,) 
To  feed  for  aye 9  her  lamp  and  flames  of  love; 
To  keep  her  constancy  in  plight  and  youth, 
Outliving  beauty's  outward,  with  a  mind 
That  doth  renew  swifter  than  blood  decays ; 
Or,  that  persuasion  could  but  thus  convince  me,  — 
That  my  integrity  and  truth  to  you 
Might  be  affronted  •  with  the  match  and  weight 
Of  such  a  winnow'd  purity  in  love ; 
How  were  I  then  uplifted  !  but,  alas, 
I  am  as  true  as  truth's  simplicity. 
And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  truth. 

Cres.   In  that  I'll  war  with  you. 

Tro.  O  virtuous  fight. 

When  right  with  right  wars  who  shall  be  most  right ! 
True  swains  in  love  shall,  in  the  world  to  come. 
Approve  their  truths  by  Troilus :  when  their  rhymes, 
Full  of  protest,  of  oath,  and  big  compare  2, 
Want  similes,  truth  tir'd  with  iteration,  — 
As  true  as  steel,  as  plantage  to  the  moon, 
As  sun  to  day,  as  turtle  to  her  mate, 
As  iron  to  adamant,  as  earth  to  the  center,  — 
Yet,  after  all  comparisons  of  truth. 
As  truth's  authentick  author  to  be  cited, 
As  true  as  Troilus  shall  crown  up  '  the  verse. 
And  sanctify  the  numbers. 

Cres.  Prophet  may  you  be  I 

If  I  be  false,  or  swerve  a  hair  from  truth. 
When  time  is  old  and  hath  forgot  itself, 
When  waterdrops  have  worn  the  stones  of  Troy, 
And  blind  oblivion  swallow'd  cities  up. 
And  mighty  states  characterless  are  grated 
To  dusty  nothing ;  yet  let  memory, 
From  false  to  false,  among  false  maids  in  love, 
Upbraid  my  falsehood  !  when  they  have  said  —  as 

false 
As  air,  as  water,  wind,  or  sandy  earth. 
As  fox  to  lamb,  as  wolf  to  heifer's  calf, 
Pard  to  the  hind,  or  stepdame  to  her  son  ; 
Yea,  let  them  say,  to  stick  the  heart  of  falsehood. 
As  false  as  Cressid. 

Paru  Go  to,  a  bargain  made:  seal  it,  seal  it; 
I'll  be  the  witness.  —  Here  I  hold  your  hand  ;  here, 
my  cousin's.  If  ever  you  prove  false  one  to  another, 
since  I  have  taken  such  pains  to  bring  you  together, 
let  all  pitiful  goers-bet  ween  be  called  to  the  world's 
end  after  my  name,  call  them  all  —  Pandars ;  let  all 
inconstantmen  be  Troiluses,all  false  women  Cressids, 
and  all  brokers-between  Pandars  !  say,  amen. 

Tro.   Amen. 

Cres.    Amen. 

Pan.   Amen.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  The  Grecian  Camp. 

Enter  Agamemnon,  Ultsses,  Diomedes,  Nestor, 
Ajax,  Menelaus,  and  Calchas. 
Cal.  Now,  princes,  for  the  service  I  have  done  you, 
The  advantage  of  the  time  prompts  me  aloud 
To  call  for  recompense.      Appear  it  to  your  mind, 


»  Ever. 

>  Comparisoo. 


I  Met  with  and  equalled. 

3  Conclude. 

Rr 


610 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  III. 


That,  through  the  sight  I  bear  in  things,  to  Jove 

I  have  abandon 'd  Troy,  left  my  possession, 

Iiicurr'd  a  traitor's  name  ;  expos'd  myself. 

From  certain  and  possess'd  conveniences. 

To  doubtful  fortunes,  s«?quest'ring  from  me  all 

That  time,  acquaintance,  custom,  and  condition, 

Made  tame  and  most  familiar  to  my  nature  ; 

And  here,  to  do  you  service,  am  become 

As  new  into  the  world,  strange,  unacquainted  : 

I  do  beseech  you,  as  in  way  of  taste, 

To  give  me  now  a  little  benefi't. 

Out  of  those  many  register'd  in  promise, 

Which,  you  say,  live  to  come  in  my  behalf. 

Agam.    What  wouldst  thou  of  us,  Trojan  ?  make 
demand. 

Cal.   You  have  a  Trojan  prisoner  call'd  Antenor, 
Yesterday  took ;   Troy  holds  him  very  dear. 
Oft  have  you  (often  have  you  thanks  therefore,) 
Desir'd  my  Cressid  in  right  great  exchange. 
Whom  Troy  hath  still  denied :    But  this  Antenor, 
I  know,  is  such  a  wrest  in  their  affairs, 
That  their  negotiations  all  must  slack, 
Wanting  his  manage ;  and  they  will  almost 
Give  us  a  prince  of  blood,  a  son  of  Priam, 
In  change  of  him ;   let  him  be  sent,  great  princes. 
And  he  shall  buy  my  daughter :   and  her  presence 
Shall  quite  strike  off'  all  service  I  have  done. 
In  most  accepted  pain. 

Agam.  Let  Diomedes  bear  him. 

And  bring  us  Cressid  hither ;   Calchas  shall  have 
What  he  requests  of  us.  —  Good  Diomed, 
Furnish  you  fairly  for  this  interchange  : 
Withal,  bring  word  —  if  Hector  will  to-morrow 
Be  answer'd  in  his  challenge :    Ajax  is  ready. 

Dio.    This  shall  I  undertake ;  and  'tis  a  burden 
Which  I  am  proud  to  bear. 

\_Exeunt  Diomedes  and  Calchas. 

Enter  Achilles  and  Patroclus,  before  their  Tent. 

Ulyss.  Achilles  stands,  i'  the  entrance  of  his  tent :  — 
Please  it  our  general  to  pass  strangely  ^  by  him, 
As  if  he  were  forgot ;  and,  princes  all. 
Lay  negligent  and  loose  regard  upon  him  : 
I  will  come  last :   'Tis  like,  he'll  question  me. 
Why  such  unplausive  eyes  are  bent,  why  turn'd  on 

him : 
If  so,  I  have  derision  med'cinable, 
To  use  between  your  strangeness  and  his  pride. 
Which  his  own  will  shall  have  desire  to  drink  ; 
It  may  do  good  :   pride  hath  no  other  glass 
To  show  itself,  but  pride  ;  for  supple  knees 
Feed  arrogance,  and  are  the  proud  man's  fees. 

Agam.   We'll  execute  your  purpose,  and  put  on 
A  form  of  strangeness  as  we  pass  along  ;  — 
So  do  each  lord  j  and  either  greet  him  not. 
Or  else  disdainfully,  which  shall  shake  him  more 
Than  if  not  look'd  on.      I  will  lead  the  way. 

Achil.  What,  comes  the  general  to  speak  with  me  ? 
You  know  my  mind,  I'll  fight  no  more  'gainst  Troy. 

Agam.  What  says  Achilles?  would  he  aught  with 
us? 

Nest.  Would  you,  my  lord,  aught  with  the  general? 

Achil.   No. 

Nest.   Nothing,  my  lord. 

Agam.  The  better. 

{Exev,nt  Agamemnon  and  Nestor. 

Achil.  Good  day,  good  day. 

Men.  How  do  you  ?  how  do  you  ? 

\^Ent  Menelaus. 
4  Like  a  stranger. 


Achil.  What,  does  the  cuckold  scorn  me  ? 

Ajax.   How  now,  Patroclus  ? 

Achil.  Good  morrow,  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Ha  ? 

Achil.    Good  morrow. 

Ajax.  Ay,  and  good  next  day  too. 

\^Exit  Ajax. 

Achil.  What  mean  these  fellows?  Know  they  not 
Achilles? 

Patr.  They  pass  by  strangely :  they  were  us'd  to 
bend. 
To  send  their  smiles  before  them  to  Achilles : 
To  come  as  humbly,  as  they  us'd  to  creep 
To  holy  altars. 

Achil.  What,  am  I  poor  of  late  ? 

'Tis  certain,  greatness,  once  fall'n  out  with  fortune. 
Must  fall  out  with  men  too  :    What  the  declin'd  is. 
He  shall  as  soon  read  in  the  eyes  of  others, 
As  feel  in  his  own  fall :   for  men,  like  butterflies, 
Show  not  their  mealy  wings  but  to  the  summer ; 
And  not  a  man,  for  being  simply  man. 
Hath  any  honour ;  but  honour  for  those  honours 
That  are  without  him,  as  place,  riches,  favour. 
Prizes  of  accident  as  oft  as  merit : 
Which  when  they  fall,  as  being  slippery  standers. 
The  love  that  lean'd  on  them  as  slippery  too. 
Do  one  pluck  down  another,  and  together 
Die  in  the  fall.      But  'tis  not  so  with  me  : 
Fortune  and  I  are  friends ;   I  do  enjoy 
At  ample  point  all  that  I  did  possess. 
Save  these  men's  looks  ;  who  do,  methinks,  find  out 
Something  not  worth  in  me  such  rich  beholding 
As  they  have  often  given.     Here  is  Ulysses  ; 
I'll  interrupt  his  reading.  — 
How  now,  Ulysses  ? 

Ulyss.  Now,  great  Thetis'  son  ? 

Achil.   What  are  you  reading  ? 

Ulyss.  A  strange  fellow  here 

Writes  me.  That  man  — how  dearly  ever  parted  ^, 
How  much  in  having,  or  without,  or  in,  — 
Cannot  make  boast  to  have  that  which  he  hath. 
Nor  feels  not  what  he  owes,  but  by  reflection  ; 
As  when  his  virtues  shining  upon  others 
Heat  them,  and  they  retort  that  heat  again 
To  the  first  giver. 

Achil.  This  is  not  strange,  Ulysses. 

The  beauty  that  is  borne  here  in  the  face 
The  bearer  knows  not,  but  commends  itself 
To  others'  eyes  :   nor  doth  the  eye  itself 
(That  most  pure  spirit  of  sense,)  behold  itself. 
Not  going  from  itself ;  but  eye  to  eye  oppos'd 
Salutes  each  other  with  each  other's  form. 
For  speculation  turns  not  to  itself. 
Till  it  hath  travell'd,  and  is  married  there 
Where  it  may  see  itself :   this  is  not  strange  at  all, 

Ulyss.   I  do  not  strain  at  the  position. 
It  is  familiar ;  but  at  the  author's  drift : 
Who,  in  his  circumstance  6,  expressly  proves  — 
That  no  man  is  the  lord  of  any  thing, 
(Though  in  and  of  him  there  be  much  consisting,) 
Till  he  communicate  his  parts  to  others : 
Nor  doth  he  of  himself  know  them  for  aught 
Till  he  behold  them  form'd  in  the  applause 
Where  they  are  extended ;  which,  like  an  arch,  re- 
verberates 
The  voice  again  ;  or  like  a  gate  of  steel 
Fronting  the  sun,  receives  and  renders  back 
His  figure  and  his  heat.      I  was  much  rapt  in  this ; 


*  Excellently  endowed. 


6  Detail  of  argument 


Scene  III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


611 


And  apprehended  here  immediately 

The  unknown  Ajax. 

Heavens,  what  a  man  is  there  !  a  very  horse  ; 

That  has  he  knows  not  what.     Nature,  what  things 

there  are. 
Most  abject  in  regard,  and  dear  in  use  ! 
What  things  again  most  dear  in  the  esteem, 
And  poor  in  worth  !  now  shall  we  see  to-morrow, 
An  act  that  very  chance  doth  throw  upon  him, 
Ajax  renown'd.      O  heavens,  what  some  men  do, 
While  some  men  leave  to  do  ! 
How  some  men  creep  in  skittish  fortune's  hall, 
Whiles  others  play  the  idiots  in  her  eyes  ! 
How  one  man  eats  into  another's  pride, 
While  pride  is  fasting  in  his  wantonness ! 
To  see  these  Grecian  lords  !  —  why,  even  already 
They  clap  the  lubber  Ajax  on  the  shoulder ; 
As  if  his  foot  were  on  brave  Hector's  breast, 
And  great  Troy  shrinking. 

u4chil.    I  do  believe  it :   for  they  pass'd  by  me, 
As  misers  do  by  beggars  :  neither  gave  to  me 
Good  word,  nor  look  :    What,  are  my  deeds  forgot  ? 
Ufi/ss.   Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his  back. 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 
A  great-sized  monster  of  ingratitudes  : 
Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past:    which  are  de- 

vour'd 
As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as  soon 
As  done  :    Perseverance,  dear  my  lord, 
Keeps  honour  bright :   To  have  done  is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail 
In  monumental  mockery.     Take  the  instant  way ; 
For  honour  travels  in  a  strait  so  narrow, 
Where  one  but  goes  abreast :  keep  then  the  path  ; 
For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 
That  one  by  one  pursue  :   if  you  give  way. 
Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forthright. 
Like  to  an  enter'd  tide  they  all  rush  by, 
And  leave  you  hindmost ;  — 
Or,  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  first  rank. 
Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear, 
O'er-run  and  trampled  on  :   Then  what  they  do  in 

present. 
Though  less  than  yours  in  past,  must  o'ertop  yours : 
For  time  is  like  a  fashionable  host. 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  the  hand ; 
And  with  his  arms  out-stretch'd,  as  he  would  fly, 
Grasps  in  the  comer :   Welcome  ever  smiles. 
And  farewell  goes  out  sighing.     O,  let  not  virtue 

seek 
Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was ; 
For  beauty,  wit. 

High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service. 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  subjects  all 
'I'o  envious  and  calumniating  time. 
One  toucli  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin,  — 
That  all,  with  one  consent,  praise  new-born  gawds 7, 
Though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things  past ; 
And  give  to  dust,  that  is  a  little  gilt, 
More  laud  than  gilt  o'er-dusted. 
The  present  eye  praises  the  present  object : 
Then  marvel  not,  thou  great  and  complete  man, 
Tliat  all  the  Greeks  Begin  to  worship  Ajax  ; 
Since  things  in  motion  sooner  catch  the  eye. 
Than  what  not  stirs.     The  cry  went  once  on  thee. 
And  still  it  might ;  and  yet  it  may  again, 
If  thou  wouldst  not  entomb  thyself  tdive, 
And  case  thy  reputation  in  thy  tent ; 
Whose  glorious  deeds,  but  in  these  fields  of  late, 
7  New.fuhioned  toy^ 


Made  emulous  missions^  'mongst  the  gods  themselves. 
And  drave  great  Mars  to  faction. 

AchU.  Of  this  my  privacy 

I  have  strong  reasons. 

Ulyss.  But  'gainst  your  privacy 

The  reasons  are  more  potent  and  heroical : 
'Tis  known,  Achilles,  that  you  are  in  love 
With  one  of  Priam's  daughters.  9 

AchU.  Ha!  known? 

Ulyss.   Is  that  a  wonder  ? 
The  providence  that's  in  a  watchful  state. 
Knows  almost  every  grain  of  Plutus'  gold ; 
Finds  bottom  in  the  uncomprehensive  deeps ; 
Keeps  place  with  thought,  and  almost  like  the  gods, 
Does  thoughts  unveil  in  their  dumb  cradles. 
There  is  a  mystery  (with  whom  relation 
Durst  never  meddle)  in  the  soul  of  state  ; 
Which  hath  an  operation  more  divine. 
Than  breath,  or  pen,  can  give  expressure  to : 
All  the  commerce  that  you  have  had  with  Troy, 
As  perfectly  is  ours,  as  yours,  my  lord ; 
But  it  must  grieve  young  Pyrrhus  now  at  home, 
When  fame  shall  in  our  islands  sound  her  trump ; 
And  all  the  Greekish  girls  shall  tripping  sing,  — 
Great  Hector  5  sister  did  Achilles  win ; 
But  our  great  Ajax  bravely  beat  doum  him. 
Farewell,  my  lord  :    I  as  your  lover  '  speak ; 
The  fool  slides  o'er  the  ice  that  you  should  break. 

[Frit. 

Patr.   To  this  effect,  Achilles,  have  I  mov'd  you : 
A  woman  impudent  and  mannish  grown 
Is  not  more  loath'd  than  an  effeminate  man 
In  time  of  action.      I  stand  condemn'd  for  this ; 
They  think,  my  little  stomach  to  the  war. 
And  your  great  love  to  me,  restrains  you  thus : 
Sweet,  rouse  yourself ;  and  the  weak  wanton  Cupid 
Siiall  from  your  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold. 
And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane. 
Be  shook  to  air. 

AchU.  Shall  Ajax  fight  with  Hector  ? 

Patr.  Ay;  and,  perhaps,  receive  much  honour  by 
him. 

AchU.   I  see,  my  reputation  is  at  stake ; 
My  fame  is  shrewdly  gor'd. 

Patr.  O,  then  beware  ; 

Those  wounds  heal  ill,  that  men  do  give  themselves : 
Omission  to  do  what  is  necessary 
Seals  a  commission  to  a  blank  of  danger ; 
And  danger,  like  an  ague,  subtly  taints 
Even  then  when  we  sit  idly  in  the  sun. 

AchU.  Go  call  Thersites  hither,  sweet  Patroclus : 
I'll  send  the  fool  to  Ajax,  and  desire  him 
To  invite  the  Trojan  lords  after  the  combat. 
To  see  us  here  unarm'd  :  I  have  a  woman's  longing, 
An  appetite  that  I  am  sick  withal. 
To  see  great  Hector  in  his  weeds  of  peace ; 
To  talk  with  him,  and  to  behold  his  visage. 
Even  to  my  full  of  view.      A  labour  sav'd  ! 

Enter  Thersites. 

T/ier.   A  wonder! 

AchV.   What? 

Ther.  Ajax  goes  up  and  down  the  field,  asking 
for  himself. 

AchU.   How  so  ? 

Ther.  He  must  fight  singly  to-morrow  with  Hec- 
tor ;  and  is  so  prophetically  proud  of  an  heroical 
cudgelling,  that  he  raves  in  saying  nothing. 

"  The  descent  of  the  deities  to  combat  on  cither  tide 
*  PolyxeiUL  >  Friend. 

Rr  2 


6\2 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Acr  IV. 


Jchil.    IIow  can  that  be  ? 

Ther.  Why,  he  stalks  up  and  down  like  a  peacock, 
a  stride,  and  a  stand :  ruminates,  like  an  hostess, 
that  hath  no  arithmetick  but  her  brain  to  set  down 
her  reckoning :  bites  his  lip  with  a  political  regard, 
as  who  should  say  —  there  were  wit  in  this  head,  an 
'twould  out ;  and  so  there  is  ;  but  it  lies  as  coldly  in 
him  as  fire  in  a  flint,  which  will  not  show  without 
knocking.  The  man's  undone  for  ever ;  for  if  Hector 
break  not  his  neck  i'the  combat,  he'll  break  it  him- 
self in  vain-glory.  He  knows  not  me  :  I  said.  Good 
morrow,  Ajax ;  and  he  replies.  Thanks,  Agamemnon. 
What  think  you  of  this  man,  that  takes  me  for  the 
general?  He  has  grown  a  very  land-fish,  language- 
less,  a  monster.  A  plague  of  opinion  !  a  man  may 
wear  it  on  both  sides,  like  a  leather  jerkin. 

Achil.  Thou  must  be  my  ambassador  to  him, 
Thersites. 

Ther.  Who,  I  ?  why,  he'll  answer  nobody ;  he 
professes  not  answering ;  speaking  is  for  beggars ; 
he  wears  his  tongue  in  his  arms.  I  will  put  on  his 
presence ;  let  Patroclus  make  demands  to  me,  you 
shall  see  the  pageant  of  Ajax. 

Achil.  To  him,  Patroclus  :  Tell  him,  —  I  humbly 
desire  the  valiant  Ajax,  to  invite  the  most  valorous 
Hector  to  come  unarmed  to  my  tent ;  and  to  procure 
safe  conduct  for  his  person,  of  the  magnanimous,  and 
most  illustrious,  six-or-seven-times  honoured  captain- 
general  of  the  Grecian  army,  Agamemnon.    Do  this. 

Patr.  Jove  bless  great  Ajax  ? 

Ther.    Humph! 

Patr.   I  come  from  the  worthy  Achilles, 


Ther.   Ha! 

Patr.  Who  most  humbly  desires  you,  to  invite 
Hector  to  his  tent ! 

Ther.    Humph  ! 

Patr.  And  to  procure  safe  conduct  from  Aga- 
memnon. 

Ther.   Agamemnon? 

Patr.    Ay,  my  lord. 

Ther.   Ha! 

Patr.  What  say  you  to't  ? 

Ther.   With  all  my  heart. 

Patr.   Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  If  to-morrow  be  a  fair  day,  by  eleven  o'clock 
it  will  go  one  way  or  other  ;  howsoever,  he  shall  pay 
for  me  ere  he  has  me. 

Patr.   Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.    Fare  you  well,  with  all  my  heart. 

Achil.  Why,  but  he  is  not  in  this  tune,  is  he  ? 

Ther.  No,  but  he's  out  o'tune  thus.  What  musick 
will  be  in  him  when  Hector  has  knocked  out  his 
brains,  I  know  not :  But,  I  am  sure,  none  ;  unless 
the  fiddler  Apollo  get  his  sinews  to  make  catlings''  on. 

Achil.  Come,  thou  shaltbear  a  letter  to  him  straight. 

Ther.  Let  me  bear  another  to  his  horse  ;  for  that's 
the  more  capable  *  creature. 

Achil.  My  mind  is  troubled,  like  a  fountain  stirr'd; 
And  I  myself  see  not  the  bottom  of  it. 

[Exeunt  Achilles  and  Patroclus. 

Ther.  'Would  the  fountain  of  your  mind  were 
clear  again,  that  I  might  water  an  ass  at  it !  I  had 
rather  be  a  tick  in  a  slieep,  than  such  a  valiant 
ignorance.  [ExU. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. —  Troy.     A  Street. 

Enter,  atone  side,  ^Eneas  and  Servant,  with  a  Torch  ; 

at  the  other,  Paris,  Deiphobus,  Antenor,  Dio- 

MEDES,  and  others,  with  Torches. 

Pir.   See,  ho  !  who's  that  there  ? 

Dei.  'Tis  the  lord  -(Eneas. 

JEne.   Is  the  prince  there  ? 

Dio.    Good  morrow,  lord  ^neas. 

Par.    A  valiant  Greek,  iEneas  ;  take  his  hand : 
Witness  the  process  of  your  speech,  wherein 
You  told  —  how  Diomed,  a  whole  week  by  days. 
Did  haunt  you  in  the  field. 

jEne.  Health  to  you,  valiant  sir. 

During  all  question  '  of  the  gentle  truce  : 
But  when  I  meet  you  arm'd,  as  black  defiance. 
As  heart  can  think,  or  courage  execute. 

Dio.   The  one  and  other  Diomed  embraces. 
Our  bloods  are  now  in  calm  ;  and,  so  long,  health  : 
But  when  contention  and  occasion  meet, 
By  Jove,  I'll  play  the  hunter  for  thy  life. 
With  all  my  force,  pursuit,  and  policy. 

JEne.    And  thou  shall  hunt  a  lion,  that  will  fly 
With  his  face  backward.  —  In  humane  gentleness. 
Welcome  to  Troy  !  now,  by  Anchises'  life. 
Welcome,  indeed  !   By  Venus'  hand  I  swear, 
No  man  alive  can  love,  in  such  a  sort, 
The  thing  he  means  to  kill,  more  excellently. 

Dio.   We  sympathize  :  —  Jove,  let  JLneas  live. 
If  to  my  sword  his  fate  be  not  the  glory, 
A  thousand  complete  courses  of  the  sun  ! 
2  Conversation. 


But,  in  mine  emulous  honour,  let  him  die, 
With  every  joint  a  wound :   and  that  to-morrow  ! 

JEne.   We  know  each  other  well. 

Dio.  We  do  ;  and  long  to  know  each  other  worse. 

Par.    This  is  the  most  despiteful  gentle  greeting, 
The  noblest  hateful  love,  that  e'er  I  heard  of.  — 
What  business,  lord,  so  early  ? 

JEne.   I  was  sent  for  to  the  king;  but  why,  I 
know  not. 

Par.  His  purpose  meets  you  :  'Twas  to  bring  this 
Greek 
To  Calchas'  house ;  and  there  to  render  him. 
For  the  enfreed  Antenor,  the  fair  Cressid : 
Let's  have  your  company  :   or,  if  you  please. 
Haste  there  before  us  :    I  constantly  do  think, 
(Or,  rather,  call  my  thought  a  certain  knowledge,) 
My  brother  Troilus  lodges  there  to-night ; 
Rouse  him,  and  give  him  note  of  our  approach. 
With  the  whole  quality  wherefore  :   I  fear 
We  shall  be  much  unwelcome. 

^ne.  That  I  assure  you  ; 

Troilus  had  rather  Troy  were  borne  to  Greece, 
Than  Cressid  borne  from  Troy. 

Par.  There  is  no  help  ; 

The  bitter  disposition  of  the  time 
Will  have  it  so.      On,  lord  ;  we'll  follow  you. 

^ne.    Good  morrow,  all.  [Exit. 

Par.  And  tell  me,  noble  Diomed ;  'faith,  tell  me 
true, 
Even  in  the  soul  of  sound  good-fellowship,  — 

3  Lute.strings  made  of  catgut. 
*  Intelligent. 


Scene  II. 


TROILUS  AND  CRES8IDA. 


613 


Who,  in  your  tlioughts,  merits  fair  Helen  best, 
Myself,  or  Menelaus? 

Dio.  Both  alike : 

He  merits  well  to  have  her,  that  doth  seek  her 
With  such  a  hell  of  pain,  and  world  of  charge  : 
And  you  as  well  to  keep  her,  that  defend  her 
With  such  a  costly  loss  of  wealth  and  friends. 
She's  bitter  to  her  country  :    Hear  me,  Paris,  — 
For  every  false  drop  in  her  wanton  veins 
A  Grecian's  life  hath  sunk  ;  for  every  scruple 
Of  her  contaminated  carrion  weight, 
A  Trojan  hath  been  slain  :   since  she  could  speak, 
She  hath  not  given  so  many  good  words  breath. 
As  for  her  Greeks  and  Trojans  sufTer'd  death. 

Par.    Fair  Diomed,  you  do  as  chapmen  do. 
Dispraise  the  thing  that  you  desire  to  buy  : 
But  we  in  silence  hold  this  virtue  well,  — 
We'll  not  commend  what  we  intend  to  sell. 
Here  lies  our  way.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II Court  before  the  House  of  Pandarus. 

Enter  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Tro.  Dear,  trouble  not  yourself;  the  mom  is  cold. 

Cres.  Then,  sweet  my  lord,  I'll  call  mine  uncle 
down; 
He  shall  unbolt  the  gates. 

Tro.  Trouble  him  not : 

To  bed,  to  bed  :    Sleep  kill  those  pretty  eyes. 
And  give  as  sofl  attachment  to  thy  senses, 
As  infants*  empty  of  all  thought ! 

Cres.  Good  morrow  then. 

Tro.   Pr'ythee  now,  to  bed. 

Cres.  Are  you  aweary  of  me  ? 

Tro.    O  Cressida  !  but  that  the  busy  day, 
Wak'd  by  the  lark,  hath  rous'd  the  ribald  ^  crows, 
I  would  not  from  thee. 

Cres.                               Pr'ythee,  tarry  then ; 
You  men  will  never  tarry. 

0  foolish  Cressid !  —  I  might  have  still  held  off. 
And  then  you  would  have  tarried.      Hark  !  there's 

one  up. 
Pan.  [  Within.'\  What,  are  all  the  doors  open  here  ? 
Tro.   It  is  your  uncle. 

Enter  Pandarus. 

Cres.  A  pestilence  on  him  !  now  will  he  be  mock- 
ing: 

1  shall  have  such  a  life, 

Pan.   How  now,  how  now  !  where's  my  cousin 

Cressid  ? 
Cres.   Come,  come  ;  beshrew  your  heart !  you'll 
ne'er  be  good, 
Nor  suffer  others. 

Pan.   Ha,  ha  1  Alas,  poor  wretch  !  a  poor  weak 
girl.  {Knocking. 

Cres.   Did  I  not  tell  you?  —  'would   he  were 
knock'd  o*  the  head  !  — 
Who's  that  at  door  ?    good  uncle,  go  and  see.  — 

[Knocking. 
How  earnestly  they  knock  !  ■—  pray  you,  come  in ; 
1  would  not  for  half  Troy  have  you  seen  here. 

[Exeunt  Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Pan.    [Going  to  the  door.]    Who's  there?    what's 
the  matter  ?    will  you  beat  down  the  door  ?     How 
now  ?   what's  the  matter  ? 

Enter  ^nbas. 
^ne.   Good  morrow,  lord,  good  morrow. 
«  Noisy. 


Pan.  Who's  there  ?  my  lord  ^neas  ?  By  my 
troth,  I  knew  you  not :  what  news  with  you  so 
early? 

jEne.   Is  not  prince  Troilus  here  ? 

Pan.    Here  !   what  should  he  do  here  ? 

jEne.  Come,  he  is  here  my  lord,  do  not  deny  him ; 
It  doth  import  him  much,  to  speak  with  me. 

Pan.  Is  he  here,  say  you  ?  'tis  more  than  I  know, 
I'll  be  sworn  :  —  For  my  own  part,  I  came  in  late  : 
What  should  he  do  here  ? 

-^ne.    Who  !  —  nay,  then  :  — 
Come,  come,  you'll  do  him  wrong  ere  you  are  'ware  : 
You'll  be  so  true  to  him,  to  be  false  to  him  : 
Do  not  you  know  of  him,  yet  go  fetch  him  hither ; 
Go. 

As  Pandarus  is  going  out,  enter  Troilus. 

Tro.   How  now  ?  what's  the  matter  ? 

jEne.  My  lord,  I  scarce  have  leisure  to  salute  you. 
My  matter  is  so  rash  7  :    There  is  at  hand 
Paris  your  brother,  and  Deiphobus, 
Tlie  Grecian  Diomed,  and  our  Antenor 
Deliver'd  to  us  ;  and  for  him  forthwith, 
Ere  the  first  sacrifice,  within  this  hour. 
We  must  give  up  to  Diomedes'  hand 
The  lady  Cressida. 

Tro.  Is  it  so  concluded  ? 

JEne.  By  Priam,  and  the  general  state  of  Troy  : 
They  are  at  hand,  and  ready  to  effect  it. 

Tro.  I  will  go  meet  them  :  and,  my  lord  ^ncas. 
We  met  by  chance ;  you  did  not  find  me  here. 

JEne.   Good,  good,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  Troilus  and  Mvzas. 

Pan.  Is't  possible  ?  no  sooner  got,  but  lost  ?  the 
young  prince  will  go  mad.  A  plague  upon  An- 
tenor, I  would,  they  had  broke's  neck  ! 

Enter  Cressida. 

Cres.   How  now  ?   What  is  the  matter  ?  Who  was 
here? 

Pan.   Ah,  ah  ! 

Cres.  Why  sigh  you  so  profoundly?  where's  my 
lord  gone  ? 
Tell  me,  sweet  uncle,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  'Would  I  were  as  deep  under  the  earth  as 
I  am  above ! 

Cres.   O  the  gods  !  —  what's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  Pr'ythee,  get  thee  in  ;  'Would  thou  hadst 
ne'er  been  born  !  I  knew,  thou  wouldst  be  his 
death  :  —  O  poor  gentleman  !  —  A  plague  upon 
Antenor ! 

Cres.  Good  uncle,  I  beseech  you  on  my  knees,  I 
beseech  you,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  Thou  must  be  gone,  wench,  thou  must  be 
gone;  thou  art  changed  for  Antenor;  thou  must 
to  thy  father,  and  be  gone  from  Troilus ;  'twill  be 
his  death  :    'twill  be  his  bane  ;  he  cannot  bear  it. 

Cres.   O  you  immortal  gods !  —  I  will  not  go. 

Pan.    Thou  must. 

Cres.  I  will  not,  uncle  :   I  have  forgot  my  father; 
1  know  no  touch  of  consanguinity  "  ; 
No  kin,  no  love,  no  blood,  no  soul  so  near  me, 
As  the  sweet  Troilus.  —  O  you  gods  divine  ! 
Make  Cressid's  name  the  very  crown  of  falsehomi. 
If  ever  she  leave  Troilus  !     Time,  force,  and  death. 
Do  to  tliis  body  what  extremes  you  can  ; 
But  the  strong  base  and  building  of  my  love 
Is  as  the  very  center  of  the  earth. 
Drawing  all  things  to  it.  —  I'll  go  in,  and  weep;  — 

*  Hasty.  •■  SctiiC  or  reeling  of  ccuU^nkl).^ 

II  I    3 


614 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  IV. 


Pan.   Do,  do. 

Cres.     Tear    my    bright  hair,  and    scratch  my 
praised  cheeks, 
Crack  my  clear  voice  witli  sobs,  and  break  my  heart 
With  sounding  Troilus.     I  will  not  go  from  Troy. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —Before  Pandarus'  House. 

Enter  Paris,  Troilus,   ^neas,  Deiphobcs, 
Antenor,  and  Diomedes. 

Par.   It  is  great  morning ;  and  the  hour  prefix'd 
Of  her  delivery  to  this  valiant  Greek 
Comes  fast  upon  :  —  Good  my  brother  Troilus, 
Tell  you  the  lady  what  she  is  to  do. 
And  haste  her  to  the  purpose. 

Tro.  Walk  in  to  her  house ; 

I'll  bring  her  to  the  Grecian  presently  : 
And  to  his  hand  when  I  deliver  her, 
Think  it  an  altar ;  and  thy  brother  Troilus 
A  priest,  there  offering  to  it  his  own  heart.      [Exit. 

Par.    I  know  what  'tis  to  love  ; 
And  'would,  as  I  shall  pity,  I  could  help !  — 
Please  you,  walk  in,  my  lords.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  in  Pandarus'  House. 

Enter  Pandarus  and  Cressida. 

Pan.   Be  moderate,  be  moderate. 

Cres.   Why  tell  you  me  of  moderation  ? 
The  grief  is  fine,  full,  perfect,  that  I  taste. 
And  violenteth  in  a  sense  as  strong 
As  that  which  causeth  it :  How  can  I  moderate  it  ? 
If  I  could  temporize  with  my  affection. 
Or  brew  it  to  a  weak  and  colder  palate, 
The  like  allayment  could  I  give  my  grief: 
My  love  admits  no  qualifying  dross  : 
No  more  my  grief,  in  such  a  precious  loss. 

Enter  Troilus. 

Pan.   Here,  here,  here   he  comes,  —  Ah,  sweet 
ducks ! 

Cres.   O  Troilus  !   Troilus  !  [Embracing  him. 

Pan.   What  a  pair  of  spectacles  is  here  !    Let  me 
embrace  too  :  —  How  now,  lambs  ? 

Tro.    Cressid,  I  love  thee  in  so  strain'd  a  purity, 
That  the  blest  gods  —  as  angry  with  my  fancy. 
More  bright  in  zeal  than  the  devotion  which 
Cold  lips  blow  to  their  deities,  —  take  thee  from  me. 

Cres.   Have  the  gods  envy  ? 

Pan.   Ay,  ay,  ay,  ay ;  'tis  too  plain  a  case. 

Cres.   And  is  it  true,  that  I  must  go  from  Troy  ? 

Tro.   A  hateful  truth. 

Cres.  What,  and  from  Troilus  too  ? 

Tro.    From  Troy  and  Troilus. 

Cres.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Tro.    And  suddenly  ;  where  injury  of  chance 
Puts  back  leave-taking,  justles  roughly  by 
All  time  of  pause,  rudely  beguiles  our  lips 
Of  all  rejoindure,  forcibly  prevents 
Our  lock'd  embrasures,  strangles  our  dear  vows 
Even  in  the  birth  of  our  own  labouring  breath  : 
We  two,  that  with  so  many  thousand  sighs 
Did  buy  each  other,  must  poorly  sell  ourselves 
With  the  rude  brevity  and  discharge  of  one. 
Injurious  time  now,  with  a  robber's  haste, 
Crams  his  rich  thievery  up,  he  knows  not  how  : 
As  many  farewells  as  be  stars  in  heaven. 
With  distinct  breath  and  consign'd  9  kisses  to  them, 
9  Scaled. 


He  fumbles  up  into  a  short  adieu  ; 

And  scants  us  with  a  single  famish'd  kiss, 

Distasted  with  the  salt  of  broken  tears. 

JEne.    [fVilhin.]   My  lord  !  is  the  lady  ready? 

Tro.  Hark  !  you  are  call'd  :  Some  say,  the  Genius 
so 
Cries,  Come  !  to  him  that  instantly  must  die.  — 
Bid  them  have  patience :   she  shall  come  anon. 

Pan.  Where  are  my  tears  ?  rain,  to  lay  this  wind, 
or  my  heart  will  be  blown  up  by  the  root ! 

[Exit  Pandarus. 

Cres.   I  must  then  to  the  Greeks  ? 

Tro.  No  remedy. 

Cres.  A  woeful  Cressid  'mongst  the  merry  Greeks! 
When  shall  we  see  again  ? 

Tro.   Hear  me,  my  love  !  Be  thou  but  true  of 
heart, 

Cres.   I  true  I  how  now  ?  what  wicked  deem  •  is 
this? 

Tro.   Nay,  we  must  use  expostulation  kindly. 
For  it  is  parting  from  us  : 
I  speak  not,  be  thou  true,  as  fearing  thee ; 
For  I  will  throw  my  glove  to  death  himself. 
That  there's  no  maculation  ^  in  thy  heart : 
But,  be  thou  true,  say  I,  to  fashion  in 
My  sequent '  protestation  :   be  thou  true, 
And  I  will  see  thee. 

Cres.  O,  you  shall  be  expos'd,  my  lord,  to  dangers 
As  infinite  as  imminent !  but,  I'll  be  true. 

Tro.   And  I'll  grow  friend  with  danger.     Wear 
this  sleeve. 

Cres.  And  you  this  glove.     When  shall  I  see  you  ? 

Tro.   I  will  corrupt  the  Grecian  sentinels, 
To  give  thee  nightly  visitations. 
But  yet,  be  true. 

Cres.  O  heavens  !  —  be  true  again  ? 

Tro.    Hear  why  I  speak  it,  love ; 
The  Grecian  youths  are  full  of  quality'' ; 
They're  loving,  well  compos'd,  with  gifts  of  natiu"e 

flowing, 
And  swelling  o'er  with  arts  and  exercise; 
How  novelty  may  move,  and  parts  with  person, 
Alas,  a  kind  of  godly  jealousy 
(Which,  I  beseech  you,  call  a  virtuous  sin,) 
Makes  me  afeard. 

Cres.  O  heavens !  you  love  me  not. 

Tro.   Die  I  a  villain  then  ! 
In  this  I  do  not  call  your  faith  in  question, 
So  mainly  as  my  merit :   I  cannot  sing. 
Nor  heel  the  high  lavolt  ^,  nor  sweeten  talk, 
Nor  play  at  subtle  games  ;  fair  virtues  all. 
To  which  the  Grecians  are  mostprompt  and  pregnant : 
But  I  can  tell,  that  in  each  grace  of  these 
There  lurks  a  still  and  dumb-discoursive  devil. 
That  tempts  most  cunningly :   but  be  not  tempted. 

Cres.   Do  you  think  I  will  ? 

Tro.   No. 
But  something  may  be  done,  that  we  will  not : 
And  sometimes  we  are  devils  to  ourselves. 
When  we  will  tempt  the  frailty  of  our  powers. 
Presuming  on  their  changeful  potency. 

jEne.    [Within.]    Nay,  good  my  lord, 

Tro.  Come,  kiss  ^  and  let  us  part. 

Par.   [JTUhin.']   Brother  Troilus ! 

Tro.  Good  brother,  come  you  hither ; 

And  bring  ^neas,  and  the  Grecian,  with  you. 

Cres.   My  lord,  will  you  be  true  ? 

2'ro.   Who,  I  ?  alas,  it  is  my  vice,  my  fault : 


Surmise.  ^  gpot. 

Highly  accomplished. 


3  Following. 
*  A  dance. 


Scene  V. 


TROILUS  AND  CllESSIDA. 


615 


While  others  fish  with  craft  for  great  opinion, 

T  with  great  truth  catch  mere  simplicity  ; 

Whilst  some  with  cunning  gild  their  copper  crowns, 

With  truth  and  plainness  I  do  wear  mine  bare. 

Fear  not  my  truth  ;  the  moral  of  my  wit 

Is  —  plain,  and  true,  —  there's  all  the  reach  of  it. 

Enter  ^neas,  Paris,  Antenor,  Deiphobus, 
and  DioMEDES. 

Welcome,  sir  Diomed  !  here  is  the  lady. 
Which  for  Antenor  we  deliver  you  : 
At  the  port  S,  lord,  I'll  give  her  to  thy  hand  ; 
And,  by  the  way,  possess  ^  thee  what  she  is. 
Entreat  her  fair  ;  and,  by  my  soul,  fair  Greek, 
If  e'er  thou  stand  at  mercy  of  my  sword. 
Name  Cressid,  and  thy  life  shall  be  as  safe 
As  Priam  is  in  Ilion. 

JDio.  Fair  lady  Cressid, 

So  please  you,  save  the  thanks  this  prince  expects : 
llie  lustre  in  your  eye,  heaven  in  your  cheek. 
Pleads  your  fair  usage  ;  and  to  Diomed 
You  shall  be  mistress,  and  command  liim  wholly. 

Tro.    Grecian,  thou  dost  not  use  me  courteously. 
To  shame  the  zeal  of  my  petition  to  thee, 
In  praising  her :   I  tell  thee,  lord  of  Greece, 
She  is  as  far  high-soaring  o'er  thy  praises, 
As  thou  unworthy  to  be  called  her  servant. 
I  charge  thee,  use  her  well,  even  for  my  charge ; 
For,  by  the  dreadful  Pluto,  if  thou  dost  not. 
Though  the  great  bulk  Achilles  be  thy  guard, 
I'll  cut  thy  throat. 

J)io.  O,  be  not  mov'd,  prince  Troilus : 

I>et  me  be  privileg'd  by  my  place,  and  message, 
To  be  a  speaker  free  ;  when  I  am  hence, 
I'll  answer  to  my  will :    And  know  you,  lord, 
I'll  nothing  do  on  charge ;   To  her  own  worth 
She  shall  be  priz'd  ;  but  that  you  say  —  be't  so, 
I'll  speak  it  in  my  spirit  and  honour,  —  no. 

Tro.  Come,  to  the  port.  —  I'll  tell  thee,  Diomed, 
This  brave  shall  oft  make  thee  to  hide  thy  head.  — 
Lady,  give  me  your  hand ;  and,  as  we  walk. 
To  our  own  selves  bend  we  our  needful  talk. 

[ExeuJit  Teoilus,  Cressida,  and  Diomed. 
{^Trumpet  heard. 

Par.   Hark  !   Hector's  trumpet. 

jErie.  How  have  we  spent  this  morning  ! 

Tlie  prince  must  think  me  tardy  and  remiss. 
That  swore  to  ride  before  him  to  the  field. 

Par.  'Tis  Troilus'  fault :  Come,  come  to  field  with 
him. 

Dei.   Let  us  make  ready  straight. 

^tie.  Yea,  with  a  bridegroom's  fresh  alacrity, 
Let  us  address  to  tend  on  Hector's  heels  : 
The  glory  of  our  Troy  doth  this  day  lie, 
On  his  fair  worth  and  single  chivalry.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V 2'he  Grecian  Camp.     Lists  set  out. 

Enter  Ajax  armed  ;  Agamemnon,  Achilles, 
Patroclus,  Menelaus,  Ulysses,  Nestor,  and 
others. 

Agam.  Here  art  thou  in  appointment  ^  fresh  and 
fair, 
Anticipating  time  with  starting  courage, 
(live  with  thy  trumpet  a  loud  note  to  Troy, 
Thou  dreadful  Ajax  ;  that  the  appalled  air 
May  pierce  tlie  head  of  tlie  great  combatant. 
And  hale  him  hither. 

jijax.  Tliou,  trumpet,  there's  my  purse. 

•  Gate.  ?  Inform.  •  Prciwratiun. 


Now  crack  thy  lungs,  and  split  thy  brazen  pipe : 
Blow,  villain,  till  thy  sphered  bias  cheek 
Out-swell  the  colick  of  puff'd  Aquilon  : 
Come,  stretch  thy  chest,  and  let  thy  eyes  spout  blood ; 
Thou  blow'st  for  Hector.  [Trum})et  sounds. 

Ulyss.   No  trumpet  answers. 

Achil.  *Tis  but  early  days. 

Jgarn.  Is  not  yon  Diomed,  with  Calchas' daughter? 

Ulyss.   'Tis  he,  I  ken  the  manner  of  liis  gait : 
He  rises  on  the  toe  :   that  spirit  of  his 
In  aspiration  lifts  him  from  the  earth. 

Enter  Diomed,  with  Cressida. 

Agam.   Is  this  the  lady  Cressid  ? 

Dio.  Even  she. 

Agam.  Most  dearly  welcome  to  the  Greeks,  sweet 
lady. 

Nest.   Our  general  doth  salute  you  with  a  kiss. 

Ulyss.   Yet  is  the  kindness  but  particular  ; 
'Twere  better,  she  were  kiss'd  in  general. 

Nest.    And  very  courtly  counsel :    I'll  begin.  — 
So  much  for  Nestor. 

Achil.   I'll  take  that  winter  from  your  lips,  fair 
lady : 
Achilles  bids  you  welcome. 

Cres.   I  am  your  debtor. 

Dio.   Lady,  a  word ;  —  I'll  bring  you  to  your 
father.  [Diomed  fecw/s  ou/ Cressida. 

Nest.   A  woman  of  quick  sense. 

Ulyss.  Fye,  fye  upon  her  ! 

There's  language  in  her  eye,  her  cheek,  her  lip, 
Nay,  her  foot  speaks ;  her  wanton  spirits  look  out 
At  every  joint  and  motive  9  of  her  body. 
(),  these  encounterers,  so  glib  of  tongue. 
That  give  a  coasting  welcome  ere  it  comes. 
And  wide  unclasp  tlie  tables  of  their  thoughts 
To  every  ticklish  reader  !  set  them  down 
For  sluttish  spoils  of  opportunity, 
And  daughters  of  the  game.  [Trumpet  uithin. 

All.   The  Trojans'  trumpet. 

Agam.  Yonder  comes  the  troop. 

Enter  Hector,  armed ;  ^neas,  Troilus,  and  other 
Trojans,  wth  Attendants. 

^ne.   Hail,  all  the  state  of  Greece !  what  shall 
be  done 
To  him  that  victory  commands?   Or  do  you  purpose, 
A  victor  shall  be  known  ?  will  you  tlie  knights 
Shall  to  the  edge  of  all  extremity 
Pursue  each  other ;  or  shall  they  be  divided 
By  any  voice  or  order  of  the  field  ? 
Hector  bade  ask. 

Agam.  Which  way  would  Hector  have  it? 

ASne.   He  cares  not,  he'll  obey  conditions. 

Achil.   'Tis  done  like  Hector ;  but  securely  done, 
A  little  proudly,  and  great  deal  misprizing 
The  knight  oppos'd. 

^ne.  If  not  Acliillcs,  sir, 

What  is  your  name  ? 

Achil.  If  not  Achilles,  notliing. 

jEne.   Therefore  Adiilles  :    But,  whate'er,  know 
this ;  — 
In  the  extremity  of  great  and  little, 
Valour  and  pride  excel  themselves  in  Hector  ; 
The  one  almost  as  infinite  as  all, 
The  other  blank  as  nothing.      Weigh  him  well. 
And  that,  which  looks  like  pride,  is  courtesy. 
This  Ajax  is  half  made  of  Hector's  blood  : 
In  love  whereof,  lialf  Hector  stays  at  home ; 
>  Motion. 
H  r  4 


616 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  IV 


Half  heart,  half  hand,  half  Hector  comes  to  seek 
Tills  blended  knight,  half  Trojan,  and  half  Greek. 

Re-enter  Diomed. 

Agam.  Here  is  sir  Diomed  :  —  Go,  gentle  knight, 
Stand  by  our  Ajax  :  as  you  and  lord  ^neas 
Consent  upon  the  order  of  their  fight, 
So  be  it ;  either  to  the  uttermost, 
Or  else  a  breath  • :  the  combatants  being  kin, 
Half  stints  their  strife  before  their  strokes  begin. 

[Ajax  and  Hector  erUer  the  Lists. 
Ulyss.    Tliey  are  oppos'd  already. 
Agam.  What  Trojan  is  that  same  that  looks  so 

heavy  ? 
Ulyss.  The  youngest  son  of  Priam,  a  true  knight; 
Not  yet  mature,  yet  matchless  ;  firm  of  word ; 
Speaking  in  deeds,  and  deedless  in  his  tongue ; 
Not  soon  provok'd,  nor, being provok'd, soon  calm'd: 
His  heart  and  hand  both  open,  and  both  free ; 
For  what  he  has,  he  gives  ;  what  thinks,  he  shows ; 
Yet  gives  he  not,  till  judgment  guide  his  bounty, 
Nor  dignifies  an  impair  2  thought  with  breath  : 
Manly  as  Hector,  but  more  dangerous ; 
For  Hector,  in  his  blaze  of  wrath,  subscribes  3 
To  tender  objects  ;  but  he,  in  heat  of  action, 
Is  more  vindicative  than  jealous  love : 
They  call  him  Troilus;  and  on  him  erect 
A  second  hope,  as  fairly  built  as  Hector. 
Thus  says  iEneas :   one  that  knows  the  youth 
Even  to  his  inches,  and,  with  private  soul, 
Did  in  great  Ilion  thus  translate  *  him  to  me. 

[Alarum.     Hector  and  Ajxx  Jight. 
Agam.   They  are  in  action. 
JVest.   Now,  Ajax,  hold  thine  own  ! 
I^'^o.  Hector,  thou  sleep'st ; 

Awake  thee ! 

Agam.  His  blows  are  well  dispos'd :  — there,  Ajax ! 
Dio.   You  must  no  more.  [Trumpets  cease, 

■^ne.  Princes,  enough,  so  please  you. 

Ajax.   I  am  not  warm  yet,  let  us  fight  again. 
Dio.   As  Hector  pleases. 

Hect.  Why,  then,  will  I  no  more :  — 

Thou  art,  great  lord,  my  father's  sister's  son, 
A  cousin-german  to  great  Priam's  seed ; 
The  obligation  of  our  blood  forbids 
A  gory  emulation  'twixt  us  twain  : 
Were  thy  commixtion  Greek  and  Trojan  so. 
That  thou  couldst  say  —  This  hand  is  Grecian  all, 
And  this  is  Trojan  ;  the  sinews  of  this  leg 
All  Greek,  and  this  all  Troy  ;  my  mother  s  blood 
Jiuns  on  the  dexter  ^  cheek,  and  this  sinister^ 
JSounds-in  my  father's  ;  by  Jove  multipotent. 
Thou  shouldst  not  bear  from  me  a  Greekish  member 
Wherein  my  sword  had  not  impressure  made 
Of  our  rank  feud  :    But  the  just  gods  gainsay, 
That  any  drop  thou  borrow'st  from  thy  mother. 
My  sacred  aunt,  should  by  my  mortal  sword 
Be  drain'd  !   Let  me  embrace  thee,  Ajax  : 
By  him  that  thunders,  thou  hast  lusty  arms ; 
Hector  would  have  them  fall  upon  him  thus : 
Cousin,  all  honour  to  thee ! 

^jax.  I  thank  thee,  Hector : 

Thou  art  too  gentle,  and  too  free  a  man  : 
I  came  to  kill  thee,  cousin,  and  bear  hence 
A  great  addition  earned  in  thy  death. 
Hect.   Not  Neoptolemus  so  mirable 
(On  whose  bright  crest.  Fame  with  her  loud'st  O  yes 

'  Breathing,  exercise.  2  Unsuitable  to  his  character. 

3  \  lelds,  gives  way.  "  Explain  his  character. 

*  Right.  fi  Lea. 


Cries,  This  is  he,)  could  promise  to  himself 
A  thought  of  added  honour  torn  from  Hector. 

uEne.  There  is  expectance  here  from  both  the  sides, 
What  further  you  will  do. 

Hect.  We'll  answer  it ; 

The  issue  is  embracement :  —  Ajax,  farewell. 
Ajax.   If  I  might  in  entreaties  find  success, 
(As  seld7  I  have  the  chance,)  I  would  desire 
My  famous  cousin  to  our  Grecian  tents. 

Dio.  'Tis  Agamemnon's  wish  :  and  great  Achilles 
Doth  long  to  see  unarm'd  the  valiant  Hector. 

Hect.   ^neas,  call  my  brother  Troilus  to  me  : 
And  signify  this  loving  interview 
To  the  expecters  of  our  Trojan  part ; 
Desire  them  home.  —  Give  me  thy  hand,  my  cousin ; 
I  will  go  eat  with  thee,  and  see  your  knights. 
Ajax.    Great  Agamemnon  comes  to  meet  us  here. 
Hect.   The  worthiest  of  them  tell  me  name  by 
name; 
But  for  Achilles,  my  own  searching  eyes 
Shall  find  him  by  his  large  and  portly  size. 

Agam.   Worthy  of  arms,  as  welcome  as  to  one 
That  would  be  rid  of  such  an  enemy  ; 
But  that's  no  welcome  :    Understand  more  clear. 
What's  past,  and  what's  to  come,  is  strew'd  with  husks 
And  formless  ruin  of  oblivion  ; 
But  in  this  extant  moment,  faith  and  troth, 
Strain'd  purely  from  all  hollow  bias-drawing 
Bids  thee,  with  most  divine  integrity, 
From  heart  of  very  heart,  great  Hector,  welcome. 
Hect,  I  thank  thee,  most  imperious^  Agamemnon. 
Agam.   My  well-fam'd  lord  of  Troy,  no  less  to 
you.  [To  Troilu-. 

Men.     Let   me   confirm   my   princely   brother's 
greeting ;  _ 
You  brace  of  warlike  brothers,  welcome  hither. 
Hect.   Whom  must  we  answer  ? 
Men,  The  noble  Menelaus. 

Hect.    O  you,  my  lord  ?  by  Mars  his  gauntlet, 
thanks ! 
Mock  not,  that  I  aflfect  the  untraded  oath  ; 
Your  quondam  wife  swears  still  by  Venus'  glove  : 
She's  well,  but  bade  me  not  commend  her  to  you. 
Men.   Name  her  not  now,  sir;    she's  a  deadly 

theme. 
Hect.   O  pardon ;   I  offend. 
Nest.   I  have,  thou  gallant  Trojan,  seen  thee  oft. 
Labouring  for  destiny,  make  cruel  way 
Through  ranks  of  Greekish  youth  :  and  I  have  seen 

thee. 
As  hot  as  Perseus,  spur  thy  Phrygian  steed. 
Despising  many  forfeits  and  subduements. 
When  thou  hast  hung  thy  advanced  sword  i'  the  air, 
Not  letting  it  decline  on  the  declin'd ; 
That  I  have  said  to  some  my  standers-by, 
Lo,  Jupiter  is  yonder,  dealing  life  ! 
And  I  have  seen  thee  pause,  and  take  thy  breath. 
When  that  a  ring  of  Greeks  have  hemm'd  thee  in. 
Like  an  Olympian  wrestling :   This  have  I  seen  ; 
But  this  thy  countenance,  still  lock'd  in  steel, 
I  never  saw  till  now.      I  knew  thy  grandsire  9, 
And  once  fought  with  him  :  he  was  a  soldier  good; 
But,  by  great  Mars,  the  captain  of  us  all. 
Never  like  thee :   Let  an  old  man  embrace  thee  ; 
And,  worthy  warrior,  welcome  to  our  tents. 
JEne.  'Tis  the  old  Nestor. 

Hect.   Let  me  embrace  thee,  good  old  chronicle. 
That  hast  so  long  walk'd  hand  in  hand  with  time :  — 
Most  reverend  Nestor,  I  am  glad  to  clasp  thee. 
7  Seldom.  p  Imperial.  ^  Laomedon. 


I 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


617 


Nest.  I  would,  my  anns  could  match  thee  in  con- 
tention, 
As  they  contend  with  thee  in  courtesy. 

Hect.   I  would  they  could. 

Nest.   Ha! 
By  tliis  white  beard,  I'd  fight  with  thee  to-morrow. 
Well,  welcome,  welcome  !   I  have  seen  the  time  — 

Ulyss.   I  wonder  now  how  yonder  city  stands. 
When  we  have  here  her  base  and  pillar  by  us. 

Hect.   I  know  your  favour,  lord  Ulysses,  well. 
Ah,  sir,  there's  many  a  Greek  and  Trojan  dead, 
Since  first  I  saw  yourself  and  Diomed 
In  I  lion,  on  your  Greekish  embassy. 

Ulyss-  Sir,  I  foretold  you  then  what  would  ensue : 
My  prophecy  is  but  half  his  journey  yet ; 
For  yonder  walls,  that  pertly  front  your  town. 
Yon  towers,  whose  wanton  tops  do  buss  the  clouds, 
Must  kiss  their  own  feet. 

Hect.  I  must  not  believe  you : 

Tliere  they  stand  yet ;  and  modestly  I  think, 
The  fall  of  every  Phrygian  stone  will  cost 
A  drop  of  Grecian  blood  :    The  end  crowns  all ; 
And  that  old  common  arbitrator,  Time, 
Will  one  day  end  it. 

Ulyss.  So  to  him  we  leave  it. 

Most  gentle,  and  most  valiant  Hector,  welcome  : 
After  the  general,  I  beseech  you  next 
To  feast  with  me,  and  see  me  at  my  tent. 

Achil.  I  shall  forestall  thee,  lord  Ulysses,  thou  !  — 
Now,  Hector,  I  have  fed  mine  eyes  on  thee ; 
1  have  with  exact  view  perus'd  thee,  Hector, 
And  quoted  '  joint  by  joint. 

Hect.  Is  this  Achilles? 

ytchU.   I  am  Achilles. 

Hect.  Stand  fair,  I  pray  thee :  let  me  look  on  thee. 

AchU.   Behold  thy  fill. 

Hect.  Nay,  I  have  done  already. 

jlchil.  Tliou  art  too  brief;  I  will  tlie  second  time. 
As  I  would  buy  thee,  view  thee  limb  by  limb. 

Hect.  O,  like  a  book  of  sport  thou'lt  read  me  o'er ; 
But  there's  more  in  me  than  thou  understand'st. 
Why  dost  thou  so  oppress  me  with  thine  eye  ? 

Achil.  Tell  me,  you  heavens,  in  which  part  of  his 
body 
Shall  I  destroy  him  ?  whether  there,  there,  or  there? 
Tliat  I  may  give  the  local  wound  a  name ; 
And  make  distinct  the  very  breach  whereout 
Hector's  great  spirit  flew  :    Answer  me,  heavens  ! 

Hect.   It  would  discredit  the  bless'd  gods,  proud 
man. 
To  answer  such  a  question :    Stand  again  : 
Think'st  thou  to  catch  my  life  so  pleasantly. 


As  to  prenominate  ^  in  nice  conjecture. 
Where  thou  wilt  hit  me  dead  ? 

Achil.  I  tell  thee,  yea. 

Hect.   Wert  thou  an  oracle  to  tell  me  so, 
I'd  not  believe  thee.     Henceforth  guard  thee  well ; 
For  I'll  not  kill  thee  there,  nor  there,  nor  there  ; 
But,  by  the  forge  that  stithied  3  Mars  his  helm, 
I'll  kill  thee  every  where,  yea,  o'er  and  o'er.  — 
You  wisest  Grecians,  pardon  me  this  brag, 
His  insolence  draws  folly  from  my  lips ; 
But  I'll  endeavour  deeds  to  match  these  words, 
Or  may  I  never 

Ajax.  Do  not  chafe  thee,  cousin ;  — 

And  you,  Achilles,  let  these  threats  alone, 
Till  accident,  or  purpose,  bring  you  to't : 
You  may  have  every  day  enough  of  Hector, 
If  you  have  stomach  ;  the  general  state,  I  fear. 
Can  scarce  entreat  you  to  be  odd  with  him. 

Hect.   I  pray  you,  let  us  see  you  in  the  field ; 
We  have  had  pelting  wars,  since  you  refus'd 
The  Grecians'  cause. 

Achil.  Dost  thou  entreat  me,  Hector  ? 

To-morrow,  do  I  meet  thee,  fell  as  death  : 
To-night,  all  friends. 

Hect.  Thy  hand  upon  that  match. 

Agam.   First,  all  you  peers  of  Greece,  go  to  my 
tent; 
There  in  the  full  convive  <  we :  afterwards. 
As  Hector's  leisure  and  your  bounties  shall 
Concur  together,  severally  entreat  him.  — 
Beat  loud  the  tabourines  *,  let  the  trumpets  blow. 
That  this  great  soldier  may  his  welcome  know. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Troilus  and  Ulysses. 

Tro.  My  lord  Ulysses,  tell  me,  I  beseech  you. 
In  w^iat  place  of  the  field  doth  Calchas  keep, 

Ulyss.  At  Menelaus*  tent,  most  princely  Troilus: 
There  Diomed  doth  feast  with  him  to-night ; 
Who  neither  looks  upon  the  heaven,  nor  earth, 
But  gives  all  gaze  and  bent  of  amorous  view 
On  the  fair  Cressid. 

Tro.  Shall  I,  sweet  lord,  be  bound  to  you  so  much. 
After  we  part  from  Agamemnon's  tent. 
To  bring  me  thither  ? 

Ulyss.  You  shall  command  me,  sir. 

As  gentle  tell  me,  of  what  honour  was 
This  Cressida  in  Troy  ?  Had  she  no  lover  there 
That  wails  her  absence  ? 

Tro.   O,  sir,  to  such  as  boasting  show  their  scars, 
A  mock  is  due.     Will  you  walk  on,  my  lord  ? 
She  was  belov'd,  she  lov'd  ;  she  is,  and  doth : 
But,  still,  sweet  love  is  food  for  fortune's  tootli. 

lExeu7it. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. 


The  Grecian  Camp.    Before  Achilles' 
Tent. 


Enter  Achillis  and  Patroclus. 

Achil.   I'll  heat  his  blood  with  Greekish  wine  to- 
night. 
Which  with  my  scimitar  I'll  cool  to-morrow.  — 
Patroclus,  let  us  feast  him  to  the  height 
ratr.    Here  comes  Thersites. 
'  Obacrved. 


Enter  Thsrsites. 

Achil.  How  now,  thou  core  of  envy  • 

Thou  crusty  batch  of  nature,  what's  the  news? 

Ther.  Why,  thou  picture  of  what  thou  seemest, 
and  idol  of  idiot-worshippers,  here's  a  letter  for  tljce. 

Achil.    From  whence,  fragment? 

Ther.   Why,  Uiou  full  disli  of  fool,  from  Troy. 

Pair.   Who  keeps  the  tent  now  ? 

Ther.  Tlie  surgeon's  box,  or  the  patient's  wound. 


«  Forename. 
*FcMt 


'  stithy,  is  a  smith's  khofK 
*  Small  drums. 


618 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  V. 


Pair.  Well  said,  Adversity !  ^  and  what  need 
these  tricks  ? 

Ther.  Pr'ythee  be  silent,  boy ;  I  profit  not  by 
thy  talk. 

Patr.  Why,  you  ruinous  butt ;  you  indistinguish- 
able cur. 

Ther.  Why  art  thou  exasperate,  thou  idle  imma- 
terial skein  of  sleive  8  silk,  thou  green  sarcenet  flap 
for  a  sore  eye,  thou  tassel  of  a  prodigal's  purse, 
thou?  Ah,  how  the  poor  world  is  pestered  with 
such  water-flies ;  diminutives  of  nature  ! 

Achil.   My  sweet  Patroclus,  1  am  thwarted  quite 
From  my  great  purpose  in  to-morrow's  battle. 
Here  is  a  letter  from  queen  Hecuba ; 
A  token  from  her  daughter,  my  fair  love ; 
Both  taxing  me,  and  gaging  me  to  keep 
An  oath  that  I  have  sworn.      I  will  not  break  it : 
Fall,  Greeks ;  fail,  fame ;  honour,  or  go,  or  stay. 
My  major  vow  lies  here,  this  I'll  obey.  — — 
Come,  come,  Thersites,  help  to  trim  my  tent ; 
This  night  in  banqueting  must  all  be  spent. 
Away,  Patroclus. 

{^Exeunt  Achilles  and  Patroclus. 

Ther.  With  too  much  blood,  and  too  little  brain, 
these  two  may  run  mad ;  but  if  with  too  much 
brain,  and  too  little  blood,  they  do,  I'll  be  a  curer 
of  madmen.  Here's  Agamemnon,  —  an  honest 
fellow  enough,  but  he  has  not  so  much  brain  as 
ear-wax:  And  the  goodly  transformation  of  Jupiter 
there,  his  brother,  the  bull,  —  the  primitive  statue, 
and  oblique  memorial  of  cuckolds  9  ;  a  thrifty  shoe- 
ing-horn  in  a  chain,  hanging  at  his  brother's  leg,  — 
to  what  form,  but  that  he  is,  should  wit  larded 
with  malice,  and  malice  forced  i  with  wit,  turn  him 
to  ?  To  an  ass,  were  nothing  :  he  is  both  ass  and 
ox  :  to  an  ox,  were  nothing  ;  he  is  both  ox  and  ass. 
To  be  a  dog,  a  mule,  a  cat,  a  fitchew  %  a  toad,  a 
lizard,  an  owl,  a  puttock,  or  a  herring  without  a 
roe,  I  would  not  care :  but  to  be  Menelaus,  —  I 
would  conspire  against  destiny.  Ask  me  not  what 
I  would  be,  if  I  were  not  Thersites  ;  for  I  care  not 
to  be  the  louse  of  a  lazar3,  so  I  were  not  Mene- 
laus. —  Hey-day  !  spirits  and  fires  ! 

Enter  Hector,  Troilus,  Ajax,  Agamemnon, 
Ulysses,  Nestor,  Menelaus,  and  Diomed,  with 
Lights. 

Agam.   We  go  wrong,  we  go  wrong. 
Ajax.  No,  yonder  'tis  ; 

There,  where  we  see  the  lights. 

Hect.  I  trouble  you. 

Ajax.   No,  not  a  whit. 

Ulyss.  Here  comes  himself  to  guide  you. 

Enter  Achilles. 

Achil*  Welcome,  brave  Hector:  welcome,  princes 

all! 
Agam.   So  now,  fair  prince  of  Troy,  I  bid  good 
night. 
Ajax  commands  the  guard  to  tend  on  you. 

Hect.   Thanks,   and  good  night  to  the    Greeks' 

general. 
Men.   Good  night,  my  lord. 
Hect.  Good  night,  sweet  Menelaus. 

AchU.    Good  night. 
And  welcome,  both  to  those  that  go  or  tarry. 
Agam.   Good  night. 

[Exeunt  Agamemnon  and  Menelaus. 


7  Contrariety. 
"  Stuffed. 


"  Coarse,  unwroiight.         ^  Menelaus. 
*  Polecat.  3  A  diseased  beggar 


AchU.  Old  Nestor  tarries  ;  and  you  too,  Diomed, 
Xeep  Hector  company  an  hour  or  two. 

Dio.    I  cannot,  lord  ;   I  have  important  business. 
The   tide   whereof   is   now.  —  Good   night,  great 
Hector. 
Hect.   Give  me  your  hand. 

Ulyss.  Follow  his  torch,  he  goes 

To  Calchas'  tent ;  I'll  keep  you  company. 

[Asi/le  to  Troilus. 
Tro.   Sweet  sir,  you  honour  me. 
Hect.  And  so  good  night. 

[Exit  Diomed  ;  Ulysses  and  Troilus 
following. 
AchU.   Come,  come,  enter  my  tent. 

[Exeunt  Achilles,  Hector,  Ajax,  and 
Nestor. 
Ther.  That  same  Diomed's  a  false-hearted  rogue, 
a  most  unjust  knave ;  I  will  no  more  trust  him 
when  he  leers,  than  I  will  a  serpent  when  he  hisses : 
he  will  spend  his  mouth,  and  promise,  like  Brabler 
the  hound ;  but  when  he  performs,  astronomers 
foretell  it  :  it  is  prodigious  i,  there  will  come  some 
change ;  the  sun  borrows  of  the  moon,  when 
Diomed  keeps  his  word.  I  will  rather  leave  to  see 
Hector,  than  not  to  dog  him :  they  say,  he  keeps  a 
Trojan  drab,  and  uses  the  traitor  Calchas'  tent : 
111  after.  [ExU. 

SCENE  II.  —  Before  Calchas'  Tent, 

Enter  Diomedes. 

Dio.   What  are  you  up  here,  ho  ?  speak. 
Cal    [Within.']    Who  calls? 

Dio.   Diomed.  —  Calchas,    I   think.  —  Where's 
your  daughter  ? 

Cal.    [Within.]   She  comes  to  you. 

Enter  Troilus  and  Ulysses,  at  a  distance ;  after 
them  Thersites. 

Ulyss.   Stand  where  the  torch  may  not  discover  us. 
Enter  Cressida. 

Tro.   Cressid,  come  forth  to  him  ! 

Dio.  How  now,  my  charge  ? 

Cres.   Now,  my  sweet  guardian  !  —  Hark  !  a  word 
with  you.  [  Whispers. 

Tro.   Yea,  so  familiar  ! 

Ulyss.    She  will  sing  any  man  at  first  sight. 

Ther.    And  any  man  may  sing  her,  if  he  can  take 
her  cliffy  ;  she's  noted. 

Dio.   Will  you  remember  ? 

Cres.  Remember?  yes. 

Dio.  Nay,  but  do  then  ; 

And  let  your  mind  be  coupled  with  your  words. 

Tro.   What  should  she  remember  ? 

Ulyss.   List ! 

Cres.    Sweet  honey  Greek,  tempt  me  no  more  to 
folly. 

Ther.    Roguery ! 

Dio.   Nay,  then,  —  ^H 

Ci-es.  I'll  tell  you  what :  "^Mk 

Dio.    Pho,  pho  !  come,  tell  a  pin  :   You  are  for- 
sworn. — 

Cres.   In  faith,  I  cannot :   What  would  you  have 
me  do? 

Dio.   What  did  you  swear  ? 

Cres.   I  pr'ythee,  do  not  hold  me  to  mine  oath  j 
Bid  me  do  any  thing  but  that,  sweet  Greek. 
♦  Portentous,  ominous.  *  Key. 


Scene  II. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


619 


Dio.   Good  night. 

Tro.  Hold,  patience ! 

Ulyss.  How  now,  Trojan  ? 

Cres.  Diomed, 

Dio.  No,  no,  good  night:  I'llbeyourfoolnomore. 

Tro.   Thy  better  must. 

Cres.  Hark  !  one  word  in  your  ear. 

Tro.   O  plague  and  madness  ! 

Ulyss.   You  are  mov'd,  prince;  let  us  depart,  I 
pray  you, 
I.est  your  displeasure  should  enlarge  itself 
To  wrathful  terms  :  this  place  is  dangerous  ; 
llie  time  right  deadly  ;   1  beseech  you,  go. 

Tro.    Behold,  I  pray  you  ! 

Ulyss.  Now,  good  my  lord,  go  off: 

You  flow  to  great  destruction  :   come,  my  lord. 

Tro.    I  pr'yihee,  stay. 

Ulyss.  You  have  not  patience  :   come. 

Tro.  I  pray  you,  stay ;  by  hell,  and  all  hell's  plagues, 
I  will  not  speak  a  v/ord. 

Dio.  And  so,  good  night. 

Cres.   Nay,  but  you  part  in  anger. 

Tro.  Doth  that  grieve  thee  ? 

0  wither'd  truth ! 

Ulyss.   Why,  how  now,  lord  ? 

Tro.  By  Jove, 

1  will  be  patient. 

Cres.  Guardian  !  —  why,  Greek  ! 

Dio.    Pho,  pho  !  adieu ;  you  palter.^ 

Cres.   In  faith,  I  do  not ;  come  hither  once  again. 

Ulyss.   You  shake,  my  lord,  at  something;  will 
you  go  ? 
You  will  break  out. 

Tro.  She  strokes  his  cheek ! 

Ulyss.  Come,  come. 

Tro.  Nay,  stay ;  by  Jove,  I  will  not  speak  a  word : 
There  is  between  my  will  and  all  offences 
A  guard  of  patience  ;  —  stay  a  little  while. 

Dio.    But  will  you  then  ? 

Cres.   In  faith,  I  will,  la;  never  trust  me  else. 

Dio.    Give  me  some  token  for  the  surety  of  it. 

Cres.    I'll  fetch  you  one.  {^Exit. 

Ulyss.   You  have  sworn  patience. 

Tro.    Fear  me  not,  my  lord ; 
I  will  not  be  myself,  nor  have  cognition  ^ 
Of  what  I  feel ;  I  am  all  patience. 

Re-enter  Ckessida. 

Ther.  Now  the  pledge  ;  now,  now,  now  ! 

Cres.   Here,  Diomed,  keep  this  sleeve. 

Tro.   O  beauty !  where's  thy  faith  ? 

Ulyss.  My  lord, 

Tro.   I  will  be  patient ;  outwardly  I  will. 

Cres.  You  look  upon  that  sleeve;  Behold  it  well. — 
He  loveil  me —  O  false  wench  !  —  Give't  me  again. 

Dio.   Who  was't  ? 

Cres.  No  matter,  now  I  have't  again. 

I  will  not  meet  with  you  to-morrow  night : 
I  pr'ythee,  Diomed,  visit  me  no  more. 

Ther,  Now  she  sharpens ;  —  Well  said,  whetstone. 

Dio.   I  shall  have  it. 

Cres.  What,  this  ? 

Dio.  Ay,  that. 

Cres.  O,  all  you  gods !  —  O  pretty,  pretty  pledge  ! 
Thy  master  now  lies  thinking  in  his  bed 
Of  thee  and  me  ;  and  sighs,  and  takes  my  glove, 
And  gives  memorial  dainty  kisses  to  it. 
As  I  kiss  thee.  ^  Nay,  do  not  snatch  it  from  me ; 
He,  that  takes  that,  must  take  my  heart  withal. 
*  Shuffle.  ^  Knowledge. 


Dio.   I  had  your  heart  before,  this  follows  it. 

Tro.    I  did  swear  patience. 

Cres.   You  shall  not  have  it,  Diomed ;  'faith  you 
shall  not ; 
I'll  give  you  something  else 

Db.   I  will  have  this;  Whose  was  it? 

Cres.  'Tis  no  matter. 

Dio.   Come,  tell  me  whose  it  was. 

Cres.  'Twas  one's  that  loved  me  better  than  you 
will. 
But,  now  you  have  it,  take  it. 

Dio.  Whose  was  it  ? 

Cres.   By  all  Diana's  waiting-women  yonder  8, 
And  by  herself,  I  will  not  tell  you  whose. 

Dio.   To-morrow  will  I  wear  it  on  my  helm  ; 
And  grieve  his  spirit  that  dares  not  challenge  it. 

Tro.  Wert  thou  the  devil,  and  wor'st  it  on  thy  horn. 
It  should  be  challeng'd. 

Cres.   Well,  well,  'tis  done,  'tis  past ;  —  And  yet 
it  is  not ; 
I  will  not  keep  my  word. 

Dio.  Why  then,  farewell ; 

Thou  never  shalt  mock  Diomed  again. 

Cres.   You  shall  not  go :  —  One  cannot  speak  a 
word. 
But  it  straight  starts  you. 

Dio.  I  do  not  like  this  fooling. 

Tlier.   Nor  I,  by  Pluto :  but  that  that  likes  not 
you,  pleases  me  best. 

Dio.   What,  shall  I  come  ?  the  hour? 

Cres.  Ay,  come :  —  O  Jove !  — 

Do  come  :  —  1  shall  be  plagu'd. 

Dio.  Farewell  till  then. 

Cres.   Good  night.     I  pr'ythee,  come.  — 

[EtU  Diomed£s. 
Troilus,  farewell !  one  eye  yet  looks  on  thee ; 
But  with  my  heart  the  other  eye  doth  see. 
Ah  !  poor  our  sex  !  this  fault  in  us  I  find, 
The  error  of  our  eye  directs  our  mind  : 
What  error  leads,  must  err ;   O  then  conclude. 
Minds,  sway'd  by  eyes,  are  full  of  turpitude. 

[Exit  Cressida. 

Ulyss.   All's  done,  my  lord. 

Tro.  It  is. 

Ulyss.  Why  stay  we  tlien  ? 

Tro.   To  make  a  recordation  9  to  my  soul 
Of  every  syllable  that  here  was  spoke. 
But,  if  I  tell  how  these  two  did  co-act. 
Shall  I  not  lie  in  publishing  a  truth  ? 
Sith  yet  there  is  a  credence  in  my  heart. 
An  esperance  so  obstinately  strong. 
That  doth  invert  the  attest  of  eyes  and  ears  ; 
As  if  those  organs  had  deceptions  functions, 
Created  only  to  calumniate. 
Was  Cressid  here  ? 

Ulyss.  I  cannot  conjure,  Trojan. 

Tro.   She  was  not,  sure. 

Ulyss.  ISIost  sure  she  was. 

Tro.  Why,  my  negation  hath  no  taste  of  madness. 

Ulyss.  Nor  mine,  my  lord :  Cressid  was  here  but 
now. 

Tro.  Let  it  not  be  believ'd  for '  womanhood  ! 
Think,  we  had  mothers  ;  do  not  give  advantage 
To  stubborn  criticks  ^  —  apt,  without  a  theme. 
For  depravation,  —  to  square  tlie  general  sex 
By  Cressid's  rule :   rather  think  tliis  not  Cressid. 

Ulyss.   What  hath  she  done,  prince,  that  can  soil 
our  motlicrs  ? 


•  The  iUrs. 

•  For  the  sake  of. 


>  Remembrance. 
»  Cynics. 


620 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  V. 


Tro.   Nothing  at  all,  unless  that  this  were  she. 

Ther.  Will  he  swagger  himself  out  on's  own  eyes  ? 

Tro.   Tliis  she  ?  no,  this  is  Diomed's  Cressida : 
If  beauty  have  a  soul,  this  is  not  she  ; 
If  souls  guide  vows,  if  vows  be  sanctimony. 
If  sanctimony  be  the  gods'  delight, 
If  there  be  rule  in  unity  itself, 
This  was  not  she.     O  madness  of  discourse, 
That  cause  sets  up  with  and  against  itself ! 
Bi-fold  authority  !  where  reason  can  revolt 
Without  perdition,  and  loss  assume  all  reason 
Without  revolt ;  this  is,  and  is  not,  Cressid  ! 
Within  my  soul  there  doth  commence  a  fight 
Of  this  strange  nature,  that  a  thing  inseparate 
Divides  more  vdder  than  the  sky  and  earth ; 
And  yet  the  spacious  breadth  of  this  division 
Admits  no  orifice  for  a  point,  as  subtle 
As  is  Arachne's  broken  woof,  to  enter. 
Instance,  O  instance  !  strong  as  Pluto's  gates  ; 
Cressid  is  mine,  tied  with  the  bonds  of  heaven  : 
Instance,  O  instance  !  strong  as  heaven  itself ; 
The  bonds  of  heaven  are  slipp'd,  dissolv'd,  and  loos'd ; 
And  with  another  knot,  five-finger-tied. 
The  fractions  of  her  faith,  orts  of  her  love. 
The  fragments,  scraps,  the  bits,  and  greasy  reliques 
Of  her  o'er-eaten  faith  are  bound  to  Diomed. 

Ulyss.   May  worthy  Troilus  be  half  attach'd 
With  that  which  here  his  passion  doth  express  ? 

Tro.   Ay,  Greek ;  and  that  shall  be  divulged  well 
In  characters  as  red  as  Mars  his  heart 
Inflam'd  with  Venus  :  never  did  young  man  fancy  3 
With  so  eternal  and  so  fix'd  a  soul. 
Hark,  Greek ;  —  As  much  as  I  do  Cressid  love. 
So  much  by  weight  hate  I  her  Diomed  : 
That  sleeve  is  mine,  that  he'll  bear  on  his  helm ; 
Were  it  a  casque  compos'd  by  Vulcan's  skill, 
My  sword  should  bite  it :   not  the  dreadful  spout, 
Which  shipmen  do  the  hurricano  call 
Constring'd  ^  in  mass  by  the  almighty  sun 
Shall  dizzy  with  more  clamour  Neptune's  ear 
In  his  descent,  than  shall  my  prompted  sword 
Falling  on  Diomed. 

Ther.   He'll  tickle  it. 

Tro.  O  Cressid!  O  false  Cressid !  false,  false, false! 
Let  all  untruths  stand  by  thy  stained  name. 
And  they'll  seem  glorious. 

Uhjss.  O,  contain  yourself; 

Your  passion  draws  ears  hither. 

Enter  ^neas. 
^ne.  I  have  been  seeking  you  this  hour,  my  lord  : 
Hector,  by  this,  is  arming  him  in  Troy ; 
Ajax,  your  guard,  stays  to  conduct  you  home. 
Tro.    Have  with  you,  prince :  —  My  courteous 
lord,  adieu  : 
Farewell,  revolted  fair  !  —  and,  Diomed, 
Stand  fast,  and  wear  a  castle  on  thy  head  ! 
Ulyss.   I'll  bring  you  to  the  gates. 
Tro.    Accept  distracted  thanks. 

{^Exeunt  Troilus,  JEneas,  and  Ulysses. 

Ther.  'Would,  I  could  meet  that  rogue  Diomed  I 

I  would  croak  like  a  raven  ;  I  would  bode,  I  would 

bode.  lExit. 

SCENE  III Troy.     Before  Priam's  Palace. 

Enter  Hector  and  Andromache. 
And.  When  was  my  lord  so  much  ungently  tem- 
per'd. 


3  I  ove. 


*  CoTi))ressecl. 


To  stop  his  ears  against  admonishment  ? 
Unarm,  unarm,  and  do  not  fight  to-day. 

Hect.  You  train  me  to  offend  you  :  get  you  in ; 
By  all  the  everlasting  gods,  I'll  go. 

And.  My  dreams  will,  sure,  prove  ominous  to  the 
day. 

Hect.   No  more,  I  say. 

Enter  Cassandra. 

Cas.  Where  is  my  brother  Hector  ? 

And.   Here,  sister ;  arm'd,  and  bloody  in  intent ; 
Consort  with  me  in  loud  and  dear  petition, 
Pursue  we  him  on  knees ;  for  I  have  dream'd 
Of  bloody  turbulence,  and  this  whole  night 
Hath  nothing  been  but  shapes  and  forms  of  slaughter. 

Cas.   O,  it  is  true. 

Hect.  Ho !  bid  my  trumpet  sound ! 

Cas.   No  notes  of  sally,  for  the  heavens,  sweet 
brother. 

Hect.   Begone,  I  say :  the  gods  have  heard  me 
swear. 

Cas.  The  gods  are  deaf  to  hot  and  peevish  *  vows ; 
They  are  polluted  offerings,  more  abhorr'd 
Than  spotted  livers  in  the  sacrifice. 

And.   O  !  be  persuaded  :    Do  not  count  it  holy 
To  hurt  by  being  just :  it  is  as  lawful. 
For  we  would  give  much,  to  use  violent  thefts, 
And  rob  in  the  behalf  of  charity. 

Cas.  It  is  the  purpose  that  makes  strong  the  vow  j 
But  vows,  to  every  purpose,  must  not  hold  : 
Unarm,  sweet  Hector. 

Hect.  Hold  you  still,  I  say ; 

Mine  honour  keeps  the  weather  of  my  fate  : 
Life  every  man  holds  dear ;  but  the  dear  man 
Holds  honour  far  more  precious-dear  than  life,  — 

Enter  Troilus. 
How  now,  young  man   mean'st  thou  to  fight  to-day  ? 

And.    Cassandra,  call  my  father  to  persuade. 

\^Exit  Cassandra. 

Hect.   No,  'faith,  young  Troilus  j  doff  ^  thy  har- 
ness, youth, 
I  am  to-day  i'the  vein  of  chivalry : 
Let  grow  thy  sinews  till  their  knots  be  strong, 
And  tempt  not  yet  the  brushes  of  the  war. 
Unarm  thee,  go  ;  and  doubt  thou  not,  brave  b^y, 
I'll  stand,  to-day,  for  thee,  and  me,  and  Troy. 

Tro.   Brother,  you  have  a  vice  of  mercy  in  you 
Which  better  fits  a  lion,  than  a  man. 

Hect.  What  vice  is  that,  good  Troilus  ?  chide  me 
for  it. 

Tro.  When  many  times  the  captive  Grecians  fall, 
Even  in  the  fan  and  wind  of  your  fair  sword. 
You  bid  them  rise,  and  live. 

Hect.   O,  'tis  fair  play. 

Tro.  Fool's  play,  by  heaven.  Hector. 

Hect.   How  now  ?  how  now  ? 

Tro.  For  the  love  of  all  the  gods*^ 

Let's  leave  the  hermit  pity  with  our  mother ;  a 

And  when  we  have  our  armours  bucklea  on,  ^ 

The  venom'd  vengeance  ride  upon  our  swords ; 
Spur  them  to  ruthful  7  work,  rein  them  from  ruth.  8 

Hect.  Fye,  savage,  fye  ! 

Tro.  Hector,  then  'tis  wars. 

Hect.  Troilus,  I  would  not  have  you  fight  to-day. 

Tro.   Who  should  withhold  me? 
Not  fate,  obedience,  nor  the  hand  of  Mars 
Beckoning  with  fiery  truncheon  my  retire; 
Not  Priamus  and  Hecuba  on  knees, 
*  Foolish.         6  Put  off        "  Rueful,  woeful.        ''  Mercy. 


Scene  III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


621 


Their  eyes  o'ergalled  with  recourse  of  tears  ; 
Nor  you,  my  brother,  with  your  true  sword  drawn, 
Oppos'd  to  hinder  me,  should  stop  my  way, 
But  by  my  ruin. 

Ee-etiter  Cassandra,  with  Priam. 

Cos.    Lay  hold  upon  him,  Priam,  hold  him  fast : 
He  is  thy  crutch  ;  now  if  tliou  lose  thy  stay. 
Thou  on  him  leaning,  and  all  Troy  on  thee. 
Fall  all  together. 

Pri.  Come,  Hector,  come,  go  back  : 

Thy  wife  hath  dieam'd  ;  thy  mother  hath  had  visions ; 
Cassandra  doth  foresee,  and  I  myself 
Am  like  a  prophet  suddenly  enrapt. 
To  tell  thee  —  that  this  day  is  ominous  : 
Therefore,  come  back. 

Ilect.  ^neas  is  a-field  ; 

And  I  do  stand  engag'd  to  many  Greeks, 
Even  in  the  faith  of  valour,  to  appear 
This  morning  to  them. 

Pri.  But  thou  shalt  not  go. 

Hect.    I  must  not  break  my  faith. 
You  know  me  dutiful ;  therefore,  dear  sir. 
Let  me  not  shame  respect ;  but  give  me  leave 
To  take  that  course  by  your  consent  and  voice, 
AVhich  you  do  here  forbid  me,  royal  Priam. 

Cos.    O  Priam,  yield  not  to  him. 

yf7id.  Do  not,  dear  father. 

Hect.   Andromache,  I  am  offended  with  you : 
Upon  the  love  you  bear  me,  get  you  in. 

[Exit  Andromache. 

Tro.   This  foolish,  dreaming,  superstitious  girl 
Makes  all  these  bodements. 

Cas.  O  farewell,  dear  Hector, 

l^ook,  how  thou  diest !  look,  how  thy  eye  turns  pale  ! 
Ivook,  how  thy  wounds  do  bleed  at  many  vents ! 
Hark,  how  Troy  roars  !  how  Hecuba  cries  out ! 
How  poor  Andromache  shrills  her  dolours  forth  ! 
Behold,  destruction,  frenzy,  and  amazement, 
Like  witless  anticks,  one  another  meet. 
And  all  cry  —  Hector !  Hector's  dead !   O  Hector ! 

Tro.    Away  !  —  Away  ! 

Cas.   Farewell.  —  Yet  soft :  —  Hector,  I  take  my 
leave ; 
Thou  dost  thyself  and  all  our  Troy  deceive.      [Exit. 

Hect.   You  are  amaz'd,  my  liege,  at  her  exclaim ; 
Go  in,  and  cheer  the  town  :   we'll  forth  and  fight : 
Uo  deeds  worth  praise,  and  tell  you  them  at  night. 

Pri.  Farewell :  the  gods  with  safety  stand  about 
thee! 

[Exeunt  severally  Priam  and  Hectoh. 
Alarums. 

Tro.  They  are  at  it ;  hark !  Proud  Diomed,  believe, 
I  come  to  lose  my  arm,  or  win  my  sleeve. 

As  Troilus  is  going  ow/,  enter,  from  the  otlier  side, 
Pandarus. 

Paru    Do  you  hear,  my  lord?  do  you  hear? 

Tro.   What  now  ? 

Pan.   Here's  a  letter  from  yon'  poor  girl. 

Tro.   Let  me  read. 

Patu  A  ptisick,  a  rascally  ptisick  so  troubles  me, 
and  tlie  foolish  fortune  of  this  girl ;  and  what  one 
tiling,  what  another,  that  I  shall  leave  you  one  o'these 
days  :  And  I  have  a  rheum  in  mine  eyes  too ;  and 
such  an  ache  in  my  bones,  ttiat  I  cannot  tell  what 
to  think  on't.  —  What  says  she  there  ? 

Tro.  Words,  words,  mere  words,  no  matter  from 
the  heart ;  [  Tearing  the  Letter. 

The  effect  doth  operate  another  way.  — 


Go,  wind,  to  wind,  there  turn  and  change  together. — 
My  love  with  words  and  errors  still  she  feeds  ; 
But  edifies  another  with  her  deeds. 

[Exeunt  severalli/. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Betufeen  Troy  and  the  Grecian 
Camp. 

Alarums:  Excursions.  Enter  Thersitks. 
Ther.  Now  they  are  clapper-clawing  one  another , 
I'll  go  look  on.  That  dissembling  abominable  var- 
let,  Diomed,  has  got  that  same  scurvy  doting  foolish 
young  knave's  sleeve  of  Troy  there,  in  his  helm :  I 
would  fain  see  them  meet;  that  that  same  young 
Trojan  ass,  that  loves  the  jilt  there,  might  send  that 
Greekish  villain  with  the  sleeve,  back  to  the  dis- 
sembling luxurious  drab,  on  a  sleeveless  errand 

O'  the  other  side.  The  policy  of  those  crafty  swearing 
rascals,  —  that  stale  old  mouse-eaten  dry  cheese, 
Nestor ;  and  that  same  dog-fox,  Ulysses,  —  is  not 
proved  worth  a  black-berry  :  —  They  set  me  up,  in 
policy,  that  mongrel  cur,  Ajax,  against  that  dog  of 
as  bad  a  kind,  Achjlles :  and  now  is  the  cur  Ajax 
prouder  than  the  cur  Achilles,  and  will  not  arm  to- 
day :  Whereupon  the  Grecians  begin  to  proclaim 
barbarism,  and  policy  grows  into  an  ill  opinion.  — 
Soft !  here  come  sleeve,  and  t'other. 

Enter  Diomedes,  Tkoizus  following. 

Tro.   Fly  not ;  for,  shouldst  thou  take  the  river 
Styx, 
I  would  swim  after. 

Dio.  Thou  dost  miscall  retire  : 

I  do  not  fly ;  but  advantageous  care 
Withdrew  me  from  the  odds  of  multitude  : 
Have  at  thee  ! 

Ther.   Now  the  sleeve,  now  the  sleeve  ! 

[Exeunt  Troilus  and  DionzDiSt  Jighting. 

Enter  Hector. 

Hect.  What  art  thou,  Greek?  art  thou  for  Hector's 
match  ? 
Art  thou  of  blood,  and  honour  ? 

Ther.  No,  no  :  —  I  am  a  rascal ;  a  scurvy  railing 
knave  ;  a  very  filthy  rogue. 

Hect.   I  do  believe  thee  ;  —  live.  [Exit. 

Ther.  Jove-a-mercy,  that  thou  vrilt  believe  me  ; 
But  a  plague  break  thy  neck,  for  frighting  me  ! 
What's  become  of  the  wenching  rogues  ?  I  think, 
they  have  swallowed  one  another :  1  would  laugh  at 
that  miracle.      I'll  seek  them.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  same. 
Enter  Diomedes  and  a  Servant. 
Dio.  Go,  go,  my  servant,  take  thou  Troilus'  horse ; 
Present  the  fair  steed  to  my  lady  Cressid  : 
Fellow,  commend  my  service  to  her  beauty  ; 
Tell  her,  I  have  chastis'd  the  amorous  Trojan, 
And  am  her  knight  by  proof. 
Serv.  I  go,  my  lord.   [Exit  Servant. 

Enter  Agamemnon. 

Agam.    Renew,  renew  !   The  fierce  Polydamus 
Hath  beat  down  Menon  :  bastard  Margarelon 
Hath  Doreus  prisoner : 

And  stands  colossus-wise,  waving  his  beam  9, 
Upon  the  pashed  >  corses  of  the  kings 
Epistrophus  and  Ccdius :    Polixenes  is  slain  ; 
9  Lance.  >  Bruued.  cnuhed. 


622 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Act  V. 


Amphimachus,  and  Thoas,  deadly  hurt ; 
Patroclus  taVn  or  slain  ;  and  Palamedes 
Sore  hurt  and  hruis'd  :   the  dreadful  Sagittary 
Appals  our  numbers  ;  haste  we,  Diomed, 
To  reinforcement,  or  we  perish  all. 

Enter  Nestor. 
Nest.    Go,  bear  Patroclus'  body  to  Achilles  ; 
And  bid  the  snail-pac'd  Ajax  arm  for  shame.  — 
There  is  a  thousand  Hectors  in  the  field  • 
Now  here  he  fights  on  Galathe  his  horse, 
And  there  lacks  work  ;  anon,  he's  there  afoot, 
And  there  they  fly,  or  die,  like  scaled  sculls^ 
Before  the  belching  whale  ;  then  is  he  yonder, 
And  there  the  strawy  Greeks,  ripe  for  his  edge. 
Fall  down  before  him,  like  the  mower's  swath : 
Here,  there,  and  every  where,  he  leaves,  and  takes ; 
Dexterity  so  obeying  appetite. 
That  what  he  will,  he  does  ;  and  does  so  much, 
That  proof  is  call'd  impossibility. 

Enter  Ulysses. 

Ulyss.  O, courage, courage, princes!  great  Achilles 
Is  arming,  weeping,  cursing,  vowing  vengeance  : 
Patroclus'  wounds  have  rous'd  his  drowsy  blood. 
Together  with  his  mangled  myrmidons. 
That  noseless,  handless,  hack'd  and  chipp'd,  come 

to  him. 
Crying  on  Hector.      Ajax  hath  lost  a  friend. 
And  foams  at  mouth,  and  he  is  arm'd,  and  at  it, 
Roaring  for  Troilus ;  who  hath  done  to-day 
Mad  and  fantastick  execution  ; 
Engaging  and  redeeming  of  himself. 
With  such  a  careless  force,  and  forceless  care, 
As  if  that  luck,  in  very  spite  of  cunning. 
Bade  him  win  all. 

Enter  Ajax. 
j^jax.   Troilus  !  thou  coward  Troilus  !  \^Exit. 

Dio.  Ay,  there,  there. 

Nest.   So,  so,  we  draw  together. 

Enter  Achilles. 

AchU.  Where  is  this  Hector  ? 

Come,  come,  thou  boy-queller,  show  thy  face  : 
Know  what  it  is  to  meet  Achilles  angry. 
Hector  !  where's  Hector  ?  I  will  none  but  Hector. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  Ajax. 
Ajax.  Troilus,  thou  coward  Troilus,  show  thy  head ! 

Enter  Diomedes. 

Dio.   Troilus,  I  say  !  where's  Troilus  ? 
Ajax.  What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Dio.   I  would  correct  him. 

Ajax.  Were  I  the  general,  thou  shouldst  have  my 
office. 
Ere  that  correction  :  — Troilus,  I  say!  what,  Troilus! 

Enter  Troilus. 

Tro.    O  traitor  Diomed  !  —  turn  thy  false  face, 
thou  traitor. 
And  pay  thy  life  thou  ow'st  me  for  my  horse  ! 
Dio.   Ha  !  art  thou  there  ? 

Ajax.   I'll  fight  with  him  alone  :  stand,  Diomed. 
Dio.   He  is  my  prize,  I  will  not  look  upon, 
2  Shoal  of  fish. 


^       Tro.    Come  both,  you  cogging  »  Greeks ;  have  at 
you  both.  {Exeunt  Jighting. 

Enter  Hector. 

Hect.  Yea,  Troilus  ?  O,  well  fought,  my  youngest 
brother ! 

Enter  Achilles. 

AchU.  Now  do  I  see  thee :   Ha !  —  Have  at  tl^ee, 
Hector. 

Hect.   Pause,  if  thou  wilt. 

AchU.    I  do  disdain  thy  courtesy,  proud  Trojan. 
Be  happy,  that  my  arms  are  out  of  use  : 
My  rest  and  negligence  befriend  thee  now. 
But  thou  anon  shalt  hear  of  me  again  j 
Till  when,  go  seek  thy  fortune.  [ExU. 

Hect.  Fare  thee  well :  — 

I  would  have  been  much  more  a  fresher  man. 
Had  I  expected  thee How  now,  my  brother  ? 

Re-enter  Troilus. 
Tro.    Ajax  hath  ta'en  ^neas  ;   Shall  it  be  ? 
No,  by  the  flame  of  yonder  glorious  heaven. 
He  shall  not  carry  *  him ;   I'll  be  taken  too. 
Or  bring  him  oflf:  —  Fate,  hear  me  what  I  say  ! 
I  reck  5  not  though  I  end  my  life  to-day.        [Exit. 

Enter  one  in  sumptuous  Armour. 

Hect.  Stand,  stand,  thou  Greek  ?  thou  art  a  goodly 
mark  :  — 
No  ?  wilt  thou  not  ?  —  I  like  thy  armour  well ; 
I'll  frush  6  it,  and  unlock  the  rivets  all. 
But  I'll  be  master  of  it :  —  Wilt  thou  not,  beast, 

abide  ? 
Why,  then  fly  on,  I'll  hunt  thee  for  thy  hide. 

[Exennt. 

SCENE  Vll.  — The  same. 
Enter  Achilles,  with  Myrmidons. 
AchU.  Come  here  about  me,  you  my  Myrmidons; 
Mark  what  I  say.  —  Attend  me  where  I  wheel : 
Strike  not  a  stroke,  but  keep  yourselves  in  breath ; 
And  when  I  have  the  bloody  Hector  found. 
Empale  him  with  your  weapons  round  about ; 
In  fellest  manner  execute  your  arms. 
Follow  me,  sirs,  and  my  proceedings  eye  : 
It  is  decreed  —  Hector  the  great  must  die. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.  —  The  same. 
Enter  Menelaus  and  Fakis,  Jighting :  then  Ther- 

SITES. 

Ther.  The  cuckold,  and  the  cuckold-maker  are  at 
it :  Now,  bull !  now,  dog !  'Loo,  Paris,  'loo  !  The 
bull  has  the  game.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IX Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  Hector. 


Hect.   Most  putrefied  core,  so  fair  without. 
Thy  goodly  armour  thus  hath  cost  thy  life. 
Now  is  my  day's  work  done  ;  I'll  take  good  breath ; 
Rest,  sword ;  thou  hast  thy  fill  of  blood  and  death  I 
[Puts  off  his  Helmet,  and  hangs  his  Shield 
behind  him. 
Enter  Achilles  and  Myrmidons. 

AchU.   Look,  Hector,  how  the  sun  begins  to  sel^ 
How  ugly  night  comes  breathing  at  his  heels  : 
3  Lying.  *  Prevail  over.  *  Care.  ^  Burst, 


I 


Scene  X. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


623 


t 


Even  with  the  vail  and  dark'ning  of  the  sun, 
To  close  the  day  up,  Hector's  life  is  done. 

Hect.  I  am  unarm'd ;  forego  this  vantage,  Greek. 
Achil.   Strike,  fellows,  strike ;  this  is  the  man  I 
seek.  [Hkctok  falls. 

So  Ilion,  fall  thou  next !  now,  Troy,  sink  down ; 
Here  lies  thy  heart,  thy  sinews,  and  thy  bone.  — 
On,  Myrmidons  j  and  cry  you  all  amain, 
AchiUes  hath  the  mighty  Hector  slain. 

[A  Retreat  sounded. 
Hark !  a  retreat  upon  our  Grecian  part. 

Myr.   The  Trojan  trumpets  sound  the  like,  my 

lord. 
Achil.  The  dragon  wing  of  night  o'erspreads  the 
earth, 
And,  stickler'  like,  the  armies  separates. 
My  half-supp'd  sword,  that  frankly  8  would  have  fed, 
Pleas'd  with  this  dainty  bit,  thus  goes  to  bed.  — 

[Sheathes  his  sword. 
Come,  tie  his  body  to  my  horse's  tail ; 
Along  the  field  I  will  the  Trojan  trail.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  X.  — The  same. 

Enter    Agamemnon,   Ajax,    Menelaus,    Nestor, 

DioMEDEs,  and  others,  marching.     Shouts  within. 

Agam.  Hark !  hark !  what  shout  is  that  ? 

Nest.  Peace,  drums. 

[WUhin.]  Achilles! 

Achilles  !   Hector's  slain  !   Achilles  ! 

Dio.    The  bruit  9  is  —  Hector's  slain,    and   by 
Achilles. 

Ajnx.   If  it  be  so,  yet  bragless  let  it  be ; 
Great  Hector  was  as  good  a  man  as  he. 

Agam.  March  patiently  along :  —  Let  one  be  sent 
To  pray  Achilles  see  us  at  our  tent.  — 
If  in  his  death  the  gods  have  us  befriended, 
Great  Troy  is  ours,  and  our  sharp  wars  are  ended. 
[Exeunt  marching. 

SCENE  XL— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  wSIneas  and  Trojans. 

JEne.   Stand,  ho  !  yet  are  we  masters  of  the  field : 
Never  go  home  ;  here  starve  we  out  the  night. 
7  An  arbitrator  at  athletick  games.  «  Fattening. 

B  Noise,  rumour. 


Enter  Troilcs. 

Tro.   Hector  is  slain. 

AU.  Hector  ?  —  The  gods  forbid  ! 

Tro.  He's  dead;  and  at  the  murderer's  horse's  tail, 
In    beastly   sort,    dragg'd  through    the   shameful 

field.  — 
Frown  on,  you  heavens,  effect  your  rage  with  speed ! 
Sit,  gods,  upon  your  thrones,  and  smile  at  Troy  ! 
I  say,  at  once  let  your  brief  plagues  be  mercy, 
And  linger  not  our  sure  destructions  on  ! 

JEne.   My  lord,  you  do  discomfort  all  the  host. 

Tro.   You  understand  me  not,  that  tell  me  so : 
I  do  not  speak  of  flight,  of  fear,  of  death  ; 
But  dare  all  imminence,  that  gods  and  men, 
Address  their  dangers  in.     Hector  is  gone  ! 
Who  shall  tell  Priam  so,  or  Hecuba  ? 
Let  him,  that  will  a  screech-owl  aye  be  call'd. 
Go  in  to  Troy,  and  say  there  —  Hector's  dead : 
There  is  a  word  will  Priam  turn  to  stone ; 
Make  wells  and  Niobes  of  the  maids  and  wives, 
Cold  statues  of  the  youth  ;  and,  in  a  word. 
Scare  Troy  out  of  itself.      But,  march,  away ; 
Hector  is  dead ;  there  is  no  more  to  say. 
Stay  yet ;  —  You  vile  abominable  tents. 
Thus  proudly  pight '  upon  our  Phrygian  plains, 
Let  Titan  rise  as  early  as  he  dare, 
I'll  through  and  through  you  !  —  And  thou,  great- 

siz'd  coward  ! 
No  space  of  earth  shall  sunder  oiu-  two  hates  : 
I'll  haunt  thee  like  a  wicked  conscience  still, 
That  mouldeth  goblins  swift  as  frenzy  thoughts.  — 
Strike  a  free  march  to  Troy  !  —  with  comfort  go  : 
Hope  of  revenge  shall  hide  our  inward  woe. 

[Exeunt  ^neas  and  Trojans. 

As  Troilus  is  going  out,  enter,  from  the  otiier  side, 
Pandarus. 

Pan.   But  hear  you,  hear  you  ! 
Tro.  Hence,  broker  lackey  !  ignomy«  and  shame 
Pursue  thy  life,  and  live  aye  with  thy  name ! 

[Exit  Troilus. 

Pan.  A  goodly  med'cine  for  my  aching  bones  !  — 

O   world !  world  !  world !   thus  is  the  poor  agent 

despised  !      O  traitors  and  pimps,  how  earnestly  are 

you  set  a'  work,  and  how  ill  requited  !  [Exit. 

>  Pitched,  fixed.  *  Ignominy. 


vX 


(^ 


vH 


TIMON     OF    ATHENS. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


TiMON,  a  noble  Athenian. 

Lucius,  "1 

LucuLLUS,       l    Lords,  and  Flatterers  of  Timon. 

Sempronius,  J 

Ventidius,  one  of  Timon' s  false  Friends. 

ApEMANTus,  a  churlish  Philosopher. 

Alcibiades,  an  Athenian  General. 

Flavius,  Steward  to  Timon. 

Flaminius,  "j 

LuciLius,       y   Timon's  Servants. 

Servilius,    J 

Caphis, 

Philotus, 

Trrus, 

Lucius, 

hortensius, 


Sen^ants  to  Timon's  Creditors. 


Two  Servants  of  Varro. 

The  Servant  of  Isidore. 

Two  of  Timon's  Creditors. 

Cupid  and  Maskers. 

Three  Strangers. 

Poet. 

Painter. 

Jeweller. 

Merchant. 

An  old  Athenian. 

A  Page. 

A  Fool. 

Other  Lords,    Senators,   Ojficers,    Soldiers, 
and  Attendants. 


Thieves 


SCENE,  Athens  ;  and  the  Woods  adjoining. 


THia    )3    IN    THEE    A    NalOHE    BDT   AFFE<M  BD  ; 
A    POOH   0NMANI,Y   MELANCHOLY,   SPRONG 
PROM    CHANGE   OF   FORIDNE 

TIMON    OF    ATHENS, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  Athens.    A  Hall  in  Timon's  House- 

Enter  Poet,  Painter,  Jeweller,  Merchant,  and  others, 
at  several  doors- 
Poet.    Good  day,  sir. 

Pain.  I  am  glad  you  are  well. 

Poet.   I  have  not  seen  you  long  ;   How  goes  the 
world  ? 

Pain.    It  wears,  sir,  as  it  grows. 

Poet.  Ay,  that's  well  known  : 

But  what  particular  rarity  ?  what  strange. 
Which  manifold  record  not  matches  ?     See, 
Magick  of  bounty  !  all  these  spirits  thy  power 
Hath  conjur'd  to  attend.      I  know  the  merchant. 

Pain.    I  know  them  both  ;  t'other's  a  jeweller. 

Mer.   O,  'tis  a  worthy  lord  ! 

Jew.  Nay,  that's  most  fix'd. 

Mer.    A  most  incomparable  man ;  breathed  ',  as  j 
it  were. 
To  an  untirable  and  continuate  '^  goodness  : 
He  passes.  ^ 

Jew.  I  have  a  jewel  here. 

Mer.  O,  pray,  let's  see't :  For  the  lord  Timon,  sir  ? 

Jew.  If  he  will  touch  the  estimate  ;  But,  for  that  — 

Poet.    When  we  for  recompence  haveprais'd  the  vile, 
It  stains  the  glory  in  that  happy  verse 
IVhich  aptly  sings  the  goid- 

'  Inured  by  constant  practice.  *  Continual. 

^  «■  e.  Exceeds,  goes  beyond  common  bounds. 


Mer.  'Tis  a  good  form. 

[Looking  at  the  jewel. 

Jew.   And  rich  :   here  is  a  water,  look  you. 

Pain.   You  are  rapt,  sir,  in  some  work,  some  de- 
dication 
To  the  great  lord. 

Poet.  A  thing  slipp'd  idly  from  me. 

Our  poesy  is  as  a  gum,  wliicli  oozes 
From  whence  'tis  nourislied :    The  fire  i'  the  flint 
Shows  not  till  it  be  struck ;   our  gentle  flame 
Provokes  itself,  and,  like  the  current,  flies 
Each  bound  it  chafes.      What  have  you    here? 

Pain.   A  picture,  sir.  —  And  when  comes  youi 
book  forth  ? 

Poet.    Upon  the  heels  of  my  presentment  ^,  sir 
Let's  see  your  piece. 

Pain.  'Tis  a  good  piece. 

Poet.   So 'tis:   this  comes  off  well  and  excellent. 

Pain.    Indifferent. 

Poet.  Admirable  :    How  this  grace 

Speaks  his  own  standing  !   what  a  mental  power 
This  eye  shoots  forth  !  how  big  imagination 
Moves  in  this  lip  !  to  the  dumbness  of  the  gesture 
One  might  interpret. 

Pain.   It  is  a  pretty  mocking  of  the  life. 
Here  is  a  touch  ;   Is't  good  ? 

Poet.  Pll  say  of  it, 

•♦As  soon  as  my  book  has  been  presented  to  Timoa 


II 


Act  I.  Scene  I. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


625 


It  tutors  nature  :  artificial  strife  * 
Lives  in  these  touches,  livelier  than  life. 

Enter  certain  Senators,  and  pass  over. 
Pain.    How  this  lord's  follow'd  ! 
Poet.    The  senators  of  Athens :  —  Happy  men  ! 
Pain.   Look,  more ! 

Poet.   You  see  this  confluence,  this  great  flood  of 
visitors. 
I  have,  in  this  rough  work,  shap'd  out  a  man, 
Whom  this  beneath  world  doth  embrace  and  hug 
With  amplest  entertainment :    My  free  drift 
Halts  not  particularly '',  but  moves  itself 
In  a  wide  sea  of  wax  :   no  levell'd  malice 
Infects  one  comma  in  the  course  I  hold ; 
But  flies  an  eagle  flight,  bold,  and  forth  on, 
Leaving  no  tract  behind. 

Paiti.   How  shall  I  understand  you  ? 
Poet.  I'll  unbolt  to  you. 

You  see  how  all  conditions,  how  all  minds, 
(As  well  of  glib  and  slippery  creatures,  as 
Of  grave  and  austere  quality,)  tender  down 
Their  services  to  lord  Timon :  his  large  fortune. 
Upon  his  good  and  gracious  nature  hanging. 
Subdues  and  properties  to  liis  love  and  tendance 
All  sorts  of  heaits:  yea,  from  the  glass-fac'd  flatterer' 
To  Apemantus,  that  few  tilings  loves  better 
Than  to  abhor  himself ;  even  he  drops  down 
The  knee  before  him,  and  returns  in  peace 
Most  rich  in  Timon 's  nod.  ^ 

Pain.  I  saw  them  speak  together. 

Poet.   Sir,  I  have  upon  a  high  and  pleasant  hill, 
Feign'd  Fortune  to  be  tliron'd :  The  base  o'the  mount 
Is  rank'd  with  all  deserts,  all  kind  of  natures. 
That  labour  on  the  bosom  of  this  sphere 
To  propagate  their  states  8  :  amongst  them  all, 
WTiose  eyes  are  on  this  sovereign  lady  fixed. 
One  do  I  personate  of  lord  Timon's  frame. 
Whom  Fortune  with  her  ivory  hands  wafts  to  her ; 
Whose  present  grace  to  present  slaves  and  servants 
Translates  his  rivals. 

Pain.  'Tis  conceiv'd  to  scope. 

This  throne,  this  Fortune,  and  this  hill,  methinks. 
With  one  man  beckon'd  from  the  rest  below. 
Bowing  his  head  against  the  steepy  mount 
To  climb  his  happiness,  would  be  well  express'd 
In  our  condition. 

Poet.  Nay,  sir,  but  hear  me  on  : 

All  those  which  were  his  fellows  but  of  late, 
(Some  better  than  his  value,)  on  the  moment 
Follow  his  strides,  his  lobbies  fill  with  tendance. 
Rain  sacrificial  whisperings  in  his  ear. 
Make  sacred  even  his  stirrop,  and  tlirough  him 
Drink  the  free  air. 

Pain.  Ay,  marry,  what  of  these  ? 

Poet.  When  fortune  in  her  shift  and  change  of 
mood, 
Spurns  down  her  late  belov'd,  all  his  dependants. 
Which  labour'd  after  him  to  the  mountain's  top, 
Even  on  their  knees  and  hands,  let  him  slip  down, 
Not  one  accompanying  his  declining  foot. 

Pain.   'Tis  common  : 
A  thousand  moral  paintings  I  can  show 
That  shall  demonstrate  these  quick  blows  of  fortune 
More  pregnantly  than  words.     Yet  you  do  well. 
To  show  lord  Timon  that  mean  eyes  have  seen 
The  foot  above  the  head. 

*  i.  e.  The  contest  of  art  with  nature. 

'  My  design  does  not  stop  at  any  particular  character. 
1  One  who  shows  by  reflection  the  looks  of  his  patron. 

•  To  advance  their  conditions  of  life. 


Trumpets  sound.      Enter  Timon,  attended;  the 
Servant  of  Ventidius  talking  ruith  him. 

Tim.  Imprison'd  is  he,  say  you  ? 

Ven.  Seru.   Ay,  my  good  lord  :  five  talents  is  his 
debt; 
His  means  most  short,  his  creditors  most  strait : 
Your  honourable  letter  he  desires 
To  those  liave  shut  him  up  ;  which  failing  to  him. 
Periods  his  comfort. 

Tim.  Noble  Ventidius  !   Well; 

I  am  not  of  that  feather,  to  shake  oflT 
My  friend  when  he  must  need  me.     I  do  know  him, 
A  gentleman,  tliat  well  deserves  a  help. 
Which  he  shall  have :  I'll  pay  the  debt,  and  free  him. 

Ven.  Serv.    Your  lordship  ever  binds  him. 

Tim.   Commend  me  to  him :   I  will  send  his  ran- 
some  ; 
And,  being  enfranchis'd,  bid  him  come  to  me  :  — 
'Tis  not  enough  to  help  the  feeble  up. 
But  to  support  him  after.  —  Fare  you  well. 

Ven.  Serv.   All  happiness  to  your  honour !  [Exit. 

Enter  an  old  Athenian. 
Old  Ath.   Lord  Timon,  hear  me  speak. 
Tim.  Freely,  good  father. 

Old  Ath.   Thou  hast  a  servant  nam'd  Lucilius. 
Tim.    I  have  so  :   What  of  him  ? 
Old  Ath.   Most  noble   Timon,  call  the  man  be- 
fore thee. 
Tim.   Attends  he  here,  or  no  ?  —  Lucilius  ! 

Enter  Lucilius. 

Luc   Here,  at  your  lordship's  service. 

Old  Ath.   This  fellow  here,  lord  Timon,  this  thy 
creature. 
By  night  frequents  my  house.      I  am  a  man 
That  from  my  first  have  been  inclin'd  to  thrift , 
And  my  estate  deserves  an  heir  more  rais'd. 
Than  one  which  holds  a  trencher. 

Tim.  Well;   what  further? 

Old  Ath.   One  only  daughter  have  I,  no  kin  else, 
On  whom  I  may  confer  what  I  have  got : 
The  maid  is  fair,  o'the  youngest  for  a  bride, 
And  I  have  bred  her  at  my  dearest  cost, 
In  qualities  of  the  best.     This  man  of  thine 
Attempts  her  love  :   I  pr'ythee,  noble  lord, 
Join  with  me  to  forbid  him  her  resort ; 
Myself  have  spoke  in  vain. 

Tim.  The  man  is  honest. 

Old  Ath.   Therefore  he  will  be,  Timon  : 
His  honesty  rewards  him  in  itself. 
It  must  not  bear  my  daughter. 

Tim.  Does  she  love  him  ? 

Old  Ath.    She  is  young  and  apt : 
Our  own  precedent  passions  do  instruct  us 
What  levity's  in  youth. 

TVm.    [To  Lucilius.]    Love  you  the  maid? 

L%ic.   Ay,  my  good  lord,  and  she  accepts  of  it. 

Old  Ath.     If  in    her  marriage    my    consent   be 
missing, 
I  call  the  gods  to  witness,  I  will  choose 
Mine  heir  from  forth  the  beggars  of  the  world. 
And  dispossess  her  all. 

Tim.  How  shall  she  be  endow'd, 

If  she  be  mated  with  an  equal  husband  ? 

Old  Ath.  Three  talents,  on  the  present ;  in  future, 
all. 

Tim.  This  gentleman  of  mine  hath  serv'd  me  long; 
To  build  his  fortune,  I  will  strain  a  little, 
S  s 


626 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  I. 


For  'tis  a  bond  in  men.      Give  him  thy  daughter  : 
What  you  bestow,  in  him  I'll  counterpoise, 
And  make  him  weigh  with  her. 

Old  Ath.  Most  noble  lord, 

Pawn  me  to  this  your  honour,  she  is  his. 

Tm.  My  hand  to  thee;  mine  honour  on  my 
promise. 

Luc.   Humbly  I  thank  your  lordship:  Never  may 
That  state  or  fortune  fall  into  my  keeping, 
Which  is  not  ow'd  to  you  ! 

[Exeunt  Lucilius  and  old  Athenian. 

Poet.  Vouchsafe  my  labour,  and  long  live  your 
lordship  ! 

Tim.  I  thank  you  ;  you  shall  hear  from  me  anon : 
Go  not  away.  —  What  have  you  there,  my  friend  ? 

Pain.    A  piece  of  painting,  which  I  do  beseech 
Your  lordship  to  accept. 

Tim.  Painting  is  welcome. 

The  painting  is  almost  the  natural  man ; 
For  since  dishonour  trafficks  with  man's  nature, 
He  is  but  outside :   These  pencil'd  figures  are 
Even  such  as  they  give  out.      I  like  your  work ; 
And  you  shall  find,  I  like  it :   wait  attendance. 
Till  you  hear  further  from  me. 

Pain.  The  gods  preserve  you  ! 

Tim.   Well  fare  you,  gentlemen :   Give  me  your 
hand : 
We  must  needs  dine  together.  —  Sir,  your  jewel 
Hath  sufFer'd  under  praise. 

Jew.  What,  my  lord  ?  dispraise  ? 

Tim.    A  mere  satiety  of  commendations. 
If  I  should  pay  you  for't  as  'tis  extoll'd, 
It  would  unclewS  me  quite. 

Jew.  My  lord,  'tis  rated 

As  those,  which  sell,  would  give :  But  you  well  know, 
Things  of  like  value,  differing  in  the  owners. 
Are  prized  by  their  masters ;  believe't,  dear  lord. 
You  mend  the  jewel  by  wearing  it. 

Tim.  Well  mock'd. 

Mer.   No,  my  good  lord ;  he  speaks  the  common 
tongue. 
Which  all  men  speak  with  him. 

Tim..   Look,  who  comes  here?  Will  you  be  chid? 

Enter  Apemantus. 

Jew.   We  will  bear,  with  your  lordship. 

Mer.  He'll  spare  none. 

Tim.    Good  morrow  to  thee,  gentle  Apemantus  ! 

Apem.  Till  I  be  gentle,  stay  for  thy  good  morrow; 
When  thou  artTimon's  dog,  and  these  knaves  honest. 

Tim.  Why  dost  thou  call  them  knaves  ?  thou 
know'st  them  not. 

Apem.   Are  they  not  Athenians  ? 

Tim.   Yes. 

Apem.   Then  I  repent  not. 

Jew.   You  know  me,  Apemantus. 

Aj)em.  Thou  knowest,  I  do ;  I  call'd  thee  by  thy 
name. 

Tim.   Thou  art  proud,  Apemantus. 

Apem.  Of  nothing  so  much,  as  that  I  am  not 
like  Timon. 

Tim.   Whither  art  going  ? 

Apem.  To  knock  out  an  honest  Athenian's  brains. 

Tim.   That's  a  deed  thou'lt  die  for. 

Apem.  Right,  if  doing  nothing  be  death  by  the 
law. 

Tim.   How  likest  thou  this  pictuie,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.   The  best,  for  the  innocence. 

Tim.  How  dost  thou  like  this  jewel,  Apemantus  ? 
9  Ruin. 


Apem.  Not  so  well  as  plain  dealing ',  which  will 
not  cost  a  man  a  doit. 

Tim.   What  dost  thou  think  'tis  worth  ? 

Apem.  Not  worth  my  thinking.  —  How  now,  poet  ? 

Poet.   How  now,  philosopher  ? 

Apem.   Thou  liest. 

Poet.   Art  not  one  ? 

Apem.   Yes. 

Poet.   Then  I  lie  not. 

Apem.   Art  not  a  poet  ? 

Poet.   Yes. 

Apem.  Then  thou  liest :  look  in  thy  last  work, 
Where  thou  hast  feign'd  him  a  worthy  fellow. 

Poet.   That's  not  feign'd,  he  is  so. 

Apem.  Yes,  he  is  worthy  of  thee,  and  to  pay 
thee  for  thy  labour :  He,  that  loves  to  be  flattered, 
is  worthy  o'the  flatterer.  Heavens,  that  I  were  a 
lord! 

Tim.   What  would'st  do  then,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Even  as  Apemantus  does  now,  hate  a 
lord  with  my  heart. 

Tim.   What,  thyself? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.   Wherefore? 

Apem.  That  I  had  no  angry  wit  to  be  a  lord.  — 
Art  not  thou  a  merchant  ? 

Mer.   Ay,  Apemantus. 

Apem.  TraflSck  confound  thee,  if  the  gods  will  not ! 

Mer.   If  traffick  do  it,  the  gods  do  it. 

Apem,  Traffick's  thy  god,  and  thy  god  confound 
thee  ! 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  a  Servant. 
Tim.   What  trumpet's  that  ? 
Serv.  'Tis  Alcibiades  and 

Some  twenty  horse,  all  of  companionship. 

Tim.   Pray,  entertain  them  ;  give  them  guide  to 

us.  ^  [Exeunt  some  Attendants. 

You  must  needs  dine  with  me :  —  Go  not  you  hence. 

Till  I  have  thank'd  you ;  and  when  dinner's  done. 

Show  me  this  piece.  —  I  am  joyful  of  your  sights.  — 

Enter  Alcibiades,  vdth  his  Company/. 

Most  welcome,  sir  !  [They  salute* 

Apem.  So,  so  ;  there !  — 

Aches  contract  and  starve  your  supple  joints  !  — 
That  there  should  be  small  love  'mongst  these  sweet 

knaves. 
And  all  this  court'sy  !  The  strain  of  man's  bred  out 
Into  baboon  and  monkey. 

Aldb.  Sir,  you  have  sav'd  my  longing,  and  I  feed 
Most  hungrily  on  your  sight. 

Tim.  Right  welcome,  sir  : 

Ere  we  depart,  we'll  share  a  bounteous  time 
In  different  pleasures.     Pray  you,  let  us  in. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Apemantus. 

Enter  two  Lords. 
1  Lord.     What  time  a  day  is't,  Apemantus  ? 
Apem.   Time  to  be  honest. 

1  Lord.   That  time  serves  still. 

Apem.  The  most  accursed  tliou,  that  still  oinit'st 
it. 

2  Lord.    Thou  art  going  to  lord  Timon's  feast. 
Apem.   Ay ;  to  see  meat  fill    knaves,  and  wine 

heat  fools. 
2  Lord.    Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well. 
Apem.   Thou  art  a  fool,  to  bid  me  farewell  twice. 

1  Alluding  to  the  proverb  :  Plain-dealing  is  a  jewel,  but 
they  who  use  it  beggars. 


Scene  II. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


627 


2  Lord.   Why,  Apemantus? 
Apem.   Shouldst  have  kept  one  to  thyself,  for  I 
mean  to  give  thee  none. 

1  Lord.    Hang  thyself. 

jApem.   No,  I  will  do  nothing  at  thy  bidding; 
make  thy  requests  to  thy  friend. 

2  Lord.   Away,  unpeaceable  dog,  or  I'll   spurn 
thee  hence. 

Apem*   I  will  fly  like  a  dog,  the  heels  of  the  ass. 

1  Lord.  He's  opposite  to  humanity.      Come,  shall 

we  in. 
And  taste  lord  Timon's  bounty?    he  outgoes 
The  very  heart  of  kindness. 

2  Lord.  He  pours  it  out ;  Plutus  the  god  of  gold 
Is  but  his  steward  :   no  meed  2,  but  he  repays 
Sevenfold  above  itself ;  no  gift  to  him. 

But  breeds  the  giver  a  return  exceeding 
All  use  of  quittance.  3 

1  Lord.  The  noblest  mind  he  carries, 

That  ever  govern'd  man. 

2.  Lord.    Long  may  he  live  in  fortunes!     Shall 
we  in? 

1  Lord.   I'll  keep  you  company.  \Exewnt. 

SCENE  11.—^  noom  of  State  in  Timon'*  House. 

Hautboys  playing  loud  Musick.  A  great  Banquet 
served  in;  Flavius  a7id  others  attending;  then 
enter  Timon,  Alcibiades,  Lucius,  Lucullus, 
Sempronius,  and  other  Athenian  Senators,  with 
Ventidius,  and  Attendants.  Then  comes,  drop- 
ping after  all,  Apemantus,  discontentedly. 

Ven.  Most  honour'd  Timon,  *t  hath  pleas'd  the 
gods  remember 
My  father's  age,  and  call  him  to  long  peace. 
He  is  gone  happy,  and  has  left  me  rich  : 
Then,  as  in  grateful  virtue  1  am  bound 
To  your  free  heart,  I  do  return  those  talents. 
Doubled  with  thanks,  and  service,  from  whose  help 
I  deriv'd  liberty. 

2'/'m.  O,  by  no  means. 

Honest  Ventidius  :   you  mistake  my  love ; 
I  gave  it  freely  ever ;  and  there's  none 
Can  truly  say,  he  gives,  if  he  receives  : 
If  our  betters  play  at  that  game,  we  must  not  dare 
To  imitate  them ;   Faults  that  are  rich,  are  fair. 

Ven.    A  noble  spirit. 
[  They  all  stand  ceremoniously  looking  on  Timon. 

Tim.  Nay,  my  lords,  ceremony 

Was  but  devis'd  at  first,  to  set  a  gloss 
On  faint  deeds,  hollow  welcomes, 
Recanting  goodness,  sorry  ere  'tis  shown ; 
liut  where  there  is  true  friendsliip,  there  needs  none. 
l*ray  sit ;  more  welcome  are  ye  to  my  fortunes. 
Than  my  fortunes  to  me.  [  They  sit. 

1  Lord.    My  lord,  we  always  have  confess'd  it. 

Apem.    Ho,  ho,  confess'd  it  ?  hang'd  it,  have  you 
not? 

Tim.   O,  Apemantus !  —  you  are  welcome. 

Apem.  No. 

You  shall  not  make  me  welcome  : 
X  come  to  have  thee  thrust  me  out  of  doors. 

Tim.    Fye,  tliou   art  a  churl ;    you   have   got  a 
humour  tliere 
Does  not  become  a  man,  'tis  much  to  blame  : 

'-'  Meed  here  means  desert 

'  ».  e.  All  the  customary  returns  made  in  discharge  of  ob- 
ligations. 


They  say,  my  lords,  that  ira furor  brevis  est  *, 

But  yond'  man's  ever  angry. 

Go,  let  him  have  a  table  by  himself; 

For  he  does  neither  affect  company, 

Nor  is  he  fit  for  it,  indeed. 

Apem.   Let  me  stay  at  thine  own  peril,  Timon  ; 
I  come  to  observe ;   I  give  thee  warning  on't, 

Tim.  I  take  no  heed  of  thee  ;  thou  art  an  Athe- 
nian ;  therefore  welcome :  I  myself  would  have  no 
power  :  pr'ythee,  let  my  meat  make  thee  silent. 

Apem.   I  scorn  thy  meat ;  'twould  choke  me,  for 
I  should 
Ne'er  flatter  thee.  —  O  you  gods !  what  a  number 
Of  men  eat  Timon,  and  he  sees  them  not ! 
It  grieves  me  to  see  so  many  dip  their  meat 
In  one  man's  blood ;  and  all  the  madness  is, 
He  cheers  them  up  too.  ^ 
I  wonder  men  dare  trust  themselves  with  men  : 
Methinks  they  should  invite  them  without  knives ; 
Good  for  their  meat,  and  safer  for  their  lives. 
There's  much  example  for't ;  the  fellow,  that 
Sits  next  him  now,  parts  bread  with  him,  and  pledges 
The  breath  of  liim  in  a  divided  draught. 
Is  the  readiest  man  to  kill  him :  it  has  been  prov'd. 
If  I 

Were  a  huge  man,  I  should  fear  to  drink,  at  meals ; 
Lest  they  should  spy  my  windpipe's  dangerous  notes : 
Great   men   should   drink  with   harness  ^  on  their 
throats. 

Tim.  My  lord,  in  heart  7 ;  and  let  the  health  go 
round. 

2  Lord.   Let  it  flow  this  way,  my  good  lord. 

Apem.  Flow  this  way  ! 

A  brave  fellow  !  — he  keeps  his  tides  well.    Timon, 
Those  healths  will  make  thee,  and  thy  state,  look  ill. 
Here's  that  which  is  too  weak  to  be  a  sinner, 
Honest  water,  which  ne'er  left  man  i'  the  mire : 
This,  and  my  food,  are  equals ;  there's  no  odds, 
Feasts  are  too  proud  to  give  thanks  to  the  gods. 

Apemantus's  Grace. 

Immortal  gods,  I  crave  no  pelf; 

I  jrrayfor  no  man  but  myself: 

Grant  I  may  never  prove  so  fond  ^ 

To  trust  man  on  his  oath  or  bond  ; 

Or  a  harlot  for  her  weeping; 

Or  a  dog  that  seems  a  sleejting  ; 

Or  a  keeper  with  my  freedom  ; 

Or  my  friends,  if  I  should  need  'em. 

Amen.     So  fall  to't  : 

Rich  men  sin,  and  I  eat  root. 

[Eats  and  drinks. 

Much  good  dich  thy  good  heart,  Apemantus ! 

Tim.  Captain  Alcibiades,  your  heart's  in  the  field 
now. 

Alcib.   My  heart  is  ever  at  your  service,  my  lord. 

Tim.  You  had  rather  be  at  a  breakfast  of  ene- 
mies, than  a  dinner  of  friends. 

Alcib.  So  they  were  bleeding-new,  my  lord, 
there's  no  meat  like  them ;  I  could  wish  my  best 
friend  at  such  a  feast. 

Apem.  'Would  all  those  flatterers  were  thine 
enemies  then  ;  that  then  tliou  mightst  kill  'em,  and 
bid  me  to  'em. 

*  Anger  is  a  short  nudness. 

>  The  allusion  is  to  a  pack  of  hounds  trained  to  pursuit,  by 
being  gratified  with  the  blood  of  an  animal  which  they  kill ; 
and  the  wonder  is,  that  the  animal,  on  which  they  are  feeding, 
cheers  them  to  the  chase. 

•  Armour.  ^  With  sincerity.  •  Foolish. 

Ss  2 


628 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  I. 


1  Lord.  Might  we  but  have  that  liappiness,  my 
lord,  that  you  would  once  use  our  hearts,  whereby 
we  might  express  some  part  of  our  zeals,  we  should 
think  ourselves  for  ever  perfect. 

Tim.  O,  no  doubt,  my  good  friends,  but  the  gods 
themselves  have  provided  that  I  shall  have  much 
help  from  you  :  How  had  you  been  my  friends  else? 
why  have  you  that  charitable  title  from  thousands, 
did  you  not  chiefly  belong  to  my  heart?  I  have  told 
more  of  you  to  myself,  tlian  you  can  with  modesty 
speak  in  your  own  behalf;  and  thus  far  1  confirm 
you.  O,  you  gods,  think  I,  what  need  we  have  any 
friends,  if  we  should  never  have  need  of  them? 
they  were  the  most  needless  creatures  living,  should 
we  ne'er  have  use  for  them  ;  and  would  most  re- 
semble sweet  instruments  hung  up  in  cases,  that 
keep  their  sounds  to  themselves.  Why,  I  liave 
often  wished  myself  poorer,  that  I  might  come 
nearer  to  you.  We  are  born  to  do  benefits ;  and 
what  better  or  properer  can  we  call  our  own,  than 
the  riches  of  our  friends?  O,  what  a  precious 
comfort  'tis,  to  have  so  many,  like  brothers,  com- 
manding one  another's  fortunes  !  O  joy,  e'en  made 
away  ere  it  can  be  born  !  Mine  eyes  cannot  hold 
out  water,  methinks :  to  forget  their  faults,  I  drink 
to  you. 

4])em.  Thou  weepest  to  make  them  drink,  Timon. 

2  Lord.  Joy  had  the  like  conception  in  our  eyes. 
S  Lord.   I  promise  you,  my  lord,  you  mov'd  me 

much. 
Apem.   Much  !  9  [Tucket  sounded. 

Tim.   What  means  that  trump  ?  —  How  now  ? 

E7iter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Please  you,  my  lord,  there  are  certain  ladies 
most  desirous  of  admittance. 

Tim.   Ladies  ?  what  are  their  wills  ? 

Serv.  Tliere  comes  with  them  a  forerunner,  my 
lord,  which  bears  that  office,  to  signify  their  pleasures. 

Tim.   I  pray,  let  them  be  admitted. 

Enter  Cupid. 
Cup.   Hail  to  thee,  worthy  Timon  ;  — and  to  all 
That  of  his  bounties  taste  !  —  The  five  best  senses 
Acknowledge  thee  their  patron  ;  and  come  freely 
To  gratulate  thy  plenteous  bosom :    The  ear, 
Taste,  touch,  smell,  all  pleas'd  from  thy  table  rise ; 
They  only  now  come  but  to  feast  thine  eyes. 

Tim.   They  are  welcome  all ;  let  them  have  kind 
admittance  : 
Musick,  make  their  welcome.  [Exit  Cupid. 

1  Lord.   You  see,  my  lord,  how  ample  you  are 
belov'd. 

Musick.  Re-enter  Cupid,  with  a  Masque  of  Ladies 
as  Amazons,  with  Lutes  in  their  Hands,  dancing, 
and  playing. 

Apem.   Hey  day,  what  a  sweep  of  vanity  comes 
this  way  ! 

They  dance !  they  are  mad  women. 

Like  madness  is  the  glory  of  this  life. 

As  this  pomp  shows  to  a  little  oil,  and  root. 

We  make  ourselves  fools,  to  disport  ourselves ; 

And  spend  our  flatteries. 

Who  lives,  that's  not 

Depraved,  or  depraves  ?  who  dies,  that  bears 

Not  one  spurn  to  their  graves  of  their  friends'  gift  ? 

I  should  fear,  those,  that  dance  before  me  now, 

9  Much,  was  formerly  an  expression  of  contemptuous  ad- 
miration. 


Would  one  day  stamp  upon  me  :    It  has  been  done ; 
Men  shut  their  doors  against  a  setting  sun. 

The  Lords  rise  from  Table  with  much  adoring  of 
Timon  j  and  to  show  their  Loves,  each  singles  out 
an  Amazon,  and  all  dance.  Men  with  Women,  a 
lofty  Strain  or  two  to  the  Hautboys,  and  cease. 

Tim.  You  have  done  our  pleasures  much  grace, 
fair  ladies. 
Set  a  fair  fashion  on  our  entertainment. 
Which  was  not  half  so  beautiful  and  kind  ; 
You  liave  added  worth  unto't,  and  lively  lustre. 
And  entertain'd  me  with  mine  own  device  ; 
I  am  to  thank  you  for  it. 

1  Lady.    My  lord,  you  take  us  even  at  the  best, 

Tim.   Ladies,  there  is  an  idle  banquet 
Attends  you  :    Please  you  to  dispose  yourselves. 

All  Lad.   Most  thankfully,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  Cupid,  and  Ladies. 

Tim.    Flavins, 

Flav.   My  lord. 

Tim.  The  little  casket  bring  me  hither. 

Flav.    Yes,  my  lord.  —  More  jewels  yet ! 
There  is  no  crossing  him  in  his  humour ;       [Aside. 
Else  I  should  tell  him, — Well, —  i'faith,  I  should. 
When  all's  spent,  he'd  be  cross'd  •  then,  an  he  could. 
'Tis  pity,  bounty  had  not  eyes  behind ; 
That  man  might  ne'er  be  wretched  for  his  mind.  ^ 
[Exit,  and  returns  with  the  Casket. 

1  Lord.   Wliere  be  our  men  ? 

Serv.  Here,  my  lord,  in  readiness. 

2  Lord.    Our  horses. 

Tim.  O  my  friends,  I  have  one  word 

To  say  to  you  :  —  Look  you,  my  good  lord,  I  must 
Entreat  you,  honour  me  so  much,  as  to 
Advance  this  jewel ; 
Accept,  and  wear  it,  kind  my  lord. 

1  Lord.   I  am  so  far  already  in  your  gifts,  — 
All.   So  are  we  all. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  there  are  certain  nobles  of  the  senate 
Newly  alighted,  and  come  to  visit  you. 

Tim.   They  are  fairly  welcome. 

jriav.  I  beseech  your  honour. 

Vouchsafe  me  a  word :  it  does  concern  you  near. 

Tim-  Near  ?  why  then  another  time  I'll  hear  thee: 
I  pr'ythee,  let  us  be  provided 
To  sliow  them  entertainment. 

Elav.  I  scarce  know  how.'' 

[Aside 

Enter  another  Servant. 

2  Serv.  May  it  please  your  honour,  the  lord  Lucius, 
Out  of  his  free  love,  hath  presented  to  you 
Four  milk-white  horses,  trapp'd  in  silver. 

Tim.  1  shall  accept  them  fairly  :   let  the  presents 

Enter  a  third  Servant. 
Be  worthily  entertain'd.  —  How  now,  what  news  ? 

3  Serv.  Please  you,  my  lord,  that  honourable 
gentleman,  lord  Lucullus,  entreats  your  company 
to-morrow  to  hunt  with  him;  and  has  sent  your 
lionour  two  brace  of  greyhounds. 

Tim.    I'll  hunt  with  him;   And  let  them  be  re- 
ceiv'd, 
Not  without  fair  reward. 

1  Shakspeare  plays  on  the  word  crossed;  alluding  to  the 
piece  of  silver  money  called  a  cross. 
■^  For  his  nobleness  of  souL 


I 


I 


I 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


629 


Flav.    [^side.'l  What  will  this  come  to? 

He  commands  us  to  provide,  and  give  great  gifts, 
And  all  out  of  an  empty  coffer.  — 
Nor  will  he  know  his  purse ;  or  yield  rae  this. 
To  show  him  wliat  a  beggar  his  heart  is, 
Being  of  no  power  to  make  his  wishes  good  ; 
His  promises  fly  so  beyond  his  state, 
That  what  he  speaks  is  all  in  debt,  he  owes 
For  every  word  ;  he  is  so  kind,  that  he  now 
Pays  interest  for't ;  his  land's  put  to  their  books. 
Well,  'would  I  were  gently  put  out  of  office, 
Before  I  were  forc'd  out ! 
Happier  is  he  that  has  no  friend  to  feed, 
Than  such  as  do  even  enemies  exceed. 
I  bleed  inwardly  for  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Tim.  You  do  yourselves 

Much  wrong,  you  bate  too  much  of  your  own  merits; 
Here,  my  lord,  a  trifle  of  our  love. 

2  Lord.   With  more  than  common  thanks  I  will 

receive  it. 

3  Lord.   O,  he  is  the  very  soul  of  bounty  ! 

TYm.  And  now  I  remember  me,  my  lord,  you  gave 
Good  words  the  other  day  of  a  bay  courser 
I  rode  on  :  it  is  yours,  because  you  lik'd  it. 

2  Lord.   I  beseech  you,  pardon  me,  my  lord,  in 
that. 

Tim.   You  may  take  my  word,  my  lord ;  I  know, 
no  man 
Can  justly  praise,  but  what  he  does  affect : 
I  weigh  my  friend's  affection  with  mine  own : 
I'll  tell  you  true.      I'll  call  on  you. 

.All  Lords.  None  so  welcome. 

Tim.   I  take  all  and  your  several  visitations 
So  kind  to  heart,  'tis  not  enough  to  give  ; 
INIethinks,  I  could  deal  kingdoms  to  my  friends, 
And  ne'er  be  weary.  —  Alcibiades, 
Thou  art  a  soldier,  therefore  seldom  rich, 


It  comes  in  charity  to  thee  :   for  all  thy  living 
Is  'mongst  the  dead ;  and  all  the  lands  thou  hast 
Lie  in  a  pitch'd  field. 

^Icib.  Ay,  defiled  land,  my  lord. 

1  Lord.   We  are  so  virtuously  bound, 

Ti?n.  And  so 

Am  I  to  you. 

2  Lord.  So  infinitely  endear'd,  — — 
Tim.   All  to  you. 4  —  Lights,  more  lights. 

1  Lord.  The  best  of  happiness, 

Honour,  and  fortunes,  keep  with  you,  lord  Tiraon  ! 

Tim.   Ready  for  his  friends. 

[Exeunt  Alcibiades,  Lords,  ^c. 

Apem.  What  a  coil's  here  ! 

I  doubt  whether  their  legs  be  worth  the  sums 
That  are  given  for  'em.      Friendship's  full  of  dregs  : 
Methinks,  false  hearts  should  never  have  sound  legs. 
Thus  honest  fools  lay  out  their  wealth  on  court'sies. 

Tim.  Now,  Apemantus,  if  thou  wert  not  sullen, 
I'd  be  good  to  thee. 

Apem.  No,  I'll  nothing  :   for, 

If  I  should  be  brib'd  too,  there  would  be  none  left 
To  rail  upon  thee  ;  and  then  thou  wouldst  sin  the 

faster. 
Thou  giv'st  so  long,  Timon,  I  fear  me,  thou 
Wilt  give  away  thyself  in  paper  shortly  : 
What  needs  these  feasts,  pomps,  and  vain  glories? 

Tiin.  Nay, 

An  you  begin  to  rail  on  society  once, 
I  am  sworn,  not  to  give  regard  to  you. 
Farewell ;  and  come  with  better  musick.         [Exit. 

Apem.  So ;  — 

Thou'lt  not  hear  me  now,  —  thou  shalt  not  then,  I'll 

lock 
Thy  heaven  *  from  thee.  O,  that  men's  cars  should  be 
To  counsel  deaf,  but  not  to  flattery  !  [Exit. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  a  Senator'*  House. 
Enter  a  Senator,  with  Papers  in  his  Hand. 

Sen.   And  late,  five  thousand  to  Varro ;  and  to 
Isidore 
He  owes  nine  thousand  ;  besides  my  former  sum, 
Which  makes  it  five  and  twenty.  —  Still  in  motion 
Of  raging  waste  ?  It  cannot  hold ;  it  will  not. 
If  I  want  gold,  steal  but  a  beggar's  dog, 
And  give  it  Timon,  why,  the  dog  coins  gold  : 
If  I  would  sell  my  horse,  and  buy  twenty  more 
Better  than  he,  why,  give  my  horse  to  llmon. 
Ask  notliing,  give  it  him,  it  foals  me,  straight. 
And  able  horses :    No  porter  at  his  gate ; 
But  rather  one  that  smiles,  and  still  invites 
All  tliat  pass  by.      It  cannot  hold  ;  no  reason 
Can  found  his  state  in  safety.      Caphis,  ho ! 
Caphis,  I  say  ! 

Enter  Cafhis. 

Caph.  Here,  sir  ;  What  is  your  pleasure  ? 

Sen.   Get  on  your  cloak,  and  haste  you  to  lord 
Timon ; 
Importune  him  for  my  monies  :  be  not  ceas'd  ' 
Witli  slight  denial ;  nor  then  silenc'd,  when  — 
Commend  me  to  your  master  —  and  the  cap 
s  Stopped. 


Plays  in  the  right  hand,  thus  :  —  but  tell  him,  sirrah, 

My  uses  cry  to  me,  I  must  serve  my  turn 

Out  of  mine  own  ;  his  days  and  times  are  past, 

And  my  reb'ances  on  his  fracted  dates 

Have  smit  my  credit :    I  love,  and  honour  him  ; 

But  must  not  break  my  back,  to  heal  his  finger . 

Immediate  are  my  needs  ;  and  my  relief 

Must  not  be  toss'd  and  tum'd  to  me  in  words. 

But  find  supply  immediate.      Get  you  gone  : 

Put  on  a  most  importunate  aspect, 

A  visage  of  demand ;  for,  I  do  fear, 

When  every  feather  sticks  in  his  own  wing, 

Lord  Timon  will  be  left  a  naked  gull, 

Which  flashes  now  a  phoenix.      Get  you  gone. 

Caph.    I  go,  sir. 

Seji.   I  go,  sir  ?  —  take  the  bonds  along  with  you, 
And  have  the  dates  in  compt. 

Caph.  I  will,  sir. 

Sen.  Co.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.  —  ^  HaU  in  Timon'*  House. 
Enter  Flavius,  «i/A  many  Bills  in  his  Hand. 
Flav.   No  care,  no  stop  !  so  senseless  of  expense, 
That  he  will  neither  know  how  to  maintain  it. 
Nor  cease  his  flow  of  riot :   Takes  no  account 

*  i.  e.  All  happincts  to  jroa 

*  By  hU  heaven  he  means  good  advice. 

Ss   3 


630 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  II. 


How  things  go  from  him ;  nor  resumes  no  care 

Of  what  is  to  continue  :   Never  mind 

"Was  to  be  so  unwise,  to  be  so  kind. 

What  shall  be  done  ?  He  will  not  hear,  till  feel : 

I  must  be  round  with  him  now  he  comes  from  hunting. 

Fye,  fye,  fye,  fye  ! 

Unter  Caphis,  and  the  Servants  of  Isidore  and 

Varro. 
Caph.  Good  even,  Varro  :   What, 

You  come  for  money  ? 

Var.  Serv.  Is't  not  your  business  too  ? 

Caph.   It  is ;  —  And  yours  too,  Isidore  ? 

Isid.  Serv.  It  is  so. 

Caph.  'Would  we  were  all  discharg'd  ! 

Var.  Serv.  I  fear  it. 

Caph.   Here  comes  the  lord. 

Enter  Timon,  Alcibiades,  and  Lords,  ^c. 

Tim.    So  soon  as  dinner's  done,  we'll  forth  again, 
My  Alcibiades.  —  With  me  ?  What's  your  will  ? 

Caph.   My  lord,  here  is  a  note  of  certain  dues. 

Tim.   Dues  ?  Whence  are  you  ? 

Caph.  Of  Athens  here,  my  lord. 

Tim.   Go  to  my  steward. 

Caph.  Please  it  your  lordship,  he  hath  put  me  off 
To  the  succession  of  new  days  this  month  : 
My  master  is  awak'd  by  great  occasion, 
To  call  upon  his  own ;  and  humbly  prays  you, 
That  with  your  other  noble  parts  you'll  suit. 
In  giving  him  his  right. 

Tim.  Mine  honest  friend, 

I  pr'ythee,  but  repair  to  me  next  morning. 

Caph.   Nay,  good  my  lord, 

Tim.  Contain  thyself,  good  friend. 

Var.  Serv.  One  Varro's  servant,  my  good  lord,  — 

Isid.  Serv.                                            From  Isidore ; 
He  humbly  prays  your  speedy  payment, 

Caph.   If  you  did  know,  my  lord,  my  master's 
wants, 

Var.  Serv.  Twas  due,  on  forfeiture,  my  lord,  six 
weeks, 
And  past, 

Isid.  Serv.   Your  steward  puts  me  off,  my  lord ; 
And  I  am  sent  expressly  to  your  lordship. 

Tim.    Give  me  breath  : 

I  do  beseech  you,  good  my  lords,  keep  on ; 

[Exeunt  Alcibiades  and  Lords. 
I'll  wait  upon  you  instantly.  —  Come  hither,  pray 
you  [To  Flavius. 

How  goes  the  world,  that  I  am  thus  encounter'd 
With  clamorous  demands  of  date-broke  bonds. 
And  the  detention  of  long-since-due  debts, 
Against  my  honour  ? 

Flav.  Please  you,  gentlemen, 

The  time  is  unagreeable  to  this  business : 
Your  importunacy  cease,  till  after  dinner  ; 
That  I  may  make  his  lordship  understand 
Wherefore  you  are  not  paid. 

Tim.  Do  so,  my  friends  : 

See  them  well  entertain'd.  [Exit  Timon. 

Elav.  I  pray,  draw  near.      [Exit  Flavius. 

Enter  Apekantus  and  a  Fool. 

Caj)h.   Stay,  stay,  here  comes  the  fool  with  Ape- 
mantus ;  let's  have  some  sport  with  'em. 

Var.  Serv.   Hang  him,  he'll  abuse  us. 
Isid.  Serv.   A  plague  upon  him,  dog  ! 

Var.  Serv.   How  dost,  fool  ? 

ylpem.   Dost  dialogue  with  thy  shadow  ? 


Var.  Serv.    I  speak  not  to  thee. 

Apem.   No ;  'tis  to  thyself,  —  Come  away. 

[To  the  Fool. 

All  Serv.   What  are  we,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.    Asses. 

All  Serv.   Why? 

Apem.  That  you  ask  me  what  you  are,  and  do  not 
know  yourselves.  —  Speak  to  'em,  fool. 

Fool.   How  do  you,  gentlemen  ? 

All  Serv.  Gramercies,  good  fool :  How  does  your 
mistress?' 

Enter  Page. 

Fool.   Look  you,  here  comes  my  mistress'  page. 

Page.  [To  the  Fool.]  Why,  how  now,  captain? 
what  do  you  in  this  wise  company  ?  —  How  dost 
thou,  Apemantus? 

Apem.  'Would  I  had  a  rod  in  my  mouth,  that  I 
might  answer  thee  profitably. 

Page.  Pr'ythee,  Apemantus,  read  me  the  super- 
scription of  these  letters;  I  know  not  which  is  which. 

Apem.   Canst  not  read  ' 

Page.   No. 

Apem.  There  will  little  learning  die  then,  that 
day  thou  art  hanged.  This  is  to  lord  Timon ;  this 
to  Alcibiades.      Go. 

Page.   Answer  not,  I  am  gone.  [Exit  Page. 

Apem.  Even  so  thou  out-run'st  grace.  Fool,  I 
will  go  with  you  to  lord  Timon *s. 

Fool.   Will  you  leave  me  there  ? 

Apem.  If  Timon  stay  at  home.  —  You  three  serve 
three  usurers? 

All  Serv.    Ay ;  'would  they  served  us  ! 

Apem.  So  would  I,  —  as  good  a  trick  as  ever 
hangman  served  thief. 

Fool.   Are  you  three  usurers*  men  ? 

All  Serv.    Ay,  fool. 

Fool.  I  think,  no  usurer  but  has  a  fool  to  his  ser- 
vant :  My  mistress  is  one,  and  I  am  her  fool.  When 
men  come  to  borrow  of  your  masters,  they  approach 
sadly,  and  go  away  merry  ;  but  they  enter  my  mis- 
tress' house  merrily,  and  go  away  sadly. 
Var.  Serv.   Thou  art  not  altogether  a  fool. 

Fool.  Nor  thou  altogether  a  wise  man  :  as  much 
foolery  as  I  have,  so  much  wit  thou  lackest. 

Apem.  That  answer  might  have  become  Ape- 
mantus. 

All  Serv.   Aside,  aside  ;  here  comes  lord  Timon. 

Re-enter  Timok  and  Flavius. 

Apem.   Come,  with  me,  fool,  come. 

Fool.  I  do  not  always  follow  lover,  elder  brother, 
and  woman  j  sometime,  the  philosopher. . 

[Exeunt  Apemantus  and  Fool. 

Flav.   'Pray  you,  walk  near ;  I'll  speak  with  you 
anon.  [Exeunt  Serv. 

Tim.  You  make  me  marvel :  Wherefore,  ere  tliis 
time. 
Had  you  not  fully  laid  my  state  before  me ; 
That  I  might  so  have  rated  my  expense. 
As  I  had  leave  of  means  ? 

Flav.  You  would  not  hear  me. 

At  many  leisures  I  propos'd. 

Tim.  Go  to : 

Perchance,  some  single  vantages  you  took. 
When  my  indisposition  put  you  back ; 
And  that  unaptness  made  your  minister. 
Thus  to  excuse  yourself. 

Flav.  O  my  good  lord ! 

At  many  times  1  brought  in  my  accounts, 


I 


Scene  II. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


631 


Laid  them  before  you  ;  you  would  throw  them  off, 
And  say,  you  found  them  in  mine  honesty. 
When,  for  some  trifling  present,  you  have  bid  me 
Return  so  much  ^,  I  have  shook  my  head,  and  wept; 
Yea,  'gainst  the  authority  of  manners,  pray'd  you 
To  hold  your  hand  more  close :    I  did  endure 
Not  seldom,  nor  no  slight  checks ;  when  I  have 
Prompted  you,  in  the  ebb  of  your  estate. 
And  your  great  flow  of  debts.    My  dear-lov'd  lord. 
Though  you  hear  now,  (too  late  !)  yet  now's  a  time. 
The  greatest  of  your  having  lacks  a  half 
To  pay  your  present  debts. 

Tim.  Let  all  my  land  be  sold. 

Flav.  'Tis  all  engag'd,  some  forfeited  and  gone  ; 
And  what  remains  will  hardly  stop  the  mouth 
Of  present  dues  :  the  future  comes  apace  : 
What  shall  defend  the  interim?  and  at  length 
How  goes  our  reckoning  ? 

Tim-    To  Lacedaemon  did  my  land  extend. 

FlaV'    O  my  good  lord,  the  world  is  but  a  word ; 
Were  it  all  yours  to  give  it  in  a  breath. 
How  quickly  were  it  gone  ? 

Tim.  You  tell  me  true. 

Flav.  If  you  suspect  my  husbandry,  or  falsehood. 
Call  me  before  the  exactest  auditors, 
And  set  me  on  the  proof.      So  the  gods  bless  me. 
When  all  our  offices  7  have  been  oppress'd 
With  riotous  feeders ;  M'hen  our  vaults  have  wept 
With  drunken  spilth  of  wine ;  when  every  room 
Hath  blaz'd  with  lights,  and  bray'd  with  minstrelsy  ; 
I  have  retir'd  me  to  a  wasteful  cock, 
And  set  mine  eyes  at  flow. 

Tim.  Pry'thee,  no  more. 

Flav.  Heavens,  have  I  said,  the  bounty  of  this  lord! 
How  many  prodigal  bits  have  slaves,  and  peasants, 
This  night  englutted  !     Who  is  not  Timon's  ? 
What  heart,  head,  sword,  force,  means,  but  is  lord 

Timon's  ? 
Great  Timon,  noble,  worthy,  royal  Timon  ? 
Ah  !  when  the  means  are  gone,  that  buy  this  praise, 
The  breath  is  gone  whereof  this  praise  is  made  : 
Feast-won,  fast-lost ;  one  cloud  of  winter  showers, 
These  flies  are  couch'd. 

Tim^  Come,  sermon  me  no  further : 

No  villainous  bounty  yet  hath  pass'd  my  heart  j 
Unwisely,  not  ignobly,  have  I  given. 
Why  dost  thou  weep  ?  Canst  thou  the  conscience  lack. 
To  think  I  shall  lack  friends  ?    Secure  thy  heart ; 
If  I  would  broach  the  vessels  of  my  love. 
And  try  the  argument  of  hearts  by  borrowing. 
Men,  and  men's  fortunes,  could  I  frankly  use. 
As  I  can  bid  thee  speak. 

Flav.  Assurance  bless  your  thoughts ! 

Tim.   And,  in  some  sort,  these  wants  of  mine  are 
crown'd  8, 
That  I  account  them  blessings ;  for  by  these 
Shall  I  try  friends  :    You  shall  perceive,  how  you 
Mistake  my  fortunes;   I  am  wealthy  in  my  friends. 
Within  there,  ho !  —  Flaminius,  Servilius  ! 

Enter  Flaminios,  Servilius,  and  other  Ser>'ants. 
Serv.    My  lord,  my  lord,  — 

*  A  certain  sum. 

'  The  apartnients  allotted  to  culinary  offices,  &c. 

>  Dignified,  made  respectable 


Tim.   I  will  despatch  you   severally.  —  You,  to 

lord  Lucius.  — 
To  lord  Lucullus  you  ;   I  hunted  with  his 
Honour  to-day ;  —  You  to  Sempronius  ; 
Commend  me  to  their  loves;   and,    I  am  proud, 

say. 
That  my  occasions  have  found  time  to  use  them 
Toward  a  supply  of  money  :   let  the  request 
Be  flfty  talents. 

Flam.  As  you  have  said,  my  lord. 

Flav.   Lord  Lucius,  and  lord  Lucullus  ?  humph  ! 

[^side. 
Tim^   Go   you,  sir,   \^To  another   Serv.'\    to   the 

senators, 
(Of  whom,  even  to  the  state's  best  health,  I  have 
Deserv'd  this  hearing,)  bid  'em  send  o'  the  instant 
A  thousand  talents  to  me. 

Flav.  I  have  been  bold, 

(For  that  I  knew  it  the  most  general  way,) 
To  them  to  use  your  signet,  and  your  name ; 
But  they  do  shake  their  heads,  and  I  am  here 
No  richer  in  return. 

Tim.  Is't  true  ?  can  it  be  ? 

Flav.   They  answer,  in  a  joint  and  corporate  voice, 
That  now  they  are  at  fall,  want  treasure,  cannot 
Do  what  they  would  ;  are  sorry  —  you  are  honour- 
able, — 
But  yet  they  could  have  wish'd  —  they  know  not— 

but 
Something  hath  been  amiss  —  a  noble  nature 
May  catch  a  wrench  —  would  all  were  well  —  'tis 

pity  — 
And  so,  intending  9  other  serious  matters. 
After  distasteful  looks,  and  these  hard  fractions, 
With  certain  half-caps  ',  and  cold-moving  nods, 
They  froze  me  into  silence. 

Tim.  You  gods,  reward  them  !  — 

I  pr'ythee,  man,  look  cheerly  ;  These  old  fellows 
Have  their  ingratitude  in  them  hereditary  : 
Their  blood  is  cak'd,  'tis  cold,  it  seldom  flows  ; 
'Tis  lack  of  kindly  warmth,  they  are  not  kind  ; 
And  nature,  as  it  grows  again  toward  earth. 
Is  fashion'd  for  the  journey,  dull,  and  heavy.  — 
Go  to  Ventidius,  —  \^To  a  Serv.]    'Pr'ythee,     {To 

Flavius.]  be  not  sad. 
Thou  art  true,  and  honest ;  ingeniously  «  I  speak, 
No  blame  belongs  to  thee:   [To  Serv.]  Ventidius 

lately 
Buried  his  father ;  by  whose  death,  he's  stepp'd 
Into  a  great  estate :   when  he  was  poor, 
Imprison'd,  and  in  scarcity  of  friends, 
I  clear'd  him  with  five  talents ;  Greet  him  from  me; 
Bid  him  suppose,  some  good  necessity 
Touches  his  friend,  which  craves  to  be  remember'd 
With  those  five  talents  :  — that  had,  —  [To  Flav.] 

give  it  these  fellows 
To  whom  'tis  instant  due.      Ne'er  speak,  or  think. 
That  Timon's  fortunes  'mong  his  friends  can  sink. 
Flav.  I  would,  I  could  not  think  it ;  that  thought 

is  bounty's  foe ; 
Being  free  '  itself,  it  thinks  all  others  so.      {Exeunt. 

*  Intending  had  anciently  the  same  meaning  as  attending. 

'  A  half.cap  is  a  cap  slightly  moved,  not  put  oflT. 

3  For  ingenuously.  '  Liberal,  not  parftimoniousL 


Ss  4 


632 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  III 


ACT  III 


SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  LucuUus'*  House. 
Flaminius  waiting.     Enter  a  Servant  to  him. 

Serv.  I  have  told  my  lord  of  you  j  he  is  coming 
down  to  you. 

Flam.   I  thank  you,  sir. 

Enter  Lucullus. 

Serv,   Here's  my  lord. 

Lucul.  [^Aside.^  One  of  lord  Timon's  men?  a 
gift,  I  warrant.  Why  this  hits  right ;  I  dreamt  of 
a  silver  bason  and  ewer  to-night.  Flaminius,  honest 
Flaminius ;  you  are  very  respectively  *  welcome, 
sir.  —  Fill  me  some  wine.  —  \_Exit  Servant.]  And 
how  does  that  honourable,  complete,  free-hearted 
gentleman  of  Athens,  thy  very  bountiful  good  lord 
and  master  ? 

Flam.   His  health  is  well,  sir. 

Lucul.  I  am  right  glad  that  his  health  is  well,  sir. 
And  what  hast  thou  there,  under  thy  cloak,  pretty 
Flaminius  ? 

Flam.  'Faith,  nothing  but  an  empty  box,  sir; 
which,  in  my  lord's  behalf,  I  come  to  entreat  your 
honour  to  supply ;  who,  having  great  and  instant 
occasion  to  use  fifty  talents,  hath  sent  to  your  lord- 
ship to  furnish  him ;  nothing  doubting  your  present 
assistance  therein. 

Lucul.  La,  la,  la,  la,  —  nothing  doubting,  says 
he  ?  alas,  good  lord  !  a  noble  gentleman  'tis,  if  he 
would  not  keep  so  good  a  house.  Many  a  time  and 
often  I  have  din'd  with  him,  and  told  him  on't ;  and 
come  again  to  supper  to  him,  of  purpose  to  have  him 
spend  less :  and  yet  he  would  embrace  no  counsel, 
take  no  warning  by  my  coming.  Every  man  has 
his  fault,  and  honesty  ^  is  his ;  I  have  told  him  on't, 
but  I  could  never  get  him  from  it. 

Re-enter  Servant  with  Wine. 

Serv.   Please  your  lordship,  here  is  the  wine. 

Lucul.  Flaminius,  I  have  noted  thee  always  wise. 
Here's  to  thee. 

Flam.   Your  lordship  speaks  your  pleasure. 

Lucul.  I  have  observed  thee  always  for  a  towardly 
prompt  spirit,  —  give  thee  thy  due,  —  and  one  that 
knows  what  belongs  to  reason ;  and  canst  use  the 
time  well,  if  the  time  use  thee  well :  good  parts  in 
thee.  —  Get  you  gone,  sirrah.  —  {To  the  Servant, 
who  goes  out.']  —  Draw  nearer  honest  Flaminius. 
Thy  lord's  a  bountiful  gentleman  :  but  thou  art 
■wise;  and  thou  knowest  well  enough,  although 
thou  comest  to  me,  that  this  is  no  time  to  lend 
iQoney ;  especially  upon  bare  friendship,  without 
security.  Here's  three  solidares  for  thee  ;  good  boy, 
wink  at  me,  and  say,  thou  sawest  me  not.  Fare 
thee  well. 

Flam.  Is't  possible,  the  world  should  so  much 
differ; 
And  we  alive,  that  liv'd?    Fly,  damned  baseness. 
To  him  that  worships  thee. 

[Throwing  the  Monet/  away. 

Lucul.  Ha !  Now  I  see  thou  art  a  fool,  and  fit 
for  thy  master.  [Exit  Lucullus. 

Flam.   May  these  add  to  the  number  that  may 
scald  thee  ! 
Thou  disease  of  a  friend,  and  not  himself ! 


«  For  respectfully. 


Honesty  here  means  liberality. 


Has  friendship  such  a  faint  and  milky  heart, 

It  lurns  in  less  than  two  nights?  O,  you  gods, 

I  feel  my  master's  passion  !  ^    This  slave 

Unto  his  honour,  has  my  lord's  meat  in  him : 

Why  should  it  thrive,  and  turn  to  nutriment, 

When  he  is  turn'd  to  poison  ? 

O,  may  diseases  only  work  upon't ! 

And,  when  he  is  sick  to  death,  let  not  that  part  of 

nature 
"Which  my  lord  paid  for,  be  of  any  power 
To  expel  sickness,  but  prolong  his  hour !         [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  publick  Place. 
Enter  Lucius,  vnth  three  Strangers. 

Luc.  Who,  the  lord  Timon  ?  he  is  my  very  good 
friend,  and  an  honourable  gentleman. 

1  Stran.  We  know  him  for  no  less,  though  we  are 
but  strangers  to  him.  But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing, 
my  lord,  and  which  I  hear  from  common  rumours  ; 
now  lord  Timon's  happy  houi-s  are  done  and  past, 
and  his  estate  shrinks  from  him. 

Luc.  Fye,  no,  do  not  believe  it :  he  cannot  want 
for  money. 

2  Stran.  But  believe  you  this,  my  lord,  that  not 
long  ago,  one  of  his  men,  was  with  the  lord  Lucullus, 
to  borrow  so  many  talents ;  nay,  urged  extremely 
for't,  and  show'd  what  necessity  belong'd  to't,  and 
yet  was  denied. 

Luc.   How  ? 

2  Stran.   I  tell  you,  denied,  my  lord. 

Luc.  What  a  strange  case  was  that  ?  now,  before 
the  gods,  I  am  asham'd  on't.  Denied  that  honour- 
able man  ?  there  was  very  little  honour  show'd  in't. 
For  my  own  part,  I  must  needs  confess,  I  have  re- 
ceived some  small  kindnesses  from  him,  as  money, 
plate,  jewels,  and  such  like  trifles,  nothing  com- 
paring to  his ;  yet,  had  he  mistook  him,  and  sent 
to  me,  I  should  ne'er  have  denied  his  occasion  so 
many  talents. 

Enter  Servilius. 

Ser.  See,  by  good  hap,  yonder's  my  lord ;  I  have 
sweat  to  see  his  honour.  —  My  honoured  lord.  — 

[To  Lucius. 

Luc.  Servilius  !  your  are  kindly  met,  sir.  Fare  thee 
well :  —  Commend  me  to  thy  honourable-virtuous 
lord,  my  very  exquisite  friend. 

Ser.  May  it  please  your  honour,  my  lord  hath 
sent 

Luc.  Ha !  what  has  he  sent  ?  I  am  so  much 
endeared  to  that  lord ;  he's  ever  sending :  How 
shall  I  thank  him,  thinkest  thou  ?  And  what  has 
he  sent  now  ? 

Ser.  He  has  only  sent  his  present  occasion  now, 
my  lord ;  requesting  your  lordship  to  supply  his  instant 
use  with  so  many  talents. 

Luc.  I  know,  his  lordship  is  but  merry  with  me  ; 
He  cannot  want  fifty-five  hundred  talents. 

Ser.   But  in  the  mean  time  he  wants  less,  my  lord. 
If  his  occasion  were  not  virtuous, 
I  should  not  urge  it  half  so  faithfully. 

Luc.   Dost  thou  speak  seriously,  Servilius  ? 

Ser.    Upon  my  soul,  'tis  true,  sir. 

Luc.    What  a  wicked  beast  was  I,  to  disfurnish 

6  Suflfering. 


Scene  III. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


633 


myself  against  such  a  good  time,  when  I  might  have 
shown  myself  honourable  !  how  unluckily  it  hap- 
pened, that  I  should  purchase  the  day  before  for 
a  little  part,  and  undo  a  great  deal  of  honour !  — 
Servilius,  now,  before  the  gods,  I  am  not  able  to 
do't ;  the  more  beast,  I  say  :  —  I  was  sending  to  use 
lord  Timon  myself,  these  gentlemen  can  witness ; 
But  I  would  not  for  the  wealth  of  Athens,  I  had 
done  it  now.  Commend  me  bountifully  to  his 
good  lordship ;  and  I  hope,  his  honour  will  conceive 
the  fairest  of  me,  because  I  have  no  power  to  be 
kind  :  And  tell  him  this  from  me,  I  count  it  one  of 
my  greatest  afflictions,  say,  that  1  cannot  pleasure 
such  an  honourable  gentleman.  Good  Servilius, 
will  you  befriend  me  so  far,  as  to  use  mine  own 
words  to  him  ? 

Ser.   Yes,  sir,  I  shall. 

Luc.  I  will  look  you  out  a  good  turn,  Servilius.  — 
\^Exit  Servilius. 
True,  as  you  said,  Timon  is  shrunk,  indeed ; 
And  he,  that's  once  denied,  will  hardly  speed. 

{ExU  Lucxus. 

1  Stran.   Do  you  observe  this,  Hostilius? 

2  Stran.   Ay,  too  well. 
1  Stran.    Why  this 

Is  the  world's  soul ;  and  just  of  the  same  piece 
Is  every  flatterer's  spirit.     In  my  knowing. 
The  noble  Timon  has  been  this  lord's  father, 
And  kept  his  credit  with  his  purse ; 
Supported  his  estate  ;  nay,  Timon's  money 
Has  paid  his  men  their  wages ;  He  ne'er  drinks. 
But  Timon's  silver  treads  upon  his  lip  ; 
And  yet,  (O,  see  the  monstrousness  of  man 
When  he  looks  out  in  an  ungrateful  shape !) 
He  does  deny  him,  in  respect  of  his. 
What  charitable  men  afford  to  beggars. 

3  Stran.   Religion  groans  at  it. 

1  Stran.  For  mine  own  part, 

I  never  tasted  Timon  in  my  life. 
Nor  came  any  of  his  bounties  over  me. 
To  mark  me  for  his  friend  ;  yet,  I  protest, 
For  his  right  noble  mind,  illustrious  virtue 
And  honourable  carriage. 
Had  his  necessity  made  use  of  me, 
I  would  have  put  my  wealth  into  donation. 
And  the  best  half  should  have  retum'd  to  him, 
So  much  I  love  his  heart :    But,  I  perceive. 
Men  must  learn  now  with  pity  to  dispense : 
For  policy  sits  above  conscience.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  Sempronius'*  House. 

Enter  Semfronius,  and  a  Servant  of  Timon's. 

Sem.   Must  he  needs  trouble  me  in't?  'Bove  all 
others  ? 
He  might  have  tried  lord  Lucius,  or  Lucullus; 
And  now  Ventidius  is  wealthy  too, 
Whom  he  redeem'd  from  prison  :   All  these  three 
Owe  their  estates  unto  him. 

Serv.  O  my  lord. 

They  have  all  been  touch'd,  and  found  base  metal ; 

for 
They  have  all  denied  him  ! 

Sem.  How  !  have  they  denied  him  ? 

Has  Ventidius  and  Lucullus  denied  him  ? 
And  does  he  send  to  me  ?  Three  ?  humph  !  — 
It  shows  but  little  love  or  judgment  in  him. 
Must  I  be  his  last  refuge?  His  friends,  like  phy- 
sicians. 
Thrive,  give  him  over ;  Must  I  take  the  cure  upon 
me? 


He  has  much  disgrac'd  me  in't ;  I  am  angry  at  him. 
That  might  have  known  my  place:  I  see  no  sense  for't. 
But  his  occasions  might  have  woo'd  me  first ; 
For,  in  my  conscience,  I  was  the  first  man 
That  e'er  receiv'd  gift  from  him  : 
And  does  he  think  so  backwardly  of  me  now. 
That  I'll  requite  it  last?  No  :    So  it  may  prove 
An  argument  of  laughter  to  the  rest. 
And  I  amongst  the  lords  be  thought  a  fool. 
I  had  rather  than  the  worth  of  thrice  the  sum, 
He  had  sent  to  me  first,  but  for  my  mind's  sake  ; 
I  had  such  a  courage  to  do  him  good.  But  now  return. 
And  with  their  faint  reply  this  answer  join ; 
Who  bates  mine  honour  shall  not  know  my  coin. 

[ExU. 
Serv.  Excellent !  Your  lordsliip's  a  goodly  villain. 
The  devil  knew  not  what  he  did,  when  he  made 
man  politick ;  he  cross'd  himself  by't :  and  I  cannot 
think,  but  in  the  end,  the  villainies  of  man  >\  ill  set 
him  clear.  How  fairly  this  lord  strives  to  appear 
foul!  takes  virtuous  copies  to  be  wicked;  like  those 
that,  under  hot  ardent  zeal,  would  set  whole  realms 
on  fire. 

Of  such  a  nature  is  his  politick  love. 
This  was  my  lord's  best  hopes ;  now  all  are  fled. 
Save  the  gods  only :   Now  his  friends  are  dead, 
Doors,  that  were  ne'er  acquainted  with  their  wards 
Many  a  bounteous  year,  must  be  employ'd 
Now  to  guard  sure  their  master. 
And  this  is  all  a  liberal  course  allows ; 
Who  cannot  keep  his  wealth,  must  keep  his  house. 

[Exit. 
SCENE  IV.  —  A  Hall  in  Timon's  House. 

Enter  two  Servants  of  Varro,  and  the  Servant  oj 
Lucius,  meeting  Titus,  Hortensius,  and  other 
Servants  to  Timon's  Creditors,  waiting  his  coming 
out. 

Var.  Serv.   Well  met ;  good  morrow,  Titus  and 
Hortensius. 

Tit.   The  like  to  you,  kind  Varro. 

Hot.  Lucius  ? 

What,  do  we  meet  together  ? 

Luc.  Serv.  Ay,  and,  I  think. 

One  business  does  command  us  all ;  for  mine 
Is  money. 

Tit.  So  is  theirs  and  ours. 

Enter  Phi  lotus. 

Luc.  Serv.  And  sir 

Fhilotus  too ! 

Phi.  Good  day  at  once. 

Luc.  Ser.  Welcome,  good  brother. 

What  do  you  think  the  hour  ? 

Phi,  Labouring  for  nine. 

Luc.  Ser.   So  much  ? 

Pfti.  Is  not  my  lord  seen  yet  ? 

Luc.   Serv.  Not  yet. 

Phi.   I  wonder  on't :  he  was  wont  to  shine  at  seven. 

Luc.  Serv.   Ay,  but  tlie  days  are  waxed  shorter 
with  him : 
You  must  consider,  that  a  prodigal  course 
Is  like  the  sun's ;  but  not,  like  his,  recoverable. 
I  fear, 

'Tis  deepest  winter  in  lord  Timon's  purse  ; 
That  is,  one  may  reach  deep  enough,  and  yet 
Find  little. 

Phi.  I  am  of  your  fear  for  tliat. 

T\t.  I'll  show  you  how  to  observe  a  strange  event. 
Your  lord  sends  now  for  money. 


634. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  III. 


Hor.  Most  true,  he  does. 

Tit.   And  he  wears  jewels  now  of  Timon's  gift. 
For  which  I  wait  for  money. 

Hor.   It  is  against  my  heart. 

Luc.  Serv.  Mark,  how  strange  it  shows, 

Timon  in  this  should  pay  more  than  he  owes  ; 
And  e'en  as  if  your  lord  should  wear  rich  jewels. 
And  send  for  money  for  'em. 

Hor.   I  am  weary  of  this  charge,  the  gods  can 
witness : 
I  know,  my  lord  hath  spent  of  Timon's  wealth. 
And  now  ingratitude  makes  it  worse  than  stealth. 

1  Var.  Serv.  Yes,  mine's  three  thousands  crowns : 
What's  yours  ? 

Luc.  Serv.   Five  thousand  mine. 

1  Var.  Serv.   'Tis  much  deep  :  and  it  should  seem 
by  the  sum. 
Your  master's  confidence  was  above  mine  ; 
Else,  surely  his  had  equall'd. 

Enter  Flaminius. 

Tit.   One  of  lord  Timon's  men. 

Luc.  Serv.  Flaminius!  sir,  a  word  :  'Pray,  is  my 
lord  ready  to  come  forth  ? 

Flam.    No,  indeed,  he  is  not. 

Tit.  We  attend  his  lordship;  'pray,  signify  so  much. 

Flam.  I  need  not  tell  him  that :  he  knows,  you 
are  too  diligent.  [^Exit  FtAMiNtus. 

Enter  Flavius  in  a  Cloak,  muffled. 

Luc.  Serv.  Ha !  is  not  that  his  steward  mufflecl  so? 
He  goes  away  in  a  cloud ;   call  him,  call  him. 

Tit.   Do  you  hear,  sir  ? 

1  Var.  Serv.   By  your  leave,  sir,  — — 

Flav.   What  do  you  ask  of  me,  my  friend  ? 

Tit.  We  wait  for  certain  money  here,  sir. 

Flav.  Ay, 

If  money  were  as  certain  as  your  waiting, 
'Twere  sure  enough.     Why  then  preferr'd  you  not 
Your  sums  and  bills,  when  your  false  masters  eat 
Of  my  lord's  meat?  Then  they  could  smile,  and  fawn 
Upon  his  debts,  and  take  down  th'  interest 
Into  their  gluttonous  maws.     You  do  yourselves 

but  wrong, 
To  stir  me  up  ;  let  me  pass  quietly : 
Belie v't,  my  lord  and  I  have  made  an  end : 
I  have  no  more  to  reckon,  he  to  spend. 

Luc.  Serv.   Ay,  but  this  answer  will  not  serve. 

Flav.  If  'twill  not, 

'Tis  not  so  base  as  you  j  for  you  serve  knaves. 

[Exit. 

1  Var.  Serv.   How  !  what  does  his  cashier' d  wor- 

ship mutter  ? 

2  Var.  Serv.  No  matter  what;  he's  poor,  and 
that's  revenge  enough.  Who  can  speak  broader 
than  he  that  has  no  house  to  put  his  head  in  ?  such 
may  rail  against  great  buildings. 

Filter  Servilius. 

Tit.   O,  here's  Servilius ;  now  we  shall  know 
Some  answer. 

Ser.  If  I  might  beseech  you,  gentlemen. 

To  repair  some  other  hour,  I  should  much 
Derive  from  it :  for,  take  it  on  my  soul. 
My  lord  leans  wond'rously  to  discontent. 
His  comfortable  temper  has  forsook  him  ; 
He  is  much  out  of  health,  and  keeps  his  chauiber. 

Luc.  Serv.   Many  do  keep  their  chambers,  are  not 
sick  : 
And,  if  it  be  so  far  beyond  his  health. 


Methinks,  he  should  the  sooner  pay  his  debts. 
And  make  a  clear  way  to  the  gods. 

Ser.  Good  gods ! 

Tit.   We  cannot  take  this  for  an  answer,  sir. 

Flam.   [fVithin.]  Servilius,  help  !  — my  lord!  my 
lord !  — 

Enter  Timon,  in  a  rage ;   Fla^iviv a  following. 

Tim.  What  are  my  doors   oppos'd  against  my 
passage? 
Have  I  been  ever  free,  and  must  my  house 
Be  my  retentive  enemy,  my  gaol  ? 
The  place,  which  I  have  feasted,  does  it  now, 
Like  all  mankind,  show  me  an  iron  heart  ? 

Luc.  Serv.   Put  in  now,  Titus. 

Tit.  My  lord,  here  is  my  bill. 

Luc.  Serv.   Here's  mine. 

Hor.  Serv.   And  mine,  my  lord. 

Both  Var.  Serv.   And  ours,  my  lord. 

Phi.   All  our  bills. 

Tim.   Knock  me  down  with  *em7 :  cleave  me  to 
the  girdle. 

Luc.  Serv.   Alas  !  my  lord, ? 

Tim,   Cut  my  heart  in  sums. 

Tit.   Mine,  fifty  talents. 

Tim.   Tell  out  my  blood. 

Luc.  Serv.    Five  thousand  crowns,  my  lord. 

Tim.   Five  thousand  drops  pays  that.  — 
What  yours  ?  —  and  yours  ? 

1  Var.  Serv.   My  lord, 

2  Var.  Serv.   My  lord, 

Tim.   Tear  me,  take  me,  and  the  gods  fall  upon 

you !  [Exit. 

Hor.  'Faith,  I  perceive  our  masters  may  throw 

their  caps  at  their  money  ;  these  debts  may  well  be 

called  desperate  ones,  for  a  madman  owes  'em. 

lExeunt. 
Re-enter  Timon  and  Flavius. 

Tim.   They  have  e'en  put  my  breath  from  me, 
the  slaves : 
Creditors  I  —  devils. 

Flav.   My  dear  lord, 

Tim.   What  if  it  should  be  so  ? 

Flav.   My  lord, 

Tim.   I'll  have  it  so  :  —  My  steward ! 

Flav,   Here,  my  lord. 

Tim.   So  fitly  ?   Go,  bid  all  my  friends  again, 
Lucius,  Lucullus,  and  Sempronius;  all: 
I'll  once  more  feed  the  rascals. 

Flav.  O  my  lord. 

You  only  speak  from  your  distracted  soul ; 
There  is  not  so  much  left  to  furnish  out 
A  moderate  table. 

Tim.  Be't  not  in  thy  care  ;  go, 

I  charge  thee  ;  invite  them  all :   let  in  the  tide 
Of  knaves  once  more  ;  my  cook  and  I'll  provide. 

[Exeu: 
SCENE  V.  —  The  Senate-House. 
The  Senate  sitting.     Enter  Alcibiades,  attended. 

1  Sen.  Mylord,  you  have  my  voice  to  it;  the  fault's 
Bloody  ;  'tis  necessary  he  should  die  : 

Nothing  emboldens  sin  so  much  as  mercy 

2  Sen.   Most  true  ;  the  law  shall  bruise  him. 
Alcib.   Honour,   health,  and  compassion  to   the 

senate  ! 
1  Sen.  Now,  captain  ? 
Alcib.   I  am  an  humble  suitor  to  your  virtues ; 

7  Timon  quibbles.    They  present  their  written  bills  j  he 
catches  at  the  word,  and  alludes  to  bills  or  battle.^xes. 


I 


Scene  V. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


635 


For  pity  is  the  virtue  of  the  law. 

And  none  but  tyrants  use  it  cruelly. 

It  pleases  time,  and  fortune,  to  lie  heavy 

Upon  a  friend  of  mine,  who  in  hot  blood, 

Hath  stepp'd  into  the  law,  which  is  past  depth 

To  those  that,  without  heed,  do  plunge  into  it. 

He  is  a  man,  setting  his  fate  aside. 

Of  comely  virtues : 

Nor  did  he  soil  the  fact  with  cowardice ; 

(An  honour  in  him  which  buys  out  his  fault,) 

But,  with  a  noble  fury,  and  fair  spirit, 

Seeing  his  reputation  touch'd  to  dcath^ 

He  did  oppose  his  foe : 

And  with  such  sober  and  unnoted  passion 

He  did  behave  8  his  anger,  ere  'twas  spent, 

As  if  he  had  but  prov'd  an  argument. 

1  Sen.   You  undergo  too  strict  a  paradox, 
Striving  to  make  an  ugly  deed  look  fair ; 
Your  words  have  took  such  pains,  as  if  they  labour'd 
To  bring  manslaughter  into  form,  set  quarrelling 
Upoif  the  head  of  valour ;  which,  indeed. 
Is  valour  misbegot,  and  came  into  the  world 
When  sects  and  factions  were  newly  born  : 
He's  truly  valiant,  that  can  wisely  suffer 
Tlie  worst  that  man  can  breathe;  and  make  his  wrongs 
His  outsides ;  wear  them  like  his  raiment,  carelessly  ; 
And  ne'er  prefer  his  injuries  to  his  heart, 
To  bring  it  into  danger. 
If  wrongs  be  evils,  and  enforce  us  kill, 
Wliat  folly  'tis  to  hazard  life  for  ill  ? 

^Icib.   My  lord, 

1  Sen.   You  cannot  make  gross  sins  look  clear  j 
To  revenge  is  no  valour,  but  to  bear. 

Alcib.   My  lords,  then,  under  favour,  pardon  me. 
If  I  speak  like  a  captain.  — — 
Why  do  fond  men  expose  themselves  to  battle. 
And  not  endure  all  threaten! ngs ?  sleep  upon  it. 
And  let  the  foes  quietly  cut  their  throats. 
Without  repugnancy  ?  but  if  there  be 
Such  valour  in  the  bearing,  what  make  we 
Abroad  ?  why  then,  women  are  more  valiant, 
That  stay  at  home,  if  bearing  carry  it ; 
And  th'  ass,  more  captain  than  the  lion;  the  felon, 
Loaden  with  irons,  wiser  than  the  judge. 
If  wisdom  be  in  suffering.      O  my  lords, 
As  you  are  great,  be  pitifully  good  : 
Who  cannot  condemn  rashness  in  cold  blood? 
To  kill,  I  grant,  is  sin's  extremest  gust  9; 
But,  in  defence,  by  mercy,  'tis  most  just. 
To  be  in  anger,  is  impiety ; 
But  who  is  man,  that  is  not  angry  ? 
Weigh  but  the  crime  with  this. 

2  Sen.    You  breathe  in  vain. 

^Icib.  In  vain  ?  his  service  done 

At  Lacedsmon,  and  Byzantium, 
Were  a  sufficient  briber  for  his  life. 

1  Sen.   What's  that? 

^tcib.  Why,  I  say,  my  lords,  h'as  done  fair  service, 
And  slain  in  fight  many  of  your  enemies  : 
How  full  of  valour  did  he  bear  himself 
In  the  last  conflict,  and  made  plenteous  wounds? 

2  Sen.  He  has  made  too  much  plenty  with  'em,  he 
Is  a  sworn  rioter ;  h'as  a  sin  that  often 

Drowns  him,  and  takes  his  valour  prisoner : 
If  there  were  no  foes,  that  were  enough  alone 
To  overcome  him :    in  tliat  beastly  fury 
He  has  been  known  to  commit  outrages. 
And  cherish  factions:    'Tis  inferr'd  to  us. 
His  days  are  foul,  and  liis  drink  dangerous. 
8  Manage,  govern.  »  For  aggravation. 


1  5^71.   He  dies. 

Aldb.  Hard  fate !  he  might  have  died  in  war. 

My  lords,  if  not  for  any  parts  in  him, 
(Though  his  right  arm  might  purchase  his  own  time, 
And  be  in  debt  to  none,)  yet  more  to  move  you, 
Take  my  deserts  to  his,  and  join  them  both : 
And,  for  I  know,  your  reverend  ages  love 
Security,  I'll  pawn  my  victories,  all 
My  honour  to  you,  upon  his  good  returns. 
If  by  this  crime  he  owes  the  law  his  life, 
Why,  let  the  war  receive't  in  valiant  gore ; 
For  law  is  strict,  and  war  is  nothing  more. 

1  Sen.  We  are  for  law,  he  dies  ;  urge  it  no  more. 
On  height  of  our  displeasure  :  Friend,  or  brother. 
He  forfeits  his  own  blood,  that  spills  another. 

Alcib.  Must  it  be  so  ?  it  must  not  be.  My  lords, 
I  do  beseech  you,  know  me. 

2  Sen.   How? 

Alcib.   Call  me  to  your  remembrances. 

3  Sen.  What? 
^Icib.  1  cannot  think,  but  your  age  has  forgot  me ; 

It  could  not  else  be,  I  should  prove  so  base  ', 
To  sue,  and  be  denied  such  common  grace  : 
My  wounds  ache  at  you. 

1  Sen.  Do  you  dare  our  an^er  ? 

'Tis  in  few  words,  but  spacious  in  effect ; 
We  banish  thee  for  ever. 

Alcib.  Banish  me? 

Banish  your  dotage ;  banish  usury. 
That  makes  the  senate  ugly. 

1  iS^.   If,  after  two  days'  shine,  Athens  contain 
thee. 
Attend  our  weightier  judgment.    And,  not  to  swell 

our  spirit. 
He  shall  be  executed  presently.      [Exeunt  Senators. 

jilcib.   Now  the  gods  keep  you  old  enough  :  that 
you  may  live 
Only  in  bone,  that  none  may  look  on  you ! 
I  am  worse  than  mad :   I  have  kept  back  theu:  foes, 
While  they  have  told  their  money,  and  let  out 
Their  coin  upon  large  interest ;  I  myself. 
Rich  only  in  large  hurts ;  —  All  those,  for  this  ? 
Is  this  the  balsam,  that  the  usuring  senate 
Pours  into  captains'  wounds  ?  ha !  banishment  ? 
It  comes  not  ill ;   I  hate  not  to  be  banish'd ; 
Ic  is  a  cause  worthy  my  spleen  and  fury, 
That  I  may  strike  at  Athens.      I'll  cheer  up 
My  discontented  troops,  and  lay  for  hearts  *, 
'Tis  honour,  with  most  lands  to  be  at  odds ; 
Soldiers  should  brook  as  little  wrongs,  as  gods. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  VI.  —  -4  magnificent  Room  in  Timon'i 
House. 

Mustek.     Tables  set  out .-  Servants  attending.    Enter 
divers  Lords,  at  several  Doors. 

1  Lord.   The  good  time  of  day  to  you,  sir. 

2  Lord.  I  also  wish  it  to  you.  I  think,  this 
honourable  lord  did  but  try  us  this  otlier  day. 

1  Lord.  Upon  that  were  my  thoughts  tiring', 
when  we  encountered  :  I  hope  it  is  not  so  low  with 
him,  as  he  madft  it  seem  in  the  trial  of  his  several 
friends. 

2  Lord.  It  should  not  be,  by  the  persuasion  of 
his  new  feasting. 

1  Lord.   I  should  tliink  so :   He  hath  sent  me  an 

'  For  dishonoured. 

«  Wc  should  now  say  —  lay  out  for  hearts,  i.  e.  the  affec- 
tions of  the  people. 
>  To  tire  on  a  thing  meant  to  be  idly  employed  on  it 


636 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  III. 


earnest  inviting,  which  many  my  near  occasions  did 
urge  me  to  put  off;  but  he  hath  conjiu-ed  me  beyond 
them,  and  I  must  needs  appear. 

2  Lord.  In  Hke  manner  was  I  in  debt  to  my 
importunate  business,  but  he  would  not  hear  my 
excuse.  I  am  sorry,  when  he  sent  to  borrow  of  me, 
that  my  provision  was  out. 

1  Lord.  I  am  sick  of  that  grief  too,  as  I  under- 
stand how  all  things  go. 

2  Lord.  Every  man  here's  so.  What  would  he 
have  borrowed  of  you  ? 

1  Lord.   A  thousand  pieces. 

2  Lord.   A  thousand  pieces  ! 
1  Lord.   What  of  you  ? 

3  Lord.   He  sent  to  me,  sir  —  Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Timon,  and  Attendants. 
Tim.  With  all  my  heart,  gentlemen  both  :  —  And 
how  fare  you  ? 

1  Lord.  Ever  at  the  best,  hearing  well  of  your 
lordship. 

2  Lord.  The  swallow  follows  not  summer  more 
willing,  than  we  your  lordship. 

Tim.  [^Aside."]  Nor  more  willingly  leaves  winter ; 
such  summer-birds  are  men.  —  Gentlemen,  our 
dinner  will  not  recompense  this  long  stay:  feast 
your  ears  with  the  musick  awhile ;  if  they  will  fare 
so  harshly  on  the  trumpet's  sound :  we  shall  to't 
presently. 

1  Lord.  I  hope  it  remains  not  unkindly  with  your 
lordship,  that  I  returned  you  an  empty  messenger. 

Tim.    O,  sir,  let  it  not  trouble  you. 

2  Lord.   My  noble  lord,  — ' — 

Tim.   Ah,  my  good  friend,  what  cheer  ? 

[The  Banquet  brought  in. 

2  Lord.  My  most  honourable  lord,  I  am  e'en  sick 
of  shame,  that,  when  your  lordship  this  other  day 
sent  to  me,  I  was  so  unfortunate  a  beggar. 

Tim.   Think  not  on't,  sir. 

2  Lord.  If  you  had  sent  but  two  hours  before,  — 

Tim.  Let  it  not  cumber  your  better  remembrance. 
—  Come,  bring  in  all  together. 

2  Lord.   All  covered  dishes  ! 

1  Lord.    Royal  cheer,  I  warrant  you. 

3  Lord.  Doubt  not  that,  if  money  and  the  season 
can  yield  it. 

1  Lord.   How  do  you  ?  what's  the  news  ? 

3  Lord.  Alcibiades  is  banished :   Hear  you  of  it  ? 

1^2  Lord.   Alcibiades  banished ! 

3  Lord.  'Tis  so,  be  sure  of  it. 

1  Lord.   How?  how? 

2  Lord.   I  pray  you,  upon  what  ? 

Tim.   My  worthy  friends,  will  you  draw  near  ? 

3  Lord.  I'll  tell  you  more  anon.  Here's  a  noble 
f^ast  toward. 

2  Lord.   This  is  the  old  man  still. 

3  Lord.  Will'thold?  will't  hold? 

2  Lord.   It  does :   but  time  will  —  and  so 

3  Lord.   I  do  conceive. 

Tim.  Each  man  to  his  stool,  with  that  spur  as  he 
would  to  the  lip  of  his  mistress :  your  diet  shall  be 
in  all  places  alike.  Make  not  a  city  feast  of  it,  to  let 
the  meat  cool  ere  we  can  agree  upon  the  first  place ; 
Sit,  sit.     The  gods  require  our  thanks. 


You  great  benefactors,  sprinkle  our  society  with 
thankfulness.  For  your  own  gifts,  make  yourselves 
prais'.'d :  but  reserve  still  to  give,  lest  your  deities  be 
despised.  Lend  to  each  man  enough,  that  one  need 
not  lend  to  another  :  for,  were  your  godheads  to 
borrow  of  men,  men  would  forsake  the  gods.  Make 
the  meat  be  beloved,  more  than  the  man  that  gives  it. 
Let  no  assembly  of  twenty  be  without  a  score  of  vil- 
lains :  If  there  sit  twelve  women  at  the  table,  let  a 
dozen  of  them  be  —  as  they  are.  —  The  rest  of  your 
fees,  0  gods,  —  the  senators  of  Athens,  together  with 
the  common  lag  '*  of  people,  —  ivhat  is  amiss  in  them, 
you  gods  make  suitable  for  destruction.  For  these 
my  present  friends,  —  as  they  are  to  me  nothing,  so 
in  nothing  bless  them,  and  to  nothing  they  are  welcome. 

Uncover,  dogs,  and  lap. 

[The  dishes  uncovered  are  full  of  warm  water. 

Some  speak.   What  does  his  lordship  mean  ? 

Some  other.   I  know  not. 

Tim.   May  you  a  better  feast  never  behold, 
You  knot  of  mouth-friends !  smoke,  and  luke-wann 

water 
Is  your  perfection.      This  is  Timon's  last ; 
Who  stuck  and  spangled  you  with  flatteries, 
Washes  it  off,  and  sprinkles  in  your  faces 

[  Throwing  water  in  their  faces. 
Your  reeking  villainy.      Live  loath'd,  and  long. 
Most  smiling,  smooth,  detested  parasites. 
Courteous  destroyers,  affable  wolves,  meek  bears, 
You  fools  of  fortune,  trencher-friends,  time's  flies, 
Cap  and  knee  slaves,  vapours,  and  minute-jacks !  * 
Of  man  and  beast,  the  infinite  malady 
Crust  you  quite  o'er  !  — What,  dost  thou  go  ? 
Soft,  take   thy   physick  first  —  thou   too,  —  and 
thou ;  — 
[Throws  the  dishes  at  them,  and  drives  them  out. 

Stay,  I  will  lend  thee  money,  borrow  none 

What,  all  in  motion  ?   Henceforth  be  no  feast. 
Whereat  a  villain's  not  a  welcome  guest. 
Burn,  house  !  sink,  Athens !  henceforth  hated  be 
Of  Timon,  man,  and  all  humanity  !  [ExU. 

Re-enter  the  Lords,  with  other  Lords  and  Senators. 

1  Lord.   How  now,  my  lords  ? 

2  Lord.   Know  you  the  quality  of  lord  Timon's 

fury? 

3  Lord.   Pish !  did  you  see  my  cap  ? 

4  Lord.   I  have  lost  my  gown. 

3  Lord.  He's  but  a  mad  lord,  and  nought  but 
humour  sways  him.  He  gave  me  a  jewel  the  other 
day,  and  now  he  has  beat  it  out  of  my  hat :  —  Did 
you  see  ray  jewel  ? 

4  Lord.   Did  you  see  my  cap  ? 
2  Lord.   Here  'tis. 
4  Lord.   Here  lies  my  gown. 

1  Lord.  Let's  make  no  stay. 

2  Lord.  Lord  Timon's  mad. 

3  Lord.  I  feel't  upon  my  bones. 

4  Lord.  One  day  he  gives  us  diamonds,  next  day 

stones.  [Exeunt.^ 

^  The  lowest  .    . 

5  Jacks  of  the  clock;  like  those  of  St  Dunstan's  church,  m 
Fleet-street 


I 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


637 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  iruhout  the  Walls  of  Athena. 
Enter  Timon. 
Tim.   Let  me  look  back  upon  thee,  O  thou  wall, 
That  girdlest  in  those  wolves  !    Dive  in  the  earth, 
And  fence  not  Athens  !   Matrons,  turn  incontinent ! 
Obedience  fail  in  children  !  slaves,  and  fools, 
Pluck  the  grave  wrinkled  senate  from  the  bench, 
And  minister  in  their  steads  !  bankrupts,  hold  fast ; 
Rather  than  render  back,  out  with  your  knifes. 
And  cut  your  trusters'  throats !  bound  servants,  steal ! 
Large-handed  robbers  your  grave  masters  are ; 
Son  of  sixteen. 

Pluck  the  lin'd  crutch  from  the  old  limping  sire, 
With  it  beat  out  his  brains  !  piety,  and  fear. 
Religion  to  the  gods,  peace,  justice,  truth, 
Domestick  awe,  night-rest,  and  neighbourhood. 
Instruction,  manners,  mysteries,  and  trades. 
Degrees,  observances,  customs,  and  laws, 
Decline  to  your  confounding  contraries. 
And  yet  confusion  live  !  —  Plagues,  incident  to  men, 
Your  potent  and  infectious  fevers  heap 
On  Athens,  ripe  for  stroke  !  thou  cold  sciatica, 
Cripple  our  senators,  that  their  limbs  may  halt 
As  lamely  as  their  manners  !  breath  infect  breath  ; 
That  their  society,  as  their  friendship,  may 
Be  merely  poison  !   Nothing  PU  bear  from  thee, 
But  nakedness,  thou  detestable  town  ! 
Take  thou  that  too,  with  multiplying  banns !  ^ 
Timon  will  to  the  woods ;  where  he  shall  find 
The  unkindest  beast  more  kinder  than  mankind. 
The  gods  confound  (hear  me,  ye  good  gods  all,) 
The  Athenians  both  within  and  out  that  wall ! 
And  grant,  as  Timon  grows,  his  hate  may  grow 
To  tlie  whole  race  of  mankind,  high  and  low ! 

SCENE  II.  —  Athens.     A  Room  in  Timon'* 

House. 

Enter  Flavius,  with  two  or  three  Servants. 

1  Serv.   Hear  you,  master  steward,   where's  our 
master  ? 
Are  we  undone  ?  cast  off?  nothing  remaining  ? 

Flav.  Alack,  my  fellows,  what  should  I  say  to  you? 
Let  me  be  recorded  by  the  righteous  gods, 
I  am  as  poor  as  you. 

1  Serv.  Such  a  house  broke  ! 
So  noble  a  master  fallen  !   All  gone  !  and  not 
One  friend,  to  take  his  fortune  by  the  arm. 
And  go  along  witli  him  ! 

2  Serv.  As  we  do  turn  our  backs 
From  our  companion,  thrown  into  his  grave  ; 

So  his  familiars  to  his  buried  fortunes 

Slink  all  away  ;  leave  their  false  vows  with  him, 

Like  empty  purses  pick'd  :   and  his  poor  self, 

A  dedicated  beggar  to  the  air. 

With  his  disease  of  all-shunn'd  poverty, 

Walks,  like  contempt,  alone.  —  More  of  our  fellows. 

Enter  other  Servants. 

Flav.    All  broken  implements  of  a  ruin'd  house. 

3  Serv.    Yet  do  our  hearts  wear  Timon *s  livery. 
That  see  I  by  our  faces ;  we  are  fellows  still. 
Serving  alike  in  sorrow  :    Leak'd  is  our  bark  ; 

<  AccumuUted  cutset. 


And  we,  poor  mates,  stand  on  the  dying  deck. 
Hearing  the  surges  threat :   we  must  all  part 
Into  this  sea  of  air. 

Flav.  Good  fellows  all, 

The  latest  of  my  wealth  I'll  share  amongst  you. 
Wherever  we  shall  meet,  for  Timon's  sake. 
Let's  yet  be  fellows  ;  let's  shake  our  heads,  and  say. 
As  'twere  a  knell  unto  our  master's  fortunes, 
fVe  have  seen  better  days.      Let  each  take  some  ; 

[Giving  them  money. 
Nay,  put  out  all  your  hands.  Not  one  word  more ; 
Tims  part  we  rich  in  sorrow,  parting  poor. 

[Exeunt  Servants. 
O,  the  fierce'  wretchedness  that  glory  brings  us  ! 
Who  would  not  wish  to  be  from  wealth  exempt. 
Since  riches  point  to  misery  and  contempt  ? 
Who'd  be  so  mock'd  with  glory  ?  or  to  live 
But  in  a  dream  of  friendship  ? 
To  have  his  pomp,  and  all  what  state  compounds. 
But  only  painted  like  his  varnish'd  friends  ? 
Poor  honest  lord,  brought  low  by  his  own  heart ; 
Undone  by  goodness  !   Strange,  unusual  blood  8, 
When  man's  worst  sin  is,  he  does  too  much  good  ! 
Who  then  dares  to  be  half  so  kind  again  ? 
For  bounty,  that  makes  gods,  does  still  mar  men. 
My  dearest  lord,  —  bless'd  to  be  most  accurs'd. 
Rich,  only  to  be  wretched  ;  —  thy  great  fortunes 
Are  made  thy  chief  afflictions.      Alas,  kind  lord  ! 
He's  flung  in  rage  from  this  ungrateful  seat 
Of  monstrous  friends  :   nor  has  he  with  him  to 
Supply  his  life,  or  that  wliich  can  command  it. 
I'll  follow,  and  inquire  him  out ; 
I'll  serve  his  mind  with  my  best  will ; 
Whilst  I  have  gold,  I'll  be  his  steward  still.   [Exit. 

SCENE  IIL  —  The  Woods. 
Enter  Timon. 
Tim.  O  blessed  breeding  sun,  draw  from  the  earth 
Rotten  humidity  ;  below  thy  sister's  orb 
Infect  the  air  !   Twinn'd  brothers  of  one  womb 
Whose  procreation,  residence,  and  birth. 
Scarce  is  dividant,  —  touch  them  with  several  for 

tunes ; 
The  greater  scorns  the  lesser  :    Not  nature. 
To  whom  all  sores  lay  siege,  can  bear  great  fortune. 
But  by'>  contempt  of  nature. 
Raise  me  this  beggar,  and  denude  that  lord ; 
The  senator  shall  bear  contempt  hereditary. 
The  beggar  native  honour. 
It  is  tlie  pasture  lards  the  brother's  sides. 
The  want  thatmakes  him  lean.  Who  dares,  whodares, 
In  purity  of  manhood  stand  upright. 
And  say.  This  mans  ajlatterer  ?  If  one  be. 
So  are  they  all ;  for  every  grize  of  fortune 
Is  smooth'd  by  that  below :   the  learned  pate 
Ducks  to  the  golden  fool  :    All  is  oblique  ; 
There's  nothing  level  in  our  cursed  natures, 
But  direct  villainy.      Therefore  be  abhorr'd 
All  feasts,  societies,  and  throngs  of  men  ! 
His  semblable,  yea,  himself,  Timon  disdains  : 
Destruction   fang  >  mankind  !  —  Earth,   yield  me 

roots!  [Dicing. 

Who  seeks  for  better  of  thee,  sauce  his  palate 

'  Haaty,  precipitate  »  Propensity,  disposition. 

*  But  bjf  u  here  used  for  without.  '  Seize,  gripe. 


688 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  IV. 


With  thy  most  operant  poison  !  What  is  here ! 
Gold?  yellow,  glittering,  precious  gold?  No,  gods, 
I  am  no  idle  votarist.      Roots,  you  clear  heavens  ! 
Thus  much  of  this,  will  make  black,  white ;  foul, 

fair; 
Wrong,  right ;  base,  noble  ;  old,  young ;  coward, 

valiant. 
Ha,  you  gods  !  why  this  ?    What  this,  you  gods  ? 

Why  this 
Will  lug  your  priests  and  servants  from  your  sides; 
Pluck  stout  men's  pillows  from  below  their  heads  : 
This  yellow  slave 

Will  knit  and  break  religions ;  bless  the  accurs'd  ; 
Make  the  hoar  leprosy  ador'd  ;  place  thieves, 
And  give  them  title,  knee,  and  approbation, 
With  senators  on  the  bench  :   this  is  it. 
That  makes  the  wappen'd  -  widow  wed  again  ; 
[March  afar  off.']  — Ha?  a  drum? — Thou'rt  quick, 
But  yet  I'll  bury  thee  :   Thou'lt  go,  strong  thief. 
When  gouty  keepers  of  thee  cannot  stand :  — 
Nay,  stay  thou  out  for  earnest.    [Keeping  some  Gold. 
Enter  Alcibiades,  with  Drum  and  Fife,  in  warlike 
manner. 
Aldb.  What  art  thou  there? 


Tim.   A  beast,  as  thou  art.     The  canker  gnaw 
thy  heart, 
For  showing  me  again  the  eyes  of  man ! 

Alcib.  What  is  thy  name  ?  Is  man  so  hateful  to 
thee, 
That  art  thyself  a  man  ? 

Tim.   I  am  misanthropes,  and  hate  mankind. 
For  thy  part,  I  do  wish  thou  wert  a  dog. 
That  I  might  love  thee  something. 

Alcib.  I  know  thee  well : 

But  in  thy  fortunes  am  unleam'd  and  strange. 

Tim.   I  know  thee  too ;  and  more,  than  that  I 
know  thee, 
I  not  desire  to  know.      Follow  thy  drum ; 
With  man's  blood  paint  the  ground,  gules,  gules : 
Religious  canons,  civil  laws  are  cruel; 
Then  what  should  war  he  ? 

Alcib.  How  came  the  noble  Timon  to  this  change? 

Tim.  As  the  moon  does,  by  wanting  light  to  give  : 
But  then  renew  I  could  not,  like  the  moon ; 
That  were  no  suns  to  borrow  of. 

Alcib,  Noble  Timon, 

What  friendship  may  I  do  thee  ? 

Tim.  None,  but  to 

Maintain  my  opinion. 

Alcib.  What  is  it,  Timon  ? 

Tim.  Promise  me  friendship,  but  perform  none :  If 
Thou  wilt  not  promise,  the  gods  plague  thee,  for 
Thou  art  a  man  !  if  thou  dost  perform,  confound  thee, 
For  thou'rt  a  man  ! 

Alcib.   I  have  heard  in  some  sort  of  thy  miseries. 

Tim.   Thou  saw'st  them,  when  I  had  prosperity. 

Alcib.   I  see  them  now  :  then  was  a  blessed  time. 
I  have  but  little  gold  of  late,  brave  Timon, 
The  want  whereof  doth  daily  make  revolt 
In  my  penurious  band;   I  have  heard,  and  griev'd. 
How  cursed  Athens,  mindless  of  thy  worth. 
Forgetting  thy  great  deeds,  when  neighbour  states, 
But  for  thy  sword  and  fortune,  trod  upon  them,  — 

Tim.  I  pr'y thee,  beat  thy  drum,  and  get  thee  gone. 

Alcib.  I  am  thy  friend,  and  pity  thee,  dear  Timon. 

Tim.  How  dost  thou  pity  him,  whom  thou  dost 
trouble  ? 
I  had  rather  be  alone.  | 

*  Sorrowful  ! 

! 


Alcib.  Why,  fare  thee  well  : 

Here's  some  gold  for  thee. 

Tim.  Keep't,  I  cannot  eat  it. 

Alcib.   When  I   have    laid  proud    Athens   on   a 
heap, 

Tim.   Warr'st  thou  against  Athens  ? 

Alcib.  Ay,  Timon,  and  have  cause. 

Tim.   The  gods  confound  them  all  i'thy  conquest ; 
and 
Thee  after,  when  thou  hast  conquer'd ! 

Alcib.  Why  me,  Timon? 

Tim.   That 
By  killing  villains,  thou  wast  born  to  conquer 
My  country. 

Put  up  thy  gold :    Go  on,  —  here's  gold,  ^go  on ;« 
Be  as  a  planetary  plague,  when  Jove 
Will  o'er  some  high-vic'd  city  hang  his  poison 
In  the  sick  air :   Let  not  thy  sword  skip  one  : 
Pity  not  honour'd  age  for  his  white  beard. 
He's  an  usurer :    Strike  me  the  counterfeit  matron  ; 
It  is  her  habit  only  that  is  honest. 
Let  not  the  virgin's  cheek 

Make  soft  thy  trenchant  3  sword ;  spare  not  the  babe. 
Whose  dimpled  smiles  from  fools   exhaust  tlieir 

mercy ; 
Think  it  a  bastard  <,  whom  the  oracle 
Hath  doubtfully  pronounc'd  thy  throat  shall  cut. 
And  mince  it  sans  remorse  ^ :  Swear  against  objects  ^ : 
Put  armour  on  thine  ears,  and  on  thine  eyes  ; 
Whose  proof,  nor  yells  of  mothers,  maids,  nor  babes. 
Nor  sight  of  priests  in  holy  vestments  bleeding, 
Shall  pierce  a  jot.     There's  gold  to  pay  thy  soldiers . 
Make  large  confusion  ;  and,  thy  fury  spent. 
Confounded  be  thyself !  speak  not,  be  gone. 

Alcib.   Hast  thou  gold  yet?  I'll  take  the  gold 
thou  giv'st  thee ! 
Not  all  thy  counsel. 

Tim.   Dost  thou,  or  dost  thou  not,  heaven's  curse 
upon  thee  ! 

Alcib.    Strike   up    the    drum   towards   Athens. 
Farewell,  Timon  ! 
If  I  thrive  well,  I'll  visit  thee  again. 

Tim.   If  I  hope  well,  I'll  never  see  thee  more. 

Alcib.   I  never  did  thee  harm. 

Tim.   Yes,  thou  spok'st  well  of  me. 

Alcib.  Call'st  thou  that  harm  ? 

Tim.  Men  daily  find  it  such.      Get  thee  away. 

Alcib.  We  but  offend  him.  — 

Strike.  [Drum  beats.     Exit  Alcibiades. 

Tim.   That  nature,  being  sick  of  man's  unkind- 
ness. 
Should  yet  be  hungry  !  —  Common  mother,  thou 

[Digging. 
Whose  womb  unmeasurable,  and  infinite  breast. 
Teems,  and  feeds  all ;  whose  self-same  mettle. 
Whereof  thy  proud  child,  arrogant  man,  is  puff'd, 
Engenders  the  black  toad,  and  adder  blue. 
The  gilded  newt,  and  eyeless  venom'd  worm  7, 
With  all  the  abhorred  births  below  crisp  »  heaven 
Whereon  Hyperion's  quickening  fire  doth  shine ; 
Yield  him,  who  all  thy  human  sons  doth  hate. 
From  forth  thy  plenteous  bosom  one  poor  root ! 
Ensear  thy  fertile  and  conceptious  womb. 
Let  it  no  more  bring  out  ungrateful  man  ! 
Go  great  with  tigers,  dragons,  wolves,  and  bears ; 
Teem  with  new  monsters,  whom  thy  upward  face 

'  Cutting.  4  An  allusion  to  the  tale  of  Oedipus. 

»  Without  pity. 

*  t  c.  Against  objects  of  charity  and  compassion. 

7  The  serpent  called  the  blind  worm.  '^  Curved. 


I 

II 


II 


JL 


Scene  III. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


639 


Hath  to  the  marbled  mansion  all  above 
Never  presented  !  —  O,  a  root,  —  Dear  thanks  ! 
Dry  up  thy  marrows,  vines,  and  plough-torn  leas  : 
Wliereof  ingrateful  man,  with  liquorish  draughts, 
And  morsels  unctuous,  greases  his  pure  mind, 
That  from  it  all  consideration  slips  ! 
Enter  Apemantus. 
More  man  ?  Plague  !  plague  ! 

Apem.   I  was  directed  hither  :   Men  report, 
Thou  dost  affect  my  manners,  and  dost  use  tlicm. 

Tim.  'Tis  then,  because  thou  dost  not  keep  a  dog 
Whom  I  would  imitate :   consumption  catch  thee  ! 

Apem.   This  is  in  thee  a  nature  but  affected  ; 
A  poor  unmanly  melancholy,  sprung 
From  change  of  fortune.  Why  this  spade?  this  place? 
This  slave-like  habit,  and  these  looks  of  care  ? 
Thy  flatterers  yet  wear  silk,  drink  wine,  lie  soft. 
Hug  their  diseas'd  perfumes,  and  have  forgot 
That  ever  Timon  was.      Shame  not  these  woods. 
By  putting  on  the  cunning  of  a  carper. 
13e  thou  a  flatterer  now,  and  seek  to  thrive 
By  that  which  has  undone  thee :   hinge  thy  knee, 
And  let  his  very  breath,  whom  thou'lt  observe, 
Blow  off*  thy  cap  ;  praise  his  most  vicious  strain, 
And  call  it  excellent;  thou  wast  told  thus  ; 
Thou  gav'st  thine  ears,  like  tapsters,  that  bid  welcome. 
To  knaves,  and  all  approachers  :   'Tis  most  just, 
That  thou  turn  rascal ;  hadst  thou  wealth  again. 
Rascals  should  have't    Do  not  assume  my  likeness. 

Tim.   Were  I  like  thee,  I'd  throw  away  myself. 

Apem.   Tliou  hast  cast  away  thyself,  being  like 
thyself; 
A  madman  so  long,  now  a  fool :   What,  think'st 
That  the  bleak  air,  thy  boisterous  chamberlain, 
Will  put  thy  shirt  on  warm  ?  Will  these  moss'd  trees, 
That  have  outliv'd  the  eagle,  page  thy  heels, 
And  skip  when  thou  point'st  out?     Will  the  cold 

brook, 
Candied  with  ice,  caudle  thy  morning  taste. 
To  cure  thy  o'er-night  surfeit  ?  call  the  creatures,  — 
Whose  naked  natures  live  in  all  the  spite 
Of  wreakful  heaven  ;  whose  bare  unhoused  trunks, 
To  the  conflicting  elements  expos'd. 
Answer  mere  nature,  —  bid  tliem  flatter  thee  ; 
O  !  thou  Shalt  find 

Tim.  A  fool  of  thee :   Depart. 

Apem.   I  love  thee  better  now  than  e'er  I  did. 

Tim.   I  hate  thee  worse. 

Apem.  Why  ? 

Tim.  Thou  flatter'st  misery. 

Aj}em.   I  flatter  not ;  but  say  thou  art  a  caitiff". 

2Yw.   Why  dost  thou  seek  me  out  ? 

Afxm.  To  vex  thee. 

Tim.    Always  a  villain's  office,  or  a  fool's. 
Dost  please  thyself  in't  ? 

Ajyem.  Ay. 

Tim.  What !  a  knave  too  ? 

Apem.    If  thou  didst  put  this  sour  cold  habit  on 
To  castigate  thy  pride,  'twere  well :   but  thou 
Dost  it  enforcedly  ;  tliou'dst  courtier  be  again, 
Wert  thou  not  beggar.      Willing  misery 
Outlives  uncertain  pomp,  is  crown'd  before  9 : 
Tlie  one  is  filling  still,  never  complete ; 
The  other,  at  high  wisli :    Best  state,  contentlcss. 
Hath  a  distracted  and  most  wretched  being, 
Worse  than  the  worst,  content. 
Thou  shouldst  desire  to  die,  being  miserable. 

Tim.   Not  by  his  breath  '  that  is  more  miserable. 

9  I.  e.  Arrives  sooner  at  the  completion  of  it«  withet. 
>  By  his  voice,  sentence 


Thou  art  a  slave,  whom  fortune's  tender  arm 
With  favour  never  clasp'd  ;  but  bred  a  dog. 
Hadst  thou,  like  us,  from  our  first  swath  ^  pro- 
ceeded, 
TTie  sweet  degrees  that  this  brief  world  affords 
To  such  as  may  the  passive  drugs  of  it 
Freely  command,  thou  wouldst  have  plung'd  thyself 
In  gen'ral  riot ;  and  have  never  learn 'd 
The  icy  precepts  of  respect,  but  folio w'd 
The  sugar'd  game  before  thee.      But  myself. 
Who  had  the  world  as  my  confectionary  ; 
The  mouths,  the  tongues,  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  men 
At  duty,  more  than  I  could  frame  employment ; 
That  numberless  upon  me  stuck,  as  leaves 
Do  on  the  oak,  have  with  one  winter's  brush 
Fell  from  their  boughs,  and  left  me  open,  bare 
For  every  storm  that  blows ;  —  I  to  bear  this. 
That  never  knew  but  better,  is  some  burden : 
Thy  nature  did  commence  in  sufferance,  time 
Hath  made  thee  nard  in't.    W^hy  shouldst  thou  hate 

men? 
They  never  flatter'd  thee :   What  hast  thou  given  ? 
Poor  rogue  hereditary.      Hence  !  be  gone  !  — 
If  thou  hadst  not  been  born  the  worst  of  men, 
Thou  hadst  been  a  knave,  and  flatterer. 

Apem.  Art  thou  proud  yet? 

Tim.   Ay,  that  I  am  not  thee. 

Apem.  I,  that  I  was 

No  prodigal. 

Tim.  I,  that  I  am  one  now ; 

Were  all  the  wealth  I  have,  shut  up  in  thee, 
I'd  give  thee  leave  to  hang  it.      Get  thee  gone.  — 
That  the  whole  life  of  Athens  were  in  this ! 
Thus  would  I  eat  it.  [Eatijig  a  Hoot. 

Apem.  Here ;   I  will  mend  thy  feast. 

[Offering  him  something, 

Tim.  First  mend  my  company,  take  away  thyself. 

Apem.  So  I  shall  mend  mine  own,  by  the  lack  of 
thine. 

Tim.  'Tis  not  well  mended  so,  it  is  but  botch'd; 
If  not,  I  would  it  were. 

Apem.  What  wouldst  thou  have  to  Athens  ? 

Tim.  Thee  thither  in  a  whirlwind.  If  thou  wilt 
Tell  them  there,  I  have  gold ;  look,  so  I  have. 

Apem.   Here  is  no  use  for  gold. 

Tim.  Tlie  best  and  truest ; 

For  here  it  sleeps,  and  does  no  hired  harm. 

Apem.   Where  ly'st  o'nights,  Timon  ? 

Tim.  Under  that's  above  me. 

Where  feed'st  thou  o'days,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Where  my  stomach  finds  meat ;  or,  rather, 
where  I  eat  it. 

THm.  Would  poison  were  obedient,  and  knew  my 
mind  ! 

Apem.   Where  wouldst  thou  send  it  ? 

Tim.  To  sauce  thy  dishes. 

Apem.  The  middle  of  humanity  thou  never 
knewest,  but  the  extremity  of  both  ends  :  When 
thou  wast  in  thy  gilt,  and  thy  perfume,  they  mocked 
thee  for  too  much  curiosity ' ;  in  thy  rags  thou 
knowest  none,  but  art  despised  for  the  contrary. 
There's  a  medlar  for  thee,  eat  it. 

Tim.   On  what  I  hate,  I  feed  not, 

Ajyem.   Dost  hate  a  medlar? 

Tim.   Ay,  though  it  look  like  thee. 

A])em.  An  thou  hadst  hated  medlars  sooner,  thou 
shouldst  have  loved  thyself  better  now.  What  man 
didst  thou  ever  know  unthrift,  tliat  was  beloved  after 
his  means? 


^  From  infancy. 


'  For  too  much  finical  delicacy. 


640 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS, 


Act  IV 


THm.  Who,  without  those  means  thou  talkcst  of, 
didst  thou  ever  know  beloved  ? 

Apem.   Myself. 

Tim.  I  understand  thee ;  thou  hadst  some  means 
to  keep  a  dog. 

Apem.  What  things  in  the  world  canst  thou 
nearest  compare  to  thy  flatterers  ? 

Tim.  Women  nearest  :  but  men,  men  are  the 
things  themselves.  What  wouldst  thou  do  with  the 
world,  Apemantus,  if  it  lay  in  thy  power  ? 

Apem.    Give  it  the  beasts,  to  be  rid  of  the  men. 
Tim.   Wouldst  thou  have  thyself  fall  in  the  con- 
fusion of  men,  and  remain  a  beast  with  the  beasts  ? 

Apem.   Ay,  Timon. 

Tim.  A  beastly  ambition,  which  the  gods  grant 
thee  to  attain  to !  If  thou  wert  the  lion,  the  fox 
would  beguile  thee  :  if  thou  wert  the  lamb,  the  fox 
would  eat  thee  :  if  thou  wert  the  fox,  the  lion  would 
suspect  thee,  when,  peradventure,  thou  wert  accused 
by  the  ass  :  if  thou  wert  the  ass,  thy  dulness  would 
torment  thee;  and  still  thou  livedst  but  as  a  break- 
fast to  the  wolf :  if  thou  wert  the  wolf,  thy  greedi- 
ness would  afflict  thee,  and  oft  thou  shouldst  hazard 
thy  life  for  thy  dinner :  wert  thou  the  unicorn,  pride 
and  wrath  would  confound  thee,  and  make  thine 
own  self  the  conquest  of  thy  fury  :  wert  thou  a  bear, 
thou  wouldst  be  killed  by  the  horse :  wert  tliou  a 
horse,  thou  wouldst  be  seized  by  the  leopard  :  wert 
thou  a  leopard,  thou  wert  german  to  the  lion,  and 
the  spots  of  thy  kindred  were  jurors  on  thy  life  :  all 
tliy  safety  were  remotion^ ;  and  thy  defence,  absence. 
What  beast  couldst  thou  be,  that  were  not  subject  to 
a  beast?  and  what  a  beast  art  thou  already,  that 
seest  not  thy  loss  in  transformation  ? 

Apem.  If  thou  couldst  please  me  with  speaking 
to  me,  thou  mightst  have  hit  upon  it  here :  The  com- 
monwealth of  Athens  is  become  a  forest  of  beasts. 

Tim.  How  has  the  ass  broke  the  wall,  that  thou 
art  out  of  the  city  ? 

Apem.  Yonder  comes  a  poet  and  a  painter :  The 
plague  of  company  light  upon  thee  !  I  will  fear  to 
catch  it,  and  give  way  :  When  I  know  not  what  else 
to  do,  I'll  see  thee  again. 

Tim.  When  there  is  nothing  living  but  thee,  thou 
shalt  be  welcome.  I  had  rather  be  a  beggar's  dog, 
than  Apemantus. 

Apem.   Thou  art  the  cap  ^  of  all  the  fools  alive. 

l^im.  Away, 

Thou  tedious  rogue  !  I  am  sorry,  I  shall  lose 
A  stone  by  thee.  [  Throws  a  Stone  at  him. 

Apem.         Beast ! 

Tim.  Slave ! 

Apem.  Toad ! 

Tim.  Rogue^  rogue,  rogue  ! 

[Apemantus  retreats  backward,  as  going. 
I  am  sick  of  this  false  world ;  and  will  love  nought 
But  even  the  mere  necessities  upon  it. 
Then,  Timon,  presently  prepare  thy  grave  ; 
Lie  where  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  may  beat 
Thy  grave-stone  daily ;  make  thine  epitaph. 
That  death  in  me  at  others'  lives  may  laugh. 
O  thou  sweet  king-killer,  and  dear  divorce 

[Loo/cing  on  the  Gold. 
'Twixt  natural  son  and  sire !  thou  bright  defiler 
Of  Hymen's  purest  bed !  thou  valiant  Mars  ! 
Thou  ever  young,  fresh,  lov'd  and  delicate  wooer, 
Whose  blush  doth  thaw  the  consecrated  snow 
ITiat  lies  on  Dian's  lap ;  thou  visible  god, 

*  Remoteness;  the  being  placed  at  a  distance  from  the  lion. 

*  The  top,  the  principal.  I 


That  solder*8t  close  impossibilities. 

And  mak'st  them  kiss  !    that  speak'st  with  every 

tongue. 
To  every  purpose  !   O  thou  touch  ^  of  hearts  ! 
Think,  thy  slave  man  rebels ;  and  by  thy  virtue 
Set  them  into  confounding  odds,  that  beasts 
May  have  the  world  in  empire ! 

Apem.  'Would  'twere  so  ;  — 

But  not  till  I  am  dead  !  —  I'll  say,  thou  hast  gold  • 
Thou  wilt  be  throng'd  to  shortly. 

Tim.  Throng'd  to  ? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.   Thy  back,  I  pr'ythee. 

Apem.  Live,  and  love  thy  misery ! 

Tim»   Long  live  so,  and  so  die !  —  I  am  quit.  — 

{^Exii  ArEMANTus. 

More  things  like  men  ? —  Eat,  Timon,  and  abhor 

them. 

Enter  Thieves. 

1  Thief.  Where  should  he  have  this  gold  ?  It  is 
some  poor  fragment,  some  slender  ort  of  his  re- 
mainder  :  The  -mere  want  of  gold,  and  the  falHng- 
from  of  his  fiiends,  drove  him  into  this  melancholy. 

2  Thief.   It  is  noised,  he  hath  a  mass  of  treasure. 

3  Thief  Let  us  make  the  assay  upon  him  :  if  he 
care  not  for't,  he  will  supply  us  easily ;  If  he  covet- 
ously reserve  it,  how  shall's  get  it  ? 

2  Thief.  True ;  for  he  bears  it  not  about  him,  'tis  hid. 

1  Thief.   Is  not  this  he? 
Thieves.   Where? 

2  Thief.  'Tis  his  description. 

3  Thief   He ;   I  know  him. 
Thieves.   Save  thee,  Timon. 
Tim.   Now,  thieves? 
Thieves.   Soldiers,  not  thieves. 
Tim.   Both  too  ;  and  women's  sons. 

Thieves.   We  are  not  thieves,  but  men  that  much 
do  want. 

Tim.  Your  greatest  want  is,  you  wantmuch  of  meat. 
Why  should  you  want  ?  Behold  the  earth  hath  roots ; 
Within  this  mile  break  forth  a  hundred  springs  : 
The  oaks  bear  masts,  the  briars  scarlet  hips  ; 
The  bounteous  housewife,  nature,  on  each  bush 
Lays  her  full  mess  before  you.    Want  ?  why  want  ? 

1  Thief.  We  cannot  live  on  grass,  on  berries,  v»  ater, 
As  beasts,  and  birds,  and  fishes. 

Tim.  Nor  on  the  beasts  themselves,  the  birds,  and 
fishes  J 
You  must  eat  men.      Yet  thanks  I  must  you  con, 
That  you  are  thieves  profess'd ;  that  you  work  not 
In  holier  shapes :   for  there  is  boundless  theft 
In  limited?  professions.      Rascal  thieves, 
Here's  gold :  Go,  suck  the  subtle  blood  of  the  grape, 
Till  the  high  fever  seeth  your  blood  to  froth, 
And  so  'scape  hanging  :  trust  not  the  physician ; 
His  antidotes  are  poison,  and  he  slays 
More  than  you  rob  :  take  wealth  and  lives  together 
Do  villainy,  do,  since  you  profess  to  do't, 
Like  workmen.      I'll  example  you  with  thievery  : 
The  sun's  a  thief,  and  with  his  great  attraction 
Robs  the  vast  sea :   the  moon's  an  arrant  thief. 
And  her  pale  fire  she  snatches  from  the  sun  : 
The  sea's  a  thief,  whose  liquid  surge  resolves 
The  moon  into  salt  tears :   each  thing's  a  thief ; 
The  laws,  your  curb  and  whip,  in  their  rough  power 
Have  uncheck'd  theft.    Love  not  yourselves  :  away, 
Rob  one  another.    There's  more  gold  :  Cut  throats ; 
All  that  you  meet  are  thieves :    To  Athens,  go. 


I 


*  Touchstone. 


Legal. 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


641 


Break  open  shops  ;  nothing  can  you  steal, 
But  thieves  do  lose  it ;   Steal  not  less,  for  this 
I  give  you  ;  and  gold  confound  you  howsoever  ! 

[TiMON  retires  to  his  Cave. 
3  Thief.    He  has  almost  charmed  me  from  my 
profession,  l)y  persuading  me  to  it. 

1  Thief.   'Tis  in  the  malice  of  mankind,  that  he 
thus  advises  us  ;  not  to  have  us  thrive  in  our  mystery. 

2  Thief.   I'll  believe  him  as  an  enemy,  and  give 
over  my  trade. 

1  Thief.  Let  us  first  see  peace  in  Athens  :   There 
is  no  time  so  miserable,  but  a  man  may  be  true. 

lExeutit  Thieves. 
Enter  Flavius. 

Flav.   O  you  gods ! 
Is  yon  despis'd  and  ruinous  man  my  lord  ? 
Full  of  decay  and  failing  ?   O  monument 
And  wonder  of  good  deeds  evilly  betow'd  ! 
What  an  alteration  of  honour  has 
Desperate  want  made  ! 

What  viler  thing  upon  the  earth,  than  friends, 
Who  can  bring  noblest  minds  to  basest  ends  ! 
How  rarely  8  does  it  meet  with  this  time's  guise, 
When  man  was  wish'd  to  love  his  enemies : 
Grant,  I  may  ever  love,  and  rather  woo 
Those  that  would  mischief  me,  than  those  that  do  ! 
He  has  caught  me  in  his  eye  :   I  will  present 
My  honest  grief  unto  liim  ;  and,  as  my  lord. 
Still  serve  him  with  my  life.  —  My  dearest  master ! 

TiMON  comes  forward  from  Ids  Cave. 

Tim.   Away  !  what  art  thou  ? 

Flav.  Have  you  forgot  me,  sir? 

Tim.   Why  dost  ask  that  ?  I  have  forgot  all  men ; 
Then  if  thou  grant'st  thou'rt  man,  I  have  forgot  thee. 

Flav.   An  honest  poor  servant  of  yours. 

Tim.  Then 

I  know  thee  not :   I  ne'er  had  honest  man 
About  me,  I  ;  all  that  I  kept  were  knaves, 
To  serve  in  meat  to  villains. 

Flav.  The  gods  are  witness. 

Ne'er  did  poor  steward  wear  a  truer  grief 
For  his  undone  lord,  than  mine  eyes  for  you. 

Tim.  What,  dost  thou  weep  ?  —  Come  nearer  ;  — 
then  I  love  thee, 
Because  thou  art  a  woman,  and  disclaim'st 
Flinty  mankind  ;  whose  eyes  do  never  give, 
But  thorough  lust,  and  laughter.      Pity's  sleeping  : 
Strange  times,  that  weep  with  laughing,  not  witli 
weeping  ! 

Flav.  I  beg  of  you  to  know  me,  good  my  lord, 


To  accept  my  grief,  and  whilst  this  pooi  wealth  lasts, 
To  entertain  me  as  your  steward  still. 

Tim.    Had  I  a  steward  so  true,  so  just,  and  now 
So  comfortable  ?  It  almost  turns 
My  dangerous  nature  wild.      Let  me  behold 
Thy  face.  —  Surely,  this  man  was  born  of  woman.  — 
Forgive  my  general  and  exceptless  rashness. 
Perpetual-sober  gods !   I  do  proclaim 
One  honest  man,  —  mistake  me  not,  —  but  one ; 
No  more,  I  pray,  —  and  he  is  a  steward.  — 
How  fain  would  I  have  hated  all  mankind. 
And  thou  redeem'st  thyself:    But  all,  save  thee, 
I  fell  with  curses. 

Methinks,  thou  art  more  honest  now,  than  wise  ; 
For,  by  oppressing  and  betraying  me. 
Thou  mightst  have  sooner  got  another  service  : 
For  many  so  arrive  at  second  masters, 
Upon  their  first  lord's  neck.     But  tell  me  true, 
(For  I  must  ever  doubt,  though  ne'er  so  sure,) 
Is  not  thy  kindness  subtle,  covetous, 
If  not  a  usuring  kindness :  and  as  rich  men  deal  gifts, 
Expecting  in  return  twenty  for  one  ? 

Flav.  No,  my  most  worthy  master,  in  whose  breast 
Doubt  and  suspect,  alas,  are  plac'd  too  late  : 
You  should  have  fear'd  false  times,  when  you  did  feast : 
Suspect  still  comes  where  an  estate  is  least. 
That  which  I  show,  heaven  knows,  is  merely  love. 
Duty  and  zeal  to  your  unmatched  mind. 
Care  of  your  food  and  living :  and,  believe  it, 
My  most  honour'd  lord. 
For  any  benefit  that  points  to  me, 
Either  in  hope,  or  present,  I'd  exchange 
For  this  one  wish.  That  you  had  power  and  wealth 
To  requite  me,  by  making  rich  yourself- 

Tim.  Look  thee,  'tis  so !  — Thou  singly  honest  man. 
Here  take  :  —  the  gods  out  of  my  misery 
Have  sent  thee  treasure.    Go,  live  rich,  and  happy  : 
But  thus  condition'd  ;  Thou  shalt  build  from  men  9; 
Hate  all,  curse  all :   show  charity  to  none ; 
But  let  the  famish'd  flesh  slide  from  the  bone. 
Ere  thou  relieve  the  beggar :  give  to  dogs 
What  thou  deny'st  to  men  ;  let  prisons  swallow  them, 
Debts  wither  them  :    Be  men  like  blasted  woods. 
And  may  diseases  lick  up  their  false  bloods ! 
And  so  farewell,  and  thrive. 

Flav.  O,  let  me  stay. 

And  comfort  you,  my  master. 

Tim,  If  thou  hat'st 

Curses,  stay  not ;  fly,  whilst  thou'rt  bless'd  and  free: 
Ne'er  see  thou  man,  and  let  me  ne'er  see  thee. 

[^Exeunt  severally. 


ACT  V, 


SCENE  I.  —  Before  Timon's  Cave. 
Enter  Poet  and  Painter ;  Timon  behind,  unseen. 

Pain.  As  I  took  note  of  the  place,  it  cannot  be 
far  where  he  abides. 

Poet  What's  to  be  thought  of  him  ?  Does  tlie 
rumour  hold  for  true,  that  he  is  so  full  of  gold  ? 

Pain.  Certain :  Alcibiades  reports  it ;  and  he 
enriched  poor  straggling  soldiers  with  great  quan- 
tity :  *Tis  said,  he  gave  unto  his  steward  a  mighty 
sum. 

Poet.  Then  this  breaking  of  his  has  been  but  a 
try  for  his  friends. 

•  How  happily. 


Pain.  Nothing  else  :  you  shall  see  him  a  palm  in 
Athens  again,  and  flourish  with  the  highest.  There- 
fore, 'tis  not  amiss,  we  tender  our  loves  to  him,  in 
this  supposed  distress  of  his :  it  will  show  honestly 
in  us ;  and  is  very  likely  to  load  our  purposes  with 
what  they  travel  for,  if  it  be  a  just  and  true  report 
that  goes  of  his  having. 

Poet.   What  have  you  now  to  present  unto  him  ? 

Pain.  Nothing  at  this  time  but  my  visitation  : 
only  I  will  promise  him  an  excellent  piece. 

Poet.  I  must  serve  him  so  too ;  tell  him  of  an 
intent  tliat's  coming  toward  him. 

Pain.   Good  as  the  best.      Promising  is  the  very 
•  Away  from  human  habitation. 
Tt 


64.2 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  V. 


air  o'the  time :  it  opens  the  eyes  of  expectation  : 
performance  is  ever  the  duller  for  his  act;  and,  but 
in  the  plainer  and  simpler  kind  of  people,  the  deed 
of  saying  '  is  quite  out  of  use.  To  promise  is  most 
courtly  and  fashionable :  performance  is  a  kind  of 
will  or  testament,  which  argues  a  great  sickness  in 
his  judgment  that  makes  it. 

Tim.  Excellent  workman  !  Thou  canst  not  paint 
a  man  so  bad  as  is  thyself. 

Poet.  I  am  thinking,  what  I  shall  say  I  have 
provided  for  him  :  It  must  be  a  personating  of 
himself:  a  satire  against  the  softness  of  prosperity ; 
with  a  discovery  of  the  infinite  flatteries,  that  follow 
youth  and  opulency. 

Tim.  Must  thou  needs  stand  for  a  villain  in  thine 
own  work  ?  Wilt  thou  whip  thine  own  faults  in 
other  men  ?  Do  so,  I  have  gold  for  thee. 

Poet.   Nay,  let's  seek  him : 
Then  do  we  sin  against  our  own  estate, 
When  we  may  profit  meet,  and  come  too  late. 

Pain.  True; 
When  the  day  serves,  before  black- comer'd  night, 
Find  what  thou  want'st,  by  free  and  oiFer'd  light. 
Come. 

Tim.  I'll  meet  you  at  the  turn.   What  a  god's  gold, 
That  he  is  worshipp'd  in  a  baser  temple, 
Than  where  swine  feed  ! 
'Tis  thou  that  rigg'st  the  bark,  and  plough'st  the 

foam  ; 
Settlest  admired  reverence  in  a  slave  : 
To  thee  be  worship !  and  thy  saints  for  aye 
Be  crown'd  with  plagues,  that  thee  alone  obey  ! 
'Fit  I  do  meet  them.  [^Advancing. 

Poet,   Hail,  worthy  Timon ! 

Pain.  Our  late  noble  master. 

Tim.   Have  I  once  liv'd  to  see  two  honest  men  ? 

Poet.  Sir, 
Having  often  of  your  open  bounty  tasted. 
Hearing  you  were  retired,  your  friends  fall'n  off. 
Whose  thankless  natures  —  O  abhorred  spirits  ! 
Not  all  the  whips  of  heaven  are  large  enough  — 
What !  to  you  ! 

Whose  star-like  nobleness  gave  life  and  influence 
To  their  whole  being  !  I'm  rapt,  and  cannot  cover 
The  monstrous  bulk  of  this  ingratitude 
With  any  size  of  words. 

Tim.   Let  it  go  naked,  men  may  see't  the  better: 
You,  that  are  honest,  by  being  what  you  are, 
Make  them  best  seen,  and  known. 

Pain.  He,  and  myself, 

Have  travell'd  in  the  great  shower  of  your  gifts. 
And  sweetly  felt  it. 

Tim.  Ay,  you  are  honest  men. 

Pain.   We  are  hither  come  to  offer  you  our  service. 

Tim.   Most  honest  men  !  Why,  how  shall   I  re- 
quite you  ? 
Can  you  eat  roots,  and  drink  cold  water  ?  no. 

Both.  What  we  can  do,  we'll  do,  to  do  you  service. 

Tim.   You  are  honest  men  :    You  have  heard  that 
I  have  gold :. 
I  am  sure  you  have :  speak  truth :  you  are  honest 
men. 

Pain.  So  it  is  said,  my  noble  lord  :  but  therefore 
Came  not  my  friend,  nor  I. 

Tim.  Good  honest  men :  —  Thou  draw'st  a  coun- 
terfeit 'i 
Best  in  all  Athens :   thou  art,  indeed,  the  best ; 
Thou  counterfeit'st  most  lively. 

'  The  doing  of  that  we  said  we  would  do. 
'  A  portrait  was  so  called. 


Pain.  So,  so,  my  lord. 

Tim.   Even  so,  sir,  as  I  say :  —  And,  for  thy  fic- 
tion, [  To  the  Poet. 
Why  thy  verse  swells  with  stuff  so  fine  and  sm.'oth, 
That  thou  art  even  natural  in  thine  art.  — 
But,  for  all  this,  my  honest-natur'd  friends, 
I  must  needs  say,  you  have  a  little  fault : 
Marry,  'tis  not  monstrous  in  you ;  neither  wish  I, 
You  take  much  pains  to  mend. 

Both.  Beseech  your  honour, 

To  make  it  known  to  us. 

Tim.  You'll  take  it  ill. 

Both.   Most  thankfully,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Will  you,  indeed  ? 

Both.   Doubt  it  not,  worthy  lord. 

Tim.  There's  ne'er  a  one  of  you  but  trusts  a  knave, 
That  mightily  deceives  you. 

Both.  Do  we,  my  lord  ? 

Tim.    Ay,  and  you  hear  him  cog,  see  him  dis- 
semble. 
Know  his  gross  patchery,  love  him,  feed  him. 
Keep  in  your  bosom  :  yet  remain  assur'd, 
That  he's  a  made-up  villain.  3 

Pain.   I  know  none  such,  my  lord. 

Poet.  Nor  I. 

Tim.   Look  you,  I  love  you  well ;   I'll  give  you 
gold. 
Rid  me  these  villains  from  your  companies  : 
Hang  them,  or  stab  them,  drown  them  in  a  draught. 
Confound  them  by  some  course,  and  come  to  me, 
I'll  give  you  gold  enough. 

Both.    Name  them,  my  lord,  let's  know  them. 

Tim.   You  that  way,   and  you  this,  but  two  in 
company :  — 
Each  man  apart,  all  single  and  alone, 
Yet  an  arch-villain  keeps  him  company. 
If,  where  thou  art,  two  villains  shall  not  be, 

[To  the  Painter. 
Come  not  near  him.  —  If  thou  wouldst  not  reside 

[To  the  Poet. 
But  where  one  villain  is,  then  him  abandon,  — 
Hence  !  pack  !  there's  gold,  ye  came  for  gold,  ye 

slaves : 
You  have  done   work   for  me,  there's   payment : 

Hence ! 
You  are  an  alchemist,  make  gold  of  that : 
Out,  rascal  dogs ! 

\_Exil,  heating  and  driving  them  out* 

SCENE  U.^  The  same. 
Enter  Flavius,  and  two  Senators. 
Flav.   It  is  in  vain  that  you  would  speak  with 
Timon ; 
For  he  is  set  so  only  to  himself. 
That  nothing  but  himself,  which  looks  like  man. 
Is  friendly  with  him. 

1  Sen.  Bring  us  to  his  cave  : 
It  is  our  part,  and  promise  to  the  Athenians, 
To  speak  with  Timon. 

2  Sen.  At  all  times  alike 

Men  are  not  still  the  same  :   'Twas  time,  and  griefs. 
That  fram'd  him  thus  :   time,  with  his  fairer  hand. 
Offering  the  fortunes  of  his  former  days. 
The  former  man  may  make  him :   Bring  us  to  him, 
A  nd  chance  it  as  it  may. 

Flav.  Here  is  his  cave.  — 

Peace  and  content  be  here !   Lord  Timon  !   Timon ! 
Look  out,  and  speak  to  friends:    The  Athenians, 
3  A  complete,  a  finished  villain. 


I 


Scene  II. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


643 


I 


By  two  of  their  most  reverend  senate,  greet  thee : 
Speak  to  them,  noble  Timon. 

Enter  Timon. 
rim.   Thou  sun,  that  comfort'st,  burn  !  —  Speak, 
and  be  hang'd : 
For  each  true  word,  a  blister  !  and  each  false 
Be  as  a  caut'rizing  to  tlie  root  o'the  tongue, 
Consuming  it  with  speaking  ! 

1  Sen.  Worthy  Timon  — 
Tim.  Of  none  but  such  as  you,  and  you  of  Timon. 

2  Sen.  The  senators  of  Athens  greet  thee,  Timon. 
Tim.   I  thank  them  j  and  would  send  them  back 

the  plague, 
Could  I  but  catch  it  for  them. 

1  Sen.  O,  forget 
What  we  are  sorry  for  ourselves  in  thee. 
The  senators,  with  one  consent  of  love. 
Entreat  thee  back  to  Athens ;  who  have  thought 
On  special  dignities,  which  vacant  lie 

For  thy  best  use  and  wearing. 

2  Sen.  They  confess, 
Toward  thee,  forgetfulness  too  general,  gross : 
Wliich  now  the  publick  body,  —  which  doth  seldom 
Play  the  recanter,  —  feeling  in  itself 

A  lack  of  Timon's  aid,  hath  sense  withal 
Of  its  own  fall,  restraining  aid  to  Timon  : 
And  send  forth  us,  to  make  their  sorrow'd  render'*, 
Together  with  a  recompence  more  fruitful 
Than  tlieir  offence  can  weigh  down  by  the  dram ; 
Ay,  even  such  heaps  and  sums  of  love  and  wealth. 
As  shall  to  thee  blot  out  what  wrongs  were  theirs, 
And  write  in  thee  the  figures  of  their  love. 
Ever  to  read  them  thine. 

Tim.  You  witch  me  in  it ; 

Surprise  me  to  the  very  brink  of  tears : 
Lend  me  a  fool's  heart,  and  a  woman's  eyes, 
And  I'll  beweep  these  comforts,  worthy  senators. 

1  Sen.  Therefore,  so  please  tliee  to  return  with  us. 
And  of  our  Athens  (tliine,  and  ours,)  to  take 

The  captainship,  thou  shalt  be  met  with  thanks, 
Allow'd  *  with  absolute  power,  and  thy  good  name 
Live  with  authority  :  —  so  soon  we  shall  drive  back 
Of  Alcibiades  the  approaches  wild  ; 
Who,  like  a  boar  too  savage,  doth  root  up 
His  country's  peace. 

2  iSm.  And  shakes  his  threat'ning  sword 
Against  the  walls  of  Athens. 

1  Seru  Therefore,  Timon,  — 

Tim.   Well,  sir,  I  will  j  therefore,   I  will,  sirj 
Thus,  — 
If  Alcibiades  kill  my  countrymen. 
Let  Alcibiades  know  this  of  Timon, 
That  —  Timon  cares  not.  But  if  he  sack  fair  Athens, 
And  take  our  goodly  aged  men  by  the  beards. 
Giving  our  holy  virgins  to  the  stain 
Of  contumelious,  b«istly,  mad-brain'd  war  ; 
Then,  let  him  know,  — and  tell  him,  Timon  speaks  it. 
In  pity  of  our  aged,  and  our  youth, 
I  cannot  choose  but  tell  him,  that  —  I  care  not. 
And  let  him  take't  at  worst ;  for  their  knives  care 

not 
While  you  have  throats  to  answer  :   for  myself. 
There's  not  a  wliittle  6  in  the  unruly  camp, 
But  I  do  prize  it  at  my  love,  before 
The  reverend'st  throat  in  Athens.     So  I  leave  you 
To  the  protection  of  the  prosperous  '  gods, 
As  thieves  to  keepers. 
Flav.  Stay  not,  all's  in  vain. 


*  Confession. 

•  A  clasp  knife 


»  Licensed,  uncontrolled. 
'  Propitious. 


Tim.   Why,  I  was  writing  of  my  epitaph. 
It  will  be  seen  to-morrow ;  My  long  sickness 
Of  health,  and  living,  now  begins  to  mend, 
And  nothing  brings  me  all  tilings.      Go,  live  still ; 
Be  Alcibiades  your  plague,  you  his. 
And  last  so  long  enough  ! 

1  Sen.  We  speak  in  vain. 

Tim.    But  yet  I  love  my  country ;  and  am  not 
One  that  rejoices  in  the  common  wreck. 
As  common  bruit «  doth  put  it. 

1  Sen.  That's  well  spoke. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  my  loving  countrymen,  — : 

1  Sen.  These  words  become  your  lips  as  they  pass 

through  them. 

2  Sen.  And  enter  in  our  ears  like  great  tridmphers 
In  their  applauding  gates. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  them  ; 

And  tell  them,  that  to  ease  them  of  their  griefs. 
Their  fears  of  hostile  strokes,  tlieir  aches,  losses. 
Their  pangs  of  love,  with  other  incident  throes 
That  nature's  fragile  vessel  doth  sustain 
In  life's  uncertain  voyage,  I  will  some  kindness  do 

them : 
I'll  teach  them  to  prevent  wild  Alcibiades'  wrath. 

2  Sen.   I  like  tliis  well,  he  will  return  again. 

Tim.   I  have  a  tree,  which  grows  here  in  my  close, 
That  mine  own  use  invites  me  to  cut  down. 
And  shortly  must  I  fell  it :   Tell  my  friends, 
Tell  Athens  in  the  sequence  of  degree, 
From  high  to  low  throughout,  that  whoso  please 
To  stop  affliction,  let  him  take  his  haste. 
Come  hither,  ere  my  tree  hath  felt  the  axe, 
And  hang  himself:  —  I  pray  you,  do  my  greeting. 

Flav.  Trouble  him  no  further,  thus  you  still  shall 
find  him. 

Tim.   Come  not  to  me  again :  but  say  to  Athens, 
Timon  hath  made  his  everlasting  mansion 
Upon  the  beached  verge  of  the  salt  flood  ; 
Which  once  a  day  with  his  embossed  froth 
The  turbulent  surge  shall  cover ;  thither  come, 
And  let  my  grave-stone  be  your  oracle.  — 
Lips,  let  sour  words  go  by,  and  language  end  : 
What  is  amiss,  plague  and  infection  mend  ! 
Graves  only  be  men's  works ;  and  death,  their  gain  ! 
Sun,  hide  thy  beams !   Timon  hath  done  his  reign. 

{Exit  TiMON 

1  Sen.   His  discontents  are  unremoveaI)ly 
Coupled  to  nature. 

2  Sen.   Our  hope  in  him  is  dead  :   let  us  return. 
And  strain  what  other  means  is  left  unto  us 

In  our  dears  peril. 

1  Sen.  It  requires  swifl  foot.   [Eixunt* 

SCENE  lU.^The  Walls  of  Athene 
Enter  two  Senators,  and  a  Messengen 

1  Sen.  Thou  hast  painfully  discovered ;  are  his  files 
As  full  as  thy  report  ? 

Mess.  I  have  spoke  the  least : 

Besides,  his  expedition  promises 
Present  approach. 

2  Sen.  We  stand  much  hazard,  if  they  bring  not 

Timon. 
Mess.  I  met  a  courier,  one  mine  ancient  friend ;  — 
Whom,  though  in  general  part  we  were  oppos'd. 
Yet  our  old  love  made  a  particular  force, 
And  made  us  speak  like  friends :  —  this  man  was 

riding 
From  Alcibiades  to  Timon's  cave. 
With  letters  of  entreaty,  which  imported 
'  Report,  rumour.  *  Dreadful 

Tt  2 


644. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Act  V. 


His  fellowship  i'the  cause  against  your  city, 
In  part  for  his  sake  mov'd. 

Enter  Senators  from  Timon. 

1  Sen.  Here  come  our  brothers. 

2  Sen.   No  talk  of  Timon,  nothing  of  him  ex- 

pect. — 
The  enemies'  drum  is  heard,  and  fearful  scouring 
Doth  choke  the  air  with  dust :  in  and  prepare  ; 
Ours  is  the  fall,  I  fear ;  our  foes,  the  snare. 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.^  The  Woods.     Tlmon' s  Cave,  and  a 
Tomb-stone  seen. 

Enter  a  Soldier,  seeking  Timow. 

Sol.   By  all  description  this  should  be  the  place. 

"Who's  here  ?  speak,  ho  !  —  No  answer  ?  —  What  is 

this? 
Timon  is  dead,  who  hath  outstretch'd  his  span  : 
Some  beast  rear'd  this ;  there  does  not  live  a  man. 
Dead,  sure  ;  and  this  his  grave.  — 
What's  on  this  tomb  I  cannot  read ;  the  character 
I'll  take  with  wax. 

Our  captain  hath  in  every  figure  skill ; 
An  ag'd  interpreter,  though  young  in  days : 
Before  proud  Athens  he's  set  down  by  this. 
Whose  fall  the  mark  of  his  ambition  is.  {^Exit. 

SCENE  V.  —  Before  the  Walls  of  Athens. 
Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Alcibiades,  and  Forces. 
Alcib.   Sound  to  this  coward  and  lascivious  town 
Our  terrible  approach.  \_A  Parley  sounded. 

Enter  Senators  on  the  Walls. 
Till  now  you  have  gone  on,  and  fill'd  the  time 
With  all  licentious  measure,  making  your  wills 
The  scope  of  justice;  till  now,  myself,  and  such 
As  slept  within  the  shadow  of  your  power. 
Have   wander'd    with    our   travers'd    arms  i,    and 

breath'd 
Our  sufferance  vainly ;   Now  the  time  is  flush  % 
When  crouching  marrow,  in  the  bearer  strong, 
Cries,  of  itself.  No  more  :  now  breathless  wrong, 
Shall  sit  and  pant  in  your  great  chairs  of  ease ; 
And  pursy  insolence  shall  break  his  wind, 
With  fear  and  horrid  flight. 

1  Sen.  Noble  and  young, 
When  thy  first  griefs  were  but  a  mere  conceit, 
Ere  thou  hadst  power,  or  we  had  cause  of  fear. 
We  sent  to  thee ;  to  give  thy  rages  balm. 

To  wipe  out  our  ingratitude  with  loves 
Above  their  quantity. 

2  Sen.  So  did  we  woo 
Transformed  Timon  to  our  city's  love. 

By  humble  message,  and  by  promis'd  means ; 
We  were  not  all  unkind,  nor  all  deserve 
The  common  stroke  of  war. 

1  Sen.  These  walls  of  ours 
Were  not  erected  by  their  hands,  from  whom 
You  have  receiv'd  your  griefs :  nor  are  they  such. 
That  these  great  towers,  trophies,  and  schools  should 

fall 
For  private  faults  in  them. 

2  Sen.  Nor  are  they  living 
Who  were  the  motives  that  you  first  went  out ; 
Shame,  that  they  wanted  cuiming,  in  excess 
Hath  broke  their  hearts.      March,  noble  lord. 
Into  our  city  with  thy  banners  spread : 

By  decimation,  and  a  tithed  death, 
(If  thy  revenges  hunger  for  that  food, 

1  Arms  across.  2  Mature. 


Which  nature  loathes,)  take  thou  the  destin'd  tenth ; 
And  by  the  hazard  of  the  spotted  die. 
Let  die  the  spotted. 

1  Sen.  All  have  not  offended  ; 
For  those  that  were,  it  is  not  square  3  to  take. 
On  those  that  are,  revenges :   crimes,  like  lands. 
Are  not  inherited.      Then,  dear  countryman. 
Bring  in  thy  ranks,  but  leave  without  thy  rage  : 
Spare  thy  Athenian  cradle,  and  those  kin. 
Which,  in  the  bluster  of  thy  wrath,  must  fall 
With  those  that  have  offended :   like  a  shepherd, 
Approach  the  fold,  and  cull  the  infected  forth, 
But  kill  not  all  together. 

2  5fen.  What  thou  wilt, 
Thou  rather  shalt  enforce  it  with  thy  smile. 
Than  hew  to't  with  thy  sword. 

1  Sen.  Set  but  thy  foot 
Against  our  rampir'd  gates,  and  they  shall  ope ; 
So  thou  wilt  send  thy  gentle  heart  before. 

To  say,  thou'lt  enter  friendly. 

2  Sen.  Throw  thy  glove  j 
Or  any  token  of  thine  honour  else. 

That  thou  wilt  use  the  wars  as  thy  redress, 
And  not  as  our  confusion,  all  thy  powers 
Shall  make  their  harbour  in  our  town,  till  we 
Have  seal'd  thy  full  desire. 

Aldb.  Then  there's  my  glove ; 

Descend,  and  open  your  uncharged  ports  "* ; 
Those  enemies  of  Timon's,  and  mine  own. 
Whom  you  yourselves  shall  set  out  for  reproof. 
Fall,  and  no  more  :  and,  —  to  atone  5  your  fears 
With  my  more  noble  meaning,  — not  a  man 
Shall  pass  his  quarter,  or  offend  the  stream 
Of  regular  justice  in  your  city's  bounds. 
But  shall  be  remedied,  to  your  publick  laws 
At  heaviest  answer. 

Both.  'Tis  most  nobly  spoken. 

Alcib.   Descend,  and  keep  your  words. 

The  Senators  descend,  and  ojyen  the  Gates. 
Enter  a  Soldier. 

iSb^.  My  noble  general,  Timon  is  dead ; 
Entomb'd  upon  the  very  hem  o'the  sea ; 
And  on  his  gravestone,  this  insculpture  ;  which 
With  wax  I  brought  away,  whose  soft  impression 
Interprets  for  my  poor  ignorance. 

Alcih.    [Reads.]    Here   lies  a  wretched  corse,  of 

wretched  soul  bereft  : 
Seek  not  my  name  :    A  plague  consume  you  wicked 

caitiff's  left ! 
Here  lie  I,  Timon  ;  who,  alive,  all  living  men  did  hate  : 
Pass  by,  and  curse  thy  fU ;  but  pass,  and  stay  not 

here  thy  gait. 
These  well  express  in  thee  thy  latter  spirits , 
Though  thou  abhorr'dst  in  us  our  human  griefs, 
Scorn'dst  our  brain's  flow,  and  those  our  droplets 

which 
From  niggard  nature  fall,  yet  rich  conceit 
Taught  thee  to  make  vast  Neptune  weep  for  aye 
On  thy  low  grave,  on  faults  forgiven.      Dead 
Is  noble  Timon  ;  of  whose  memory 
Hereafter  more.  —  Bring  me  into  your  city, 
And  I  will  use  the  olive  with  my  sword : 
Make  war  breed  peace ;  make  peace  stint "  war ; 

make  each 
Prescribe  to  other,  as  each  other's  leech.  7 
Let  our  drums  strike.  [Exeunt. 

3  Not  regular,  not  equitable.  *  Unattecked  gates. 

5  Reconcile.  «  Stop.  ?  Physician. 


fo"" 


COKIOLANUS. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus,  a  noble  Roman. 

Titus  Lartius 

cominius, 

Menekius  Agrippa,  Friend  to  Coriolanus. 

SiciNius  Velutus, 

Junius  Brutus, 

Young  Marcius,  Son  to  Coriolanus 

A  Roman  Herald. 

TuLLus  AuFiDius,  General  of  the  Volscians. 

Lieutenant  to  Aufidius. 

Conspirators  with  Aufidius. 

SCENE,  partly  in  Rome,  and  partly  in  the  Territories  of  the  Volscians  and  Antiates 


J-  Generah  against  the  Volscians. 
A,  Friend  to  Coriolanus. 
j-  Tribunes  of  the  People. 


A  Citizen  of  Antium. 
Tivo  Volscian  Guards. 

VoLUMNiA,  Mother  to  Coriolanus. 
ViRGiLiA,  Wife  to  Coriolanus. 
Valeria,  Friend  to  Virgilia. 
Gentlewoman  attending  Virgilia. 

Roman  and  Volscian  Senators,  Patricians,  AUdi/es, 
Lictors,  Soldiers,  Citizens,  Messengers,  Servants  to 
Aufidius,  and  other  Attendants. 


^ 


HK   TrjIlNS    AWAT  ; 
POWSJ.   TAClffS       I.FT   D8    SHAMB    HIM    WIl  H    OCR    KNECB. 

CORIOLANUS. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.  —  Rome.      A  Street. 

Enter  a  Company  of  mutinous  Citizens,  with  Slaves, 
Clubs,  and  other  Weapons. 

1  Cit.  Before  we  proceed  any  further,  hear  me 
speak. 

Cit.   Speak,  speak.  [Several  speakiiig  at  once. 

1  Cit.  You  are  all  resolved  rather  to  die,  than  to 
famish  ? 

Cit.   Resolved,  resolved. 

1  C7/.  First,  you  know,  Caius  Marcius  is  chief 
enemy  to  the  people. 

Cit.   We  know't,  we  know't. 

1  Cit.  Let  us  kill  him,  and  we'll  have  corn  at  our 
own  price.      Is't  a  verdict? 

Cit.  No  more  talking  on't ;  let  it  be  done  :  away, 
away. 

2  Cit.   One  word,  good  citizens. 

1  Cit.  We  are  accounted  poor  citizens ;  the  pa- 
tricians, good  ' :  What  authority  surfeits  on,  would 
relieve  us;  If  they  would  yield  us  but  the  super- 
fluity, while  it  were  wholesome,  we  might  guess, 
they  relieved  us  humanely  !  but  they  think,  we  are 
too  dear :  the  leanness  that  afflicts  us,  tlie  object  of 
our  misery,  is  an  inventory  to  particularize  their 
abundance  ;  our  sufferance  is  a  gain  to  them.  — 
Let  us  revenge  this  witli  our  pikes,  ere  we  become 
rakes '-' :  for  the  gods  know,  I  speak  this  in  hunger 
for  bread,  not  in  thirst  for  revenge. 

2  Cit.  Would  you  proceed  especially  against  Caius 
Marcius  ? 

Cit.  Against  him  first;  he's  a  very  dog  to  the 
commonalty. 

»  Rich.  »  Thin  aa  raVcs. 


2  Cit.  Consider  you  what  services  he  has  done  for 
his  country  ? 

1  CU.  Very  well  ;  and  could  be  content  to  give 
him  good  report  for't,  but  that  he  pays  himself  with 
being  proud. 

2  Cit.    Nay,  but  speak  not  maliciously. 

1  Cit.  I  say  unto  you,  what  he  hath  done  famously, 
he  did  it  to  that  end  :  though  soft  conscienc'd  men 
can  be  content  to  say  it  was  for  his  country,  he 
did  it  to  please  his  mother,  and  to  be  partly  proud  j 
which  he  is,  even  to  the  altitude  of  his  virtue. 

2  Cit.  What  he  cannot  help  in  his  nature,  you 
account  a  vice  in  him  :  You  must  in  no  way  say,  he 
is  covetous. 

1  Cit.  If  I  must  not,  I  need  not  be  barren  of 
accusations  ;  he  hath  faults,  with  surplus,  to  tire  in 
repetition.  \SlunUsu'ithin.'\  What  shouts  are  these? 
The  other  side  o'the  city  is  risen  :  Why  stay  we 
prating  here?  to  the  Capitol. 

Cit.   Come,  come. 

1  CU.   Soft ;  wlio  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Menenius  Agrifpa. 

2  Cit.  Worthy  IMenenius  Agnppa;  one  that  hath 
always  loved  the  people. 

1  Cit.  He's  one  honest  enough  ;  'Would,  all  the 
rest  were  so ! 

Men.   What  work's,  my  countrymen,  in  hand  ? 
Where  go  you 
With  bats  and  clubs  ?  Tlie  matter  speak,  I  pray  you. 

1  Cit.  Our  business  is  not  unknown  to  the  senate ; 
they  have  had  inkling,  this  fortnight,  what  we  intend 
to  do,  wliich  now  we'll  show  *em  in  deeds.  They 
say,  poor  suitors  have  strong  breaths  ;  they  shall 
know,  we  have  strong  arms  too. 


646 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  I. 


Men.  Why,  masters,  my  good  friends,  mine  honest 
neighbours, 
Will  you  undo  yourselves  ? 

1  Cit.   We  cannot,  sir,  we  are  undone  already. 

Men.    I  tell  you,  friends,  most  charitable  care 
Have  the  patricians  of  you.      For  your  wants, 
Your  suffering  in  this  dearth,  you  may  as  well 
Strike  at  tlie  heaven  with  your  staves,  as  lift  them 
Against  the  Roman  state ;  whose  course  will  on 
The  way  it  takes,  cracking  ten  thousand  curbs 
Of  more  strong  link  asunder,  than  can  ever 
A  ppear  in  your  impediment :    For  the  dearth. 
The  gods,  not  the  patricians,  make  it ;  and 
Your  knees  to  them,  not  arms,  must  help.      Alack, 
You  are  transported  by  calamity 
Thither  where  more  attends  you  ;  and  you  slander 
The  helms  o'the  state,  who  care  for  you  like  fathers, 
When  you  curse  them  as  enemies. 

1  Cit.  Care  for  us  !  —  True,  indeed  !  —  They  ne'er 
cared  for  us  yet.  Suffer  us  to  famish,  and  their 
storehouses  crammed  with  grain ;  make  edicts  for 
usury,  to  support  usurers  :  repeal  daily  any  whole- 
some act  established  against  the  rich ;  and  provide 
more  piercing  statutes  daily,  to  chain  up  and  re- 
strain the  poor.  If  the  wars  eat  us  not  up,  they 
will ;  and  there's  all  the  love  they  bear  us. 

Men.   Either  you  must 
Confess  yourselves  wondrous  malicious, 
Or  be  accus'd  of  folly.      I  shall  tell  you 
A  pretty  tale  ;  it  may  be,  you  have  heard  it ; 
But,  since  it  serves  my  purpose,  I  will  venture 
To  scale't^  a  little  more. 

1  Cit.  Well,  I'll  hear  it,  sir  :  yet  you  must  not 
think  to  fob  off  our  disgrace  with  a  tale :  but,  an't 
please  ycu,  deliver. 

Men.   There  was  a  time,   when   all   the   body's 
members 
Rebell'd  against  the  belly  ;  thus  accus'd  it :  — 
That  only  like  a  gulf  it  did  remain 
I'  the  midst  o'  the  body,  idle  and  inactive. 
Still  cupboarding  the  viand,  never  bearing 
Like  labour  with  the  rest ;  where  "i  the  other  instru- 
ments 
Did  see,  and  hear,  devise,  instruct,  walk,  feel. 
And,  mutually  participate,  did  minister 
Unto  the  appetite  and  affection  common 
Of  the  whole  body.      The  belly  answered,  — 

1  Cit.   Well,  sir,  what  answer  made  the  belly  ? 

Men.  Sir,  I  shall  tell  you.  — With  a  kind  of  smile, 
Which  ne'er  came  from  the  lungs,  but  even  thus, 
(For,  look  you,  I  may  make  the  belly  smile, 
As  well  as  speak,)  it  tauntingly  replied 
To  the  discontented  members,  the  mutinous  parts 
That  envied  his  receipt ;  even  so  most  fitly  ^ 
As  you  malign  our  senators,  for  that 
They  are  not  such  as  you. 

1  Cit.                           Your  belly's  answer  :   What 
The  kingly-crowned  head,  the  vigilant  eye. 
The  counsellor  heart,  the  arm  our  soldier, 
Our  steed  the  leg,  the  tongue  our  trumpeter. 
With  other  muniments  and  petty  helps 
In  this  our  fabrick,  if  that  they 

Men.  What  then  ?  — 

'Fore  me,  this  fellow  speaks  ?  —  What  then  ?  what 
then? 

1  Cit.   Should   by   the   cormorant   belly  be   re- 
strain'd, 
Who  is  the  sink  o'  the  body, 

Men.  Well,  what  then  ? 

3  Spread  it.  '^  Whereas.  ^  Exactly. 


1  Cit.   The  former  agents,  if  they  did  complain, 
What  could  the  belly  answer? 

Men.  I  will  tell  you  ; 

If  you'll  bestow  a  small  (of  what  you  have  little,) 
Patience,  a  while,  you'll  hear  the  belly's  answer. 

1  at.    You  are  long  about  it. 

Men.  Note  me  this,  good  friend  ; 

Your  most  grave  belly,  was  deliberate, 
Not  rash  like  his  accusers,  and  thus  answer 'd  : 
True  is  it,  my  incorporate  friends,  quoth  he, 
That  I  receive  the  general  food  at  first, 
Which  you  do  live  upon  :  and  fit  it  is ; 
Because  I  am  the  storehouse,  and  the  shop 
Oftlie  whole  body  :   But  if  you  do  remember, 
I  send  it  through  the  rivers  of  your  blood. 
Even  to  the  court,  the  heart,  —  to  the  seat  o'the  brain; 
And,  through  the  cranks^  and  offices  of  man. 
The  strongest  nerves,  and  small  inferior  veins. 
From  me  receive  that  natural  competency 
Whereby  they  live  :  and  though  that  all  at  once. 
You,  my  good  friends,  (thissays  the  belly,)  mark  me, — 

1  Cit.  Ay,  sir,  well,  well. 

Men.  Though  all  at  once  cannot 

See  what  I  do  deliver  out  to  each  ; 
Yet  I  can  make  my  audit  up,  that  all 
From  me  do  back  receive  thefiower  of  all. 
And  leave  me  but  the  bran.     What  say  you  to't  ? 

1  Cit.  It  was  an  answer :   How  apply  you  this  ? 

Men.  The  senators  of  Rome  are  this  good  belly, 
And  you  the  mutinous  members :    For  examine 
Their  counsels,  and  their  cares ;  digest  things  rightly, 
Touching  the  weal  o'  the  common  ;  you  shall  find. 
No  publick  benefit  which  you  receive. 
But  it  proceeds,  or  comes,  from  them  to  you. 
And  no  way  from  yourselves.  —  What  do  you  think  ? 
You  the  great  toe  of  this  assembly  ?  — 

1  Cit.   I  the  great  toe  ?  Why  the  great  toe  ? 

Men.    For   that  being  one  o'the  lowest,  basest, 
poorest. 
Of  this  most  wise  rebellion,  thou  go'st  foremost : 
Thou  rascal,  that  art  worst  in  blood  to  run, 
Lead'st  first  to  win  some  vantage.  — 
But  make  you  ready  your  stiff  bats  and  clubs  ; 
Rome  and  her  rats  are  at  the  point  of  battle, 
The  one  side  must  have  bale.  7  Hail,  noble  Marcius  ! 

Enter  Caius  Marcius. 

Mar.   Thanks.  —  What's  the  matter,  you  dissen- 

tious  rogues? 
1  Cit.  We  have  ever  your  good  word. 

Mar.   He  that  will  give  good  words  to  thee,  will 
flatter 
Beneath  abhorring.  —  What  would  you  have,  you 

curs, 
That  like  nor  peace,  noi  war  ?  the  one  affrights  you, 
The  other  makes  you  proud.      He  that  trusts  you, 
Where  he  should  find  you  lions,  finds  you  hares  ; 
Where  foxes,  geese :    You  are  no  surer,  no. 
Than  is  the  coal  of  fire  upon  the  ice. 
Or  hailstone  in  the  sun.      Your  virtue  is. 
To  make  him  worthy,  whose  offence  subdues  him, 
And  curse  that  justice  did  it.     Who  deserves  great- 
ness. 
Deserves  your  hate :  and  your  affections  are 
A  sick  man's  appetite,  who  desires  most  that 
Which  would  increase  his  evil.     He  that  depends 
Upon  your  favours,  swims  with  fins  of  lead. 
And   hews  down  oaks   with    .-ushes.      Hang   ye  ! 
Trust  ye ! 
6  Windings.  ^  Bane. 


Scene  I. 


CORIOLANUS 


647 


With  every  minute  you  do  change  a  mind  ; 
And  call  him  noble,  that  was  now  your  hate, 
Him  vile,  that  was  your  garland.    What's  tlie  matter, 
That  in  these  several  places  of  the  city 
You  cry  against  the  noble  senate,  who, 
Under  the  gods,  keep  you  in  awe,  which  else 
Would  feed  on  one  another?  — What's  their  seeking? 
Meru    For  corn  at  their  own  rates  j  whereof  they 
say, 
The  city  is  well  stor'd. 

Mar.  Hang  'em  !   They  say  ? 

They'll  sit  by  the  fire,  and  presume  to  know 
What's  done  i'the  Capitol :   who's  like  to  rise, 
Who  thrives,  and  who  declines :  side  factions,  and 

give  out 
Conjectural  marriages ;  making  parties  strong, 
And  feebling  such  as  stand  not  in  tlieir  liking. 
Below  their  cobbled  shoes.     They  say  there's  grain 

enough  ? 
Would  the  nobility  lay  aside  their  ruth  8, 
And  let  me  use  my  sword,  I'd  make  a  quarry  9 
With  tliousands  of  these  quarter'd  slaves,  as  high 
As  I  could  pick  '  my  lance. 

Meiu   Nay,    these  are  almost   thoroughly   per- 
suaded ; 
For  though  abundantly  they  lack  discretion, 
Yet  are  they  passing  cowardly.     But  I  beseech  you, 
What  says  tlie  other  troop  ? 

Mar.  They  are  dissolved  :    Hang  *em  ! 

They  said  they  were  an  hungry ;  sigh'd  forth  pro- 
verbs ;  — 
That,  hunger  broke  stone  walls;  that,  dogs  must  eat; 
That,  meat  was  made  for  mouths ;  that,  the  gods 

sent  not 
Corn  for  the  rich  men  only  :  —  With  these  shreds 
They  vented  their  complainings ;  which  being  an- 

swer'd. 
And  a  petition  granted  them,  a  strange  one, 
(  To  break  the  heart  of  generosity. 
And  make  bold  power  look  pale,)  they  threw  their 

caps 
As  they  would  hang  them  on  the  horns  o'the  moon, 
Shouting  their  emulation. '^ 

Men.  What  is  granted  them  ? 

Mar.    Five    tribunes    to    defend    their  vulgar 
wisdoms. 
Of  their  own  choice  :    One's  Junius  Brutus, 
Sicinius  Velutus,  and  I  know  not  —  'Sdeath  ! 
The  rabble  should  have  first  unroofd  the  city. 
Ere  so  prevail'd  with  me :   it  will  in  time 
Win  upon  power,  and  throw  forth  greater  themes 
For  insurrection's  arguing. 

Meiu  This  is  strange. 

Mar.   Go,  get  you  home,  you  fragments  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   Where's  Caius  Marcius? 
Mar.  Here,  what's  the  matter? 

Mess.   The  news  is,  sir,  the  Voices  are  in  arms. 
Mar.   1  am  glad  on't,  then  we  shall  have  means 
to  vent 
Our  musty  superfluity :  —  See,  our  best  elders. 

Enter  Cominius,  Titus  Lartius,  and  other  Sena- 
tors;  JuNirs  BaoTus,  and  Sicimus  Velutus. 

1  Sen.   Marcius,  'tis  true,  that  you   have  lately 
told  us ; 
The  Voices  are  in  arms. 

"  Pitv.  rompassion  »  Heap  of  dead 

>  Pitch.  «  Faction. 


Mar.  They  have  a  leader, 

Tullus  Aufidius,  that  will  put  you  to't. 
I  sin  in  envying  his  nobility  : 
And  were  I  any  thing  but  what  I  am, 
I  would  wish  me  only  he. 

Com.  You  have  fought  together. 

Mar.   Were  half  to  half  tie  world  by  the  ears, 
and  he 
Upon  my  party,  I'd  revolt  to  make 
Only  my  wars  with  him  :   he  is  a  lion 
That  I  am  proud  to  hunt. 

1  Sen.  Then,  worthy  Mafcius, 

Attend  upon  Cominius  to  these  wars. 
Com.   It  is  your  former  promise. 
Mar.  Sir,  it  is  ; 

And  I  am  constant.  —  Titus  Lartius,  thou 
Shalt  see  ine  once  more  strike  at  Tullus'  face  : 
What,  art  thou  stiff?  stand'st  out  ? 

Tit.  No,  Caius  Marcius, 

I'll  lean  upon  one  crutch,  and  fight  with  the  other. 
Ere  stay  beliiud  this  business. 

Men.  O,  true  bred  ! 

1  Sen.   Your  company  to  the  Capitol :   where,  I 
know. 
Our  greatest  friends  attend  us. 

TU.  Lead  you  on  : 

Follow,  Cominius ;  we  must  follow  you  ; 
Right  worthy  your  priority 

Com.  Noble  Lartius ! 

1  Sen.   Hence !  To  your  homes,  be  gone 

[  To  the  Citizens. 

Mar.  Nay,  let  them  follow  : 

The  Voices  have  much  corn  ;  take  these  rats  thither, 

To  gnaw  their  garners  ^  :  —  Worshipful  mutineers, 

Your  valour  puts  well  forth  :   pray,  follow. 

[Exeunt  Senators,  Com.  Mar.  Tit.  and 
Menek.      Citizens  steal  away. 
Sic.   Was  ever  man  so  proud  as  is  tliis  Marcius  ? 
Jiru.   He  has  no  equal. 
Sic.   When   we   were    chosen   tribunes   for  the 

people, 

Bru.   Mark'd  you  his  lip,  and  eyes  ? 

Sic.  Nay,  but  his  taunts. 

Bru.  Being  mov'd,  he  will  not  spare  to  gird*  the 

gods. 
Sic.   Bemock  the  modest  moon. 
Brtc.   The  present  wars  devour  him :  he  is  grown 
Too  proud  to  be  so  valiant. 

Sic.  Such  a  nature. 

Tickled  with  good  success,  disdains  the  shadow 
Which  he  treads  on  at  noon  :    But  I  do  wonder. 
His  insolence  can  brook  to  be  commanded 
Under  Cominius. 

Bru.  Fame,  at  the  which  he  aims,  — 

In  whom  already  he  is  well  grac'd,  —  cannot 
Better  be  held,  nor  more  attain'd  than  by 
A  place  below  the  first :   for  what  miscarries 
Shall  be  the  general's  fault,  though  he  perform 
To  the  utmost  of  a  man  ;  and  giddy  censure 
Will  then  cry  out  of  Marcius,  O,  if  he 
Had  borne  the  business  I 

Sic.  Besides,  if  things  go  well. 

Opinion,  that  so  sticks  on  Marcius,  shall 
Of  his  demerits  *  rob  Cominius. 

Bru.  Come : 

Half  all  Cominius'  honours  are  to  Marcius 
Though    Marcius   earn'd    tlicm    not;   and  all    his 
faults 


'  Granaries. 

*  Demerits  and  Tn:>rits  had  anciently  the  same  mMoing. 
Tt  4 


6i& 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  I. 


To  Marcius  shall  be  honours,  though,  indeed, 
In  aught  he  merit  not. 

Sic.  Let's  hence,  and  hear 

How  the  despatch  is  made  ;  and  in  what  fashion, 
More  than  in  singularity,  he  goes 
Upon  his  present  action. 

£ru.  Let's  along.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Corioli.      The  Senate- House. 

Enter  Tullus  Aufidius,  and  certain  Senators. 

1  Sen.   So,  your  opinion  is,  Aufidius, 
That  they  of  Rome  are  enter'd  in  our  counsels. 
And  know  how  we  proceed. 

^uf.  Is  it  not  yours  ? 

What  ever  hath  been  thought  on  in  this  state, 
That  could  be  brought  to  bodily  act,  ere  Rome 
Had  circumvention?  'Tis  not  four  days  gone. 
Since  I  heard  thence ;  these  are  the  words :  I  think, 
I  have  the  letter  here  ;  yes,  here  it  is  :  [Reads. 

They  have  pressed  a  power,  but  it  is  not  known 
Whether  for  east,  or  west :    The  dearth  is  great  ; 
IVie  people  mutinous  :   and  it  is  rumour  d, 
Cominius,  Marcius,  your  old  enemy, 
(  Who  is  of  Rome  worse  hated  than  of  you,) 
And  Titus  Lartius,  a  most  valiant  RomMUi 
These  three  lead  on  this  preparation 
Whither  'tis  bent ;  most  likely,  'tis  for  you  : 
Consider  of  it. 

1  Sen.  Our  army's  in  the  field : 

We  never  yet  made  doubt  but  Rome  was  ready 
To  answer  us. 

Auf.  Nor  did  you  think  it  folly, 

To  keep  your  great  pretences  veil'd,  till  when 
They  needs  must  show  themselves ;  which  in  the 

hatching, 
It  seem'd,  appear' d  to  Rome.      By  the  discovery, 
We  shall  be  shorten'd  in  our  aim ;  which  was. 
To  take  in  6  many  towns,  ere,  almost,  Rome 
Should  know  we  were  afoot. 

2  Sen.  Noble  Aufidius, 
Take  your  commission  ;  hie  you  to  yoiu-  bands : 
Let  us  alone  to  guard  Corioli ; 

If  they  set  down  before  us,  for  the  femove 
Bring  up  your  army ;  but,  I  think,  you'll  find 
They  have  not  prepar'd  for  us. 

Auf.  O,  doubt  not  that  j 

I  speak  from  certainties.      Nay,  more. 
Some  parcels  of  their  powers  are  forth  already. 
And  only  hitherward.      I  leave  your  honours. 
If  we  and  Caius  Marcius  chance  to  meet, 
'Tis  sworn  between  us,  we  shall  never  strike 
Till  one  can  do  no  more. 

All.  The  gods  assist  you  ! 

Auf.   And  keep  your  honours  safe ! 

1  Sen.  Farewell. 

2  Sen.  Farewell. 
All.   Farewell.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IIL 


Rome.     An  Apartment  in  Mar- 
cius' House. 


Enter  Volumnia  and  Vibgilia  :    They  sit  down  on 
two  low  Stools,  and  sew. 
Vol.  I  pray  you,  daughter,  sing  ;  or  express  your- 
self in  a  more  comfortable  sort ;    If  my  son  were 
my  husband,  I  should  freelier  rejoice  in  that  absence 
wherein  he  won  honour,  than  in  the  embracements 
6  To  subdue. 


where  he  would  show  most  love.  When  yet  he 
was  but  tender-bodied,  and  was  my  only  son  ;  when 
youth  with  comeliness  plucked  all  gaze  his  way ; 
when  for  a  day  of  kings'  entreaties,  a  mother  should 
not  sell  him  an  hour  from  her  beholding ;  I,  — 
considering  how  honour  would  become  sucli  a 
person ;  that  it  was  no  better  than  picture-like  to 
hang  by  the  wall,  if  renown  made  it  not  stir,  — was 
pleased  to  let  him  seek  danger  where  he  was  like  to 
find  fame.  To  a  cruel  war  1  sent  him  ;  from  whence 
he  returned,  his  brows  bound  with  oak.  I  tell  thee, 
daughter,  —  I  sprang  not  more  in  joy  at  first  hearing 
he  was  a  man-child,  than  now,  in  first  seeing  he  had 
proved  himself  a  man. 

Fir.  But  had  he  died  in  the  business,  madam  ? 
how  then? 

Vol.  Then  his  good  report  should  have  been  my 
son  ;  I  therein  would  have  found  issue.  Hear  me 
profess  sincerely  :  Had  I  a  dozen  sons,  —  each  in 
my  love  alike,  and  none  less  dear  than  thine  and  my 
good  Marcius,  —  I  had  rather  had  eleven  die  nobly 
for  their  country,  than  one  voluptuously  surfeit  out 
of  action. 

Enter  a  Gentlewoman. 

Gent,   Madam,  the  lady  Valeria  is  come  to  visit 
you. 

Vir.  'Beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to  retire  myself. 

Vol.   Indeed,  you  shall  not. 
Methinks,  I  hear  hither  your  husband's  drum  ; 
See  him  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair ; 
As  children  from  a  bear,  the  Voices  shunning  him: 
Methinks,  I  see  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus,  — 
Come  on,  you  cowards,  you  were  born  in  fear, 
T'hough  you  were  born  in  Rome :   His  bloody  brow 
With  his  mail'd  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he  goes  j 
Like  to  a  harvest-man,  that's  task'd  to  mow 
Or  all,  or  lose  his  hire. 

Vir.    His  bloody  brow  !   O,  Jupiter,  no  blood  ! 

Vol.  Away,  you  fool !  it  more  becomes  a  man. 
Than  gilt  7  his  trophy :  The  breasts  of  Hecuba, 
When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 
Than  Hector's  forehead,  when  it  spit  forth  blood 
At  Grecian  swords'  contending.  —  Tell  Valeria, 
We  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome.  [Exit  Gent. 

Vir.    Heavens  bless  my  lord  from  fell  Aufidius ! 

Vol.   He'll  beat  Aufidius'  head  below  his  knee. 
And  tread  upon  his  neck. 

Re-enter  Gentlewoman,  wilh  Valeria  and  her  Usher, 

Val.   My  ladies  both,  good  day  to  you. 

Vol.   Sweet  madam, 

Vir.   I  am  glad  to  see  your  ladyship. 

Vol.  How  do  you  do  both?  you  are  manifest 
housekeepers.  What,  are  you  sewing  here  ?  A  fine 
spot,  in  good  faith.  —  How  does  your  little  son  ? 

Vir.    I  thank  your  ladyship  :   well,  good  madam. 

Vol.  He  had  rather  see  the  swords,  and  hear  a 
drum,  than  look  upon  his  schooLmaster. 

.  Val.  O'  my  word,  the  father's  son  :  I'll  swear,  'tis 
a  very  pretty  boy.  I  looked  upon  him  o'  Wednesday 
half  an  hour  together :  he  has  such  a  confirmed 
countenance.  I  saw  him  run  after  a  gilded  butter- 
fly ;  and  when  he  caught  it,  he  let  it  go  again  ;  and 
after  it  again  ;  and  over  and  over  he  comes,  and  up 
again  ;  catched  it  again  :  or  whether  his  fall  enraged 
him,  or  how  'twas,  he  did  so  set  his  teeth,  and  tear 
it ;   O,  I  warrant,  how  he  mammocked  ^  it ! 

Vol.    One  of  his  father's  moods. 

'  Gilding.  »  Tore. 


Scene  IV. 


CORIOLANUS. 


649 


k 


Val.   Indeed,  'tis  a  noble  child. 

Vir.    A  cracks,  madam. 

Vcd.  Come,  lay  aside  your  stitchery ;  I  must  have 
you  play  the  idle  huswife  with  me  this  afternoon. 

Vir,    No,  good  madam  :    I  will  not  out  of  doors. 

Val.   Not  out  of  doors  ! 

Vol.    Slie  shall,  she  shall. 

Vir.  Indeed,  no,  by  your  patience:  I  will  not 
over  the  threshold,  till  my  lord  return  from  the  wars. 

Val.  Fye,  you  confine  yourself  most  unreasonably; 
Come,  you  must  go  visit  the  good  lady  that  lies  in. 

Vir.  I  will  wish  her  speedy  strength,  and  visit 
her  with  my  prayers ;  but  I  cannot  go  thither. 

Vol.   Why,  I  pray  you. 

Vir.  'Tis  not  to  save  labour,  nor  that  I  want  love. 

Vol.  You  would  be  another  Penelope :  yet,  they 
say,  all  the  yarn  she  spun,  in  Ulysses'  absence,  did 
but  fill  Ithaca  full  of  moths.  Come ;  I  would,  your 
cambrick  were  sensible  as  your  finger,  that  you 
might  leave  pricking  it  for  pity.  Come,  you  shall 
go  with  us. 

Vir.  No,  good  madam,  pardon  me ;  indeed,  I 
will  not  forth. 

Vol.  In  truth,  go  with  me ;  and  I'll  tell  you  ex- 
cellent news  of  your  husband. 

Vir.   O,  good  madam,  there  can  be  none  yet. 

Val.  Verily,  I  do  not  jest  with  you ;  there  came 
news  from  him  last  night. 

Vir.   Indeed,  madam? 

Vol.  In  earnest,  it's  true ;  I  heard  a  senator  speak 
it.  Thus  it  is  :  —  The  Voices  have  an  army  forth ; 
against  whom  Cominius  the  general  is  gone,  with 
one  part  of  our  Roman  power :  your  lord,  and  Titus 
Lartius,  are  set  down  before  their  city,  Corioli ;  they 
nothing  doubt  prevailing,  and  to  make  it  brief  wars. 
This  is  true,  on  mine  honour :  and  so,  I  pray,  go 
with  us. 

Vir.  Give  me  excuse,  good  madam  ;  I  will  obey 
you  in  every  thing  hereafter. 

Vol.  Let  her  alone,  lady ;  as  she  is  now,  she  will 
but  disease  our  better  mirth. 

Vol.  In  troth,  I  think,  she  would  :  —  Fare  you 
well,  then.  —  Come,  good  sweet  lady.  —  Pr'ythee, 
Virgil  ia,  turn  thy  solemness  out  o'door,  and  go  along 
with  us. 

Vir.  No :  at  a  word,  madam ;  indeed,  I  must 
not.      I  wish  you  much  mirtli. 

Val.   Well,  then,  farewell.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Before  Corioli. 

Enter,  with  Drum  and  Colours,  Marcius,  Titus 
Lartius,  Officers  and  Soldiers.  To  them  a  Mes- 
senger. 

Mar.  Yonder  comes  news :  —  A  wager,  they  have 

met. 
Lart.   My  horse  to  yours,  no. 
Mar.  'Tis  done. 

Lort.  Agreed. 

Mar.   Say,  has  our  general  met  the  enemy  ? 
Mess.   They  lie  in  view ;  but  have  not  spoke  as 

yet. 
Lart.   So  the  good  horse  is  mine. 
Mar.  I'll  buy  him  of  you. 

Lart.   No,  I'll  nor  sell,  nor  give  him  :  lend  you 
him,  I  will, 
For  half  a  himdred  years.  —  Summon  the  town. 
Mar.    How  far  off  lie  these  armies  ? 
Mess.  Within  this  mile  and  half. 

»  Boy. 


Mar.   Then  shall  we  hear  their  'larum,  and  they 

ours. 
Now,  Mars,  I  pr'ythee  make  us  quick  in  work  ; 
That  we  with  smoking  swords   may  march  from 

hence. 
To  help  our  fielded  friends  ■  —  Come,  blow  thy  blast. 

They  sound  a  Parley.     Enter,  on  the  Walls,  some 

Senators,  and  others. 
Tullus  Aufidius,  is  he  within  your  walls? 

1  Sen.   No,  nor  a  man  that  fears  you  less  than  he. 
That's  lesser  tlian  a  little.      Hark,  our  drums 

\_  Alarums  afar  off. 
Are  bringing  forth  our  youth  :    We'll   break  our 

walls. 
Rather  than  they  shall  pound  us  up  :   our  gates. 
Which  yet  seem   shut,  we   have   but  pinn'd  with 

rushes ; 
They'll  open  of  themselves.     Hark,  you,  far  off; 

[Other  Alarums, 
There  is  Aufidius ;  list  what  work  he  makes 
Amongst  your  cloven  army. 

Mar.  O,  they  are  at  it ! 

Lart.  Their  noise  be  our  instruction.  —  Ladders, 
ho! 

JTie  Voices  enter,  and  2>ass  over  the  Stage. 
Mar.  They  fear  us  not,  but  issue  forth  their  city. 
Now  put  your  shields  before  your  hearts,  and  fight 
With  hearts  more  proof  than  sliields.  —  Advance, 

brave  Titus: 
They  do  disdain  us  much  beyond  our  thoughts. 
Which  makes  me  sweat  with  wrath.  —  Come  on,  xnj 

fellows ; 
He  that  retires,  I'll  take  him  for  a  Voice, 
And  he  shall  feel  mine  edge. 

Alarum,  and  exeunt  Romans  and  Voices,  Jlghting. 

The  Romans  are  beaten  back  to  their  T'renches. 

Re-enter  Marcius. 

Mar.  All  the  contagion  of  the  south  light  on  you, 
You  shames  of  Rome  !  that  you  may  be  abhorr'd 
Further  than  seen,  you  coward  souls  of  geese. 
That  bear  the  shapes  of  men,  how  have  you  run 
From  slaves  that  apes  would  beat  ?  Pluto  and  hell ! 
All  hurt  behind  ;  backs  red,  and  faces  pale 
With  flight  and  agu'd  fear !  Mend,  and  charge  home, 
Or,  by  the  fires  of  heaven,  I'll  leave  the  foe. 
And  make  my  wars  on  you :  look  to't :   Come  on. 
If  you'll  stand  fast,  we'll  beat  them  to  their  wives, 
As  they  us  to  our  trenches  followed. 

Another  Alarum.     Tfie  Voices  and  Romans  re-enter, 
and  the  Fight  is  renewed.      The  Voices  retire  into 
Corioli,  and  Marcivs  follows  them  to  the  Gates. 
So,  now  the  gates   are  ope :  —  Now  prove  good 

seconds : 
'Tis  for  the  followers  fortune  widens  them, 
Not  for  the  fliers :  mark  me,  and  do  the  like. 

[He  enters  the  Gates,  atui  is  shut  in. 

1  Sol.   Fool-hardiness;  not  I. 

2  Sol.  Nor  I. 

3  Sol.  See,  they 
Have  shut  him  in.                         [Alarum  continues. 

All.  To  the  pot,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  Titus  Lartius. 
Lart.   What  is  become  of  Marcius  ? 
All.  Slain,  sir,  doubtless. 

1  Sol.   Following  the  fliers  at  the  very  heels. 


650 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  I. 


Witli  them  he  enters  :  who,  upon  the  sudden, 
Clapp'd-to  their  gates  ;  he  is  himself  alone, 
To  answer  all  the  city. 

Lart.  O  noble  fellow  ! 

Who,  sensibly  ',  outdares  his  senseless^  sword, 
And,  when   it  bows,  stands  up  !    Thou  art  left, 

Marcius : 
A  carbuncle  entire,  as  big  as  thou  art. 
Were  not  so  rich  a  jewel.      Thou  wast  a  soldier 
Even  to  Cato's  wish,  not  fierce  and  terrible 
Only  in  strokes ;  but,  with  thy  grim  looks,  and 
The  thunder-like  percussion  of  thy  sounds, 
Tliou  mad'st  thine  enemies  shake,  as  if  the  world 
Were  feverous  and  did  tremble. 

Re-enter  Marcius,  bleeding,  assaulted  by  the  Enemy. 

1  Sol.  Look,  sir. 

Lart,  'Tis  Marcius ; 

Let's  fetch  him  off,  or  make  remain  alike. 

[Theyjig/it,  and  all  enter  the  City. 

SCENE  V.  — •  Within  the  Town.     A  Street. 
Enter  certain  Romans,  with  Spoils. 

1  Rom.   This  will  I  carry  to  Rome. 

2  Rom.   And  I  this. 

3  Rom.   A  murrain  on't !   I  took  this  for  silver. 

\_Alarum  continues  still  afar  off. 

EnterMAJKCius,  and  Titus  Lartius, wtVA  a  Trumpet. 

Mar.   See  here  these  movers,  that  do  prize  their 
hours 
At  a  crack'd  drachm  2  !   Cushions,  leaden  spoons, 
Irons  of  a  doit,  doublets  that  hangmen  would 
Bury  with  those  that  wore  them,  these  base  slaves. 
Ere  yet  the  fight  be  done,  pack  up  :  —  Down  with 

them.  — 
And  hark,  what  noise  the  general  makes !  —  To 

him:  — 
There  is  the  man  of  my  soul's  hate,  Aufidius, 
Piercing  our  Romans  :    Then,  valiant  Titus,  take 
Convenient  numbers  to  make  good  the  city  ; 
Whilst  I,  with  those  that  have  the  spirit,  will  haste 
To  help  Cominius. 

Lart.  Worthy  sir,  thou  bleed'st; 

Thy  exercise  hath  been  too  violent  for 
A  second  course  of  fight. 

Mar.  Sir,  praise  me  not : 

My  work  hath  yet  not  warm'd  me :    Fare  you  well. 
The  blood  I  drop  is  rather  physical 
Than  dangerous  to  me  :    To  Aufidius  thus 
I  will  appear,  and  fight. 

Lart.  Now  the  fair  goddess,  Fortune, 

Fall  deep  in  love  with  thee  ;  and  her  great  charms 
Misguide  thy  opposers'  swords  !  Bold  gentleman. 
Prosperity  be  thy  page ! 

Mar.  Thy  friend  no  less 

Than  those  she  placeth  highest !      So  farewell. 

Lart.  Thou  worthiest  Marcius  !  — 

\^Exit  Marcius. 
Go,  sound  thy  trumpet  in  the  market  place ; 
Call  thither  all  the  officers  of  the  town, 
Where  they  shall  know  our  mind  :    Away.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  Near  the  Camp  of  Cominius. 

Enter  Cominius  and  Forces,  retreating. 
Com.   Breathe  you,  my  friends ;  well  fought,  we 
are  come  off 


Having  sensation,  feeling. 


2  A  Roman  coin. 


Like  Romans,  neither  foolish  in  our  stands, 
Nor  cowardly  in  retire  :   believe  me,  sirs. 
We  shall  be  charg'd  again.     Whiles  we  have  struck, 
By  interims,  and  conveying  gusts,  we  have  heard 
The  charges  of  our  friends  :  —  The  Roman  gods. 
Lead  their  successes  as  we  wish  our  own ; 
That  both  our  powers,  with  smiling  fronts  encoun- 
tering. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
May  give  you  thankful  sacrifice !  —  Thy  news  ? 

Mess.  The  citizens  of  Corioli  have  issued. 
And  given  to  Lartius  and  to  Marcius  battle  : 
I  saw  our  party  to  their  trenches  driven. 
And  then  I  came  away. 

Com.  Though  thou  speakst  truth, 

Methinks,  thou  speak'st  not  well.     How  long  is't 
since  ? 

Mess.   Above  an  hour,  my  lord. 

Com.   'Tis  not  a  mile  j    briefly  we  heard  their 
drums; 
How  couldst  thou  in  a  mile  confound  3  an  hour, 
And  bring  thy  news  so  late? 

Mess.  Spies  of  the  Voices 

Held  me  in  chase,  that  I  was  forc'd  to  wheel 
Three  or  four  miles  about ;  else  had  I,  sir, 
Half  an  hour  since  brought  my  report. 
Enter  Marcius. 

Com.  Who's  yonder. 

That  does  appear  as  he  were  flay'd  ?    O  gods  ! 
He  has  the  stamp  of  Marcius  j  and  I  have 
Before-time  seen  him  thus. 

Mar.  Come  I  too  late  ? 

Com.    The  shepherd  knows  not  thunder  from  a 
tabor, 
More  than  I  know  the  sound  of  Marcius'  tongue 
From  every  meaner  man's. 

Mar.  Come  I  too  late  ? 

Com.  Ay,  if  you  come  not  in  the  blood  of  others. 
But  mantled  in  your  own. 

Mar.  O  !  let  me  clip  you ; 

In  arms  as  sound,  as  when  I  woo'd ;  in  heart 
As  merry,  as  on  our  nuptial  day. 

Com.  Flower  of  warriors, 

How  is't  with  Titus  Lartius  ? 

Mar.   As  with  a  man  busied  about  decrees  : 
Condemning  some  to  death,  and  some  to  exile ; 
Ransoming  him,  or  pitying,  threat'riing  the  other ; 
Holding  Corioli  in  the  name  of  Rome, 
Even  like  a  fawning  greyhound  in  the  leash. 
To  let  him  slip  at  will. 

Com.  WHiere  is  that  slave. 

Which  told  me  they  had  beat  you  to  your  trenches? 
Where  is  he  ?     Call  him  hither. 

Mar.  Let  him  alone, 

He  did  inform  the  truth  :    But  for  our  gentlemen, 
The  common  file,  (A  plague !  —  Tribunes  for  them !) 
The  mouse  ne'er  shunn'd  the  cat,  as  they  did  budge 
From  rascals  worse  than  they. 

Com.  But  how  prevail'd  you  ? 

Mar.  Will  the  time  serve  to  tell  ?  I  do  not  think  — 
Where  is  the  enemy?   Are  you  lords  o'the  field? 
If  not,  why  cease  you  till  you  are  so  ? 

Com.  Marcius, 

We  have  at  disadvantage  fought,  and  did 
Retire  to  win  our  purpose. 

Mar.  How  lies  their  battle  ?  Know  you  on  which 
side 
They  have  plac'd  their  men  of  trust  ? 
^  Expend. 


Scene  VIII. 


CORIOLANUS. 


651 


Com.  As  I  guess,  Marcius, 

Their  bands  in  the  vaward  ■♦  are  the  Antiates  *, 
Of  their  best  trust :   o'er  them  Aufidius, 
Their  very  heart  of  hope. 

Mar.  I  do  beseech  you, 

By  all  the  battles  wherein  we  have  fought, 
By  the  blood  we  have  shed  together,  by  the  vows 
We  have  made  to  endure  friends,  that  you  directly 
Set  me  against  Aufidius,  and  his  Antiates  : 
And  that  you  not  delay  the  present"  ;  but, 
Filling  the  air  with  swords  advanc'd,  and  darts. 
We  prove  this  very  hour. 

Coin.  Though  I  could  wish 

You  were  conducted  to  a  gentle  bath. 
And  balms  applied  to  you,  yet  dare  I  never 
Deny  your  asking  ;  take  your  choice  of  those 
The  best  can  aid  your  action. 

Mar.  T^ose  are  they 

That  most  are  willing:  —  If  any  such  be  here, 
(As  it  were  sin  to  doubt,)  that  love  this  painting 
Wherein  you  see  me  smear'd :   if  any  fear 
Lesser  his  person  than  an  ill  report ; 
If  any  think,  brave  death  outweighs  bad  life. 
And  that  his  country's  dearer  than  himself ; 
Let  him,  alone,  or  so  many,  so  minded, 
Wave  thus,  [^Waving  his  Hand.']  to  express  his  dis- 
position. 
And  follow  Marcius. 

[T/iey  all  shout,  and  wave  their  Swords:  take 
him  up  in  their  Arms,  and  cast  up  their  Caps. 
O  me,  alone  !    Make  you  a  sword  of  me  ? 
If  tJicse  shows  be  not  outward,  which  of  you 
But  is  four  Voices  ?    None  of  you  but  is 
Able  to  bear  against  the  great  Aufidius 
A  shield  as  hard  as  his.      A  certain  number, 
Thougli  thanks  to  all,  must  I  select :   the  rest, 
Shall  bear  the  I)usiness  in  some  other  fight. 
As  cause  will  be  obey'd.      Please  you  to  march  ;— 
And  four  shall  quickly  draw  out  my  command, 
Which  men  are  best  inclin'd. 

Com.  March  on,  my  fellows : 

Make  good  this  ostentation,  and  you  shall 
Divide  in  all  with  us.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.  — The  Gates  of  ConoM. 

Titus  Lartius,  having  set  a  Guard  upon  Corioli, 
going  with  a  Drum  and  Trumpet  towards  Comi- 
Nius  and  Caius  Marcius,  enters  with  a  Lieu- 
tenant, a  party  of  Soldiers,  and  a  Scout. 

Lart.   So,  let  the  ports  '  be  guarded  :   keep  your 
duties. 
As  I  have  set  them  down.      If  1  do  send,  despatch 
Those  centuries  »  to  our  aid ;  the  rest  will  serve 
For  a  short  holding  :   if  we  lose  the  field. 
We  cannot  keep  the  town. 

Lieu.  Fear  not  our  care,  sir. 

Lart.    Hence,  and  shut  your  gates  upon  us.  — 
Our  guider,  come  ;  to  the  Roman  camp  conduct  us. 

\^Ex€unl. 

SCENE  Wll.  — A  Field  of  Battle  between  the 
Roman  and  the  Volscian  Camps. 

Alarum.     Enter  Marcius  and  Aurioius. 
Mar.  I'll  fight  with  none  but  thee ;  for  I  do  hate 
thee 
Worse  than  a  promise-breaker. 


«  Front. 
?  Gates. 


*  Soldiers  of  Antium.        «  Pretent  time. 
"  Companies  of  a  hundred  men. 


Aif.  We  hate  alike ; 

Not  Africk  owns  a  serpent,  I  abhor 
More  than  thy  fame  and  envy :    Fix  thy  foot. 

Mar.   Let  the  first  budger  die  the  other's  slave. 
And  the  gods  doom  liim  after ! 

Auf.  If  I  fly,  Marcius, 

lialluo  me  like  a  hare. 

Mar.  Within  these  three  hours,  Tullus, 

Alone  I  fought  in  your  Corioli  walls, 
And  made  what  work  I  pleas'd  ;  'Tis  not  my  blood 
Wherein  thou  seest  me  mask'd  :   for  thy  revenge. 
Wrench  up  tliy  power  to  the  highest. 

Auf  Wert  thou  the  Hector, 

That  was  the  whip  of  your  bragg'd  progeny. 
Thou  shouldst  not  scape  me  here.  — 

[They  fight,  and  certain  Voices  come  to  the 
aid  of  AvTimvs. 
Officious,  and  not  valiant  —  you  have  sham'd  me 
In  your  condemned  seconds.  ' 

[Exeunt  fighting,  driven  in  by  Marcius. 

SCENE  IX. -^  The  Roman  Camp. 

Alarum.  A  Retreat  is  sounded.  Flourish.  Enter, 
at  one  side,  Cominius,  and  Romans;  at  the  other 
side,  Marcius,  ivith  his  Arm  in  a  Scarf,  and  other 
Romans. 

Com.  If  I  should  tell  thee  o'er  this  thy  day's  work, 
Thou'lt  not  believe  thy  deeds :   but  I'll  report  it. 
Where  senators  shall  mingle  tears  with  smiles ; 
Where  great  patricians  shall  attend,  and  shrug, 
I'  the  end,  admire ;  where  ladies  shall  be  frighted. 
And,  gladly  quak'd  '^,  hear  more ;  where  the  dull 

tribunes. 
That,  with  the  fusty  plebeians,  hate  thine  honours, 
Shall  say  against  their  hearts  —  JVe  thank  the  gods, 
Our  Rome  hath  such  a  soldier  /  — 
Yet  cam'st  thou  to  a  morsel  of  this  feast. 
Having  fully  dined  before. 

Enter  Titus   Lartius,  urith  his   Power,  from  the 
Pursuit. 

Lart.  O  general. 

Here  is  the  steed,  we  the  caparison  : 
Hadst  thou  beheld 

Mar.  Pray  now,  no  more  :  my  mother. 

Who  has  a  charter  to  extol  her  blood. 
When  she  does  praise  me,  grieves  me.      I  have  done. 
As  you  have  done  ;  that's  what  I  can  ;  induc'd 
As  you  have  been  ;  that's  for  my  country : 
He,  that  has  but  effected  his  good  M'ill, 
Hath  overta'en  mine  act. 

Com.  You  shall  not  be 

The  grave  of  your  deserving  ;   Rome  must  know 
The  value  of  her  own  :   'twere  a  concealment 
Worse  than  a  theft,  no  less  than  a  traducement. 
To  hide  your  doings ;  and  to  silence  that. 
Which  to  the  spire  and  top  of  praises  vouch 'd. 
Would  seem  but  modest ;  Therefore,  I  beseech  you, 
( In  sign  of  what  you  are,  not  to  reward 
What  you  have  done,)  before  our  army  hear  me. 

Mar.   I   have  some  wounds  upon  me,  and  they 
smart 
To  hear  themselves  remember'd. 

Com.  Should  they  not. 

Well  might  they  fester  'gainst  ingratitude. 
And  tent  themselves  with  death.      Of  all  the  horses 
(Whereof  we  have  ta'en  good,  and  good  store,)  of  all 

>  In  affbrding  such  ill-timed  help. 
•  Thrown  into  grateful  trcpidatioa 


652 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  II. 


The  treasure,  in  this  field  achiev'd,  and  city. 
We  render  you  the  tenth ;  to  be  ta'en  forth, 
Before  the  common  distribution,  at 
Your  only  choice. 

Mar.  I  thank  you,  general ; 

But  cannot  make  my  heart  consent  to  take 
A  bribe  to  pay  my  sword :   I  do  refuse  it  j 
And  stand  upon  my  common  part  with  those 
That  have  beheld  the  doing. 

[J  long  Flourish.  They  all  cry,  Marcius  !  Mar- 
cius !  cast  up  their  Caps  and  Lances :  Cominius 
and  Lartius  stand  bare. 

Mar.  May  these  same  instruments,  which  you 
profane, 
Never  sound  more !  When  drums  and  trumpet  shall 
1*  the  field  prove  flatterers,  let  courts  and  cities  be 
Made  all  of  false-fac'd  soothing  ;   When  steel  grows 
Soft  as  the  parasite's  silk,  let  him  be  made 
An  overture  for  the  wars  !     No  more,  I  say  ; 
For  that  I  have  not  wash'd  my  nose  that  bled, 
Or  foil'd  somedebile  3  wretch,  — which,  without  note, 
Here's  many  else  have  done, — you  shout  me  forth 
In  acclamations  hyperbolical ; 
As  if  I  loved  my  little  should  be  dieted 
In  praises  sauc'd  with  lies. 

Com.  Too  modest  are  you  ; 

More  cruel  to  your  good  report  than  grateful 
To  us  that  give  you  truly  :   by  your  patience, 
If  'gainst  yourself  you  be  incens'd,  we'll  put  you 
(Like  one  that  means  his  proper*  harm,)  in  manacles, 
Then  reason  safely  with  you.  —  Therefore,  be  it 

known. 
As  to  us,  to  all  the  world,  that  Caius  Marcius 
Wears  this  war's  garland :   in  token  of  the  which 
My  noble  steed,  known  to  the  camp,  I  give  him, 
With  all  his  trim  belonging  ;  and,  from  this  time. 
For  what  he  did  before  Corioli,  call  him. 
With  all  the  applause  and  clamour  of  the  host, 
Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus.  — 
Bear  the  addition  nobly  ever ! 

{^Flourish.      Trumpets  sound,  and  Drums. 

All.   Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus  ! 

Cor.   I  will  go  wash ; 
And  when  my  face  is  fair,  your  shall  perceive 
Whether  I  blush,  or  no :   Howbeit,  I  thank  you. 
I  mean  to  stride  your  steed ;  and,  at  all  times. 
To  undercrest^  your  good  addition. 
To  the  fairness  of  my  power. 

Com.  So,  to  our  tent : 

Where,  ere  we  do  repose  us,  we  will  write 
To  Rome  of  our  success.  —  You,  Titus  Lartius, 
Must  to  Corioli  back  :   send  us  to  Rome 
The  best  ^,  with  whom  we  may  articulate,  7 
For  their  own  good,  and  ours. 

Lart.  I  shall,  my  lord. 

Cor.   The  gods  begin  to  mock  me.      I  that  now 
Refus'd  most  princely  gifts,  am  bound  to  beg 
Of  my  lord  general. 

Com.  Take  it :   'tis  yours What  is't  ? 

Cor.   I  sometime  lay,  here  in  Corioli, 

3  Weak,  feeble.       <  Own.      '  Add  more  by  doing  his  best. 
8  Chief  men.  ^  Enter  into  articles. 


At  a  poor  man's  house ;  he  us'd  me  kindly : 

He  cried  to  me  ;  I  saw  him  prisoner ; 

But  then  Aufidius  was  within  my  view. 

And  wrath  o'erwhelm'd  my  pity  :   I  request  you 

To  give  my  poor  host  freedom. 

Com,  O,  well  begg'd 

Were  he  the  butcher  of  my  son,  he  should 
Be  free,  as  is  the  wind.     Deliver  him,  Titus. 

Lart.   Marcius,  his  name? 

Cor.  By  Jupiter,  forgot :  — 

I  am  weary ;  yea,  my  memory  is  tir'd.  — 
Have  we  no  wine  here  ? 

Com.  Go  we  to  our  tent : 

The  blood  upon  your  visage  dries :   'tis  time 
It  should  be  look'd  to  :  come.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  X.  —  The  Camp  of  the  Voices. 

A  Flourish,     Cornets.     Enter  Tullus  Aufidius, 
bloody,  with  two  or  three  Soldiers. 

Auf.  The  town  is  ta'en  ! 

1  Sol.  'Twill  be   deliver'd  back  on   good  con- 
dition. 

Auf.   Condition  !  — 
I  would,  I  were  a  Roman ;  for  I  cannot, 
Being  a  Voice,  be  that  I  am.  —  Condition  ! 
What  good  condition  can  a  treaty  find 
I'the  part  that  is  at  mercy  ?  Five  times,  Marcius, 
I  have  fought  with  thee ;  so  often  hast  thou  beat  me ; 
And  wouldst  do  so,  I  think,  should  we  encounter 
As  often  as  we  eat.  —  By  the  elements. 
If  e'er  again  I  meet  him  beard  to  beard. 
He  is  mine,  or  I  am  his  :   Mine  emulation 
Hath  not  that  honour  in't,  it  had  ;  for  where  8 
I  thought  to  crush  him  in  an  equal  force, 
( True  sword  to  sword, )  I'll  potch  9  at  him  some  way ; 
Or  wrath,  or  craft,  may  get  him. 

1  Sol.  He's  the  devil. 

Auf.   Bolder,  though  not  so  subtle :  My  valour's 
poison'd. 
With  only  suflering  stain  by  him ;  for  him 
Shall  fly  out  of  itself :  nor  sleep,  nor  sanctuary. 
Being  naked,  sick  :  nor  fane,  nor  Capitol, 
The  prayers  of  priests,  nor  times  of  sacrifice, 
Embarquements  all  of  fury,  shall  lift  up 
Their  rotten  privilege  and  custom  'gainst 
My  hate  to  Marcius :  where  I  find  him,  were  it 
At  home,  upon  my  brother's  guard,  even  there 
Against  the  hospitable  canon,  would  I 
Wash  my  fierce  hand  in  his  heart.      Go  you  to  the 

city ; 
Learn,  how  'tis  held  ;  and  what  they  are,  that  must 
Be  hostages  for  Rome. 

1  Sol.  Will  not  you  go  ? 

Auf.   I  am  attended  i  at  the  cypress  grove  : 
I  pray  you, 

('Tis  south  the  city  mills,)  bring  me  word  thither 
How  the  world  goes  ;  that  to  the  pace  of  it 
I  may  spur  on  my  journey. 

1  Sol.  I  shall,  sir.      [Exeunt. 


8  Whereas. 


9  Poke,  push. 


1  Waited  for. 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


CORIOLANUS. 


653 


ACT  II. 


SCENE.  I.  —  Rome.     A  puUick  Place. 

Enter  Menenius,  Sicinius*  and  Brutus. 

Men.  The  augurer  tells  me,  we  shall  have  news 
to-night. 

Bru.    Good,  or  bad  ? 

Men.  Not  according  to  the  prayer  of  the  people, 
for  they  love  not  Marcius. 

Sic.   Nature  teaches  beasts  to  know  their  friends. 

Men.   Pray  you,  who  does  the  wolf  love  ? 

Sic.  The  lamb. 

Men.  Ay,  to  devour  him  ;  as  the  hungry  ple- 
beians would  tlie  noble  Marcius. 

Bru.    He's  a  lamb  indeed,  that  baes  like  a  bear. 

Men.  He's  a  bear  indeed,  that  lives  like  a  lamb. 
You  two  are  old  men  j  tell  me  one  thing  that  I 
shall  ask  you. 

Both  Trib.   Well,  sir. 

Men.  In  what  enormity  is  Marcius  poor,  that  you 
two  have  not  in  abundance  ? 

Bru.  He's  poor  in  no  one  fault,  but  stored  with 
all. 

Sic.   Especially  in  pride. 

Bru.   And  topping  all  others  in  boasting. 

Men.  This  is  strange  now ;  Do  you  two  know 
how  you  are  censured  here  in  the  city,  I  mean  of 
us  o'the  right  hand  file  ?  Do  you  ? 

Both  Trib.   Why,  how  are  we  censured  ? 

Men.  Because  you  talk  of  pride  now, —  Will  you 
not  be  angry  ? 

Both  Trib.  Well,  well,  sir,  well. 

Men.  Why  'tis  no  great  matter ;  for  a  very  little 
thief  of  occasion  will  rob  you  of  a  great  deal  of 
patience :  give  your  disposition  the  reins,  and  be 
angry  at  your  pleasures ;  at  the  least,  if  you  take 
it  as  a  pleasure  to  you,  in  being  so.  You  blame 
Marcius  for  being  proud  ? 

Bru.   We  do  it  not  alone,  sir. 

Men.  I  know,  you  can  do  very  little  alone ;  for 
your  helps  are  many ;  or  else  your  actions  would 
grow  wonderous  single :  your  abilities  are  too  in- 
fant-like, for  doing  much  alone.  You  talk  of  pride : 
O,  that  you  could  turn  your  eyes  towards  the  napes 
of  your  necks,  and  make  but  an  interior  survey  of 
your  good  selves !   O,  that  you  could  ! 

Bru.   What  then,  sir  ? 

Men.  Why,  then  you  should  discover  a  brace  of 
unmeriting,  proud,  violent,  testy  magistrates,  (alias 
fools,)  as  any  in  Rome. 

Sic.   Menenius,  you  are  known  well  enough  too. 

Men.  I  am  known  to  be  a  humorous  patrician, 
and  one  that  loves  a  cup  of  hot  wine  with  not  a 
drop  of  allaying  Tyber  in't ;  said  to  be  something 
imperfect,  in  favouring  the  first  complaint:  hasty, 
and  tinder-like,  upon  too  trivial  motion  :  what  I 
Uiink,  I  utter  ;  and  spend  my  malice  in  my  breath: 
Meeting  two  such  weals-men'  as  you  are  (I  cannot 
call  you  Lycurguses),  if  the  drink  you  gave  me, 
touch  my  palate  adversely,  I  make  a  crooked  face 
at  it.  I  cannot  say,  your  worships  have  delivered 
the  matter  well,  when  I  find  the  ass  in  compound 
with  the  major  part  of  your  syllables  :  and  though 
I  must  be  content  to  bear  with  those  that  say  you 
are  reverend  grave  men ;  yet  they  lie  deadly,  that 
«  SUtestnea 


tell,  you  have  good  faces.  If  you  see  this  in  the 
map  of  my  microcosm,  follows  it,  that  I  am  known 
well  enough  too  ?  What  harm  can  your  bisson  3 
conspectuities  glean  out  of  this  character,  if  I  be 
known  well  enough  too  ? 

Bru.  Come,  sir,  come;  we  know  you  well  enough. 

Men.  You  know  neither  me,  yourselves,  nor  any 
thing.  You  are  ambitious  for  poor  knaves'  caps 
and  legs ;  you  wear  out  a  good  wholesome  fore- 
noon, in  hearing  a  cause  between  an  orange -wife 
and  a  fosset-seller ;  and  then  rejourn  the  contro- 
versy of  three-pence  to  a  second  day  of  audience. 

—  When  you  are  hearing  a  matter  between  party 
and  party,  you  dismiss  the  controversy  bleeding, 
the  more  entangled  by  your  hearing :  all  the  peace 
you  make  in  their  cause,  is,  calling  both  the  parties 
knaves  :    You  are  a  pair  of  strange  ones. 

Bru.  Come,  come,  you  are  well  understood  to  be 
a  perfecter  giber  for  the  table,  than  a  necessary 
bencher  in  the  Capitol. 

Men.  Our  very  priests  must  become  mockers,  if 
they  shall  encounter  such  ridiculous  subjects  as  you 
are.  When  you  speak  best  unto  the  purpose,  it  is 
not  worth  the  wagging  of  your  beards ;  and  your 
beards  deserve  not  so  honourable  a  grave,  as  to  stuff 
a  botcher's  cushion,  or  to  be  entombed  in  an  ass's 
pack-saddle.  Yet  you  must  be  saying,  Marcius  is 
proud  ;  who,  in  a  cheap  estimation,  is  worth  all 
your  predecessors,  since  Deucalion  ;  though,  per- 
adventure,  some  of  the  best  of  them  were  hereditary 
hangmen.  Good  e'en  to  your  worships :  more  of 
your  conversation  would  infect  my  brain,  being  the 
herdsmen  of  the  beastly  plebeians  :  I  will  be  bold  to 
take  my  leave  of  you. 

[Bru.  and  Sic.  retire  to  the  back  of  the  Scene. 

Enter  Volumnia,  Virgilia,  and  Valeria,  ^c. 
How  now,  my  as  fair  as  noble  ladies,  (and  the  moon 
were  she  earthly,  no  nobler,)  whither  do  you  follow 
your  eyes  so  fast  ? 

Vol.  Honourable  Menenius  ;  my  boy  Marcius 
approaches  :  for  the  love  of  Juno,  let's  go. 

Men.   Ha!   Marcius  coming  home? 

Vol.  Ay,  worthy  Menenius;  and  with  most  pros- 
perous approbation. 

Men.  Take  my  cap,  Jupiter,  and  I  tliank  thee :  — 
Hoo  !   Marcius  coming  home  ? 

Two  Ladies.   Nay,  'tis  true. 

Vol.  Look,  here's  a  letter  from  him  :  the  state 
hath  another,  his  wife  another;  and,  I  think,  there's 
one  at  home  for  you. 

Men.   I  will  make  my  very  house  reel  to-night : 

—  A  letter  for  me  ? 

Vir.  Yes,  certain,  there's  a  letter  for  you ;  I 
saw  it. 

Men.  A  letter  for  me?  It  gives  me  an  estate  of 
seven  years'  health;  in  which  time  1  will  make  a  lip 
at  the  physician  :  the  most  sovereign  prescription 
in  Galen  is  to  this  preservative,  of  no  better  report 
than  a  horse-drench.  Is  he  not  wounded  ?  he  was 
wont  to  come  home  wounded. 

Vir.   O,  no,  no,  no. 

V<d.    O,  he  is  wounded,  I  thank  the  gods  for't. 

Men.  So  do  I  too,  if  it  be  not  too  much :  —  Brings 
'  BUnd. 


654- 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  II. 


*a  victory  in  liis  pocket  ?  —  Tlie   wounds   become 
him. 

Vol.  Oil's  brows,  Menenius  :  he  comes  the  tliird 
time  home  with  the  oaken  garland. 

Meti.    Has  he  disciplined  Aufidius  soundly  ? 

Fot.  Titus  Lartius  writes,  —  they  fought  together, 
but  Aufidius  got  off. 

Men.  And  'twas  time  for  him  too,  I'll  warrant 
him  that :  an  he  had  staid  by  him,  I  would  not  have 
been  so  fidiused  for  all  the  chests  in  Corioli,  and 
the  gold  that's  in  them.  Is  the  senate  possessed  of 
this? 

Vol.  Good  ladies,  let's  go  :  —  Yes,  yes,  yes: 
the  senate  has  letters  from  the  general,  wherein  he 
gives  my  son  the  whole  name  of  the  war :  he  hath 
in  this  action  outdone  his  former  deeds  doubly. 

Val.  In  troth,  there's  wondrous  things  spoke  of 
him. 

Men.  Wondrous?  ay,  I  warrant  you,  and  not 
without  his  true  purchasing. 

Vir.    The  gods  grant  them  true  ! 

Vol.    True  ?  pow,  wow. 

Men.  True  ?  I'll  be  sworn  they  are  true :  — 
Where  is  he  wounded?  —  Jove  save  your  good 
worships!  [To  the  Tribunes,  who  come  forward.] 
Marcius  is  coming  home  :  he  has  more  cause  to  be 
proud.  —  Where  is  he  wounded  ? 

Vol.  r  the  shoulder,  and  i'  the  left  arm  ;  There 
will  be  large  cicatrices  to  show  the  people,  when  he 
shall  stand  for  his  place.  He  received  in  the  re- 
pulse of  Tarquin,  seven  hurts  i'the  body.    , 

Men.  One  in  the  neck,  and  two  in  the  thigh,  — 
there's  nine  that  I  know. 

Vol.  He  had,  before  this  last  expedition,  twenty- 
five  wounds  upon  him. 

Men.  Now  it's  twenty-seven  :  every  gash  was  an 
enemy's  grave:  [A  Shout,  and  Flourish.]  Hark! 
the  trumpets. 

Vol.  These  are  the  ushers  of  Marcius  :  before  him 
He  carries  noise,  and  behind  him  he  leaves  tears ; 
Death,  that  dark  spirit,  in's  nervy  arm  doth  lie; 
Which  being  advanc'd,  declines;  and  then  men  die. 

A  Senn£t.^  Trumpets  sound.  Enter  Cominius 
and  Titus  Lartius  ;  between  them,  Coriola- 
Nus,  crowned  with  an  oaken  Garland;  with  Cap- 
tains, Soldiers,  and  a  Herald. 

Her.  Know,  Rome,  that  all  alone  Marcius  did  fight 
Within  Corioli'  gates :   where  he  hath  won. 
With  fame,  a  name  to  Caius  Marcius ;  these 
In  honour  follows,  Coriolanus  : 
Welcome  to  Rome,  renowned  Coriolanus  ! 

[Flourish. 

All.   Welcome  to  Rome,  renowned  Coriolanus  ! 

Cor.  No  more  of  this,  it  does  offend  my  heart; 
Pray  now,  no  more. 

Com^  Look,  sir,  your  mother. 

Cor.  O ! 

You  have,  I  know,  petition'd  all  the  gods 
For  my  prosperity.  [Kneels. 

Vol.                          Nay.  my  good  soldier,  up 
My  gentle  Marcius,  worthy  Caius,  and 
By  deed  achieving  honour  newly  nam'd, 
What  is  it?   Coriolanus,  must  I  call  thee? 
But  O,  thy  wife 

Cor.  My  gracious  *  silence,  hail ! 

Wouldst  thou  have  laugh'd,  had  1  come  coffin'd 

home, 
That  weep*«;t  to  see  me  triumph?   Ah,  my  dear, 
<  Flourish  on  cornets.  *  Graceful. 


Such  eyes  the  widows  in  Corioli  wear, 
And  mothers  that  lack  sons. 

Men.  Now  the  gods  crown  thee ! 

Cor.    And  live  you  yet?  —  O  my  sweet  lady, 
pardon.  [To  Valeria. 

Vol.   I  know  not  where  to  turn :  —  O  welcome 
home; 
And  welcome,  general ;  —  And  you  are  welcome  all. 

Men.   A  hundred  thousand  welcomes:   I  could 
weep. 
And  I  could  laugh  ;   I  am  light,  and  heavy :   Wel- 
come: 
A  curse  begin  at  very  root  of  his  heart, 
That  is  not  glad  to  see  thee !  —  You  are  three. 
That  Rome  should  dote  on :   yet,  by  the  faith  of 

men, 
We  have  some  old  crab-trees  here  at  home,  that 

will  not 
Be  grafted  to  your  relish.     Yet  welcome,  warriors : 
We  call  a  nettle,  but  a  nettle ;  and 
The  faults  of  fools,  but  folly. 

Com.  Ever  right. 

Cor.   Menenius,  ever,  ever. 

Her.    Give  way  there,  and  go  on. 

Cor.  Your  hand,  and  yours  : 

[To  his  Wife  and  Mother. 
Ere  in  our  own  house  I  do  shade  my  head. 
The  good  Patricians  must  be  visited ; 
Frorn  whom  I  have  receiv'd  not  only  greetings, 
But  with  them  change  of  honours. 

Vol.  I  have  lived 

To  see  inherited  my  very  wishes. 
And  the  buildings  of  my  fancy :  only  there 
Is  one  thing  wanting,  which  I  doubt  not,  but 
Our  Rome  will  cast  upon  thee. 

Cor.  Know,  good  mother, 

I  had  rather  be  their  servant  in  my  way, 
Than  sway  with  them  in  theirs. 

Com.  On,  to  the  Capitol. 

[Flourish.   Cornets.      Exeunt  in  state,  as  before. 
The  Tribunes  remain. 

J8ru.   All  tongues  speak  of  him,  and  the  bleared 
sights 
Are  spectacled  to  see  him  :  Your  prattling  nurse 
In  a  rapture  lets  her  baby  cry. 
While  she  chats  him  :    the  kitchen  malkin  ^  pins 
Her  richest  lockram  7  'bout  her  reechy  8  neck. 
Clambering  the  walls  to  eye  him :    staUs,  bulks, 

windows, 
Are  smother'd  up,  leads  fill'd  and  ridges  hors'd 
With  variable  complexions  :   all  agreeing 
In  earnestness  to  see  him  ;  seld  9  -shown  flamens  ' 
Do  press  among  the  popular  throngs,  and  puff 
To  win  a  vulgar  station  :   our  veil'd  dames 
Commit  the  war  of  white  and  damask,  in 
Their  nicely-gawded  -  cheeks,  to  the  wanton  spoil 
Of  Phcebus'  burning  kisses  :   such  a  pother. 
As  if  that  whatsoever  god,  who  leads  him, 
Were  slily  crept  into  his  human  powers. 
And  gave  him  graceful  posture. 

Sic,  On  the  sudden, 

I  warrant  him  consul. 

Bru.  Then  our  oflfice  may. 

During  his  power,  go  sleep. 

Sic.   He  cannot  temperately  transport  his  honours 
From  where  he  should  begin,  and  end ;  but  will 
Lose  those  that  he  hath  won. 

Bru.  In  that  there's  comfort- 

6  Maid.        7  Best  linen.        ^  Soiled  with  sweat  and  smoke 
9  Seldom,     i  Priests.  '  Adorned. 


II 


Scene  II. 


CORIOLANUS. 


655 


I 


Sic.   Doubt  not,  tlie  commoners,  for  whom  we 
stand, 
But  they,  upon  their  .ancient  malice,  will 
Forget,  with  the  least  cause,  these  his  new  honours ; 
Which  that  he'll  give  them,  make  as  little  question 
As  he  is  proud  to  do't. 

Bru.  I  heard  him  swear. 

Were  he  to  stand  for  consul,  never  would  he 
Appear  i'  the  market-place,  nor  on  liim  put 
The  napless  vesture  of  humility  ; 
Nor,  showing  (as  the  manner  is)  his  wounds 
To  the  people,  beg  their  stinking  breaths. 

Sic.  'Tis  right. 

Bru»    It  was  his  word :    O,  he  would  miss  it, 
rather 
Than  carry  it,  but  by  the  suit  o*  the  gentry  to  him, 
And  the  desires  of  the  nobles. 

Sic.  I  wish  no  better, 

Than  have  him  hold  that  purpose,  and  put  it 
In  execution. 

Bru.  *Tis  most  like,  he  will. 

Sic.   It  shall  be  to  him  then,  as  our  good  wills ; 
A  sure  destruction. 

Bru.  So  it  must  fall  out 

To  him,  or  our  authorities.     For  an  end. 
We  must  suggest  3  the  people  in  what  hatred 
He  still  hath  held  them;    that,   to  his  power  he 

would 
Have  made  them  mules,  silenc'd  their  pleaders,  and 
Dispropertied  their  freedoms :  holding  them, 
In  human  action  and  capacity. 
Of  no  more  soul,  nor  fitness  for  the  world. 
Than  camels  in  their  war  ;  who  have  their  provand"* 
Only  for  bearing  burdens,  and  sore  blows 
For  sinking  under  them. 

Sic.  Tliis,  as  you  say,  suggested 

At  some  time  when  his  soaring  insolence 
Shall  teach  the  people,  (which  time  shall  not  want, 
If  he  be  put  upon't ;  and  that's  as  easy, 
A«;  to  set  dogs  on  sheep,)  will  be  his  fire 
To  kindle  their  dry  stubble ;  and  their  blaze 
Shall  darken  him  for  ever. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Bru.  What's  the  matter? 

Mess.    You  are  sent  for  to  the  Capitol.       'Tis 
thought 
That  Marcius  should  be  consul :    I  have  seen 
The  dumb  men  throng  to  see  him,  and  the  blind 
To  hear  him  speak  :  The  matrons  flimg  their  gloves. 
Ladies  and  maids  their  scarfs  and  handkerchiefs. 
Upon  him  as  he  pass'd  :   the  nobles  bended, 
As  to  Jove's  statue  ;  and  the  commons  made 
A  shower,  and  thunder,  with  their  caps,  and  shouts: 
I  never  saw  the  like. 

Bru.  Let's  to  the  Capitol ; 

And  carry  with  us  ears  and  eyes  for  the  time. 
But  hearts  for  the  event. 

Sic  Have  witli  you.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL  —  The  CapUol. 

Enter  two  Oflficers,  to  Iny  Cushions. 
1    0^.  Come,  come,  they  are  almost  here :     How 
many  stand  fur  consulships  i 

"2   Off.  Three,  they  say  :  but  'tis  thought  of  every 
one,  Coriolanus  will  cairy  it, 

I  Off.  Tliat's  a  brave  fellow ;  but  he's  vengeance 
proud,  and  loves  not  the  common  people. 

*  Inform.  «  Provender 


2  Off.  There  have  been  many  great  men  that 
have  flatter'd  the  people,  who  ne'er  loved  them  ; 
and  there  be  many  that  they  have  loved,  they  know 
not  wherefore  :  so  that,  if  they  love  they  know  not 
why,  they  hate  upon  no  better  a  ground :  There- 
fore, for  Coriolanus  neither  to  care  whether  they 
love  or  hate  him,  manifests  the  true  knowledge  he 
has  in  their  disposition  ;  and,  out  of  his  noble  care- 
lessness, lets  them  plainly  see't. 

1  Off.  If  he  did  not  care  whether  he  had  their 
love,  or  no,  he  waved  indifferently  'twixt  doing 
them  neither  good  nor  harm  ;  but  he  seeks  their 
hate  with  greater  devotion  than  they  can  render  it 
him  :  and  leaves  nothing  undone,  that  may  fully 
discover  him  their  opposite.  Now,  to  seem  to 
affect  tlie  malice  and  displeasure  of  the  people,  is 
as  bad  as  that  which  he  dislikes,  to  flatter  them  for 
their  love. 

2  Off.  He  hath  deser\'ed  worthily  of  his  country. 
And  his  ascent  is  not  by  such  easy  degrees  as 
those,  who,  having  been  supple  and  courteous  to 
the  people,  bonneted  *  without  any  further  deed  to 
heave  them  at  all  into  their  estimation  and  report : 
but  he  hath  so  planted  his  honours  in  their  eyes, 
and  his  actions  in  their  hearts,  that  for  their  tongues 
to  be  silent,  and  not  confess  so  much,  were  a  kind 
of  ingrateful  injury ;  to  report  otherwise  were  a 
malice,  that,  giving  itself  the  lie,  would  pluck  re- 
proof and  rebuke  from  every  ear  that  heard  it. 

I  Off.  No  more  of  him ;  he  is  a  wortliy  man : 
Make  way,  they  are  coming. 

A  Sennet.  Enter,  ivith  Lictors  before  them,  Comi- 
Nius,  the  Consul,  Menenius,  Coriolanus,  vianif 
other  Senators,  SiciNius,  and  Brutus.  The  Se- 
nators take  their  Places ;  the  Tribunes  take  ihars 
also  hy  themselves. 

Men.   Having  determin'd  of  the  Voices,  and 
To  send  for  Titus  Lartius,  it  remains. 
As  the  main  point  of  this  our  after-meeting, 
To  gratify  his  noble  service,  that 
Hath  thus  stood  for  his  country  :   Therefoie  please 

you. 
Most  reverend  and  grave  elders,  to  desire 
The  present  consul,  and  last  general 
In  our  well-found  successes,  to  report 
A  little  of  that  worthy  work  perform 'd 
By  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus  :  whom 
We  meet  here,  both  to  thank  and  to  remember 
With  honours  like  liimself. 

1  5^71.  Speak,  good  Cominiusr 

Leave  nothing  out  for  length,  and  make  us  think, 
Rather  our  state's  defective  for  requital, 
Than  we  to  stretch  it  out.      Masters  o'the  people. 
We  do  request  your  kindest  ears  :  and,  after. 
Your  loving  motion  toward  the  common  body, 
To  yield  what  passes  here. 

Sic.  We  are  convented 

Upon  a  pleasing  treaty  ;  and  have  hearts 
Inclinable  to  honour  and  advance 
The  theme  of  our  assembly. 

Bru.  Which  the  rather 

We  shall  be  bless'd  to  do,  if  he  remember 
A  kinder  value  of  the  people,  tlian 
He  hath  hereto  priz'd  them  at. 

Men.  That's  off,  that's  oflT  «  ; 

I  would  you  rather  had  been  silent :    Please  you 
To  hear  Cominius  speak  ? 

Bru.  Most  willingly : 

»  Took  off  cape  •  Nothing  to  the  purpoae. 


656 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  II. 


But  yet  my  caution  was  more  pertinent, 
Than  the  rebuke  you  gave  it. 

Men.  He  loves  your  people ; 

But  tie  him  not  to  be  their  bedfellow.  — 
Worthy  Cominius,  speak.  —  Nay,  keep  your  place. 
[CoRioLANUs  rises,  and  offers  to  go  away. 
1  Sen.  Sit,  Coriolanus  :   never  shame  to  hear 
What  you  have  nobly  done. 

Cor.  Your  honours'  pardon ; 

I  had  rather  have  my  wounds  to  heal  again. 
Than  hear  say  how  I  got  them. 

Brti.  Sir,  I  hope. 

My  words  disbench'd  you  not. 

Cqjs,  No,  sir ;  yet  oft 

When  blows  have  made  me  stay,  I  fled  from  words. 
You  sooth'd  not,  therefore,  hurt  not:    But,  your 

people, 
I  love  them  as  they  weigh. 

Men.  Pray  now,  sit  down. 

Cor.    I    had  rather  have  one  scratch  my  head 
i'the  sun, 
When  the  alarum  were  struck,  than  idly  sit 
To  hear  my  nothings  monster'd. 

\_Exit  Coriolanus. 
Men.  Masters  o'the  people. 

Your  multiplying  spawn  how  can  he  flatter, 
(That's  thousand  to  one  good  one,)  when  you  now 

see. 
He  had  rather  venture  all  his  limbs  for  honour. 
Than  one  of  his  ears  to  hear  it  ?  —  Proceed,   Co- 
minius. 
Com.  I  shall  lack  voice  :  the  deeds  of  Coriolanus 
Should  not  be  utter'd  feebly.  —  It  is  held. 
That  valour  is  the  chiefest  virtue,  and 
Most  dignifies  the  haver :  if  it  be. 
The  man  I  speak  of  cannot  in  the  world 
Be  singly  couuterpois'd.      At  sixteen  years, 
When  Tarquin  made  a  head  for  Rome,  he  fought 
Beyond  the  mark  of  others  :   our  then  dictator, 
Whom  with  all  praise  I  point  at,  saw  him  fight. 
When  with  his  Amazonian  7  chin  he  drove 
The  bristled  lips  before  him  :  he  bestrid 
An  o'er-press'd  Roman,  and  i'the  consul's  view 
Slew  three  opposers  :    Tarquin's  self  he  met. 
And  struck  him  on  his  knee  :   in  that  day's  feats. 
When  he  might  act  the  woman  in  the  scene. 
He  prov'd  best  man  i'  the  field,  and  for  his  meed  ^ 
Was  brow-bound  with  the  oak.      His  pupil  age 
Man-enter'd  thus,  he  waxed  like  a  sea  ; 
And,  in  the  brunt  of  seventeen  battles  since, 
He  lurch'd  9  all  swords  o'  the  garland.    For  this  last. 
Before  and  in  Corioli,  let  me  say, 
I  cannot  speak  him  home :   He  stopp'd  the  fliers  ; 
And,  by  his  rare  example,  made  the  coward 
Turn  terror  into  sport :  as  waves  before 
A  vessel  under  sail,  so  men  obey'd, 
And  fell  below  his  stem:  his  sword  (death's  stamp) 
Where  it  did  mark  it  took  ;  from  face  to  foot 
He  was  a  thing  of  blood,  whose  every  motion 
Was  timed  with  dying  cries  :   alone  he  enter'd 
The  mortal  gate  o'the  city,  which  he  painted 
With  shunless  destiny,  aidless  came  otf. 
And  with  a  sudden  re-enforcement  struck 
Corioli,  like  a  planet :  now  all's  his  : 
When  by  and  by  the  din  of  war  'gan  pierce 
His  ready  sense :   then  straight  his  doubled  spirit 
Re-qtiicken'd  what  in  flesh  was  fatigate  ', 
And  to  the  battle  came  he ;  where  he  did 


?  Without  a  beard. 
*  Disappointed. 


fi  Reward. 
»  Wearied. 


Run  reeking  o'er  the  lives  of  men,  as  if 
'Twere  a  perpetual  spoil ;  and,  till  we  call'd 
Both  field  and  city  ours,  he  never  stood 
To  ease  his  breast  with  panting. 

Men.  Worthy  man ! 

1  Sen.  He  cannot  but  with  measure  fit  the  honours 
Which  we  devise  him. 

Com.  Our  spoils  he  kick'd  at ; 

And  look'd  upon  things  precious,  as  they  were 
The  common  muck  o'the  world  :   he  covets  less 
Than  misery  '^  itself  would  give  ;  rewards 
His  deeds  with  doing  them  ;  and  is  content 
To  spend  the  time  to  end  it. 

Men.  He's  right  noble  ; 

Let  him  be  call'd  for. 

1  Sen.  Call  for  Coriolanus. 

Off.   He  doth  appear. 

Re-enter  Coriolanus. 
Men.  The  senate,  Coriolanus,  are  well  pleas'd 
To  make  thee  consul. 

Cor.  I  do  owe  them  still 

My  life,  and  services. 

Men.  It  then  remains. 

That  you  do  speak  to  the  people. 

Cor.  I  do  beseech  you. 

Let  me  o'erleap  that  custom ;  for  I  cannot 
Put  on  the  gown,  stand  naked,  and  entreat  them. 
For  my  wounds'  sake,  to  give  their  suffrage  :  please 

you. 
That  I  may  pass  this  doing. 

Sic.  Sir,  the  people 

Must  have  their  voices ;  neither  will  they  bate 
One  jot  of  ceremony. 

Men.  Put  them  not  to't :  — 

Pray  you,  go  fit  you  to  the  custom  ;  and 
Take  to  you,  as  your  predecessors  have, 
Your  honour  with  your  form. 

Cor.  It  is  a  part 

That  I  shall  blush  in  acting,  and  might  well 
Be  taken  from  the  people. 

Bru.  Mark  you  that? 

Cor.    To   brag   unto   them,  —  thus   I  did,    and 
thus ; — 
Show  them  the  unaching  scars  which  I  should  hide. 
As  if  I  had  receiv'd  them  for  the  hire 
Of  their  breath  only  :  — 

Men.  Ho  not  stand  upon't.  — 

We  recommend  to  you,  tribunes  of  the  people. 
Our  purpose  to  them  ;  —  and  to  our  noble  consul 
Wish  we  all  joy  and  honour. 

Sen.   To  Coriolanus  come  all  joy  and  honour  ! 

{^Flourish.      Then  exeunt  Senators. 

Bru.   You  see  how  he  intends  to  use  the  people. 

Sic.   May  they  perceive  his  intent !     He  that  will 
require  them, 
As  if  he  did  contemn  what  he  requested 
Should  be  in  them  to  give. 

IB^ru.  Come,  we'll  inform  them 

Of  our  proceedings  here  :  on  the  market-place, 
I  know  they  do  attend  us.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Forum. 
Enter  several  Citizens. 

1  Cit.  Once,  if  he  do  require  our  voices,  we  ought 
not  to  deny  him. 

2  Cit.   We  may,  sir,  if  we  will. 

»  Avarice. 


I 


Scene  III. 


COIIIOLANUS. 


657 


3  Cit.  We  have  power  in  ourselves  to  do  it,  but  it 
is  a  power  that  we  have  no  power  to  do  :  for  if  he 
show  us  his  wounds,  and  tell  us  his  deeds,  we  are  to 
put  our  tongues  into  those  wounds,  and  speak  for 
them  ;  so,  if  he  tell  us  his  noble  deeds,  we  must  also 
tell  him  our  noble  acceptance  of  them.  Ingratitude 
is  monstrous :  and  for  the  multitude  to  be  ingrateful, 
were  to  make  a  monster  of  tlie  multitude ;  of  tlie 
which,  we  being  members,  should  bring  ourselves 
to  be  monstrous  members. 

1  Cit.  And  to  make  us  no  better  thought  of,  a 
little  help  will  serve :  for  once,  when  we  stood  up 
about  the  corn,  he  himself  stuck  not  to  call  us  the 
many-headed  multitude. 

3  Cil.  We  have  been  called  so  of  many ;  not  that 
our  heads  are  some  brown,  some  black,  some  auburn, 
some  bald,  but  that  our  wits  are  so  diversely  coloured : 
and  truly  I  think,  if  all  our  wits  were  to  issue  out  of 
one  skull,  they  would  fly  east,  west,  north,  south ; 
and  their  consent  of  one  direct  way  should  be  at 
once  to  all  the  points  o'  the  compass. 

2  Cit.  Think  you  so  ?  Which  way,  do  you  judge, 
my  wit  would  fly  ? 

3  Cit.  Nay,  your  wit  will  not  so  soon  out  as 
another  man's  will,  'tis  strongly  wedged  up  in  a 
blockhead:  but  if  it  were  at  liberty,  'twould,  sure, 
southward. 

2  Cit.   Why  that  way  ? 

3  Cit.  To  lose  itself  in  a  fog ;  where  being  three 
parts  melted  away  with  rotten  dews,  the  fourth 
would  return  to  help  to  get  thee  a  wife. 

2  Cit.  You  are  never  without  your  tricks :  —  You 
may,  you  may. 

3  Cit.  Are  you  all  resolved  to  give  your  voices  ? 
But  that's  no  matter,  the  greater  part  carries  it.  I 
say,  if  he  would  incline  to  the  people,  there  was 
never  a  worthier  man. 

Enter  Coriolanus  and  Menenius. 
Here  he  comes,  and  in  the  gown  of  humility  ;  mark 
his  behaviour.  We  are  not  to  say  all  together,  but 
to  come  by  him  where  he  stands,  by  ones,  by  twos, 
and  by  threes.  He's  to  make  his  requests  by  parti- 
culars :  wherein  every  one  of  us  has  a  single  honour, 
in  giving  him  our  own  voices  with  our  own  tongues : 
therefore,  follow  me,  and  I'll  direct  you  how  you 
shall  go  by  him. 

All.   Content,  content. 

Men.   O  sir,  you  are  not  right :    have  you  not 
known 
The  worthiest  men  have  done  it  ? 

Car.  What  must  I  say  ?  — 

I  pray,  sir,  —  Plague  upon't !   I  cannot  bring 

My  tongue  to  such  a  pace  : Look,  sir  j  — —  my 

wounds ;  — 
I  got  them  in  my  country's  service,  when 
Some  certain  of  your  brethren  roar'd,  and  ran 
From  the  noise  of  our  own  drums. 

Men.  O  me,  the  gods  ! 

You  must  not  speak  of  tliat :  you  must  desire  them 
To  think  upon  you. 

Cor.  Think  upon  me  ?  Hang  'em  ! 

I  would  they  would  forget  me. 

Men.  You'll  mar  all ; 

I'll  leave  you  :  Pray  you,  speak  to  them,  I  pray  you, 
In  wholesome  manner.  \Exit. 

Enter  two  Citizens. 
Cor.  Bid  them  wash  their  faces. 

And  keep  their  teeth  clean. — So,here  comes  a  brace. — 
You  know  the  cause,  sir,  of  my  standing  here. 


1  Cit.  We  do,  sir ;  tell  us  what  hath  brought  you 

to't. 
Cor.   Mine  own  desert. 

2  Cit.  Your  own  desert? 

Cor.  Ay,  not 

Mine  own  desire. 

1  Cit.  How !  not  your  own  desire  ? 

Cor.    No,  sir  : 
'Twas  never  my  desire  yet. 
To  trouble  tlie  poor  with  begging. 

1  Cct.  You  must  think,  if  we  give  you  any  thing. 
We  hope  to  gain  by  you. 

Cor.  Well  then,  I  pray,  your  price  o'  the  consul- 
ship? 

1  Cit.   The  price  is,  sir,  to  ask  it  kindly. 

Cor.  Kindly  ? 

Sir,  I  pray,  let  me  ha't :  I  have  wounds  to  show  you. 
Which  shall  be  yours  in  private.  —  Your  good  voice, 

sir; 
What  say  you  ? 

2  Cit.  You  shall  have  it,  worthy  sir. 
Cor.   A  match,  sir  :  — 

There  is  in  all  two  worthy  voices  begg'd :  — 
I  have  your  alms ;  adieu. 

1  Cit.  But  this  is  something  odd. 

2  CU.   An  'twere  to   give   again,  —  But  'tis  no 

matter.  [^Exeunt  two  Citizens. 

Enter  two  other  Citizens. 
Cot.  Pray  you  now,  if  it  may  stand  with  the  tune 
of  your  voices,  that  I  may  be  consul,   I  have  here 
the  customary  gown. 

3  Cit.  You  have  deserved  nobly  of  your  country, 
and  you  have  not  deserved  nobly. 

Cor.   Your  enigma  ? 

3  Cit.  You  have  been  a  scourge  to  her  enemies, 
you  have  been  a  rod  to  her  friends ;  you  have  not, 
indeed,  loved  the  common  people. 

Cor.  You  should  account  me  the  more  virtuous, 
that  I  have  not  been  common  in  my  love.  I  will,  sir, 
flatter  my  sworn  brother  the  people,  to  earn  a  dearer 
estimation  of  them ;  'tis  a  condition  they  account 
gentle  :  and  since  the  wisdom  of  their  choice  is 
rather  to  have  my  hat  than  my  heart,  I  will  practise 
the  insinuating  nod,  and  be  off  to  them  most  coun- 
terfeitly ;  that  is,  sir,  I  will  counterfeit  the  bewitch- 
ment of  some  popular  man,  and  give  it  bountifully 
to  the  desirers.  Therefore,  beseech  you,  I  may  be 
consul. 

4  Cit.  We  hope  to  find  you  our  friend ;  and  there- 
fore give  you  our  voices  heartily. 

3  Cit.  You  have  received  many  wounds  for  your 
country. 

Cor.  I  will  not  seal  your  knowledge  with  showing 
them.  I  will  make  much  of  your  voices,  and  so 
trouble  you  no  further. 

Both  Cit.   The  gods  give  you  joy,  sir,  heartily  ! 

[Exeunt. 

Cor.  Most  sweet  voices !  — 
Better  it  is  to  die,  better  to  starve. 
Than  crave  the  hire  which  first  we  do  deserve. 
Why  in  this  wolvish  gown  should  I  stand  here, 
To  l>eg  of  Hob  and  Dick,  that  do  appear, 
Their  needless  vouches  ?  Custom  calls  me  to't :  — 
What  custom  wills,  in  all  things  should  we  do't. 
The  dust  on  antique  time  would  lie  unswept. 
And  mountainous  error  be  too  highly  heap'd 
For  truth  to  over-peer.^ —  Rather  than  fool  it  so, 
Let  the  high  oflBce  and  the  honour  go 

» Over-look.  • 

Uu 


658 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  II. 


To  one  that  would  do  thus.  —  I  am  half  through ; 
The  one  part  suffer'd,  the  other  will  I  do. 

Enter  three  other  Citizens. 
Here  come  more  voices,  — 
Your  voices :   for  your  voices  I  have  fought ; 
Watch'd  for  your  voices ;  for  your  voices,  bear 
Of  wounds  two  dozen  odd  ;  battles  thrice  six 
I  have  seen  and  heard  of ;  for  your  voices  have 
Done  many  things,  some  less,  some  more  :    your 

voices : 
Indeed,  I  would  be  consul. 

5  at.  He  has  done  nobly,  and  cannot  go  without 
any  honest  man's  voice. 

6  Cit.  Therefore  let  him  be  consul :  The  gods  give 
him  joy,  and  make  him  good  friend  to  the  people  ! 

All.   Am.en,  Amen. 

Jove  save  thee,  noble  consul !        {^Exeunt  Citizens. 
Cor.  Worthy  voices  ! 

Re-enter  Menenius,  with  Brutus,  and  Sicinius. 
Men.   You  have  stood  your  limitation ;  and  the 
tribunes 
Endue  you  with  the  people's  voice :    Remains, 
That,  in  the  official  marks  invested,  you 
Anon  do  meet  the  senate. 

Cor.  Is  this  done  ? 

Sic.   The  custom  of  request  you  have  discharg'd  : 
The  people  do  admit  you ;  and  are  summon'd 
To  meet  anon,  upon  your  approbation. 
Cor.   Where  ?  at  the  senate-house  ? 
Sic.    ■  Thefe,  Coriolanus. 

Cor.   May  I  then  change  these  garments  ? 
Sic.  You  may,  sir. 

Cor.   That  I'll  straight  do  ;  and,  knowing  myself 
again. 
Repair  to  the  senate-house. 

Men.  I'll  keep  you  company.  —  Will  you  along  ? 
Bru.   We  stay  here  for  the  people. 
Sic.  Fare  you  well. 

[^Exeunt  Coriol.  and.  Menen. 
He  has  it  now ;  and  by  his  looks,  methinks, 
'Tis  warm  at  his  heart. 

Bru.  With  a  proud  heart  he  wore 

His  humble  weeds  :   Will  you  dismiss  the  people  ? 
Re-enter  Citizens. 
Sic.   How  now,  my  masters  ?  have  you  chose  this 
man? 

1  Cit.   He  has  our  voices,  sir. 

Bru.  We  pray  the  gods,  he  may  deserve  your  loves. 

2  Cit.    Amen,  sir :    To  my  poor  unworthy  notice. 
He  mock'd  us,  when  he  begg'd  our  voices. 

3  Cit.  Certainly, 
He  flouted  us  down-right. 

1  Cit.   No,  'tis   his  kind  of  speech,  he  did  not 

mock  us. 

2  Cit.  Not  one  amongst  us  save  yourself,  but  says. 
He  us'd  us  scornfully :   he  should  have  show'd  us 
His  marks  of  merit,  wounds  receiv'd  for  his  country. 

Sic.   Why,  so  he  did,  I  am  sure. 
Cit.  No  ;  no  man  saw  'em. 

{^Several  speak. 
S  Cit.   He  said,  he  had  wounds,  which  he  could 
show  in  private ; 
And  with  his  hat,  thus  waving  it  in  scorn, 
/  would  be  consul,  says  he  :   aged  custom, 
But  by  your  voices,  will  not  so  permit  me  ; 
Your  voices  therefore  .-   When  we  granted  that. 
Here  was,  —  /  thank  you  Jbr  your  voices,  —  thank 
you,  — 


Your  most  sweet  voices :  —  now  you  have  left  your 

voices, 
I  have   no  further  with  you  :  — —  Was   not   this 
mockery  ? 

Sic.   Why,  either,  were  you  ignorant  to  see't  ? 
Or,  seeing  it,  of  such  childish  friendliness 
To  yield  your  voices? 

Bru.  Could  you  not  have  told  him, 

As  you  were  lesson'd,  —  When  he  had  no  power, 
But  was  a  petty  servant  to  the  state. 
He  was  your  enemy  ;  ever  spake  against 
Your  liberties,  and  the  charters  that  you  bear 
I'  the  body  of  the  weal ;  and  now,  arriving 
A  place  of  potency,  and  sway  o'  the  state. 
If  he  should  still  malignantly  remain 
Fast  foe  to  the  plebeii  *,  your  voices  might 
Be  curses  to  yourselves  ?   You  should  have  said, 
That  as  his  worthy  deeds  did  claim  no  less 
Than  what  he  stood  for ;  so  his  gracious  nature 
Would  think  upon  you  for  your  voices,  and 
Translate  his  malice  towards  you  into  love, 
Standing  your  friendly  lord. 

Sic.  Thus  to  have  said, 

As  you  were  fore-advis'd,  had  touch'd  his  spirit. 
And  try'd  his  inclination  :   from  him  pluck'd 
Either  his  gracious  promise,  which  you  might, 
As  cause  had  call'd  you  up,  have  held  him  to ; 
Or  else  it  would  have  gall'd  his  surly  nature. 
Which  easily  endures  not  article 
Tying  him  to  aught ;  so  putting  him  to  rage, 
You  should  have  ta'en  the  advantage  of  his  choler. 
And  pass'd  him  unelected. 

Bru.  Did  you  perceive. 

He  did  solicit  you  in  free  contempt, 
When  he  did  need  your  loves ;  and  do  you  think. 
That  his  contempt  shall  not  be  bruising  to  you, 
When  he  hath  power  to  crush  ?  Why,  had  your  bodies 
No  heart  .among  you  ?   Or  had  you  tongues,  to  cry 
Against  the  rectorship  of  judgment? 

Sic.  Have  you. 

Ere  now,  deny'd  the  asker  ?  and,  now  again. 
On  him,  that  did  not  ask,  but  mock,  bestow 
Your  su'd-for  tongues  ? 

3  Cit.   He's  not  confirm'd,  we  may  deny  him  yet. 

2  Cit.    And  will  deny  him  : 
I'll  have  five  hundred  voices  of  that  sound. 

1  Cit.   I  twice  five  hundred,  and  their  friends  to 
piece  'em. 

Bru.    Get  you  hence  instantly :   and  tell    those 
friends,  — 
They  have  chose  a  consul,  that  will  from  them  take 
Their  liberties  ;  make  them  of  no  more  voice 
Than  dogs,  that  are  as  often  beat  for  barking, 
As  therefore  kept  to  do  so. 

Sic.  Let  them  assemble  j 

And,  on  a  safer  judgment,  all  revoke 
Your  ignorant  election  :    Enforce  his  pride, 
And  his  old  hate  unto  you  :   besides,  forget  not 
With  what  contempt  he  wore  the  humble  weed  ; 
How  in  his  suit  he  scorn'd  you  :   but  your  loves, 
Thinking  upon  his  services,  took  from  you 
The  apprehension  of  his  present  portance  ^, 
Which  gibingly,  ungravely  he  did  fashion 
After  the  inveterate  hate  he  bears  you. 

Bru.  Lay 

A  fault  on  us,  your  tribunes  ;  that  we  labour'd 
(No  impediment  between)  but  that  you  must 
Cast  your  election  on  him. 

Sic.  Say,  you  chose  him 

*  Plebeians,  common  people.  *  Carriage. 


I 


I 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


CORIOLANUS. 


G59 


More  after  our  commandment,  than  as  guided 
By  your  own  true  affections  :   and  that,  your  minds 
Pre-occupy'd  with  what  you  rather  must  do 
Than  what  you  should,  made  you  against  the  grain 
To  voice  him  consul :    Lay  the  fault  on  us. 

JSru.    Ay,  spare  us  not.    Say,  we  read  lectures  to 
you. 
How  youngly  he  began  to  serve  his  country, 
How  long  continued  :  and  what  stock  he  springs  of. 
The  noble  house  o'  the  Marcians  ;  from  whence  came 
That  Ancus  Marcius,  Numa's  daughter's  son, 
Who,  after  great  Hostilius,  here  was  king : 
Of  the  same  house  Publius  and  Quintus  were, 
That  our  best  water  brought  by  conduits  hither ; 
And  Censorinus,  darling  of  the  people. 
And  nobly  nam'd  so,  being  censor  twice, 
Was  his  great  ancestor. 

Sic.  One  thus  descended. 

That  hath  beside  well  in  his  person  wrought 
To  be  set  high  in  place,  we  did  commend 


To  your  remembrances  :  but  you  have  found. 
Scaling  ^  his  present  bearing  with  his  past, 
That  he's  your  fixed  enemy,  and  revoke 
Your  sudden  approbation. 

Bru.  Say,  you  ne'er  had  done't, 

(Harp  on  that  still,)   but  by  our  putting  on  : 
And  presently,  when  you  have  drawn  your  number, 
Repair  to  the  Capitol. 

at.  We  will  so  :   almost  all  {Several  speak. 

Repent  in  their  election.  [Exeunt  Citizens. 

Jiru.  Let  them  go  on  ; 

This  mutiny  were  better  put  in  hazard. 
Than  stay,  past  doubt,  for  greater  ; 
If,  as  his  nature  is,  he  fall  in  rage 
With  their  refusal,  both  observe  and  answer 
The  vantage  of  his  anger.  . 

Sic.  To  the  Capitol  i  y 

Come ;  we'll  be  there  before  the  stream  o'  the  people  ; 
And  this  shall  seem,  as  partly  'tis,  their  own, 
Which  we  have  goaded  onward.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  — A  Street. 

Cornets.      Enter    Coriolanus,     Menenius,    Comi- 
Mus,  Titus  Lartius,  Senators,  and  Patricians, 

Cor.   Tullus  Aufidius  then  had  made  new  head  ? 

Lart.   He  had,  my  lord  ;  and  that  it  was,  which 
caus'd 
Our  swifter  composition. 

Cor.   So  then  the  Voices  stand  but  as  at  first ; 
Ready,  when  time  shall  prompt  them,  to  make  road 
Upon  us  again. 

Com.  Tliey  are  worn,  lord  consul,  so. 

That  we  shall  hardly  in  our  ages  see 
Their  banners  wave  again. 

Cor.  Saw  you  Aufidius? 

Lart.  On  safe-guard  he  came  to  me ;  and  did  curse 
Against  the  Voices,  for  they  had  so  vilely 
Yielded  the  town  :   he  is  retir'd  to  Anlium. 

Cor.   Spoke  he  of  me  ? 

Lart.  He  did,  my  lord. 

Cor.  How?  what? 

Laji.  How  often  he  had  met  you,  sword  to  sword : 
That,  of  all  things  upon  the  earth,  he  hated 
Your  person  most :   that  he  would  pawn  his  fortunes 
To  hopeless  restitution,  so  he  might 
Be  call'd  your  vanquislier. 

Cor.  At  Antium  lives  he  ? 

Lart.   At  Antium. 

Cor.    I  wish  I  had  a  cause  to  seek  him  there. 
To  oppose  his  hatred  fully.  —  Welcome  home. 

[To  Lartius. 

Enter  SiciNius  and  Brutus. 
Behold  !  these  are  the  tribunes  of  the  people, 
The  tongues  o'  the  common  mouth.      I  do  despise 

them : 
For  they  do  prank  them  in  authority, 
Against  all  noble  suflferance. 

Sic.  Pass  no  further. 

Cor.   Ha  !  what  is  that  ? 

Jiru.  It  will  be  dangerous  to 

Go  on :  no  further. 

Cor.  What  makes  this  change  ? 

Men.  Tlie  matter  ? 


Com.   Hath  he  not  pass'd  the  nobles,  and  the 
commons? 

Bru.    Cominius,  no. 

Cor.  Have  I  had  children's  voices? 

1  Sen.   Tribunes,  give  way  :  he  shall  to  the  mar- 
ket-place. 

Bru.   The  people  are  incens'd  against  him. 

Sic.  Stop, 

Or  all  will  fall  in  broil. 

Cor.  Are  these  your  herd  ?  — 

Must  these  have  voices,  that  can  yield  them  now. 
And  straight  disclaim  their  tongues?  —  What  are 

your  oflBces  ? 
You  being  their  mouths,  why  rule  you  not  their 

teeth  ? 
Have  you  not  set  them  on  ? 

Men.  Be  calm,  be  calm. 

Cor.   It  is  a  purpos'd  thing,  and  grows  by  plot, 
To  curb  the  will  of  the  nobility :  — 
Suffer  it,  and  live  with  such  as  cannot  rule, 
Nor  ever  will  be  rul'd. 

Bru.  Call't  not  a  plot : 

The  people  cry,  you  mock'd  them  ;  and,  of  late. 
When  corn  was  given  them  gratis,  you  repin'd ; 
Scandal'd  the  suppliants  for  the  people  ;  call'd  them 
Time-pleasers,  flatterers,  foes  to  nobleness. 

Cor.   Why,  this  was  known  before. 

Bru.  Not  to  them  all. 

Cur.   Have  you  inform'd  them  since  ? 

Bru.  How  !   I  inform  them  ! 

Cor.   You  are  like  to  do  such  business. 

Bru.  Not  unlike. 

Each  way  to  better  yours. 

Cor.  Why  then  should  I  be  consul  ?  By  yon  clouds. 
Let  me  deserve  so  ill  as  you,  and  make  me 
Your  fellow-tribune. 

Sic.  You  show  too  much  of  that. 

For  which  the  people  stir  :    If  you  will  pass 
To  where  you  are  bound,  you  must  inquire  your  way. 
Which  you  are  out  of,  with  a  gentler  spirit ; 
Or  never  be  so  noble  as  a  consul, 
Nor  yoke  with  him  for  tribune. 

Men.  Let's  be  calm. 

•  Weighing. 
U  u  2 


660 


CORIOLANUS, 


Act  III. 


Com.   The  people  are  abus'd  :  —  Sot  on.  —  This 
palt'ring  7 
Becomes  not  Rome ;  nor  has  Coriolanus 
Deserv'd  this  so  dishonour' d  rub,  laid  falsely 
1'  the  plain  way  of  his  merit. 

Cor.  Toll  me  of  corn  ! 

This  was  my  speech,  and  I  will  speak't  again ;  — 

Men.      Not  now,  not  now. 

1  Sen.  Not  in  this  heat,  sir,  now. 

Cor.   Now,  as  I  live,  I  will.  —  My  nobler  friends, 
I  crave  their  pardons  :  — 
For  the  mutable,  rank-scented  many,  let  them 
Regard  me  as  I  do  not  flatter,  and 
Therein  behold  themselves :    I  say  again, 
In  soothing  them,  we  nourish  'gainst  our  senate 
The  cockle  of  rebellion,  insolence,  sedition. 
Which  we  ourselves  have  plough'd  for,  sow'd  and 

scatter'd, 
By  mingling  them  with  us,  the  honour'd  number ; 
Who  lack  not  virtue,  no,  nor  power,  but  that 
Which  they  have  given  to  beggars. 

Men.  Well,  no  more. 

1  Sen.   No  more  words,  we  beseech  you. 

Cor.  How  !  no  more. 

As  for  my  country  I  have  shed  my  blood. 
Not  fearing  outward  force,  so  shall  my  lungs 
Coin  words  till  their  decay,  against  those  meazels  ^ 
Which  we  disdain  should  tetter  9  us,  yet  sought 
The  very  way  to  catch  them. 

Bru.  You  speak  o'  the  people, 

As  if  you  were  a  god  to  punish,  not 
A  man  of  their  infirmity. 

Sic.  'Twere  well. 

We  let  the  people  know't. 

Men.  What,  what  ?  his  choler  ? 

Cor.   Choler! 
Were  I  as  patient  as  the  midnight  sleep, 
By  Jove,  'twould  be  my  mind. 

Sic.  It  is  a  mind. 

That  shall  remain  a  poison  where  it  is, 
Not  poison  any  further. 

Cor.  Shall  remain !  — 

Hear  you  this  Triton  of  the  minnows  ?  mark  you 
His  absolute  shall  ? 

Com..  'Twas  from  the  canon.  > 

Cor.  Shall/ 

O  good,  but  most  unwise  patricians,  why. 
You  grave,  but  reckless  senators,  have  you  thus 
Given  Hydra  here  to  choose  an  officer. 
That  with  his  peremptory  shall,  being  but 
The  horn  and  noise  o'the  monsters,  wants  not  spirit 
To  say,  he'll  turn  your  current  in  a  ditch. 
And  make  your  channel  his  ?   If  he  have  power. 
Then  vail  your  ignorance  :   if  none,  awake 
Your  dangerous  lenity.      If  you  are  learned. 
Be  not  as  common  fools  ;  if  you  are  not. 
Let  them  have  cushions  by  you.    You  are  plebeians. 
If  they  be  senators  :   and  they  are  no  less. 
When  both  your  voices  blended,  the  greatest  taste 
Most  palates  theirs.     They  choose  their  magistrate ; 
And  such  a  one  as  he,  who  puts  his  shall, 
His  popular  shall,  against  a  graver  bench 
Than  ever  frown'd  in  Greece  !     By  Jove  himself. 
It  makes  the  consuls  base :   and  my  soul  aches, 
To  know,  when  two  authorities  are  up, 
Neither  supreme,  how  soon  confusion 
May  enter  'twixt  the  gap  of  both,  and  take 
The  one  by  the  other. 


Shuffling. 
Scab. 


f  Lepers. 

>  According  to  law. 


Com.  Well  —  on  to  the  market-place. 

Cor.    Whoever  gave  tliat  counsel,  to  give  forth 
The  corn  o'  the  store-house  gratis,  as  'twas  us'd 
Sometime  in  Greece, 

Men.  Well,  well,  no  more  of  that. 

Cor.  (Though  there  the  people  had  more  absolute 
power,) 
I  say,  they  nourish'd  disobedience,  fed 
The  ruin  of  the  state. 

Bru.  Why,  shall  the  people  give 

One,  that  speaks  thus,  their  voice  ? 

Cor.  I'll  give  my  reasons. 

More  worthier  than  their  voices.      They  know,  the 

com 
Was  not  our  recompence  :  resting  well  assur'd 
They  ne'er  did  service  for't :  Being  press'd  to  the  war, 
Even  when  the  vitals  of  the  state  were  touch'd. 
They  would  not  thread  the  gates  :    this   kind   of 

service 
Did  not  deserve  com  gratis :  being  i'  the  war, 
Their  mutinies  and  revolts,  wherein  they  show'd 
Most  valour,  spoke  not  for  them  :   The  accusation 
Which  they  have  often  made  against  the  senate. 
All  cause  unborn,  could  never  be  the  native  2 
Of  our  so  frank  donation.     Well,  what  then  ? 
How  shall  this  bosom  multiplied  digest 
The  senate's  courtesy  ?  Let  deeds  express 
What's  like  to  be  their  words  :  —  We  did  request  it; 
We  are  the  greater  poll  ^,  and  in  true  fear 
They  gave  us  our  demands :  —  Thus  we  debase 
The  nature  of  our  seats,  and  make  the  rabble 
Call  our  cares,  fears  :  which  will  in  time  break  open 
The  locks  o'  the  senate,  and  bring  in  the  crows 
To  peck  the  eagles.  — 

Men.  Come,  enough. 

Bru.   Enough,  with  over-measure. 

Cor.  No,  take  more  : 

What  may  be  sworn  by,  both  divine  and  human. 
Seal  what  I  end  withal !  —  This  double  worship,  — 
Where  one  part  does  disdain  with  cause,  the  other 
Insult  without  all  reason ;  where  gentry,  title,  wisdom 
Cannot  conclude,  but  by  the  yea  and  no 
Of  general  ignorance,  —  it  must  omit 
Real  necessities,  and  give  way  the  while 
To  unstable  slightness  :  purpose  so  barr'd,  it  follows. 
Nothing  is  done  to  purpose  :     Therefore,  beseech 

you,  — 
You  that  will  be  less  fearful  than  discreet ; 
That  love  the  fundamental  part  of  state. 
More  than  you  doubt  4  the  change  oft ;  that  prefer 
A  noble  life  before  a  long,  and  wish 
To  jump  5  a  body  with  a  dangerous  physick 
That's  sure  of  death  without  it,  —  at  once  pluck  out 
The  multitudinous  tongue,  let  them  not  lick 
The  sweet  which  is  their  poison  :  your  dishonour 
INI  angles  true  judgment,  and  bereaves  the  state 
Of  that  integrity  which  should  become  it ; 
Not  having  the  power  to  do  the  good  it  would 
For  the  ill  which  doth  control  it. 

Brii.  He  has  said  enough. 

Sic.  He  has  spoken  like  a  traitor,  and  shall  answer 
As  traitors  do. 

Cor.   Thou  wretch  !  despite  o'erwhelm  thee  !  — 
What  should  the  people  do  with  these  bald  tribunes  ? 
On  whom  depending,  their  obedience  fails 
To  the  greater  bench :    In  a  rebellion. 
When  what's  not  meet,  but  what  must  be,  was  law, 
Then  were  they  chosen ;  in  a  better  hour, 

2  Motive,  no  doubt,  wa.s  Shakspcare's  word. 

3  Number.  ^  Fear.  ''  Risk. 


II 


Scene  I. 


CORIOLANUS. 


661 


Let  wliat  is  meet,  be  said  it  must  be  meet, 
And  throw  their  power  i'  the  dust. 

liru.   Manifest  treason. 

Sic.  This  a  consul  ?  no. 

liru.  The  aediles,  ho  !  —  Let  him  be  apprehended. 

Sic.    Go,  call   the   people;     [Exit    Brutus.]   in 
•  whose  name,  myself 
Attach  thee,  as  a  traitorous  innovator, 
A  foe  to  the  publick  weal :    Obey,  I  charge  thee, 
And  follow  to  thine  answer. 

Cor.  Hence,  old  goat ! 

Sen.  4:  Pat.  We'll  surety  him. 

Com.  Aged  sir,  hands  off. 

Cor.  Hence,  rotten  thing,  or  I  shall  shake  thy  bones 
Out  of  thy  garments. 

Sic.  Help,  ye  citizens. 

Re-enter  Brutus,  with  the  ^diles,  and  a  Rabble  of 
Citizens. 

Men.   On  both  sides  more  respect. 

Sic.  Here's  he,  that  would 

Take  from  you  all  your  power. 

Bru.  Seize  him,  sediles. 

Cit.   Down  with  him,  down  with  him  ! 

\_Several  speak. 

2  Sen.  Weapons,  weapons,  weapons ! 

{_They  all  bustle  about  Coriolanus. 

Tribunes,  patricians,  citizens  !  —  what,  ho  ! 

Sicinius,  Brutus,  Coriolanus,  citizens  ! 

Cit.    Peace,  peace,  peace ;  stay,  hold,  peace  ! 

Men.  What  is  about  to  be  ?  —  I  am  out  of  breath ; 
Confusion's  near :  I  cannot  speak  :  —  You,  tribunes 
To  the  people,  —  Coriolanus  patience :  — 
Speak,  good  Sicinius. 

Sic.  Hear  me,  people ;  —  Peace. 

Cit.  Let's  hear  our  tribune ;  —  Peace,  speak,  speak 
speak. 

Sic.   You  are  at  point  to  lose  your  liberties : 
Marcius  would  have  all  from  you  ;   Marcius, 
Whom  late  you  have  nam'd  for  consul. 

Men.  Fye,  fye,  fye ! 

This  is  the  way  to  kindle,  not  to  quench. 

1  Sen.    To  unbuild  the  city,  and  to  lay  all  flat. 

Sic.   What  is  the  city,  but  the  people  ? 

at.  True, 

The  people  are  the  city. 

Bru.   By  the  consent  of  all  we  were  established 
The  people's  magistrates. 

Cit.  You  so  remain. 

Men.   And  so  are  like  to  do. 

Cor.    That  is  the  way  to  lay  the  city  flat ; 
To  bring  the  roof  to  the  foundation  ; 
And  bury  all,  which  yet  distinctly  ranges. 
In  heaps  and  piles  of  ruin. 

Sic.  This  deserves  death. 

Bru.    Or  let  us  stand  to  our  authority. 
Or  let  us  lose  it :  —  We  do  here  pronounce. 
Upon  the  part  o'  the  people,  in  whose  power 
We  were  elected  theirs,  Marcius  is  worthy 
Of  present  death. 

5ic.  Therefore,  lay  hold  of  him  : 

Bear  him  to  the  rock  Tarpeian  ^,  and  from  thence 
Into  destruction  cast  him. 

Bru.  iEdiles,  seize  him. 

Cit.   Yield,  Marcius,  yield. 

Men.  Hear  me  one  word. 

Beseech  you,  tribunes,  hear  me  but  a  word. 

jEdi.    Peace,  peace. 

Men.  Be  that  you  seem,  truly  your  country's  friend, 

c  Whence  criminaLt  were  thrown,  and  dashed  to  pieces. 


And  temperately  proceed  to  what  you  would 
Thus  violently  redress. 

Bru.  Sir,  those  cold  ways, 

That  seem  like  prudent  helps,  are  very  poisonous 
Wljere  tlie  disease  is  violent :  —  Lay  Ijands  upon  him. 
And  bear  him  to  the  rock. 

Cor.  No  ;   I'll  die  here. 

[Drawing  his  Sword. 
There's  some  among  you  have  beheld  me  fighting ; 
Come,  try  upon  yourselves  what  you  have  seen  me. 

Men.  Down  with  that  sword ;  —  Tribunes,  with- 
draw a  while. 

Bru.   Lay  hands  upon  him. 

Men.  Help  Marcius  !  help. 

You  that  be  noble  ;  help  him,  young  and  old  ! 

Cit.    Down  with  him,  down  with  him  ! 

[In  this  Mutiny,  the  Tribunes,  the  iEdiles, 
and  the  People,  are  all  beat  in. 

Men.  Go,  get  you  to  your  house ;  begone,  away, 
All  will  be  naught  else. 

2  Sen.  Get  you  gone. 

Cor.  Standfast; 

We  have  as  many  friends  as  enemies. 

Men.   Shall  it  be  put  to  that? 

1  Sen.  The  gods  forbid  ! 

I  pr'ythee,  noble  friend,  home  to  thy  house ; 
Leave  us  to  cure  this  cause. 

Men.  For  'tis  a  sore  upon  us, 

You  cannot  tent  yourself:    Begone,  'beseech  you. 

Com.    Come,  sir,  along  with  us. 

Cor.    I  would  they  were  barbarians,  (as  they  arc^ 
Though  in  Rome  litter'd,)  not  Romans,  (as  they  are 

not. 
Though  calv'd  i*  the  porch  o'  the  Capitol,)  — 

Men.  Begone ; 

Put  not  your  worthy  rage  into  your  tongue ; 
One  time  will  owe  another. 

Cor.  On  fair  ground, 

I  could  beat  forty  of  them. 

Men.  I  could  myself 

Take  up  a  brace  of  the  best  of  them  ;  yea,  the  two 
tribunes. 

Com.   But  now  'tis  odds  beyond  arithmetick ; 
And  manhood  is  call'd  foolery,  when  it  stands 
Against  a  falling  fabrick.  —  Will  you  hence. 
Before  the  tag  7  return  ?  whose  rage  doth  rend 
Like  interrupted  waters,  and  o'erbear 
What  they  are  us'd  to  bear. 

Men.  Pray  you,  begone  : 

I'll  try  whether  my  old  wit  be  in  request 
With  those  that  have  but  little ;  this  must  be  patch'd 
With  cloth  of  any  colour. 

Com.  Nay,  come  away. 

[Exeunt  Cob.  Com.  and  others. 

1  Pat.   This  man  has  marr'd  his  fortune. 
Men.   His  nature  is  too  noble  for  the  world  : 

He  would  not  flatter  Neptune  for  his  trident. 

Or  Jove  for  his  power  to  tlmnder.      His  heart's  his 

mouth: 
What  his  breast  forges,  that  his  tongue  must  vent ; 
And,  being  angry,  does  forget  that  ever 
He  heard  the  name  of  death.  [A  Noije  within. 

Here's  goodly  work ! 

2  Pat.  I  would  they  were  a-bed  ! 
3/^71.   I  would  they  were  in  Tyber !  —  What,  the 

vengeance. 
Could  he  not  speak  them  fair  ? 
Re-enter  Brutus  and  Sicimius,  u-ith  the  Rabble. 
Sic.  Where  is  this  viper, 

?  The  lowest  of  the  populace,  tag,  rag,  and  bobUiL 
U  u  3 


662 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  III. 


That  would  depopulate  the  city,  and 
Be  every  man  himself? 

Men.  You  worthy  tribunes, 

Sic.   He  shall  be  thrown  down  the  Tarpeian  rock 
"With  rigorous  hands  ;  he  hath  resisted  law. 
And  therefore  law  shall  scorn  him  further  trial 
Than  the  severity  of  the  publick  power. 
Which  he  so  sets  at  nought. 

1  Cit.   He  shall  well  know, 
The  noble  tribunes  are  the  people's  mouths, 
And  we  their  hands. 

Cit.  He  shall,  sure  on't. 

[Several  speak  together. 

Men.  Sir,  — 

Sic.  Peace. 

Men.   Do  not  cry,  havock,  where  you  should  but 
hunt 
With  modest  warrant. 

Sic.  Sir,  how  comes  it,  that  you 

Have  holp  to  make  this  rescue? 

Men.  Hear  me  speak  :  — 

As  I  do  know  the  consul's  worthiness. 
So  can  I  name  his  faults ; 

Sic.  Consul  ?  —  What  consul  ? 

Men.   The  consul  Coriolanus. 

Bru.  He  a  consul ! 

Cit.   No,  no,  no,  no,  no. 

Men.   If,  by  the  tribune's  leave,  and  yours,  good 
people, 
I  may  be  heard,  I'd  crave  a  word  or  two  ; 
The  which  shall  turn  you  to  no  further  harm. 
Than  so  much  loss  of  time. 

Sic.  Speak  briefly  then  ; 

For  we  are  peremptory,  to  despatch 
This  viperous  traitor :   to  eject  him  hence, 
Were  but  one  danger ;  and,  to  keep  him  here. 
Our  certain  death  ;  therefore  it  is  decreed. 
He  dies  to-night. 

Men.  Now  the  good  gods  forbid. 

That  our  renowned  Rome,  whose  gratitude 
Towards  her  deserved  8  children  is  enroU'd 
In  Jove's  own  book,  like  an  unnatural  dam 
Should  now  eat  up  her  own  ! 

Sic.    He's  a  disease,  that  must  be  cut  away. 

Men.    O,  he's  a  limb,  that  has  but  a  disease  ; 
Mortal,  to  cut  it  off;  to  cure  it,  easy. 
What  has  he  done  to  Rome,  that's  worthy  death  ? 
Killing  our  enemies  ?  The  blood  he  hath  lost, 
(Which,  I  dare  vouch,  is  more  than  that  he  hath. 
By  many  an  ounce,)  he  dropp'd  it  for  his  country  : 
And,  what  is  left,  to  lose  it  by  his  country, 
Were  to  us  all,  that  do't,  and  suffer  it, 
A  brand  to  the  end  o'  the  world. 

Sic.  This  is  clean  kam.9 

Bru.  Merely '  awry:  when  he  did  love  his  country. 
It  honour'd  him. 

Men.  The  service  of  the  foot 

Being  once  gangren'd,  is  not  then  respected 
For  what  before  it  was  ? 

Bru.  We'll  hear  no  more  :  — 

Pursue  him  to  his  house,  and  pluck  him  thence  ; 
Lest  his  infection,  being  of  catching  nature. 
Spread  further. 

Men.  One  word  more,  one  word. 

This  tiger-footed  rage,  when  it  shall  find 
The  harm  of  unscann'd  swiftness  %  will,  too  late. 
Tie  leaden  pounds  to  his  heels.     Proceed  by  process ; 
Lest  parties  (as  he  is  belov'd)  break  out. 


Deserving. 
Absolutely. 


9  Quite  awry. 

2  Inconsiderate  haste. 


And  sack  great  Rome  with  Romans. 

Bru.  If  it  were  so,  — 

Sic.   What  do  ye  talk  ? 
Have  we  not  had  a  taste  of  his  obedience  ? 
Our  sediles  smote  ?  ourselves  resisted  ?  Come  :  — 

Men.  Consider  this ;  —  He  has  been  bred  i'  the  wars 
Since  he  could  draw  a  sword,  and  is  ill  school'd 
In  boulted  3  language ;  meal  and  bran  together 
He  throws  without  distinction.      Give  me  leave, 
I'll  go  to  him,  and  undertake  to  bring  him 
Where  he  shall  answer  by  a  lawful  form, 
(In  peace)  to  his  utmost  peril. 

1  Sen.  Noble  tribunes. 

It  is  the  humane  way  :  the  other  course 
Will  prove  too  bloody  ;  and  the  end  of  it 
Unknown  to  the  begiiming. 

Sic.  Noble  Menenius, 

Be  you  then  as  the  people's  officer : 
Masters,  lay  down  your  weapons. 

Bru.  Go  not  home. 

Sic.   Meet  on  the  market-place  :  —  We'll  attend 
you  there : 
Where,  if  you  bring  not  Marcius,  we'll  proceed 
In  our  first  way. 

Men.  I'll  bring  him  to  you  :  — 

Let  me  desire  your  company.    [To  the  Senators.] 

He  must  come. 
Or  what  is  worst  will  follow. 

I  Sen.  Pray  you,  let's  to  him.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  Coriolanus'  House. 

Enter  Coriolanus,  and  Patricians. 

Cor.  Let  them  pull  all  about  mine  ears ;  present  me 
Death  on  the  wheel,  or  at  wild  horses'  heels  ; 
Or  pile  ten  hills  on  the  Tarpeian  rock. 
That  the  precipitation  might  down  stretch 
Below  the  beam  of  sight,  yet  will  I  still 
Be  thus  to  them. 

Enter  Volumnia. 

1  Pat.  You  do  the  nobler. 

Cor.   I  muse  %  my  mother 
Does  not  approve  me  further,  who  was  wont 
To  call  them  wooden  vassals,  things  created 
To  buy  and  sell  with  groats  ;  to  show  bare  heads 
In  congregations,  to  yawn,  be  still,  and  wonder. 
When  one  but  of  my  ordinance  ^  stood  up 
To  speak  of  peace,  or  war.      I  talk  of  you  ; 

[To  VoLUMNIA. 

Why  did  you  wish  me  milder  ?  Would  you  have  me 
False  to  my  nature  ?    Rather  say,  I  play 
The  man  I  am. 

Vol.  O,  sir,  sir,  sir, 

I  would  have  had  you  put  your  power  well  on. 
Before  you  had  worn  it  out. 

Cor.  Let  go. 

Vol.   You  might  have  been  enough  the  man  you 
are. 
With  striving  less  to  be  so :   Lesser  had  been 
The  thwartings  of  your  dispositions,  if 
You  had  not  show'd  them  how  you  were  dispos'd, 
Ere  they  lack'd  power  to  cross  you. 

Cor.  Let  them  hang. 

Vol.    Ay,  and  burn  too. 

Enter  Menenius,  and  Senators. 
Men.   Come,  come,   you  have  been  too  rough, 
something  too  rough  ; 
You  must  return,  and  mend  it. 

3  Finely  sifted.  *  Wonder.  *  Ranlc 


Scene  II. 


CORIOLANUS. 


663 


1  Sen.  There's  no  remedy  ; 

Unless,  by  not  so  doing,  our  good  city 
Cleave  in  the  midst  and  perish. 

Vol.  Pray,  be  counsell'd  : 

I  have  a  heart  as  little  apt  as  yours, 
But  yet  a  brain,  that  leads  my  use  of  anger, 
To  better  vantage. 

Men.  Well  said,  noble  woman  : 

Before  he  should  thus  stoop  to  the  herd,  but  that 
The  violent  fit  o'  the  time  craves  it  as  physick 
For  the  whole  state,  I  would  put  mine  armour  on. 
Which  I  can  scarcely  bear. 
Cor.   What  must  I  do  ? 

Men.  Return  to  the  tribunes. 

Cor.  Well, 

What  then  ?    what  then  ? 
Men.  Repent  what  you  have  spoke. 

Cor.    For  them  ?  —  I  cannot  do  it  to  the  gods  ; 
Must  I  then  do't  to  them  ? 

Vol.  You  are  too  absolute ; 

Though  therein  you  can  never  be  too  noble. 
But  when  extremities  speak.   I  have  heard  you  say, 
Honour  and  policy,  like  unsever'd  friends, 
1'  the  war  do  grow  together :  Grant  that,  and  tell  me, 
In  peace,  what  each  of  them  by  th'  other  lose. 
That  they  combine  not  there. 

Cor.  Tush,  tush  ! 

Men.  A  good  demand. 

Vol.   If  it  be  honour  in  your  wars,  to  seem 
The  same  you  are  not,  (which,  for  your  best  ends, 
You  adopt  your  policy,)  how  is  it  less  or  worse, 
That  it  shall  hold  companionship  in  peace 
With  honour  as  in  war  j  since  that  to  both 
It  stands  in  like  request  ? 

Cor.  Why  force  you  this  ? 

Vol.   Because  that  now  it  lies  you  on  to  speak 
To  the  people  ;  not  by  your  own  instruction. 
Nor  by  the  matter  which  your  heart  prompts  you  to, 
But  witli  such  words  that  are  but  roted  in 
Your  tongue,  though  but  bastards,  and  syllables 
Of  no  allowance,  to  your  bosom's  truth. 
Now,  this  no  more  dishonours  you  at  all. 
Than  to  take  in  ^  a  town  with  gentle  words, 
Which  else  would  put  you  to  your  fortune,  and 
The  hazard  of  much  blood.  — 
I  would  dissemble  with  my  nature,  where 
My  fortunes,  and  my  friends,  at  stake,  requir'd 
I  should  do  so  in  honour :    I  am  in  this. 
Your  wife,  your  son,  these  senators,  the  nobles ; 
And  you  will  rather  show  our  general  lowts  7 
How  you  can  frown,  than  spend  a  fawn  upon  them, 
For  the  inheritance  of  their  loves,  and  safeguard 
Of  what  that  want  might  ruin. 

Men.  Noble  lady  !  — 

Come,  go  with  us ;  speak  fair :   you  may  salve  so, 
Not  what  is  dangerous  present,  but  the  loss 
Of  what  is  past. 

Vol.  I  pr'ythee,  now,  my  son. 

Go  to  them,  with  this  bonnet  in  thy  hand  ; 
And  thus  far  having  stretch'd  it,  (here  be  with  tliem,) 
Thy  knee  bussing  the  stones,  (for  in  such  business 
Action  is  eloquence,  and  the  eyes  of  tlie  ignorant 
More  learned  than  the  ears,)  waving  tliy  head, 
Which  often  thus  correcting  thy  stout  heart. 
That  humble,  as  the  ripest  mulberry. 
Now  will  not  hold  the  handhng  :    Or,  say  to  them, 
Thou  art  their  soldier,  and  being  bred  in  broils. 
Hast  not  the  soft  way,  which,  thou  dost  confess. 
Were  fit  for  thee  to  use,  as  tliey  to  claim, 
«  Subdue.  '  Common  clowru. 


In  asking  their  good  loves  ;  but  thou  wilt  frame 
Thyself,  forsooth,  hereafter  theirs,  so  far 
As  thou  hast  power,  and  person. 

Men.  This  but  done, 

Even  as  she  speaks,  why,  all  their  hearts  were  yours  : 
For  they  have  pardons,  being  ask'd,  as  free 
As  words  to  little  purpose. 

Vol.  Pr'ythee  now. 

Go,   and  be  rul'd  :  although,   I  know,  thou  hadst 

rather 
Follow  thine  enemy  in  a  fiery  gulf. 
Than  flatter  him  in  a  bower.      Here  is  Cominius. 


Enter  Cominius. 
Com.  I  have  been  i'  the  market  place 
'tis  fit 


and,  sir. 


You  make  strong  party,  or  defend  yourself 
By  calmness,  or  by  absence,  all's  in  anger. 
Men.    Only  fair  speech. 

Com.  I  think,  'twill  serve,  if  he 

Can  thereto  frame  his  spirit. 

Y^^-  He  must,  and  will :  — 

Pr'ythee  now,  say,  you  will,  and  go  about  it. 
Cor.  Must  I  go  show  them  my  unbarb'd  sconce  ?  8 
Must  I, 
With  my  base  tongue,  give  to  my  noble  heart 
A  lie,  that  it  must  bear?  Well,  I  will  do't: 
Yet  were  there  but  this  single  plot  to  lose, 
This  mould  of  Marcius,  they  to  dust  should  grind  it. 
And  throw  it  against  tlie  wind.  —  To  the  market- 
place : 
You  have  put  me  now  to  such  a  part,  which  never 
I  shall  discharge  to  the  life. 

Com.  »  Come,  come,  we'll  prompt  you. 

Vol.   I  pr'ythee  now,  sweet  son  ;  as  thou  hast  said. 
My  praises  made  thee  first  a  soldier,  so, 
To  have  my  praise  for  this,  perform  a  part 
Thou  hast  not  done  before. 

Cor.  Well,  I  must  do't : 

Away,  my  disposition,  and  possess  me 
Some  harlot's  spirit!      My  throat  of  war  he  turn'd. 
Which  quired  with  my  drum,  into  a  voice 
That  babies  lulls  asleep  !     The  smiles  of  knaves 
Tent  9  in  my  cheeks  ;  and  school-boys'  tears  take  up 
The  glasses  of  my  sight !    A  beggar's  tongue 
Make   motion  through    my   lips ;    and    my    ann'd 

knees. 
Who  bow'd  but  in  my  stirrup,  bend  like  his 
That  hath  receiv'd  an  alms  !  —  I  will  not  do't : 
Lest  I  surcease  to  honour  mine  own  truth. 
And  by  my  body's  action,  teach  my  mind 
A  most  inherent  baseness. 

Vol.  At  thy  choice  tlien  ; 

To  beg  of  thee,  it  is  my  more  dishonour, 
Tlian  thou  of  them.      Come  ail  to  ruin  ;  let 
Thy  mother  rather  feel  thy  pride,  than  fear 
Thy  dangerous  stoutness ;  for  I  mock  at  death 
With  as  big  heart  as  thou.      Do  as  thou  list, 
Tliy  valiantness  was  mine,  thou  suck'dst  it  from  me; 
But  owe  '  thy  pride  tliyself. 

Cor.  Pray,  be  content ; 

Mother,  I  am  going  to  the  market-place ; 
Chide  me  no  more.      I'll  mountebank  their  loves. 
Cog  their  hearts  from  tliem,  and  come  home  belov'd 
Of  all  the  trades  in  Rome.      Look,  I  am  going  : 
Commend  me  to  my  wife.      I'll  return  consul ; 
Or  never  trust  to  what  my  tongue  can  do 
I'the  way  of  flattery,  further. 

Vol.  Do  your  will.  [ExU. 

*  Unshaven  head  »  Dwell  '  Own. 

Uu  4 


664: 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  III. 


Com.  Away,  the  tribunes  do  attend  you :  arm 
yourself 
To  answer  mildly ;  for  they  are  prepar'd 
With  accusations,  as  I  hear,  more  strong 
Than  are  upon  you  yet. 

Cor.   The  word  is,  mildly :  —  Pray  you,  let  us  go ; 
Let  them  accuse  me  by  invention,  I 
Will  answer  in  mine  honour. 

Men.  Ay,  but  mildly. 

Cor.  Well,  mildly  be  it  then ;  mildly.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Forum. 

Enter  Sicinius  and  Brutus. 
Bru.  In  this  point  charge  him  home,  that  he  affects 
Tyrannical  power :   If  he  evade  us  there. 
Enforce  him  with  his  envy  to  the  people ; 
And  that  the  spoil,  got  on  the  Antiates, 
Was  ne'er  distributed.  — 

Enter  an  ^dile. 

What,  will  he  come  ? 

jEd.  He's  coming. 

£ru.  How  accompanied  ? 

jEd.  With  old  Menenius,  and  those  senators 
That  always  favour'd  him. 

Sic.  Have  you  a  catalogue 

Of  all  the  voices  that  we  have  procur'd, 
Set  down  by  the  poll  ? 

JEd.  I  have ;  'tis  ready,  here. 

Sic.   Have  you  collected  them  by  tribes  ? 

jEd.  I  have. 

Sic.   Assemble  presently  the  people  hither : 
And  when  they  hear  me  say,  It  shall  be  so 
I'  the  right  and  strength  of  the  commons,  be  it  either 
For  death,  for  fine,  or  banishment,  then  let  them. 
If  I  say,  fine,  cry  fine  ;  if  death,  cry  death: 
Insisting  on  the  old  prerogative 
And  power  i'  the  truth  o'  the  cause. 

JEd.  I  shall  inform  them. 

Bru.  And  when  such  time  they  have  begun  to  cry, 
Let  them  not  cease,  but  with  a  din  confus'd 
Enforce  the  present  execution 
Of  what  we  chance  to  sentence. 

jEd.  Very  well. 

Sic.  Make  them  be  strong,  and  ready  for  this  hint, 
When  we  shall  hap  to  give't  them. 

Bru.  Go  about  it.  — 

\_ExU  M6\\e. 
Put  him  to  choler  straight :   He  hath  been  us'd 
Ever  to  conquer,  and  to  have  his  worth 
Of  contradiction  :    Being  once  chaf 'd,  he  cannot 
Be  rein'd  again  to  temperance  ;  then  he  "speaks 
What's  in  his  heart ;  and  that  is  there,  which  looks 
With  us  to  break  his  neck. 

Enter  Coriolanus,  Menenius,  Cominius,  Senators, 
and  Patricians. 

Sic.   Well,  here  he  comes. 

Men.  Calmly,  I  do  beseech  you. 

Cor.   Ay,  as  an  ostler,  that  for  the  poorest  piece 
Will  bear  the  knave  -  by  the  volume. —  The  honour'd 

gods 
Keep  Rome  in  safety,  and  the  chairs  of  justice 
Supplied  with  worthy  men  !  plant  love  among  us  ! 
Throng  our  large  temples  with  the  shows  of  peace. 
And  not  our  streets  with  war ! 

1  Sen.  Amen,  amen  ! 

Men.    A  noble  wish. 

2  Will  bear  being  called  a  knave. 


Re-enter  ^dile,  with  Citizens. 

Sic.   Draw  near,  ye  people. 

JEd.   List  to  your  tribunes ;  audience  :   Peace,  1 
say. 

Cor.   First,  hear  me  speak. 

Both  Tri.  Well,  say.  —  Peace,  ho. 

Cor.  Shall  I  be  charg'd  no  furtlier  than  this  present  ? 
Must  all  determine  here  ? 

Sic.  I  do  demand, 

If  you  submit  you  to  the  people's  voices, 
Allow  their  oflBcers,  and  are  content 
To  suffer  lawful  censure  for  such  faults 
As  shall  be  prov'd  upon  you  ? 

Cor.  I  am  content. 

Men.   Lo,  citizens,  he  says,  he  is  content : 
The  warlike  service  he  has  done,  consider ; 
Think  on  the  wounds  his  body  bears,  which  show 
Like  graves  i'  the  holy  churchyard. 

Cor.  Scratches  with  briars. 

Scars  to  move  laughter  only. 

Men.  Consider  further. 

That  when  he  speaks  not  like  a  citizen. 
You  find  him  like  a  soldier :   Do  not  take 
His  rougher  accents  for  malicious  sounds. 
But,  as  I  say,  such  as  become  a  soldier. 
Rather  than  envy  s  you. 

Com.  Well,  well,  no  more. 

Cor.   What  is  the  matter, 
That  being  pass'd  for  consul  with  full  voice, 
I  am  so  dishonour'd,  that  the  very  hour 
You  take  it  off  again  ? 

Sic.  Answer  to  us. 

Cor.   Say  then  :   'tis  true,  I  ought  so. 

Sic.  We  charge  you,  that  you  have  contriv'd  to  take 
From  Rome  all  season'd  ^  oflBce,  and  to  wind 
Yourself  into  a  power  tyrannical ; 
For  which,  you  are  a  traitor  to  the  people. 

Cor.    How  !   Traitor  ? 

Men.  Nay ;  temperately  :    Your  promise. 

Cor.  The  fires  i'  the  lowest  hell  fold  in  the  people  ! 
Call  me  their  traitor  !  —  Thou  injurious  tribune  ! 
Within  thine  eyes  sat  twenty  thousand  deaths. 
In  thy  hands  clutch'd  as  many  millions,  in 
Thy  lying  tongue  both  numbers,  I  would  say. 
Thou  liest,  unto  thee,  with  a  voice  as  free 
As  I  do  pray  the  gods. 

Sic.  Mark  you  this,  people? 

Cit.  To  the  rock  with  him ;  to  the  rock  with  him ! 

Sic.  Peace. 

We  need  not  put  new  matter  to  his  charge  : 
What  you  have  seen  him  do,  and  heard  him  speak. 
Beating  your  ofiicers,  cursing  yourselves. 
Opposing  laws  with  strokes,  and  here  defying 
Those  whose  great  power  must  try  him  ;  even  this. 
So  criminal,  and  in  such  capital  kind, 
Deserves  the  extremest  death. 

Bru.  But  since  he  hath 

Serv'd  well  for  Rome, 

Cor.  What  do  you  prate  of  service  ? 

Bru.  I  talk  of  that,  that  know  it. 

Cor.  You  ? 

Men.  Is  tliis 

The  promise  that  you  made  your  mother  ? 

Com.  Know, 

I  pray  you, 

Cor.  I'll  know  no  further  : 

Let  them  pronounce  the  steep  Tarpeian  death. 
Vagabond  exile,  flaying  ;   Pent  to  linger 
But  with  a  grain  a  day,  I  would  not  buy 

3  MaUce.  ■•  Of  long  standing. 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


CORIOLANUS. 


665 


Their  mercy  at  the  price  of  one  fair  word ; 
Nor  check  my  courage  for  what  they  can  give, 
To  have't  with  saying,  Good  morrow. 

Sic.  For  that  he  has 

(As  much  as  in  him  lies)  from  time  to  time 
Envied  *  against  the  people,  seeking  means 
To  pluck  away  their  power ;  as  now  at  last 
Given  hostile  strokes,  and  that  not  ^  in  the  presence 
Of  dreaded  justice,  but  on  the  ministers 
That  do  distribute  it ;  In  the  name  o'  the  people, 
And  in  the  power  of  us  the  tribunes,  we. 
Even  from  this  instant,  banish  him  our  city  ; 
In  peril  of  precipitation 
From  off  the  rock  Tarpeian,  never  more 
To  enter  our  Rome's  gates  :    1'  the  people's  name, 
I  say,  it  shall  be  so. 

CU.  It  shall  be  so, 

It  shall  be  so ;  let  him  away  :  he's  banish'd. 
And  so  it  shall  be. 

Com.   Hear  me,  my  masters,  and   my  common 
friends ; 

Sic.   He's  sentenc'd :  no  more  hearing. 

Com.  Let  me  speak  : 

I  have  been  consul,  and  can  show  from  ^  Rome, 
Her  enemies'  marks  upon  me.      I  do  love 
My  country's  good,  with  a  respect  more  tender, 
More  holy,  and  profound,  than  mine  own  life. 
My  dear  wife's  estimate  *•,  than  if  I  would 
Speak  that  —— 

Sic.  We  know  your  drift :    Speak  what  ? 

Bru.  There's  no  more  to  be  said,  but  he  is  banished. 
As  enemy  to  the  people,  and  his  country  : 
It  shall  be  so. 


Cit.  It  shall  be  so,  it  shall  be  so. 

Cor.   You  common  cry  9  of  curs  !  whose  breath  I 
hate 
As  reek  •  o'  the  rotten  fens,  whose  loves  I  prize 
As  the  dead  carcasses  of  unburied  men 
That  do  corrupt  my  air,  I  banish  you ; 
And  here  remain  with  your  uncertainty  ! 
Let  every  feeble  rumour  shake  your  hearts  ! 
Your  enemies  with  nodding  of  their  plumes, 
Fan  you  into  despair !  have  the  power  still 
To  banish  your  defenders ;  till,  at  length. 
Your  ignorance,  (which  finds  not,  till  it  fV-els,) 
Making  not  reservation  of  yourselves, 
(Still  your  own  foes,)  deliver  you,  as  most 
Abated  ^  captives,  to  some  nation 
That  won  you  without  blows  !  despising, 
For  you,  tlie  city,  thus  I  turn  my  back : 
There  is  a  world  elsewhere. 

l^JExeunt  Coriolanus,  Cominius,  Mekenius, 
Senators,  and  Patricians. 
jEd.   The  people's  enemy  is  gone,  is  gone  ! 
Cit.   Our  enemy's  banish'd !   he  is  gone !   Hoo ! 
hoo  ! 
[  The  people  shout,  and  throw  up  their  Caps* 
Sic.   Go,  see  him  out  at  gates,  and  follow  him, 
As  he  hath  follow'd  you,  with  all  despite  ; 
Give  him  deserv'd  vexation.     Let  a  guard 
Attend  us  through  the  city. 

Cit.   Come,  come,  let  us  see  him  out  at  gates; 
come :  — 
The  gods  preserve  our  noble  tribunes  !  —  Come. 

\^Exeunt, 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  L  —  Before  a  Gate  of  the  City. 

Enter  Coriolanus,  Volumnia,  Virgilia,  Mene- 
Nius,  CoMiNius,  oTid  Several  young  Patricians. 

Cor.   Come  leave  your  tears ;  a  brief  farewell :  — 
the  beast 

With  many  heads  butts  me  away Nay,  mother. 

Where  is  your  ancient  courage  ?  you  were  us'd 
To  say,  extremity  was  the  trier  of  spirits  ; 
That  common  chances  common  men  could  bear  ; 
That,  when  the  sea  was  calm,  all  boats  alike 
Show'd  mastership  in  floating  :   fortune's  blows. 
When  most  struck  home,  being  gentle  wounded, 

craves 
A  noble  cunning  :   you  were  us'd  to  load  me 
With  precepts,  that  would  make  invincible 
The  heart  that  conn'd  them. 

Vir.   O  heavens!   O  heavens! 

Cor.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  woman,  — 

VoU   Now  the  red  pestilence  strike  all  trades  in 
Rome, 
And  occupations  perish ! 

Cor.  What,  what,  what ! 

I  shall  be  lov'd  when  I  am  lack'd  !     Nay,  mother. 
Resume  that  spirit,  when  you  were  wont  to  say. 
If  you  had  b«'en  the  wife  of  Hercules, 
Six  of  his  labours  you'd  have  done  and  sav'd 
Your  husband  so  much  sweat.      Cominius, 
Droop  not ;    adieu  :  —  Farewell,  my   wife !     my 
mother  ! 
»  Showed  hatred.        «  Not  only.         ^  For.        »  Value. 


I'll  do  well  yet.  — Thou  old  and  true  Menenius, 
Tliy  tears  are  salter  than  a  younger  man's, 
And  venomous  to  thine  eyes. — My  sometime  general 
I  have  seen  thee  stem,  and  thou  hast  oft  beheld 
Heart-hard'ning  spectacles ;  tell  these  sad  women, 
'Tis  fond  3  to  wail  inevitable  strokes. 

As  'tis  to  laugh  at  them My  mother,  you  wot 

well. 
My  hazards  still  have  been  your  solace  :  and 
Believe't  not  lightly,  (though  I  go  alone 
Like  to  a  lonely  dragon,  that  his  fen. 
Makes  fear'd,  and  talk'd  of  more  than  seen,)  yoiu'  son 
Will,  or  exceed  the  common,  or  be  caught 
With  cautelous  *  baits  and  practice. 

Vol.  My  first  5  son. 

Whither  wilt  thou  go?    Take  good  Cominius 
With  thee  a  while :    Determine  on  some  course. 
More  than  a  wild  exposture  <'  to  each  chance 
That  starts  i'  the  way  before  thee. 

Cor.  O  the  gods  ! 

Com.   I'll  follow  thee  a  month,  devise  with  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  rest,  that  thou  mayst  hear  of  us. 
And  we  of  thee  ;   so  if  the  time  thrust  forth 
A  cause  for  thy  ref>eal,  we  shall  not  send 
O'er  the  vast  world,  to  seek  a  single  man 
And  lose  advantage,  which  doth  ever  cool 
r  the  absence  of  the  needer. 

Cor.  Fare  ye  well :         - 

Thou  hast  years  upon  thee ;  and  thou  art  toe  full 


9  Park.         1   Vaiwur. 
*  Insidious. 


«  Subdued. 
»  Noblert. 


3  Foolish. 
*  Exposure. 


666 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  IV. 


Of  the  war's  surfeits,  to  go  rove  with  one 
That's  yet  unbruis'd  :   bring  me  but  out  at  gate.  — 
Come,  my  sweet  wife,  my  dearest  mother,  and 
My  friends  of  noble  touch  7,  when  I  am  forth, 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  smile.      I  pray  you,  come. 
While  I  remain  above  the  ground,  you  shall 
Hear  from  me  still ;  and  never  of  me  aught 
But  what  is  like  me  formerly. 

Afen.  That's  worthily 

As  any  ear  can  hear.  —  Come,  let's  not  weep.  — 
If  I  could  shake  off  but  one  seven  years 
From  these  old  arras  and  legs,  by  the  good  gods, 
I'd  with  thee  every  foot. 

Cor.  Give  me  thy  hand ;  — 

Come.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —^  Street  near  the  Gate. 

Enter  Sicinius,  Brutus,  and  an  JEdile. 

Sic.   Bid  them  all  home ;  he's  gone,  and  we'll  no 
further.  — 
The  nobility  are  vex'd,  who,  we  see,  have  sided 
In  his  behalf. 

Bru.  Now  we  have  shown  our  power, 

I^et  us  seem  humbler  after  it  is  done, 
Than  when  it  was  a  doing. 

Sic.  Bid  them  home  : 

Say,  their  great  enemy  is  gone,  and  they 
Stand  in  their  ancient  strength. 

£ru.  Dismiss  them  home. 

lExit  ^dile. 

Enter  Volumnia,  Virgilia,  and  Menenius. 
Here  comes  his  mother. 

Sic.  Let's  not  meet  her. 

Bru.  Why? 

Sic.   They  say,  she's  mad. 

Bru.  They  have  ta'en  note  of  us  : 

Keep  on  your  way. 

Vol.   O,  you're  well  met :   The  hoarded  plague 
-    o'  the  gods 
Requite  your  love  ! 

Men.  Peace,  peace ;  be  not  so  loud. 

Vol.   If  that  I  could  for  weeping,  you  should 
hear,  — 
Nay,  and  you  shall  hear  some.  —  Will  you  be  gone  ? 

[To  Brutus. 
Vir.   You  shall  stay  too:    [To  Sicin.]    I  would, 
I  had  the  power 
To  say  so  to  my  husband. 

Sic.  Are  you  mankind  ? 

Vol.   Ay,  fool ;  is  that  a  shame?  —  Note  but  this 
fool.  —      • 
Was  not  a  man  my  father  ?     Hadst  thou  foxship 
To  banish  him  that  struck  more  blows  for  Rome, 
Than  thou  hast  spoken  words  ? 

Sic.  O  blessed  heavens  ! 

Vol.  More  noble  blows,  than  ever  thou  wise  words ; 

And  for    Rome's  good.  —  I'll  tell   thee  what ;  — 

Yet  go  :  — 
Nay  but  thou  shalt  stay  too :  —  I  would  my  son 
Were  in  Arabia,  and  thy  tribe  before  him, 
His  good  sword  in  his  hand. 

Sic.  What  then  ? 

Vir.  What  then  ? 

He'd  make  an  end  of  thy  posterity. 

Vol.   Good  man,  the  wounds  that  he  does  bear 

for  Rome ! 
Men.   Come,  come,  peace. 

'  True  metal. 


Sic.   I  would  he  had  continu'd  to  his  country, 
As  he  began  ;  and  not  unknit  himself 
The  noble  knot  he  made. 

Bru.  I  would  he  had. 

Vol.   I  would  he  had?  *Twas  you  incens'd  the 
rabble : 
Cats,  that  can  judge  as  fitly  of  his  worth 
As  I  can  of  those  mysteries  which  heaven 
Will  not  have  earth  to  know. 

Bru.  Pray,  let  us  go. 

Vol.   Now,  pray,  sir,  get  you  gone : 
You  have  done  a  brave  deed.    Ere  you  go,  hear  this : 
As  far  as  doth  the  Capitol  exceed 
The  meanest  house  in  Rome :   so  far,  my  son, 
(This  lady's  husband  here,  this,  do  you  see,) 
Whom  you  have  banish'd,  does  exceed  you  all. 

Bru.   Well,  well,  we'll  leave  you. 

Why  stay  we  to  be  baited 
With  one  that  wants  her  wits  ? 

Vol.  Take  my  prayers  with  you.  — 

I  would  the  gods  had  nothing  else  to  do, 

[Exeunt  Tribunes. 
But  to  confirm  my  curses  !   Could  I  meet  them 
But  once  a  day,  it  would  unclog  my  heart 
Of  what  lies  heavy  to't. 

Men.  You  have  told  them  home. 

And,  by  my  troth,  you  have  cause.   You'll  sup  with 
me? 

Vol.   Anger's  my  meat ;  I  sup  upon  myself. 

And  so  shall  starve  with  feeding Come,  let's  go : 

Leave  this  faint  puling,  and  lament  as  I  do. 
In  anger,  Juno-like.     Come,  come,  come. 

Men.   Fye,  fye,  fye  !  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Highway  between   Rome  and 
Antium. 

Enter  a  Roman  and  a  Voice,  meeting. 

Rom.  I  know  you  well,  sir,  and  you  know  me  : 
your  name,  I  think,  is  Adrian. 

Vol.   It  is  so,  sir :  truly,  I  have  forgot  you. 

Rom.  I  am  a  Roman ;  and  my  services  are,  as 
you  are,  against  them  :    Know  you  me  yet  ? 

Vol.   Nicanor  ?     No. 

Rom.   The  same,  sir. 

Vol.  You  had  more  beard,  when  I  last  saw  you ; 
but  your  favour  8  is  well  appeared  by  your  tongue. 
What's  the  news  in  Rome  ?  I  have  a  note  from  the 
Volscian  state,  to  find  you  out  there :  You  have  well 
saved  me  a  day's  journey. 

Rom.  There  hath  been  in  Rome  Sfrange  insur- 
rection :  the  people  against  the  senators,  patricians, 
and  nobles. 

Vol.  Hath  been  !  Is  it  ended  then  ?  Our  state 
thinks  not  so ;  they  are  in  a  most  warlike  prepar- 
ation, and  hope  to  come  upon  them  in  the  heat  of 
their  division. 

Rom.  The  main  blaze  of  it  is  past,  but  a  small 
thing  would  make  it  flame  again.  For  the  nobles 
receive  so  to  heart  the  banishment  of  that  worthy 
Coriolanus,  that  they  are  in  a  ripe  aptness,  to  take 
all  power  from  the  people,  and  to  pluck  from  them 
their  tribunes  for  ever.  This  lies  glowing,  I  can 
tell  you,  and  is  almost  mature  for  the  violent 
breaking  out. 

Vol.   Coriolanus  banished  ? 

Rom.   Banished,  sir. 

Vol.  You  will  be  welcome  with  this  intelligence, 
Nicanor. 

"  Countenance. 


1 


Scene  V. 


CORIOLANUS. 


667 


Rom.  The  day  serves  well  for  tliem  now.  I  have 
heard  it  said,  the  fittest  time  to  con-upt  a  man's  wife, 
is  when  she's  fallen  out  with  her  husband.  Your 
noble  Tullus  Aufidius  will  appear  well  in  these 
wars,  his  great  opposer,  Coriolanus,  being  now  in 
no  request  of  his  country. 

Vol.  He  cannot  choose.  I  am  most  fortunate, 
thus  accidentally  to  encounter  you  :  You  have 
ended  my  business,  and  I  will  merrily  accompany 
you  home. 

JRom.  I  shall,  between  this  and  supper,  tell  you 
most  strange  things  from  Rome  ;  all  tending  to  the 
good  of  their  adversaries.  Have  you  an  army  ready, 
say  you  ? 

Vol.  A  most  royal  one :  the  centurions,  and  their 
charges,  distinctly  billeted,  already  in  the  entertain- 
ment 9,  and  to  be  on  foot  at  an  hour's  warning. 

Rom-  I  am  joyful  to  hear  of  their  readiness,  and 
am  the  man,  I  think,  that  shall  set  them  in  present 
action.  So,  sir,  heartily  well  met,  and  most  glad  of 
your  company. 

Vol.  You  take  my  part  from  me,  sir ;  I  have  the 
most  cause  to  be  glad  of  yours. 

Rom.   Well,  let  us  go  together.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Antium.  Before  Au&dius' s  H<mse. 

Enter  Coeiolanus,  in  mean  Apparel,  disguised  and 
m7{ffled. 

Cor.    A  goodly  city  is  this  Antium  :    City, 
'Tis  I  that  made  thy  widows ;  many  an  heir 
Of  these  fair  edifices  'fore  my  wars 
Have  I  heard  groan,  and  drop  :  then  know  me  not; 
Lest  that  thy  wives  with  spits,  and  boys  with  stones, 

Enter  a  Citizen. 

In  puny  battle  slay  me.  —  Save  you,  sir. 

Cit.   And  you. 

Cor.  Direct  me,  if  it  be  your  will. 

Where  great  Aufidius  lies  :   Is  he  in  Antium  ? 

Cit.   He  is,  and  feasts  the  nobles  of  the  state. 
At  his  house  this  night. 

Cor.  Which  is  his  house,  'beseech  you  ? 

Cit.   This,  here,  before  you. 

Cor.  Thank  you,  sir  ;  farewell. 

[Exit  Citizen. 
O,  world,  thy  slippery  turns !  Friends  now  fast  sworn, 
W^hose  double  bosoms  seem  to  wear  one  heart. 
Whose  hours,  whose  bed,  whose  meal,  and  exercise. 
Are  still  together,  who  twin,  as  'twere,  in  love 
Unseparable,  shall  within  this  hour. 
On  a  dissension  of  a  doit ',  break  out 
To  bitterest  enmity  :    So,  fellest  foes, 
Whose  passions  and  whose  plots  have  broke  their 

sleep 
To  take  the  one  the  other,  by  some  chance. 
Some  trick  not  worth  an  egg,  shall  grow  dear  friends. 
And  interjoin  their  issues.      So  with  me  :  — 
My  birth-place  hate  I,  and  my  love's  upon 
This  enemy  town.  —  I'll  enter:   if  he  slay  me. 
He  does  fair  justice  :   if  he  give  me  way, 
I'll  do  his  country  service.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V.  —  ^  HaU  in  Aufidius'i  House. 

Mustek  u'il/iin.     Enter  a  Servant. 
1  Serv.   Wine,  wine,  wine  !   What  service  is  here  ! 


Enier  another  Servant. 


1  think  our  fellows  «rc  asleep. 

»  In  pay.  •  A  i 


[Exit. 


2  Serv.  Where's  Cotus  ?  my  master  calls  for  him. 
Cotus  1  L^-^ 

Enter  Coriolanus. 
Cor.   A  goodly  house :    The  feast  smells  well : 
but  I 
Appear  not  like  a  guest. 

Re-enter  ths  first  Servant. 

1  Serv.  What  would  you  have,  friend?  Whence 
are  you  ?  Here's  no  place  for  you  :  Pray,  go  to  the 
door. 

Cor.  I  have  deserved  no  better  entertainment. 
In  being  Coriolanus. 

Re-enter  second  Servant. 

2  Serv.  Whence  are  you,  sir  ?  Has  the  porter  his 
eyes  in  his  head,  that  he  gives  entrance  to  such  com- 
panions ?     Pray,  get  you  out. 

Cor.    Away! 

2  Serv.   Away  ?  Get  you  away. 
Cor.   Now  thou  art  troublesome. 

1  Serv.  Are  you  so  brave  ?  I'll  have  you  talked 
with  anon. 

Enter  a  third  Servant.      The  first  meets  him* 
5  Serv.  What  fellow's  this  ? 

1  Serv.  A  strange  one  as  ever  I  looked  on :  1 
cannot  get  him  out  o'  the  house ;  Pr'ythee,  call  my 
master  to  him. 

3  Serv.  What  have  you  to  do  here,  fellow  ?  Pray 
you,  avoid  the  house. 

Cor.  Let  me  but  stand;  I  will  not  hurt  your 
hearth. 

3  Serv.  What  are  you  ? 

Cor.   A  gentleman. 

3  Serv.   A  marvellous  poor  one. 

Cor.   True,  so  I  am. 

3  Serv.  Pray  you,  poor  gentleman,  take  up  some 
other  station ;  here's  no  place  for  you ;  pray  you, 
avoid :   come. 

Cor.   Follow  your  function,  go ! 
And  batten  2  on  cold  bits.  [Pushes  him  axuay. 

3  Serv.  What,  will  you  not  ?  Pr'ythee,  tell  my 
master  what  a  strange  guest  he  has  here. 

2  Serv.    And  I  shall.  [Exit. 

3  Serv.  Where  dwellest  thou. 
Cor.   Under  the  canopy. 

3  Serv.   Under  the  canopy  ? 

Car.    Ay. 

S  Serv.   Where's  that? 

Cor.   V  the  city  of  kites  and  crows. 

3  Serv.  1 '  the  city  of  kites  and  crows  ?  —  What  an 
ass  it  is  !  —  Then  thou  dwellest  with  daws  too  ? 

Cor.   No,  I  serve  not  thy  master. 

3  Serv.  How,  sir !  Do  you  meddle  with  my 
master  ? 

Cor.  Thou  prat'st,  and  prat'st;  serve  with  thy 
trencher,  hence  !  [Beats  him  away. 

Enter  Aunnius,  and  the  second  Servant. 
Attf.   Where  is  this  fellow  ? 
2  Serv-    Here,  sir ;   I'd  have  beaten  him  like  a 
dog,  but  for  disturbing  the  lords  within. 

Au/.  Whence  comest  thou  ?  what  wouldcst  thou  ? 
Thy  name  ? 
Why  spcak'st  not  ?   Speak,  man  :   What's  thy  name  ? 

a  Feed. 


668 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  IV. 


Cor.  If,  TuUus,     [Unmiiffling. 

Not  yet  thou  know'st  me,  and  seeing  me,  dost  not 
Think  me  for  the  man  I  am,  necessity 
Commands  me  name  myself. 

u4uf.  What  is  thy  name  ? 

[Servants  retire. 

Cor.    A  name  unmusical  to  the  Volscians'  ears, 
And  harsh  in  sound  to  thine. 

^iif.  Say,  what's  thy  name  ? 

Thou  hast  a  grim  appearance,  and  thy  face 
Bears  a  command  in't ;  though  thy  tackle's  torn, 
Thou  show'st  a  noble  vessel :    What's  thy  name? 

Cor.   Prepare  thy  brow  to  frown  ;    Know'st  thou 
me  yet  ? 

^iif.   I  know  thee  not ;  —  Thy  name  ? 

Cor.   My  name  is  Caius  Marcius,  who  hath  done 
To  thee  particularly,  and  to  all  the  Voices, 
Great  hurt  and  mischief ;  thereto  witness  may 
My  surname,  Coriolanus  :    The  painful  service. 
The  extreme  dangers,  and  the  drops  of  blood 
Shed  for  my  thankless  country,  are  requited 
But  with  that  surname  ;  a  good  memory  3, 
And  witness  of  the  malice  and  displeasure 
Which   thou   shouldst   bear   me :   only  that  name 

remains ; 
The  cruelty  and  envy  of  the  people, 
Permitted  by  our  dastard  nobles,  who 
Have  all  forsook  me,  hath  devour'd  the  rest ; 
And  sufFer'd  me  by  the  voice  of  slaves  to  be 
Whoop'd  out  of  Rome.      Now,  this  extremity 
Hath  brought  me  to  thy  hearth  ;    Not  out  of  hope. 
Mistake  me  not,  to  save  my  life  ;  for  if 
I  had  fear'd  death,  of  all  the  men  i'the  world 
I  would  have  'voided  thee  :   but  in  mere  spite. 
To  be  full  quit  of  those  my  banishers, 
Stand  I  before  thee  here.      Then  if  thou  hast 
A  heart  of  wreak  ■*  in  thee,  that  will  revenge 
Thine  own  particular  wrongs,  and  stop  those  maims 
Of  shame  seen  through   thy  country,   speed  thee 

straight. 
And  make  my  misery  serve  thy  turn  ;  so  use  it. 
That  my  revengeful  services  may  prove 
As  benefits  to  thee ;  for  I  will  fight 
Against  my  canker'd  country  with  the  spleen 
Of  all  the  under  ^  fiends.      But  if  so  be 
Thou  dar'st  not  this,  and  that  to  prove  more  fortunes 
Thou  art  tir'd,  then,  in  a  word,  1  also  am 
Longer  to  live  most  weary,  and  present 
My  throat  to  thee,  and  to  thy  ancient  malice : 
Which  not  to  cut,  would  show  thee  but  a  fool ; 
Since  I  have  ever  follow'd  thee  with  hate. 
Drawn  tuns  of  blood  out  of  thy  country's  breast. 
And  cannot  live  but  to  thy  shame,  unless 
It  be  to  do  thee  service. 

^vj".  O  Marcius,  Marcius, 

Each  word  thou  hast  spoke  hath  weeded  from  my 

heart 
A  root  of  ancient  envy.      If  Jupiter 
Should  from  yon  cloud  speak  divine  things,  and  say, 
'  Tis  true  ;  I'd  not  believe  them  more  than  thee. 
All  noble  Marcius.  —  O  let  me  twine 
Mine  arms  about  that  body,  where  against 
My  grained  ash  an  hundred  times  hath  broke, 
And  scar'd  the  moon  with  splinters  !   Here  I  clip  ^ 
The  anvil  of  my  sword  ;  and  do  contest 
As  hotly  and  as  nobly  with  thy  love. 
As  ever  in  ambitious  strength  I  did 
Contend  against  thy  valour.      Know  thou  first. 


3  Memorial. 
*  Infernal. 


■•  Resentment. 
6  Embrace. 


I  love  the  maid  I  married  ;  never  man 
Sigh'd  truer  breath  ;  but  that  I  see  thee  here, 
Thou  noble  thing  !  more  dances  my  rapt  heart, 
Than  when  I  first  my  wedded  mistress  saw 
Bestride  my  threshold.   Why,  thou  Mars !  I  tell  thee, 
We  have  a  power  on  foot ;  and  I  had  purpose 
Once  more  to  hew  thy  target  from  thy  brawn  7, 
Or  lose  mine  arm  for't :    Thou  hast  beat  me  out » 
Twelve  several  times,  and  I  have  nightly  since 
Dreamt  of  encounters  'twixt  thyself  and  me ; 
We  have  been  down  together  in  my  sleep. 
Unbuckling  helms,  fisting  each  other's  throat, 
And  wak'd  half  dead  with  nothing.   Worthy  Marci 
Had  we  no  quarrel  else  to  Rome,  but  that 
Thou  art  hence  banish'd,  we  would  muster  all 
From  twelve  to  seventy ;  and,  pouring  war 
Into  the  bowels  of  ungrateful  Rome, 
Like  a  bold  flood  o'er-beat.      O,  come,  go  in. 
And  take  our  friendly  senators  by  the  hands ; 
Who  now  are  here,  taking  their  leaves  of  me. 
Who  am  prepar'd  against  your  territories, 
Though  not  for  Rome  itself. 

Cor.  You  bless  me,  gods  ! 

Auf.  Therefore,  most  absolute  sir,  if  thou  wilt  have 
The  leading  of  thine  own  revenges,  take 
The  one  half  of  my  commission ;  and  set  down,  — 
As  best  thou  art  experienc'd,  since  thou  know'st 
Thy  country's  strength  and  weakness,  —  thine  own 

ways: 
Whether  to  knock  against  the  gates  of  Rome, 
Or  rudely  visit  them  in  parts  remote. 
To  fright  them,  ere  destroy.      But  come  in  : 
Let  me  commend  thee  first  to  those,  that  shall 
Say,  yea,  to  thy  desires.      A  thousand  welcomes  ! 
And  more  a  friend  than  e'er  an  enemy : 
Yet,  Marcius,  that  was  much.   Your  hand !    Most 

welcome ! 

\^Exeunt  Coriolanus  and  Aufidius. 

1  SerV'  [Advancing.  ]  Here's  a  strange  alteration ! 

2  Serv.  By  my  hand,  I  had  thought  to  have 
strucken  him  with  a  cudgel ;  and  yet  my  mind  gave 
me,  his  clothes  made  a  false  report  of  him. 

1  Serv.  What  an  arm  he  has  !  He  turned  me 
about  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb,  as  one  would 
set  up  a  top. 

2  Serv.  Nay,  I  knew  by  his  face  that  there  was 
something  in  him  :  He  had,  sir,  a  kind  of  face,  me- 
thought,  -^  I  cannot  tell  how  to  term  it. 

1  SerV'  He  had  so  :  looking,  as  it  were,  —  'Would 
I  were  hanged,  but  I  thought  there  was  more  in  him 
than  I  could  think. 

2  Serv.  So  did  I,  I'll  be  sworn :  He  is  simply 
the  rarest  man  i'  the  world. 

1  Serv.  I  think,  he  is  :  but  a  greater  soldier  than 
he,  you  wot  9  one. 

2  Serv.   Who  ?  my  master  ? 

1  Serv.    Nay,  it's  no  matter  for  that. 

2  Serv.   Worth  six  of  him. 

1  Serv.  Nay,  not  so  neither ;  but  I  take  him  to 
be  the  greater  soldier. 

2  Serv.  'Faith,  look  you,  one  cannot  tell  how  to 
say  that :  for  the  defence  of  a  town,  our  general  is 
excellent. 

1  Serv.    Ay,  and  for  an  assault  too. 

Re-enter  third  Servant. 

3  Serv.  O,  slaves,  I  can  tell  you  news ;  news,  you 
rascals. 

1,  2  SerV'   What,  what,  what?  let's  partake. 
7  Arm.  8  FulL  »  Know. 


8        

I 


Scene  VI. 


CORIOLANUS. 


669 


3  Set-v.  I  would  not  be  a  Roman,  of  all  nations; 
I  had  as  lieve  be  a  condemned  man. 

1,  2  Serv.   Wlierefore  ?  wherefore  ? 

S  Serv.  Why,  here's  he  that  was  wont  to  thwack 
our  general,  —  Caius  Marcius. 

1  Serv.   Why  do  you  say,  thwack  our  general  ? 

3  Serv.  I  do  not  say,  thwack  our  general ;  but  he 
was  always  good  enough  for  him. 

2  Serv.  Come,  we  are  fellows  and  friends  :  he 
was  ever  too  hard  for  him  ;  I  have  heard  him  say 
so  himself. 

1  Serv.  He  was  too  hard  for  him  directly,  to  say 
the  truth  on't :  before  Corioli,  he  scotched  him  and 
notched  him  like  a  carbonado. ' 

2  Serv.  An  he  had  been  cannibally  given,  he  might 
have  broiled  and  eaten  him  too. 

1  Serv.    But,  more  of  thy  news? 

3  Serv.  Why,  he  is  so  made  on  here  within,  as 
if  he  were  son  and  heir  to  Mars  :  set  at  upper  end 
o'  the  table  :  no  question  asked  him  by  any  of  the 
senators,  but  they  stand  bald  before  him  :  Our 
general  himself  makes  a  mistress  of  him  ;  sanctifies 
himself  with's  hand,  and  turns  up  the  white  o'  the 
eye  to  his  discourse.  But  the  bottom  of  the  news 
is,  our  general  is  cut  i'  the  middle,  and  but  one  half 
of  what  he  was  yesterday  ;  for  the  other  has  half,  by 
the  entreaty  and  grant  of  the  whole  table.  He'll 
go,  he  says,  and  sowle  -  the  porter  of  Rome  gates  by 
the  ears  :  He  will  mow  down  all  before  him,  and 
leave  his  passage  polled.  3 

2  Serv.  And  he's  as  like  to  do't,  as  any  man  I  can 
imagine. 

3  Serv.  Do't  ?  he  will  do't :  For,  look  you,  sir, 
he  has  as  many  friends  as  enemies  :  which  friends, 
sir,  (as  it  were,)  durst  not  (look  you,  sir,)  show  them- 
selves (as  we  term  it)  his  friends,  whilst  he's  in 
di  rectitude. 

1  Serv.    Directitude  !  what's  that  ? 

3  Serv.  But  when  they  shall  see,  sir,  his  crest  up 
again,  and  the  man  in  blood,  tliey  will  out  of  their 
burrows,  like  rabbits  after  rain,  and  revel  all  with  him. 

1  Serv.   But  when  goes  this  forward  ? 

3  Serv.  To-morrow  j  to-day ;  presently.  You  shall 
have  the  drum  struck  up  tliis  afternoon  :  'tis,  as  it 
were,  a  parcel  of  their  feast,  and  to  be  executed  ere 
they  wipe  their  lips. 

2  Serv.  Why  then  we  shall  have  a  stirring  world 
again.  This  peace  is  nothing,  but  to  rust  iron,  in- 
crease tailors,  and  breed  ballad-makers. 

1  Serv.  Let  me  have  war,  say  I ;  it  exceeds  peace, 
as  far  as  day  does  night ;  its  sprightly,  waking,  audi- 
ble, and  full  of  vent."*  Peace  is  a  very  apoplexy, 
lethargy  ;  mulled  %  deaf,  sleepy,  insensible. 

2  Serv.   'Tis  so. 

1  Serv.   Ay,  and  it  makes  men  hate  one  another. 

3  Serv.  Reason;  because  they  then  less  need  one 
another.  The  wars,  for  my  money.  I  hope  to  see 
Romans  as  cheap  as  Volscians.  They  are  rising,  they 
are  rising. 

^U.   In,  in,  in,  in.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  — Rome.     A  publkk  Place. 
Enter  Sicinius  and  Brutus. 

Sic.  W^e  hear  not  of  him,  neither  need  we  fear  him : 
His  remedies  are  tame  i'  the  present  peace 
And  quietness  o'  the  people,  which  before 
Were  in  wild  hurry.     Here  do  we  make  his  friends 


'  Meat  cut  across  to  he  broiled. 
3  Cut  clear.  *  Kuinour. 


»PulL 
»  Softened. 


Blush,  that  the  world  goes  well ;  who  rather  had, 
Though  they  themselves  did  suffer  by't,  behold 
Dissentious  numbers  pestering  streets,  than  see 
Our  tradesmen  singing  in  their  shops,  and  going 
About  their  functions  friendly. 

Enter  Menenius. 

Bru.  We  stood  to't  in  good  time.     Is  this  Me- 
nenius ? 

Sic.   *Tis  he,  'tis  he :   O,  he  is  grown  most  kind 
Of  late.  —  Hail,  sir ! 

Men.  Hail  to  you  both  ! 

Sic.   Your  Coriolanus,  sir,  is  not  much  miss'd, 
But  with  his  friends:  the  commonwealth  doth  stand; 
And  so  would  do,  were  he  more  angry  at  it. 

Men.    All's  well ;    and  might  have  been  much 
better,  if 
He  could  have  temporiz'd. 

Sic.  Where  is  he,  hear  you  ? 

Men.  Nay,  I  hear  nothing;  his  mother  and  his  wife 
Hear  nothing  from  him. 

Enter  three  or  four  Citizens. 

Cit.   The  gods  preserve  you  both  ! 

Sic.  Good  e'en,  our  neighbours. 

Bru.   Good  e'en  to  you  all,  good  e'en  to  you  all. 

1  Cit.  Ourselves,  our  wives,  and  children,  on  our 
knees, 
Are  bound  to  pray  for  you  both. 

Sic.  Live  and  thrive  ! 

Bru.   Farewell,  kind  neighbours :  we  wish'd  Co- 
riolanus 
Had  lov'd  you  as  we  did. 

Cit.  Now  the  gods  keep  yoxi. 

Both  Tri.   Farewell,  farewell.    \^Exeunt  Citizens. 

Sic.   This  is  a  happier  and  more  comely  time, 
Than  when  these  fellows  ran  about  the  streets. 
Crying,  Confusion. 

Bru.  Caius  Marcius  was 

A  worthy  officer  i'  the  war  ;  but  insolent, 
O'ercome  with  pride,  ambitious  past  all  thinking. 
Self-loving,  — — 

Sic.  And  affecting  one  sole  throne. 

Without  assistance.  6 

Men.  I  think  not  so. 

Sic.   We  should  by  this,  to  all  our  lamentation. 
If  he  had  gone  forth  consul,  found  it  so. 

Bru.  The  gods  have  well  prevented  it,  and  Rome 
Sits  safe  and  still  without  him. 

Enter  iEdile. 

^d.  Worthy  tribunes. 

There  is  a  slave,  whom  we  have  put  in  prison. 
Reports,  —  the  Voices  with  two  several  powers 
Are  enter'd  in  the  Roman  territories ; 
And  with  the  deepest  malice  of  the  m  ar 
Destroy  what  lies  before  them. 

Meiu  'Tis  Aufidius, 

Who,  hearing  of  our  Marcius'  banishment. 
Thrusts  forth  his  horns  again  into  the  world  : 
Which  were  inshell'd,  when  Marcius  stowl  fur  Rome, 
And  durst  not  once  peep  out. 

Sic.  Come,  what  talk  you 

Of  Marcius? 

Bru.  Go  see  this  rumourer  whipp'd.  —  It  cannot 
be. 
The  Voices  dare  break  with  us. 

Men.  Cannot  be '. 

We  have  record,  that  very  well  it  can  ; 
(SuflVage; 


670 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  IV. 


And  three  examples  of  the  like  have  been 
Witliin  my  age.      But  reason  with  the  fellow, 
Before  you  punish  him,  where  he  heard  this : 
Lest  you  should  chance  to  whip  your  information. 
And  beat  the  messenger  who  bids  beware 
Of  what  is  to  be  dreaded. 

Sic.  Tell  not  me  : 

I  know  this  cannot  be. 

J3ru.  Not  possible. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  nobles,  in  great  earnestness,  are  going 
All  to  the  senate  house  :   some  news  is  come. 
That  turns  their  countenances. 

Sic.  'Tis  this  slave  ;  — 

Go  whip  him  'fore  the  people's  eyes  :  —  his  raising ! 
Nothing  but  his  report ! 

Mess.  Yes,  worthy  sir, 

The  slave's  report  is  seconded  ;  and  more, 
More  fearful  i^  deliver'd. 

Sic.  What  more  fearful  ? 

Mess.   It  is  spoke  freely  out  of  many  mouths, 
(How  probable,  I  do  not  know,)  that  Marcius, 
Join'd  with  Aufidius,  leads  a  power  'gainst  Rome ; 
And  vows  revenge  as  spacious,  as  between 
The  young'st  and  oldest  thing. 

Sic.  This  is  most  likely  ! 

Bru.   Rais'd  only,  that  the  weaker  sort  may  wish 
Good  Marcius  home  again. 

Sic.  The  very  trick  on't. 

Men.  This  is  unlikely : 
He  and  Aufidius  can  no  more  atone?, 
Than  violentest  contrariety. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 
Mess.   You  are  sent  for  to  the  senate  : 
A  fearful  army,  led  by  Caius  Marcius, 
Associated  with  Aufidius,  rages 
Upon  our  territories  ;  and  have  already, 
O'erborne  their  way,  consum'd  with  fire,  and  took 
What  lay  before  them. 

Enter  Cominius. 

Com.   O,  you  have  made  good  work  ! 

Men.  What  news  ?  what  news  ? 

Com.  You  have  holp  to  ravish  your  own  daughters, 
and 
To  melt  the  city  leads  upon  your  pates ; 
To  see  your  wives  dishonour'd  to  your  noses ; 

Men.   What's  the  news  ?  what's  the  news  ? 

Com.    Your  temples  burn'd  in  their  cement ;  and 
Your  franchises,  whereon  you  stood,  confin'd 
Into  an  augre's  bore. 

Men.  Pray  now,  your  news  ?  — 

You  have  made  fair  work,  I  fear  me :  —  Pray,  your 

news? 
If  Marcius  should  be  join'd  with  Volscians, 

Com.  If ! 

He  is  their  god ;  he  leads  them  like  a  thing 
Made  by  some  other  deity  than  nature, 
That  shapes  man  better :   and  they  follow  him, 
Against  us  brats,  with  no  less  confidence. 
Than  boys  pursuing  summer  butterflies. 
Or  butchers  killing  flies. 

Men.  You  have  made  good  work, 

You,  and  your  apron  men  ;  you  that  stood  so  much 
Upon  the  voice  of  occupation  8,  and 
The  breath  of  garlick-eaters ! 

Com.  He  will  shake 

Your  Rome  about  your  ears. 

^  Unite.  8  Mechanicks. 


Men.  As  Hercules 

Did  shake  down  mellow  fruit :   You  have  made  fair 
work ! 

Bru.   But  is  this  true,  sir? 

Com.  Ay  ;  and  you'll  look  pale 

Before  you  find  it  other.     All  the  regions 
Do  smilingly  revolt ;  and,  who  resist. 
Are  only  mock'd  for  valiant  ignorance, 
And  perish  constant  fools.     Who  is't  can  blame  him  ? 
Your  enemies,  and  his,  find  something  in  him. 

Men.   We  are  all  undone,  unless 
The  noble  man  have  mercy. 

Com.  Who  shall  ask  it? 

The  tribunes  cannot  do't  for  shame  :   the  people 
Deserve  such  pity  of  him,  as  the  wolf 
Does  of  the  shepherds  :   for  his  best  friends,  if  they 
Should  say.  Be  good  to  Rome,  they  charg'd  him  even 
As  those  should  do  that  had  deserv'd  his  hate, 
And  therein  show'd  like  enemies. 

Men.  'Tis  true : 

If  he  were  putting  to  my  house  the  brand 
That  should  consume  it,  I  have  not  the  face 
To  say,  'Beseech  you  cease.  —  You  have  made  fair 

hands. 
You  and  your  crafts  !  you  have  crafted  fair  ! 

Com.  You  have  brought 

A  trembling  upon  Rome,  such  as  was  never 
So  incapable  of  help. 

Tri.  Say  not,  we  brought  it. 

Men.  How  !  Was  it  we?  We  lov'd  him  j  but,  like 
beasts. 
And  cowardly  nobles,  gave  way  to  your  clusters. 
Who  did  hoot  him  out  o'  the  city. 

Covi.  But,  I  fear 

They'll  roar  him  in  again.      TuUus  Aufidius 
The  second  name  of  men,  obeys  his  points 
As  if  he  were  his  oflScer  :  —  Desperation 
Is  all  the  policy,  strength,  and  defence, 
That  Rome  can  make  against  them. 

Enter  a  Troop  of  Citizens. 

Men.  Here  come  the  cluster.  — 

And  is  Aufidius  with  him  ?  —  You  are  they 
That  made  the  air  unwholesome,  when  you  cast 
Your  old  and  greasy  caps,  in  hooting  at 
Coriolanus'  exile.      Now  he's  coming  ; 
And  not  a  hair  upon  a  soldier's  head. 
Which  will  not  prove  a  whip ;  as  many  coxcombs. 
As  you  threw  caps  up,  will  he  tumble  down. 
And  pay  you  for  your  voices.     'Tis  no  matter ; 
If  he  could  burn  us  all  into  one  coal. 
We  have  deserv'd  it. 

Cit.  'Faith,  we  hear  fearful  news. 

1  Cit.  For  mine  own  part, 
When  I  said,  banish  him,  I  said,  'twas  pity. 

2  Cit.    And  so  did  I. 

3  Cit.  And  so  did  I ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  so 
did  very  many  of  us :  That  we  did,  we  did  for  the 
best :  and  though  we  willingly  consented  to  his 
banishment,  yet  it  was  against  our  will. 

Com.  You  are  goodly  things,  you  voices  ! 

Men.  You  have  made 

Good  work,  you  and  your  cry!  9  —  Shall  us  to  the 
Capitol  ? 

Com.  O,  ay ;  what  .else?   {Exeunt  Com.  and  Men. 

Sic.    Go,  masters,  get  you  home,  be  not  dismay'd; 
These  are  a  side,  that  would  be  glad  to  have 
This  true,  which  they  so  seem  to  fear.      Go  home, 
And  show  no  sign  of  fear. 

9  Pack ;  alluding  to  a  pack  of  hounds. 


I 


I 

il 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


COR  lOL  ANUS. 


f)Tl 


1  Cit.  Tlie  gods  be  good  to  us  !  Come,  masters, 
let's  home.  I  ever  said,  we  were  i'  the  wrong, 
when  we  banished  him. 

2  Cit.   So  did  we  all.      But  come,  let's  home. 

[^Exeunt  Citizens. 
J?ru.    I  do  not  like  tliis  news. 
Sic.   Nor  I. 

£ru.    Let's  to  tlie   Capitol :  —  Would   half  my 
wealth 
Would  buy  this  for  a  lie. 

Sic.  Pray,  let  us  go.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Vir.  —  ^  Camp;  at  a  small  distance 
from  Home. 

Enter  Aufidius,  and  his  Lieutenant. 

jiuf.   Do  they  still  fly  to  tlie  Roman  ? 

I.ieu.  1  do  not  know  what  witchcraft's  in  him;  but 
Your  soldiers  use  him  as  the  grace  'fore  meat, 
Tlieir  talk  at  table,  and  their  thank,s  at  end ; 
And  you  are  darken'd  in  this  action,  sir, 
Even  by  your  own. 

Auf.  I  cannot  help  it  now  ; 

Unless,  by  using  means,  I  lame  the  foot 
Of  our  design.      He  bears  himself  more  proudlier 
Even  to  my  person,  than  I  thought  he  would, 
When  first  1  did  embrace  him  :    Yet  his  nature 
In  that's  no  cliangeling ;  and  I  must  excuse 
What  cannot  be  amended. 

Lieu.  Yet  I  wish,  sir, 

( I  mean  for  your  particular,)  you  had  not 
Join'd  in  commission  with  him  :  but  either 
Had  borne  the  action  of  yourself,  or  else 
To  him  had  left  it  solely. 

Auf.   I  understand  thee  well ;  and  be  thou  sure. 
When  he  shall  come  to  his  account,  he  knows  not 
What  I  can  urge  against  him.      Although  it  seems, 
And  so  he  thinks,  and  is  no  less  apparent 
To  the  vulgar  eye,  that  he  bears  all  things  fairly, 
And  shows  good  husbandry  for  the  Volscian  state ; 


Fights  dragon-like,  and  does  achieve  as  soon 
As  draw  his  sword  :    yet  he  hath  left  undone 
That,  which  shall  break  his  neck,  or  hazard  mine, 
Whene'er  we  come  to  our  account. 

Liezi.    Sir,  I  beseech  you,  think  you  he'll  carry 
Rome? 

-Auf.    All  places  yield  to  him  ere  he  sits  down ; 
And  the  nobility  of  Rome  are  his : 
The  senators,  and  patricians,  love  him  too. 
The  tribunes  are  no  soldiers  ;  and  their  people 
Will  be  as  rash  in  the  repeal,  as  hasty 
To  expel  him  thence.      I  think,  he'll  be  to  Rome, 
As  is  the  osprey  ^  to  the  fish,  who  takes  it 
By  sovereignty  of  nature.      First  he  was 
A  noble  servant  to  them  ;  but  he  could  not 
Carry  his  honours  even ;   whether  'twas  pride. 
Which  out  of  daily  fortune  ever  taints 
The  happy  man  ;  whether  defect  of  judgment. 
To  fail  in  the  disposing  of  those  chances 
Which  he  was  lord  of;  or  whether  nature. 
Not  to  be  other  than  one  thing,  not  moving 
From  the  casque^  to  the  cushion*,  but  commanding 

peace 
Even  with  the  same  austerity  and  garb 
As  he  controll'd  the  war ;  but,  one  of  these, 
(As  he  hath  spices  of  them  all,  not  all  *, 
For  1  dare  so  far  free  him,)  made  him  fear'd, 
So  hated,  and  so  banish'd  :    But  he  has  a  merit. 
To  choke  it  in  the  utterance.      So  our  virtues 
Lie  in  the  interpretation  of  the  time ; 
And  power,  unto  itself  most  commendable. 
Hath  not  a  tomb  so  evident  as  a  chair 
To  extol  what  it  hath  done. 
One  fire  drives  out  one  fire  ;  one  nail,  one  nail ; 
Rights  by  rights  fouler,  strengths  by  strengths  do 

fail. 
Come,  let's  away.      When,  Caius,  Rome  is  thine. 
Thou  art  poor'st  of  all  j  then  shortly  art  thou  mine. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  Rome.     J  publick  Place. 

Enter  Menekius,  Cominius,  Sicinius,  Brutus, 
and  ot/iers. 

Men.   No,  I'll  not  go :  you  hear,  what  he  hath 
said. 
Which  was  sometime  his  general ;  who  lov'd  him 
In  a  most  dear  particular.      He  call'd  me   father  : 
But  what  o'  that  ?   Go,  you  that  banish'd  him, 
A  mile  before  his  tent  fall  down,  and  kneel 
The  way  unto  his  mercy  :    Nay,  if  he  coy'd ' 
To  hear  Cominius  speak,  I'll  keep  at  home. 

Com.   He  would  not  seem  to  know  me. 

Men.  Do  you  hear  ? 

Com.    Yet  one  time  he  did  call  me  by  my  name : 
I  urg'd  our  old  acquaintance,  and  the  drops 
That  we  have  bled  togetlier.      Coriolanus 
He  would  not  answer  to  :   forbad  all  names  ; 
He  was  a  kind  of  nothing,  titleless. 
Till  he  had  forg'd  himself  a  name  i'  tlie  fire 
Of  burning  Rome. 

>  Condescended  unwillingly. 


Men.  Why,  so  ;  you  have  made  good  work  : 
A  pair  of  tribunes  that  have  rack'd  for  Rome, 
To  make  coals  cheap"  :    A  noble  memory  ! 

Com.   I  minded  him,  how  royal  'twas  to  pardon 
When  it  was  less  expected  :    He  replied. 
It  was  a  bare  petition  of  a  state 
To  one  whom  they  had  punish'd. 

Men.  Very  well : 

Could  he  say  less  ? 

Com.   I  oflfer'd  to  awaken  his  regard 
For  his  private  friends  :    His  answer  to  me  was. 
He  could  not  stay  to  pick  them  in  a  pile 
Of  noisome,  musty  chaflT:    He  said,  'twas  folly. 
For  one  poor  grain  or  two,  to  leave  unburnt. 
And  still  to  nose  the  oflTence. 

Men.  For  one  poor  grain 

Or  two?   I  am  one  of  those ;  his  mother,  wife, 
His  child,  and  this  brave  fellow  too,  we  are  the 
grains : 

'An  eagle  that  preys  on  fi»h.  '  Helmet. 

*  The  chair  of  civil  authority.     »  Not  all  in  their  full  extent 

•  I.  e.  Have  managed  «o  weU  for  Rome  as  to  get  the  town 
bttmt  to  Mve  the  expense  of  coals. 


G72 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  V. 


You  are  tlie  musty  chaff;  and  you  are  smelt 
Above  the  moon :   We  must  be  burnt  for  you. 

Sic.   Nay,  pray,  be  patient :  If  you  refuse  your  aid 
In  this  so  never-heeded  help,  yet  do  not 
Upbraid  us  with  our  distress.      But,  sure,  if  you 
Would  be  your  country's  pleader,  your  good  tongue 
More  than  the  instant  army  we  can  make, 
Might  stop  our  countryman. 

Men.  No ;  I'll  not  meddle. 

Sic.   I  pray  you,  go  to  him. 

Me7i.  What  should  I  do? 

Bru.    Only  make  trial  what  your  love  can  do 
For  Rome  towards  Marcius. 

Men.  Well,  and  say  that  Marcius 

Return  me,  as  Cominius  is  return'd, 
Unheard  ;  what  then  ? 
But  as  a  discontented  friend,  grief-shot 
With  his  unkindness  ?  Say't  be  so  ? 

Sic.  Yet  your  good  will 

Must  have  that  thanks  from  Rome,  after  the  measure 
As  you  intended  well. 

Men.  I'll  undertake  it: 

I  think,  he'll  hear  me.      Yet  to  bite  his  lip. 
And  hum  at  good  Cominius,  much  unhearts  me. 
He  was  not  taken  well ;  he  had  not  din'd : 
The  veins  unfiU'd,  our  blood  is  cold,  and  then 
We  pout  upon  the  morning,  are  unapt 
To  give  or  to  forgive ;  but  when  we  have  stuff 'd 
These  pipes  and  these  conveyances  of  our  blood 
With  wine  and  feeding,  we  have  suppler  souls 
Than  in  our  priest-like  fasts :  therefore  I'll  watch  him 
Till  he  be  dieted  to  my  request, 
And  then  I'll  set  upon  him. 

Bru,   You  know  the  very  road  into  his  kindness, 
And  cannot  lose  your  vway. 

Men.  Good  faith,  I'll  prove  him. 

Speed  how  it  will.     I  shall  ere  long  have  knowledge 
Of  my  success.  \_Exii. 

Com.  He'll  never  hear  him. 

Sic.  Not  ? 

Com.   I  tell  you,  he  does  sit  in  gold,  his  eye 
Red  as  'twould  burn  Rome :   and  his  injury 
The  gaoler  to  his  pity.      I  kneel'd  before  him ; 
'Twas  very  faintly  he  said.  Rise  ;  dismiss'd  me 
Tims,  with  his  speechless  hand  :  What  he  would  do, 
He  sent  in  writing  after  me ;  what  he  would  not. 
Bound  with  an  oath,  to  yield  to  his  conditions  : 
So,  that  all  hope  is  vain. 
Unless  his  noble  mother,  and  his  wife  ; 
Who,  as  I  hear,  mean  to  solicit  him 
For  mercy  to  his  country.      Therefore  let's  hence, 
And  with  our  fair  entreaties  haste  them  on. 

\^Exeimt. 

SCENE  II.  —  An  advanced  Post  of  the  Volscian 

Camp  before  Rome.      The  Guard  at  their  Stations. 

Enter  to  them  Menenius. 

1  G.    Stay  :   Whence  are  you  ? 

2  G.  Stand,  and  go  back. 
Men.   You  guard  like  men ;  'tis  well :    But,  by 

your  leave, 
I  am  an  officer  of  state,  and  come 
To  speak  with  Coriolanus. 

1  G.  From  whence  ? 

Men.  From  Rome. 

1  G.   You  may  not  pass,  you  must  return :   our 

general 
Will  no  more  hear  from  thence. 

2  G.  You'll  see  your  Rome  embrac'd  with  fire,before 
You'll  speak  with  Coriolanus. 


Men.  Good  my  fiiends, 

If  you  have  heard  your  general  talk  of  Rome, 
And  of  his  friends  there,  it  is  lots  7  to  blanks. 
My  name  hath  touch'd  your  ears :   it  is  Menenius. 

1  G.  Be  it  so ;  go  back  :  the  virtue  of  your  name 
Is  not  here  passable. 

Men.  I  tell  thee,  fellow, 

Thy  general  is  my  lover  8  :    I  have  been 
The  book  of  his  good  acts,  whence  men  have  read 
His  fame  unparallel'd,  haply,  amplified ; 
For  I  have  ever  verified  my  friends, 
(Of  whom  he's  chief,)  with  all  the  size  that  verity 
Would  without  lapsing  suffer :   nay,  sometimes. 
Like  to  a  bowl  upon  a  subtle  9  ground, 
I  have  tumbled  past  the  throw ;  and  in  his  praise 
Have    almost   stamp'd    the    leasing  '  :     Therefore, 

fellow, 
I  must  have  leave  to  pass. 

1  G.  Sir,  if  you  had  told  as  many  lies  in  his 
behalf,  as  you  have  uttered  words  in  your  own, 
you  should  not  pass  here :  no,  though  it  were  as 
virtuous  to  lie,  as  to  live  chastely.  Therefore,  go 
back. 

Men.  Pr'ythee,  fellow,  remember  my  name  is 
Menenius,  always  factionary  on  the  party  of  your 
general. 

2  G.  Howsoever  you  have  been  his  liar,  (as  you 
say,  you  have,)  I  am  one  that,  telling  true  under 
him,  must  say,  you  cannot  pass.  Therefore,  go 
back. 

Men.  Has  he  dined,  can'st  thou  tell  ?  for  I  would 
not  speak  with  him  till  after  dinner. 
1  G.  You  are  a  Roman,  are  you  ? 
Men.   I  am  as  thy  general  is. 

1  G.  Then  you  should  hate  Rome,  as  he  does. 
Can  you,  when  you  have  pushed  out  your  gates  the 
very  defender  of  them,  and,  in  a  violent  popular 
ignorance,  given  your  enemy  your  shield,  think  to 
front  his  revenges  with  the  easy  groans  of  old 
women,  the  virginal  palms  of  your  daughters,  or 
with  the  palsied  intercession  of  such  a  decayed 
dotant  '^  as  you  seem  to  be  ?  Can  you  think  to  blow 
out  the  intended  fire  your  city  is  ready  to  flame  in, 
with  such  weak  breath  as  this?  No,  you  are  de- 
ceived ;  therefore,  back  to  Rome,  and  prepare  for 
your  execution  :  you  are  condemned,  our  general 
has  sworn  you  out  of  reprieve  and  pardon. 

Men.  Sirrah,  if  thy  captain  knew  I  were  here, 
he  would  use  me  with  estimation. 

2  G.  Come,  my  captain  knows  you  not. 
Men.   I  mean,  thy  general. 

1  G.  My  general  cares  not  for  you.  Back,  I  say; 
go,  lest  I  let  forth  your  half  pint  of  blood:  — 
back,  —  that's  the  utmost  of  your  having  :  —  back. 

Men.   Nay,  but  fellow,  fellow. 

Enter  Coriolanus  and  Aufidius. 

Cor.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Men.  Now,  you  companion  3,  I'll  say  an  errand 
for  you ;  you  shall  know  now  that  I  am  in  esti- 
mation ;  you  shall  perceive  that  a  Jack  ^  guardant 
cannot  office  me  from  my  son  Coriolanus :  guess, 
but  by  my  entertainment  with  him,  if  thou  stand'st 
not  i'  the  state  of  hanging,  or  of  some  death  more 
long  in  spectatorship,  and  crueller  in  suffering  ; 
behold  now  presently,  and  swoon  for  what's  to 
come  upon  thee.  —  The  glorious  gods  sit  in  hourly 
synod  about  thy  particular  prosperity,  and  love  thee 


I 


I 


Prizes. 
Lie. 


Friend. 
3  Fellow. 


9  Deceitful 
4  Jack  in  office. 


Scene  III. 


CORIOLANUS. 


673 


I 


no  worse  than  thy  old  father  Menenius  does  !  O, 
my  son !  my  son !  thou  art  preparing  fire  for  us ; 
look  thee,  here's  water  to  quench  it.  I  was  hardly 
moved  to  come  to  thee;  but  being  assured,  none 
but  myself  could  move  thee,  I  have  been  blown 
out  of  your  gates  with  sighs ;  and  conjure  thee  to 
pardon  Rome,  and  thy  petitionary  countrymen. 
The  good  gods  assuage  tliy  wrath,  and  turn  the 
dregs  of  it  upon  this  varlet  here ;  this,  who,  like  a 
block,  hath  denied  my  access  to  the 

Cor.   Away  ! 

Men.   How  !  away  ? 

Cor.  Wife,  mother,  child,  I  know  not.     My  affairs 
Are  servantcd  to  others :    Though  I  owe 
My  revenge  properly,  my  remission  lies 
In  Volscian  breasts.     That  we  have  been  familiar, 
Ingrate  forgetfulness  shall  poison,  rather 
Than  pity  note  how  much.  —  Therefore,  begone. 
Mine  cars  against  your  suits  are  stronger,  than 
Your  gates  against  my  force.    Yet,  for  ^  I  lov'd  thee. 
Take  this  along ;  I  writ  it  for  thy  sake, 

\_Gives  a  Letter. 
And  would  have  sent  it.     Another  word,  Menenius, 
1  will  not  hear  thee  speak.  —  This  man,  Aufidius, 
Was  my  beloved  in  Rome :  yet  thou  behold'st  — — 

^uf.  You  keep  a  constant  temper. 

{^Exeunt  Coriol.  and  Aunn. 

1  G.   Now,  sir,  is  your  name  Menenius. 

2  G.  'Tis  a  spell,  you  see,  of  much  power:   You 
know  the  way  home  again. 

1  G.  Do  you  hear  how  we  are  shent  ^  for  keeping 
your  greatness  back  ? 

2  G.  What  cause,  do  you  think,  I  have  to  swoon  ? 
Men.    I    neither  care  for  the  world,  nor  your 

general :  for  such  things  as  you,  I  can  scarce  think 
there  is  any,  you  are  so  slight.  He  that  hath  a  will 
to  die  by  himself,  fears  it  not  from  another.  Let 
your  general  do  his  worst.  For  you,  be  tliat  you 
are,  long ;  and  your  misery  increase  with  your  age  ! 
I  say  to  you,  as  I  was  said  to,  Away  !  \_ExU. 

1  G.   A  noble  fellow,  I  warrant  him. 

2  G.   The  worthy  fellow  is  our  general :  He  is  tlie 
rock,  the  oak  not  to  be  wind-shaken.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  The  Tent  of  Coriolanus. 
Enter  Coriolanus,  Aufidius,  and  others. 

Cor.  We  will  before  the  walls  of  Rome  to-morrow 

Sep  down  our  host My  partner  in  this  action. 

You  must  report  to  the  Volscian  lords,  how  plainly  7 
I  have  borne  in  this  business. 

Auf.  Only  their  ends 

You  have  respected  ;  stopp'd  your  ears  against 
The  general  suit  of  Rome ;  never  admitted 
A  private  whisper,  no,  not  with  such  friends 
That  thought  them  sure  of  you. 

Cor.  This  last  old  man. 

Whom  with  a  crack'd  heart  I  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Loved  me  above  the  measure  of  a  father  ; 
Nay,  godded  me,  indeed.      Their  latest  refuge 
Was  to  send  him :   for  whose  old  love,  I  have 
(Though   I  show'd    sourly    to    him,)   once   more 

offer'd 
Tlie  first  conditions,  which  they  did  refuse, 
And  cannot  now  accept,  to  grace  him  only. 
That  thought  he  could  do  more ;  a  very  little 
I  have  yielded  too :    Fresh  embassies,  and  suits. 


*  Because. 
7  Oi>cnly. 


«  Reprimanded. 


Nor  from  the  state,  nor  private  friends,  hereafter 
Will  I  lend  ear  to.  —  Ha !  what  shout  is  this  ? 

[Shout  within. 
Shall  I  be  tempted  to  infringe  my  vow 
In  the  same  time  'tis  made  ?  I  will  not.  — 

Enter   in  mourning   Habits,  Virgilia,  Volumnia, 

leading    young    Marcius,    Valeria,    and    At- 
tendants. 
My  wife  comes  foremost ;  then  the  honour'd  mould 
Wherein  this  trunk  was  fram'd,  and  in  her  hand 
The  grandchild  to  her  blood.     But,  out,  affection  ! 
All  bond  and  privilege  of  nature,  break  ! 
Let  it  be  virtuous,  to  be  obstinate.  — 
What  is  that  curt'sy  wortli  ?  or  those  doves'  eyes, 
Which  can  make  gods  forsworn?  —  I  melt,  and  am 

not 
Of  stronger  earth  than  others.  —  My  mother  bows; 
As  if  Olympus  to  a  molehill  should 
In  supplication  nod:   and  my  young  boy 
Hath  an  aspect  of  intercession,  which 
Great  nature  cries,  Deny  not,  —  Let  the  Voices 
Plough  Rome,  and  harrow  Italy ;   I'll  never 
Be  such  a  gosling  to  obey  instinct ;  but  stand, 
As  if  a  man  were  author  of  himself, 
And  knew  no  other  kin. 

Vir.  My  lord  and  husband ! 

Cor.    These   eyes  are  not  the  same  I  wore  in 
Rome. 

Vir.  The  sorrow  that  delivers  us  thus  chang'd, 
Makes  you  think  so. 

Cor.  Like  a  dull  actor  now, 

I  have  forgot  my  part,  and  I  am  out. 
Even  to  a  full  disgrace.     Best  of  my  flesh, 
Forgive  my  tyranny ;  but  do  not  say. 
For  that.  Forgive  our  Romans.  —  O,  a  kiss 
Long  as  my  exile,  sweet  as  my  revenge ! 
Now  by  the  jealous  queen  8  of  heaven,  that  kiss 
I  carried  from  thee ;  and  my  true  lip 
Hath  virgin'd  it  e'er  since.  —  You  gods !  I  prate 
And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 
Leave  unsaluted :   Sink,  my  knee  i'  the  earth  ; 

[Kneels. 
Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression  show 
Than  th^t  of  common  sons. 

Vol.  O,  stand  up  bless'd! 

Whilst  with  no  softer  cushion  than  the  flint, 
I  kneel  before  thee ;  and  unproperly 
Show  duty,  as  mistaken  all  the  while 
Between  the  child  and  parent.  [Kneels. 

Cor.  What  is  this  ? 

Your  knees  to  me  ?  to  your  corrected  son  ? 
Then  let  the  the  pebbles  on  the  hungry  beach 
Fillip  the  stars ;  then  let  the  mutinous  winds 
Strike  the  proud  cedars  'gainst  the  fiery  sun  j 
Murd'ring  impossibility,  to  make 
What  cannot  be,  slight  work. 

Vol.  Thou  art  my  warrior ; 

I  holp  to  frame  thee.     Do  you  know  tins  lady  ? 

Cor.   The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome ;  chaste  as  the  icicle, 
That's  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow. 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple :    Dear  Valeria ! 

Vol.  This  is  a  poor  epitome  of  yours. 
Which  by  the  interpretation  of  full  time 
May  show  like  all  yourself. 

Cor.  The  god  of  soldiers. 

With  the  consent  of  supreme  Jove,  inform 

Thy  thoughts  with  nobleness;  that  tliou  may'st  prove 

■  Juna 

X  X 


674. 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  V. 


To  shame  unvulnerable,  and  stick  i'  the  wars 
Like  a  great  sea-mark,  standing  every  flaw  9, 
And  saving  those  that  eye  thee  ! 

Vol.  Your  knee,  sirrah. 

Cor.   That's  my  brave  boy. 

Vol.   Even  he,  your  wife,  this  lady,  and  myself. 
Are  suitors  to  you. 

Cor.  I  beseech  you,  peace : 

Or,  if  you'd  ask,  remember  this  before ; 
TJ)e  things,  I  have  forsworn  to  grant,  may  never 
Be  held  by  you  denials.      Do  not  bid  me 
Dismisss  my  soldiers,  or  capitulate 
Again  witli  Rome's  mechanicks :  —  Tell  me  not 
Wherein  I  seem  unnatural :   Desire  not 
To  allay  my  rages  and  revenges,  with 
Your  colder  reasons. 

Vol.  O,  no  more,  no  more  ! 

You  have  said,  you  will  not  grant  us  any  thing ; 
For  we  have  nothing  else  to  ask,  but  that 
Which  you  deny  already :    Yet  we  will  ask  ; 
That,  if  you  fail  in  our  request,  the  blame 
May  hang  upon  your  hardness  :   therefore  hear  us. 

Cor.   Aufidius,  and  you  Voices,  mark;  for  we'll 
Hear  nought  from  Rome  in  private Your  request? 

Vol.   Should  we  be  silent   and  not   speak,  our 
raiment, 
And  state  of  bodies  would  bewray  '  what  life 
We  have  led  since  thy  exile.      Think  with  thyself, 
How  more  unfortunate  than  all  living  women 
Are  we  come  hither:    since  that  thy  sight,  which 

should 
Make  our  eyes  flow  with  joy,  hearts  dance  with 

comforts, 
Constrains   them  weep,    and  shake  with  fear  and 

sorrow ; 
Making  the  mother,  wife,  and  child,  to  see 
The  son,  the  husband,  and  the  father,  tearing 
His  country's  bowels  out.      And  to  poor  we, 
Thine  enmity's  most  capital :   thou  barr'st  us 
Our  prayers  to  the  gods,  which  is  a  comfort 
That  all  but  we  enjoy  :    For  how  can  we, 
Alas  !  how  can  we  for  our  country  pray, 
Whereto  we  are  bound;  together  with  thy  victory. 
Whereto  we  are  bound?      Alack  !  or  we  must  lose 
The  country,  our  dear  nurse  :   or  else  thy  person. 
Our  comfort  in  the  country.      We  must  find 
An  evident  calamity,  though  we  had 
Our  wish,  which  side  should  win  :   for  either  thou 
Must,  as  a  foreign  recreant,  be  led 
With  manacles  thorough  our  streets,  or  else 
Tiiumphantly  tread  on  thy  country's  ruin  ; 
And  bear  the  palm,  for  having  bravely  shed 
Thy  wife  and  children's  blood.      For  myself,  son, 
I  purpose  not  to  wait  on  fortune,  till 
These  wars  determine  :   if  I  cannot  persuade  thee 
Rather  to  show  a  noble  grace  to  both  parts, 
Than  seek  the  end  of  one,  thou  shalt  no  sooner 
March  to  assault  thy  country,  than  to  tread, 
(Trust  to't  thou  shalt  not,)  on  thy  mother's  womb. 
That  brought  thee  to  this  world. 

Vir.  Ay,  and  on  mine, 

That  brought  you  forth  this  boy,  to  keep  your  name 
Living  to  time. 

Boi/.  He  shall  not  tread  on  me ; 

I'll  run  away,  till  I  am  bigger,  but  then  I'll  fight. 

Cor.  Not  of  a  woman's  tenderness  to  be. 
Requires  nor  child  nor  woman's  face  to  see. 
I  have  sat  too  long.  [Rising. 

Vol.  Nay,  go  not  from  us  thus. 

9  Gust,  storm.  i  Betray. 


If  it  were  so,  that  our  request  did  tend 

To  save  the  Romans,  thereby  to  destroy 

The  Voices  whom  you  serve,  you  might  condemn  us, 

As  poisonous  of  your  lionour :    No ;  our  suit 

Is,  that  you  reconcile  them :   while  the  Voices 

May  say.  This  mercy  we  have  showed ;  the  Romans, 

This  we  received ,-  and  each  in  either  side 

Give  the  all-hail  to  thee,  and  cry.  Be  blessed 

For  making  up  this  peace  I  Thou  know'st,  great  son, 

The  end  of  war's  uncertain  ;  but  this  certain. 

That,  if  thou  conquer  Rome,  the  benefit 

Which  thou  shalt  thereby  reap,  is  such  a  name, 

Whose  repetition  will  be  dogg'd  with  curses ; 

Whose  chronicle  thus  writ,  —  The  man  was  noble, 

But  with  his  last  attempt,  he  wip'd  it  out ; 

Destroy  d  his  country ,-  and  his  name  remains 

To  the  ensuing  age,  abhorrd.      Speak  to  me,  son  : 

Thou  hast  affected  the  fine  strains  of  honour, 

To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods ; 

To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o'  the  air, 

And  yet  to  charge  thy  sulphur  with  a  bolt 

That  should  but  rive  an  oak.    Why  dost  not  speak  ? 

Think'st  thou  it  honourable  for  a  noble  man 

Still  to  remember  wrongs  ? —  Daughter,  speak  you : 

He  cares  not  for  your  weeping Speak  thou,  boy : 

Perhaps,  thy  childishness  will  move  him  more 
Than  can  our  reasons. — There  is  no  man  in  the 

world 
More  bound  to  his  mother ;  yet  here  he  lets  me  prate 
Like  one  i'  the  stocks.     Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  couitesy  ; 
When  she  (poor  hen  ! )  fond  of  no  second  brood. 
Has  cluck'd  thee  to  the  wars,  and  safely  home, 
Loaden  with  honour.      Say,  my  request's  unjust, 
And  spurn  me  back  :    But,  if  it  be  not  so. 
Thou  art  not  honest ;  and  the  gods  will  plague  thee. 
That  thou  restrain'st  from  me  the  duty,  which 
To  a  mother's  part  belongs.  —  He  turns  away  : 
Down,  ladies ;  let  us  shame  him  with  our  knees. 
To  his  surname  Coriolanus  'longs  more  pride. 
Than  pity  to  our  prayers.      Down  ;  an  end : 
This  is  the  last ;  —  So  we  will  home  to  Rome 
And  die  among  our  neighbours.  —  Nay,  behold  us : 
This  boy,  that  cannot  tell  what  he  would  have. 
But  kneels,  and  holds  up  hands,  for  fellowship. 
Does  reason  our  petition  with  more  strength 
Than  thou  hast  to  deny't.  —  Come,  let  us  go : 
This  fellow  had  a  Volscian  to  his  mother ; 
His  wife  is  in  Corioli,  and  his  child 
Like  him  by  chance  ;  —  Yet  give  us  our  despatch  : 
I  am  hush'd  until  our  city  be  afire. 
And  then  I'll  speak  a  little. 

Cor.  O  mother,  mother  ! 

[Holding  VoLUMNiA  by  the  hands,  silent. 
What  have  you  done  ?     Behold,  the  heavens  do  ope, 
The  gods  look  down,  and  this  unnatural  scene 
They  laugh  at.      O  my  mother,  mother  !    O  ! 
You  have  won  a  happy  victoiy  to  Rome  : 
But,  for  your  son,  —  Believe  it,  O,  believe  it. 
Most  dangerously  you  have  with  him  prevail'd. 
If  not  most  mortal  to  him.      But,  let  it  come  : 
Aufidius,  though  I  cannot  make  true  wars, 
I'll  frame  convenient  peace.      Now,  good  Aufidius, 
Were  you  in  my  stead,  say,  would  you  have  heard 
A  mother  less?  or  granted  less,  Aufidius? 

Auf.   I  was  mov'd  withal. 

Cor.  I  dare  be  sworn,  you  were : 

And,  sir,  it  is  no  little  thing,  to  make 
Mine  eyes  to  sweat  compassion.      But,  good  sir, 
What  peace  you'll  make,  advise  me :    For  my  part. 


Scene  IV. 


CORIOLANUS. 


675 


I'll  not  to  Rome,  I'll  back  with  you;  and  pray  you, 
Stand  to  me  in  this  cause.  —  O  mother  !  wife  ! 
Auf.   I  am  glad  thou  hast  set  thy  mercy  and  thy 
honour 
At  diflerence  in  thee  :  out  of  that  I'll  work 
Myself  a  former  fortune.  [Aside, 

\_Tlie  Ladies  make  signs  to  Coriolanus. 
Cor.  Ay,  by  and  by  ; 

[To  VOLUMNIA,    VlllGILIA,  ^C. 

But  we  will  drink  together ;  and  you  shall  bear 

A  better  witness  back  than  words,  which  we. 

On  like  conditions,  will  have  counter-seal'd. 

Come,  enter  with  us.      Ladies,  you  deserve 

To  have  a  temple  built  you  :  all  the  swords 

In  Italy,  and  her  confederate  arms, 

Could  not  have  made  this  peace.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — Rome.     A  publick  Place. 

Enter  Menenius  and  Sicinius. 

Men.  See  you  yond'  coign  «  o'  the  Capitol :  yond' 
corner  stone  ? 

Sic.   Why,  what  of  that  ? 

Men.  If  it  be  possible  for  you  to  displace  it  with 
your  little  finger,  tliere  is  some  hope  the  ladies  of 
Rome,  especially  his  mother,  may  prevail  with  him. 
But  I  say,  there  is  no  hope  in't ;  our  throats  are  sen- 
tenced, and  stay  upon  execution. 

Sic.  Is't  possible,  tliat  so  short  a  time  can  alter 
the  condition  of  a  man  ? 

Men.  There  is  difFerency  between  a  grub,  and  a 
butterfly ;  yet  your  butterfly  was  a  grub.  This 
Marcius  is  grown  from  man  to  dragon :  he  has 
wings  ;  he's  more  than  a  creeping  thing. 

Sic.   He  loved  his  mother  dearly. 

Men.  So  did  he  me :  and  he  no  more  remembers 
his  moUier  now,  than  an  eight  year  old  horse.  The 
tartness  of  his  face  sours  ripe  grapes.  When  he 
walks,  he  moves  like  an  engine,  and  tlie  ground 
shrinks  before  his  treading.  He  is  able  to  pierce  a 
corslet  with  his  eye  ;  talks  like  a  knell,  and  his  hum 
is  a  battery.  He  sits  in  his  state  3,  as  a  thing  made 
for^  Alexander.  What  he  bids  be  done,  is  finished 
with  his  bidding.  He  wants  nothing  of  a  god  but 
eternity,  and  a  heaven  to  throne  in. 

Sic.   Yes,  mercy,  if  you  report  him  truly. 

Men.  I  paint  him  in  the  character.  Mark  what 
mercy  his  mother  shall  bring  from  him  :  There  is  no 
more  mercy  in  him,  than  there  is  milk  in  a  male 
tiger ;  that  shall  our  poor  city  find  :  and  all  this  is 
'long  of  you. 

Sic.   The  gods  be  good  unto  us  ! 

Men.  No,  in  such  a  case  the  gods  will  not  be 
good  unto  us.  When  we  banished  him,  we  re- 
spected not  them  :  and,  he  returning  to  break  our 
necks,  they  respect  not  us. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Sir,  if  you'd  save  your  life,  fly  to  your  house; 
The  plebeians  have  got  your  fellow-tribune. 
And  hale  him  up  and  down  ;  all  swearing,  if 
The  Roman  ladies  bring  not  comfort  home. 
They'll  give  him  death  by  inches. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 
Sic.  What's  the  news? 

Mess.   Good  news,  good  news ;  —  The  ladies  have 
prevail 'd. 
The  Voices  are  dislodg'd,  and  Marcius  gone  : 
»  Angle.  '  Chair  of  sUte.  •♦  To  resemble. 


A  merrier  day  did  never  yet  greet  Rome, 
No,  not  the  expulsion  of  the  Tarquins. 

Sic.  Friend, 

Art  thou  certain  this  is  true  ?  is  it  most  certain  ? 

Mess.   As  certain  as  I  know  the  sun  is  fire  : 
Where  have  you  lurk'd,  that  you  make  doubt  of  it? 
Ne'er  through  an  arch  so  hurried  the  blown  tide. 
As  the  recomforted  through  the  gates.     Why,  hark 
you ; 
[Trumpets  and  Hautboys  sounded,  and  Drums 
beaten,  all  together.     Shoutuig  also  within. 
The  trumpets,  hautboys,  psalteries,  and  fifes. 
Tabors,  and  cymbals,  and  the  shouting  Romans, 
Make  the  sun  dance.    Hark  you  !    [Shouting  again. 

Men.  This  is  good  news  ; 

I  will  go  meet  the  ladies.      This  Volumnia 
Is  worth  of  consuls,  senators,  patricians, 
A  city  full  ;  of  tribunes,  such  as  you, 
A  sea  and  land  full :   You  have  prayed  well  to-day ; 
This  morning,  for  ten  thousand  of  your  throats 
I'd  not  have  given  a  doit.     Hark,  how  they  joy  ! 

[Shouting  and  Musick. 

Sic.    First,  the  gods  bless  you  for  their  tidings ; 
next. 
Accept  my  thankfulness. 

Mess.  Sir,  we  have  all 

Great  cause  to  give  great  thanks. 

Sic.  They  are  near  the  city  ? 

Mess.   Almost  at  point  to  enter. 

Sic.  We  will  meet  them. 

And  help  the  joy.  [  Going. 

Enter  the  Ladies,  accompanied  by  Senators,  Patri- 
cians, and  People.      They  pass  over  the  Stage. 
1  Sen.   Behold  our  patroness,  the  life  of  Rome : 

Call  all  your  tribes  together,  praise  the  gods, 

And  make  triumphant  fires ;  strew  flowers  before 
them  : 

Unshout  the  noise  that  banish 'd  Marcius, 

Repeal  *  him  with  the  welcome  of  his  mother ; 

Cry,  —  Welcome,  ladies,  welcome !  — 

All.  Welcome,  ladies ! 

Welcome  !     [A  Flourish  with  Drums  and  Trumpets. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Antium.     A  publick  Place. 
Enter  Tullus  Aufidius,  with  Attendants. 
Auf.    Go  tell  the  lords  of  the  city,  I  am  here  : 
Deliver  them  this  paper :   having  read  it. 
Bid  them  repair  to  the  market-place  ;  where  I, 
Even  in  theirs  and  in  the  commons'  ears, 
Will  vouch  the  truth  of  it.      Him  I  accuse, 
The  city  ports  6  by  this  hath  enter'd,  and 
Intends  to  appear  before  the  people,  hoping 
To  purge  himself  with  words  :    Despatch. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 
Enter  three  or  four  Conspirators  of  Aufidius' 
Faction. 
Most  welcome  ! 

1  Con.   How  is  it  with  our  general  ? 

■^uf.  Even  so, 

As  with  a  man  by  his  own  alms  empoison'd, 
And  with  his  charity  slain. 

2  Con.  Most  noble  sir, 
If  you  do  hold  the  same  intent  wherein 
You  wish'd  us  parties,  we'll  deliver  you 

Of  your  great  danger. 

Auf.  Sir,  I  cannot  tell ; 

We  must  proceed,  as  we  do  find  the  people. 
*  Recall  6  Gatefc 

Xx  2 


676 


CORIOLANUS. 


Act  V. 


3  CoU'  The  people  will  remain  uncertain,  whilst 
'Twixt  you  there's  difference  ;  but  the  fall  of  either 
Makes  the  survivor  heir  of  all. 

Auf.  I  kriow  it ; 

And  my  pretext  to  strike  at  him  admits 
A  good  construction.      I  rais'd  him,  and  I  pawn'd 
Mine  honour  for  his  truth  :  Who  being  so  heighten'd, 
He  water'd  his  new  plants  with  dews  of  flattery, 
Seducing  so  my  friends  :   and,  to  this  end, 
He  bow'd  his  nature,  never  known  before 
But  to  be  rough,  unswayable,  and  free. 

3  Con.   Sir,  his  stoutness, 
When  he  did  stand  for  consul,  which  he  lost 
By  lack  of  stooping, 

Juf.   That  I  would  have  spoke  of: 
Being  banish'd  for't,  he  came  unto  my  hearth  ; 
Presented  to  my  knife  his  throat :    I  took  him  ; 
Made  him  joint  servant  with  me  ;  gave  him  way 
In  all  his  own  desires  ;  nay,  let  him  choose 
Out,  of  my  files,  his  projects  to  accomplish, 
My  best  and  freshest  men  ;  serv'd  his  desigmnents 
In  mine  own  person ;  holp  to  reap  the  fame, 
Which  he  did  end  all  his ;  and  took  some  pride 
To  do  myself  this  wrong :   till,  at  the  last, 
I  seem'd  his  follower,  not  partner ;  and 
He  wag'd  me  with  his  countenance  ',  as  if 
I  had  been  mercenary. 

1  Con.                            So  he  did,  my  lord  : 
The  army  marvell'd  at  it.      And,  in  the  last. 
When  he  had  carried  Rome  ;  and  that  we  look'd 
For  no  less  spoil,  than  glory, 

Auf.  There  was  it ;  — 

For  which  my  sinews  shall  be  stretch'd  upon  him. 
At  a  few  drops  of  women's  rheum  »,  which  are 
As  cheap  as  lies,  he  sold  the  blood  and  labour 
Of  our  great  action  ;   Therefore  shall  he  die. 
And  I'll  renew  me  in  his  fall.      But,  hark  ! 

[Drums  and   Trumpets  sound,  with  great 
Shouts  of  the  People. 

1  Con.   Your  native  town  you  entei'd  like  a  post, 
And  had  no  welcomes  home  ;  but  he  returns, 
Splitting  the  air  with  noise. 

2  Con.  And  patient  fools. 
Whose  children  he  hath  slain,  their  base  throats  tear. 
With  giving  him  glory. 

3  Con.  Therefore,  at  your  'vantage, 
Ere  he  express  himself,  or  move  the  people 

With  what  he  would  say,  let  him  feel  your  sword, 
Which  we  will  second.      When  he  lies  along, 
After  your  way  his  tale  pronounc'd  shall  bury 
His  reasons  with  his  body. 

Auf.  Say  no  more ; 

Here  come  the  lords. 

Enter  the  Lords  of  the  City. 

Lords.   You  are  most  welcome  home. 

Avf.  I  have  not  deserv'd  it, 

But,  worthy  lords,  have  you  with  heed  perus'd 
What  I  have  written  to  you  ? 

Lords.  We  have. 

1  Lord.  And  grieve  to  hear  it. 

What  faults  he  made  before  the  last,  I  think. 
Might  have  found  easy  fines :  but  there  to  end, 
W^here  he  was  to  begin :   and  give  away 
The  benefit  of  our  levies,  answering  us 
With  our  own  charge  9  ;  making  a  treaty,  where 
There  was  a  yielding  ;   This  admits  no  excuse. 

Auf.  He  approaches,  you  shall  hear  him. 

7  Thought  me  rewarded  with  good  looks.        ^  Tears. 
'  Rewarding  us  with  our  own  expenses. 


Enter   Couioi.anus,    with   Drums  and  Colours;    a 
Crowd  of  Citizens  ivith  him. 

Cor.   Hail,  lords  !   I  am  return'd  your  soldier  ; 
No  more  infected  with  my  country's  love. 
Than  when  I  parted  hence,  but  still  subsisting 
Under  your  great  command.      You  are  to  know. 
That  prosperously  I  have  attempted,  and 
With  bloody  passage,  led  your  wars,  even  to 
The  gates  of  Rome.     Our  spoils  we  have  brought 

home, 
Do  more  than  counterpoise,  a  full  third  part, 
The  charges  of  the  action.      We  have  made  peace, 
With  no  less  honour  to  the  Antiates, 
Than  shame  to  the  Romans  :    And  we  here  deliver, 
Subscrib'd  by  the  consuls  and  patricians. 
Together  with  the  seal  o'  the  senate,  what 
We  have  compounded  on. 

Auf.  Read  it  not,  noble  lords ; 

But  tell  the  traitor,  in  the  highest  degree 
He  hath  abus'd  your  powers. 

Cor.   Traitor  !  —  How  now  ? 

Aif.  Ay,  traitor  Marcius. 

Cor.  Marcius ! 

Auf.   Ay,   Marcius,  Caius  Marcius;   Dost  thou 
think 
I'll  grace  thee  with  that  robbery,  thy  stol'n  name 
Coriolanus  in  Corioli  ?  — 
You  lords  and  heads  of  the  state,  perfidiously 
He  has  betray'd  your  business,  and  given  up, 
For  certain  drops  of  salt,  your  city  Rome, 
(I  say,  your  city,)  to  his  wife  and  mother  : 
Breaking  his  oath  and  resolution,  like 
A  twist  of  rotten  silk  ;  never  admitting 
Counsel  o'  the  war ;  but  at  his  nurse's  tears 
He  whin'd  and  roar'd  away  your  victory  ; 
That  pages  blush'd  at  him,  and  men  of  heart 
Look'd  wondering  each  at  other. 

Cor.  Hear'st  thou.  Mars  ? 

Auf.  Name  not  the  god,  thou  boy  of  tears,  — 

Cor.  Ha ! 

Aiif.   No  more. 

Cor.   Measureless  liar,  thou  hast  made  my  heart 
Too  great  for  what  contains  it.      Boy  !   O  slave  !  — 
Pardon  me,  lords,  'tis  the  first  time  that  ever 
I  was  forc'd  to  scold.      Your  judgments,  my  grave 

lords. 
Must  give  this  cur  the  lie  :   and  his  own  notion 
( Wlx)  wears  my  stripes  impress'd  on  him  ;  that  must 

bear 
My  beating  to  his  grave  ;)  shall  join  to  thrust 
The  lie  unto  him. 

1  Lord.  Peace,  both,  and  hear  me  speak. 
Cor.    Cut  me  to  pieces.  Voices ;  men  and  lads. 

Stain  all  your  edges  on  me.  —  Boy  !   False  hound  ! 
If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,  'tis  there. 
That  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 
Flutter'd  your  Voices  in  Corioli : 
Alone  I  did  it.  —  Boy  ! 

Auf.  Why,  noble  lords. 

Will  you  be  put  in  mind  of  his  blind  fortune. 
Which  was  your  shame,  by  this  unholy  braggart, 
'  Fore  your  own  eyes  and  ears  ? 

Con.   Let  him  die  for't.        [Several  speak  at  once. 

Cit.  [Speaking  promiscuousli/.']  Tear  him  to 
pieces,  do  it  presently.  He  killed  my  son  ;  —  my 
daughter  ;  —  He  killed  my  cousin  Marcus  ;  —  He 
killed  my  father.  — 

2  Lord.   Peace,  ho  ;  —  no  outrage  ;  —  peace. 
The  man  is  noble,  and  his  fame  folds  in 

This  orb  o'  the  earth.     His  last  offence  to  us 


I 


Scene  V. 


CORIOLANUS. 


677 


Shall  have  judicious  '  hearing.  —  Stand,  Aufidius, 
And  trouble  not  the  peace. 

Cor.  O,  that  I  had  him, 

With  six  Aufidiuses,  or  more,  his  tribe, 
To  use  my  lawful  sword  ! 

Auf.  Insolent  villain  ! 

Con.   Kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill  him. 

[Aufidius  aivl  the  Conspirators  draw^  ami  kill 
CoKioLANus,  who/alls,  and  Aunwus  stands 
on  him. 
Lords.  Hold,  hold,  hold,  hold. 

Auf.   My  noble  masters,  hear  me  speak. 

1  Lord.  O  Tullus,  — 

2  Lord.   Thou  hast  done  a  deed  whereat  valour 

will  weep. 

3  Lord.   Tread  not  upon  him.  —  Masters  all,  be 

quiet ; 
Put  up  your  swords. 

Auf.   My  lords,  when  you  shall  know  (as  in  this 
rage, 
Provok'd  by  him,  you  cannot,)  the  great  danger 
1  Judicial. 


Which  tliis  man's  life  did  owe  you,  you'll  rejoice 
That  he  is  thus  cut  off.     Please  it  your  honours 
To  call  me  to  your  senate,  I'll  deliver 
Myself  your  loyal  servant,  or  endure 
Your  heaviest  censure. 

1  Lord.  Bear  from  hence  his  body. 
And  mourn  you  for  him  :   let  him  be  regarded 

As  the  most  noble  cofse  that  ever  herald 
Did  follow  to  his  urn. 

2  Lord.  His  own  impatience 
Takes  from  Aufidius  a  great  part  of  blame. 
Let's  make  the  best  of  it. 

Atif.  My  rage  is  gone. 

And  I  am  struck  with  sorrow.  —  Take  him  up  : 
Help,  three  o'  the  chiefest  soldiers  :    I'll  be  one.  — 
Beat  thou  the  drum,  that  it  speak  mournfully : 
Trail  your  steel  pikes.  —  Though  in  this  city  he 
Hath  widow'd  and  unchilded  many  a  one, 
Which  to  this  hour  bewail  the  injury. 
Yet  he  shall  have  a  noble  memory.  — 
Assist.       [ExeiiJit,  bearing  the  hodu  of  Cokiolanus. 
A  dead  March  sounded. 


I 


X  I  3 


V. 


c 


i 


c^ 


n  ' 


JULIUS    CiESAR. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


JuMUS  C^SAB, 

octavius  c^sar, 

Marcus  Antonius,       >  ,   ,.       ^.^  .^ 

--     „  -  '       f  Julius  Caesar. 

M.  /Emil.  Lepious,    J 

CicEKo,  PiTBLius,  Popiuus  Lena  ;  tenators. 

Marcus  Brutus, 

C  A  SSI  us, 

Casca, 
Trebonius, 

LiGARIUS, 

Decius  Brutus, 
Metei-lus  Cimber 

CiNNA, 

Fi.Avius  und  MARULr.us,  Tribunes. 


I  Trill  nivirsaflerlhe  Death  »/ 


Conspirators  against  Julius 
Csesar. 


Artemidorus,  a  Sophist  r*/*  Cnidos. 

A  Soothsayer. 

CiNNA,  a  Poet. 

Another  Poet. 

LuriLius,    TiTiNius,    Messala,  young  Cato,   and 

VoLUMNius  ;  Friends  to  Brutus  and  Ciussiiis. 
Varro,  Clitus,  Claudius,  Strato,  Lucius,  Dab- 

DANius;  Servants  to  Brutus. 
Pindarus,  Servant  to  Cassius. 

Calphurnia,  Wife  to  Caesar. 
Portia,  Wife  to  Brutus. 

Senators,  Citizens,  Guards,  Atteiidanti,  ^c 


SCENEf  during  a  great  Part  of  the  Play,  at  Rome :   afterwards  at  Sardis ;  and  mur  Pliilippi. 


I  Hon    ART 

ihat  evef 


OF   TOE   NOBLEST    Mi 
THE    IIIJE    OF   TIMES 


JULIUS    C^SAR, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.  —  Rome.      A  Street. 
Enter  Fr.Avius,  Marullus,  awrfa  Rabble  o/*  Citizens. 

Flav.   Hence ;  home,  you  idle  creatures,  get  you 
home ; 
Is  this  a  holiday  ?     What !  know  you  not, 
Being  mechanical,  you  ought  not  walk. 
Upon  a  labouring  day,  without  the  sign 
Of  your  profession  ? —  Speak,  what  trade  art  thou  ? 

1  Cit.   Why,  sir,  a  carpenter. 

Mar.   Where  is  thy  leather  apron  and  thy  rule  ? 
What  dost  thou  with  thy  best  apparel  on  ?  — 
You,  sir  ;  what  trade  are  you  ? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine  workman,  I 
am  but,  as  you  would  say,  a  cobbler. 

Mar.  But  what  trade  art  thou  ?  Answer  me 
directly. 

2  Cit.  A  trade,  sir,  that,  I  hope,  I  may  use  with 
a  safe  conscience ;  which  is,  indeed,  sir,  a  mender 
of  bad  soies. 

Mar.  What  trade,  thou  knave ;  thou  naughty 
knave,  what  trade  ? 

2  Cit.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  not  out  wiih 
me  :  yet,  if  you  be  out,  sir,  I  can  mend  you. 

Mar.  What  meanest  thou  by  that  ?  Mend  mp, 
thou  saucy  fgUow  ! 

2  Cit.  Why,  sir,  cobble  you. 

Fiav.   Thou  art  a  cobbler,  art  thou  ? 

9  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  all  that  I  live  by  is,  with  the  awl : 


I  meddle  with  no  tradesman's  matters,  but  with  awl. 
1  am,  indeed,  sir,  a  surgeon  to  old  shoes  ;  when 
they  are  in  great  danger,  I  recover  them.  As  pro- 
per men  as  ever  trod  upon  neat's  leather,  have  gone 
upon  my  handy-work. 

Flav.  But  wherefore  art  not  in  thy  shop  to-day  ? 
Why  dost  thou  lead  these  men  about  the  streets  ? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  to  wear  out  their  shoes,  to  get 
myself  into  more  work.  But,  indeed,  sir,  we  make 
holiday,  to  see  Caesar,  and  to  rejoice  in  his  triumph. 

Mar.   Wherefore  rejoice  ?    What  conquest  brings 
he  home  ? 
What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome, 
To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot  wheels  ? 
You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  senseless^; 

things  ! 
O,  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome, 
Knew  you  not  Pompey  ?     Many  a  time  and  oft 
Have  you  climb'd  up  to  walls  and  battlements. 
To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops, 
Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 
The  live-long  day,  with  patient  expectation, 
To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets  of  Rome : 
a\  nd  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appear 
Have  you  not  made  an  universal  shout, 
That  Tyber  trembled  underneath  her  banks, 
To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds. 
Made  in  her  concave  shores  ? 
And  do  you  now  put  on  your  best  attire? 


I 


Act  I.  Scene  II. 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


679 


And  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday  ? 

And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way, 

That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood  ? 

Begone ; 

Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees. 

Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 

That  needs  must  light  on  this  ingratitude. 

FlaV'  Go,  go,  good  countrymen,  and  for  this  fault, 
Assemble  all  the  poor  men  of  your  sort ' ; 
Draw  them  to  Tyber  banks,  and  weep  your  tears 
Into  the  channel,  till  the  lowest  stream 
Do  kiss  the  most  exalted  shores  of  all. 

[Exeunt  Citizens. 
See,  whe'r  their  basest  metal  be  not  mov'd  ; 
They  vanish  tongue-tied  in  their  guiltiness. 
Go  you  down  that  way  towards  the  Capitol ; 
This  way  will  I :    Disrobe  the  images, 
If  you  do  find  them  deck'd  with  ceremonies. 

Mu7'.   May  we  do  so  ? 
You  know,  it  is  the  feast  of  Lupercal. 

Flav.   It  is  no  matter ;  let  no  images 
Be  hung  with  Caesar's  trophies.      I'll  about, 
And  drive  away  the  vulgar  from  the  streets  : 
So  do  you  too,  where  you  perceive  them  thick. 
These  growing  feathers  pluck'd  from  Caesar's  wing, 
Will  make  him  fly  an  ordinary  pitch  ; 
Who  else  would  soar  above  the  view  of  men, 
And  keep  us  all  in  servile  fearfulness.         [JExeunt. 

SCENE  U.  —  A publick  Place. 

Enter,  in  Procession,  with  Musick,  Cjesar  ;  Antont, 

for  the  Course:    Calphurnia,  Portia,  Decius, 

Cicero,  Brutus,  Cassius,  and  Casca  ;  a  great 

Crowd  fgllouing,  among  them  a  Soothsayer. 

Cces.   Calphurnia,  — 

Casca.  Peace,  ho  !   Caesar  speaks, 

[Musick  ceases. 

Cas.  Calphurnia,  — 

Cal.   Here,  my  lord. 

C^s.   Stand  you  directly  in  Antonius'  way, 
WJien  he  doth  run  his  course.  ^ —  Antonius. 

yint.    Caesar,  my  lord. 

Cces.    Forget  not,  in  your  speed,  Antonius, 
To  touch  Calphurnia  :   for  our  elders  say, 
The  barren,  touched  in  this  holy  chase, 
Shake  off  their  sterile  curse. 

j^tit.  I  shall  remember : 

When  Caesar  says.  Do  this,  it  is  perforra'd. 

Cees.  Set  on  ;  and  leave  no  ceremony  out.  [Musick. 

Sooth.    Caesar. 

Cees.   Ha  !  who  calls  ? 

Casca.  Bid  every  noise  be  still ;  —  Peace  yet  again. 

[Musick  ceases. 

Cees.   Who  is  it  in  the  press  ',  that  calls  on  me  ? 
I  hear  a  tongue,  shriller  than  all  the  musick. 
Cry,  Ca;sar  :    Speak  ;  Caesar  is  turn'd  to  hear. 

Sooth,   Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cees.  What  man  is  that? 

Brtt.   A  soothsayer,  bids  you  beware  the  ides  of 
Msu-ch. 

CeBS.    Set  him  before  me,  let  me  see  his  face. 

Cas.    Fellow,  come  from  the  throng:  Look  upon 
Ca?sar. 

Cees.   What  say'st  thou  to  mc  now  ?    Speak  once 
again. 

Sooth.   Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cees.   He  is  a  dreamer ;  let  us  leave  him  ;  —  pass. 
[Sennet.  *     Exeunt  all  but  Bru.  and  Cas. 

•  Rank.      '  A  ceremony  observed  at  the  feast  of  l.uprrcalia. 

3  Crowd.  *  I-1ourub  of  instruments. 


Cas.   Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the  course? 
Jiru.    Not  I. 
Cas.   I  pray  you  do. 

Bru.    I  am  not  gamesome  :    I  do  lack  some  part 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony. 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cassius,  your  desires  : 
I'll  leave  you, 

Cas.    Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  late  : 
I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness. 
And  show  of  love,  as  I  was  wont  to  have  : 
You  bear  too  stubborn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
Over  your  friend  that  loves  you. 

Bru.  Cassius, 

Be  not  deceiv'd :   if  I  have  veil'd  my  look, 
I  turn  the  trouble  of  my  countenance 
Merely  upon  myself.     Vexed  I  am. 
Of  late,  with  passions  of  some  difference. 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself. 
Which  give  some  soil,  perhajjs,  to  my  behaviours : 
But  let  not  therefore  my  good  friends  be  grieved  ; 
(Among  which  number,  Cassius,  be  you  one  ;) 
Nor  construe  any  further  my  neglect. 
Than  that  poor  Brutus,  with  himself  at  war, 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 

Cas.  Then,  Brutus,  I  have  much  mistook  your 
passion  ^, 
By  means  whereof,  this  breast  of  mine  hath  buried 
Thouglits  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  me,  good  Brutus,  can  you  see  your  face  ? 

Bru.   No,  Cassius  :   for  the  eye  sees  not  itself, 
But  by  reflection,  by  some  other  things. 

Cas.  'Tisjust: 
And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirrors,  as  will  turn 
Your  hidden  worthiness  into  your  eye. 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.      I  have  heard. 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome, 
(Except  immortal  Caesar,)  speaking  of  Brutus, 
And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke, 
Have  wish'd  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

Bru.    Into  what  dangers  would  you    lead  me, 
Cassius, 
That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself 
For  that  which  is  not  in  me? 

Cas.  Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepar'd  to  hear : 
And  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I,  your  glass. 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself  which  you  yet  know  not  of. 
And  be  not  jealous  of  me,  gentle  Brutus: 
Were  I  a  common  laugher,  or  did  use 
To  stale  ^  with  ordinary  oaths  my  love 
To  every  new  protester ;  if  you  know 
That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard. 
And  after  scandal  them  ;  or  if  you  know 
That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting 
To  all  the  rout,  then  hold  me  dangerous. 

[Flotirish,  and  Shout. 
Bru.  What  means  this  shouting?  I  do  fear,  tlie 
people 
Choose  Czesar  for  their  king. 

Cfts.  Ay,  do  you  fear  it  ? 

Then  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  so. 

Bru.  I  would  not,  Cassius;  yet  I  love  him  well:  — 
But  wherefore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long? 
What  is  it  that  you  would  impart  to  me? 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good, 
Set  honour  in  one  eye,  and  death  i'thc  other. 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indittercntly : 
>  The  nature  of  your  feelings.  <  Make  common- 

Xx  4 


680 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


Act  I. 


For,  let  the  gods  so  speed  me,  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honour  more  than  I  fear  death. 

Cas.  I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favour. 
Well,  honour  is  the  subject  of  my  story.  — 
I  cannot  tell,  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  this  life ;  but,  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  1  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Csesar;  so  were  you: 
We  both  have  fed  as  well :  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold,  as  well  as  he. 
For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day, 
The  troubled  Tyber  chafing  with  her  shores, 
Caesar  said  to  me,  Dar'st  thou,  Cassius,  now, 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  jlood, 
And  sioini  to  yonder  point  ?  Upon  the  word, 
Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 
And  bade  him  follow  :   so,  indeed,  he  did. 
The  torrent  roar'd ;  and  we  did  buffet  it 
With  lusty  sinews  ;  throwing  it  aside 
And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  propos'd, 
Caesar  cry'd,  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink. 
I,  as  ^neas,  our  great  ancestor. 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 
The  old  Anchises  bear,  so,  from  the  waves  of  Tyber 
Did  I  the  tired  Caesar :    And  this  man 
Is  now  become  a  god ;  and  Cassius  is 
A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body, 
If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake  :  'tis  true,  this  god  did  shake : 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  colour  fly ; 
And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world. 
Did  lose  his  lustre  :    I  did  hear  him  groan  : 
Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 
Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 
Alas !  it  cried.  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius, 
As  a  sick  girl.      Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 
A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  7  should 
So  get  the  start  of  the  majestick  world. 
And  bear  the  palm  alone.  [^Shout.     Flourish. 

Bru.    Another  general  shout ! 
I  do  believe,  that  these  applauses  are 
For  some  new  honours  that  are  heap'd  on  Caesar. 

Cas.  Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world. 
Like  a  Colossus ;  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonourable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates ; 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus  and  Caesar:  What  should  be  in  that  Ceesar? 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than  yours  ? 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name ; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy;  conjure  with  them, 
Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Cassar.    \^Shout. 
Now  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Caesar  feed, 
That  he  is  grown  so  great  ?   Age,  thou  art  sham'd  : 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods  ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood. 
But  it  was  fam'd  with  more  than  with  one  man? 
When  could  they  say,  till  now,  that  talk'd  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walks  encompass'd  but  one  man  ? 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough, 
7  Temperament,  constitution. 


When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 

O !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say, 

Tliere  was  a  Brutus  once,  that  would  have  brook'd 

The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome, 

As  easily  as  a  king. 

Bru.  That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing  jealous  ; 
What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim  »  ; 
How  I  have  thought  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 
I  shall  recount  hereafter ;  for  this  present, 
I  would  not,  so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you, 
Be  any  further  mov'd.      What  you  have  said, 
I  will  consider ;  what  you  have  to  say, 
I  will  with  patience  hear :   and  find  a  time 
Both  meet  to  hear,  and  answer,  such  high  things. 
Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  9  upon  this  j 
Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager, 
Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 
Under  these  hard  conditions  as  this  time 
Is  like  to  lay  upon  us. 

Cas.   I  am  glad  that  my  weak  words 
Have  struck  but  thus  much  show  of  fire  from  Brutus. 

Re-enter  C^sar,  and  his  Train. 

Bru.  The  games  are  done,  and  Caesar  is  returning. 

Cas.  As  they  pass  by,  pluck  Casca  by  the  sleeve  ; 
And  he  will,  after  his  sour  fashion,  tell  you 
What  hath  proceeded,  worthy  note,  to-day. 

Bru.   I  will  do  so :  —  But  look  you,  Cassius, 
The  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Caesar's  brow. 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train  : 
Calphurnia's  cheek  is  pale  ;  and  Cicero 
Looks  with  such  ferret  '  and  such  fiery  eyes, 
As  we  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol, 
Being  cross'd  in  conference  by  some  senators. 

Cas.    Casca  will  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 

Cces.   Antonius. 

Ant.    Caesar. 

C(Es.   Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat ; 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  ouch  as  sleep  o'  nights : 
Yond'  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look ; 
He  thinks  too  much  :   such  men  are  dangerous. 

A7it.  Fear  him  not,  Caesar,  he's  not  dangerous ; 
He  is  a  noble  Roman,  and  well  given. 

Cces. '  Would  he  were  fatter :  —  But  I  fear  him  not : 
Yet  if  my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 
I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 
So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius.      He  reads  much ; 
He  is  a  great  observer,  and  he  looks 
Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men:  he  loves  no  plays. 
As  thou  dost,  Antony;  he  hears  no  musick : 
Seldom  he  smiles  ;  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort. 
As  if  he  mock'd  himself,  and  scorn'd  his  spirit 
That  could  be  mov'd  to  smile  at  any  thing. 
Such  men  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease. 
Whiles  they  behold  a  greater  than  themselves ; 
And  therefore  are  they  very  dangerous. 
I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fear'd. 
Than  what  I  fear,  for  always  I  am  Caesar. 
Come  on  my  right  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deaf. 
And  tell  me  truly  what  thou  think'st  of  him. 

[Exeunt  Cjsesar  and  his  Train.      Casca 
stays  behind. 

Casca.  You  pull'd  me  by  the  cloak ;  would  you 
speak  with  me? 

Bru.  Ay,  Casca;  tell  us  what  hath  chanc'd  to-day. 
That  Caesar  looks  so  sad. 

Casca.  Why,  you  were  with  him,  were  you  not  ? 

Bru.     I  should  not  then  ask   Casca  what    hath 

chanc'd. 
8  Guess.  9  Ruminate.  '  A  ferret  has  red  eyes. 


I 


Scene  II. 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


681 


Casca.  Why,  there  was  a  crown  oflTer'd  him  :  and 
being  offer'd  him,  he  put  it  by  with  tlie  back  of  his 
hand,  thus;  and  then  the  people  fell  a  shouting. 

Bru.  What  was  the  second  noise  for? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Cas.  They  shouted  thrice ;  What  was  the  last 
cry  for? 

Casca,    Why,  for  that  too. 

Bru.   Was  the  crown  offered  him  thrice  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  marry,  was't,  and  he  put  it  by  thrice, 
every  time  gentler  than  other ;  and  at  every  putting 
by,  mine  honest  neighbours  shouted. 

Cos.   Who  offer'd  him  the  crown  ? 

Casca.   Why,  Antony. 

Bru.   Tell  us  tlie  manner  of  it,  gentle  Casca. 

Casca.  I  can  as  well  be  hanged  as  tell  the  man- 
ner of  it :  it  was  mere  foolery.  I  did  not  mark  it. 
I  saw  Mark  Antony  offer  him  a  crown  ;  —  yet  'twas 
not  a  crown  neither,  'twas  one  of  these  coronets ; 

—  and,  as  I  told  you,  he  put  it  by  once  ;  but,  for  all 
that,  to  my  thinking,  he  would  fain  have  had  it. 
Then  he  offered  it  to  him  again  ;  then  he  put  it  by 
again :  but,  to  my  thinking,  he  was  very  loath  to 
lay  his  fingers  off  it.  And  then  he  offered  it  the 
third  time ;  he  put  it  the  third  time  by :  and  still  as 
he  refused  it,  the  rabblement  hooted,  and  clapped 
their  chopped  hands,  and  threw  up  their  night-caps, 
and  uttered  such  a  deal  of  foul  breath  because 
Caesar  refused  the  crown,  that  it  had  almost  choked 
Caesar  ;  for  he  swooned,  and  fell  down  at  it :  And 
for  mine  own  part,  I  durst  not  laugh,  for  fear  of 
opening  my  lips,  and  receiving  the  bad  air. 

Cas.  But  soft,  I  pray  you :  What  ?  did  Cajsar 
swoon  ? 

Casca.  He  fell  down  in  the  market-place,  and 
foamed  at  mouth,  and  was  speechless. 

Bru.  'Tis  very  like :  he  hath  the  falling-sickness. 

Cas.   No,  Caisar  hath  it  not ;  but  you,  and  I, 
And  honest  Casca,  we  have  the  falling-sickness. 

Casca.  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  that ;  but, 
I  am  sure,  Ca;sar  fell  down.  If  the  tag-rag  people 
did  not  clap  him,  and  hiss  him,  according  as  he 
pleased,  and  displeased  them,  as  they  used  to  do  the 
players  in  the  theatre,  I  am  no  true  man. 

Bru.  What  said  he,  when  he  came  unto  himself? 

Casca.  IMarry,  before  he  fell  down,  when  he  per- 
ceived the  common  herd  was  glad  he  refused  the 
crown,  he  plucked  me  ope  his  doublet,  and  offered 
them  his  throat  to  cut.  —  An  I  had  been  a  man  of 
any  occupation,  if  I  would  not  have  taken  him  at  a 
word,  I  would  I  might  go  to  hell  among  the  rogues ; 

—  and  so  he  fell.  When  he  came  to  himself  again, 
he  said,  If  he  had  done,  or  said  any  thing  amiss,  he 
desired  their  worships  to  think  it  was  his  infirmity. 
Three  or  four  wenches,  where  I  stood,  cried,  Alas, 
good  soul  /  —  and  forgave  him  with  all  their  hearts  : 
But  there's  no  heed  to  be  taken  of  them  ;  if  Ca;sar 
had  stabbed  their  mothers,  they  would  have  done 
no  less. 

Bru.  And  after  that,  he  came,  thus  sad,  away? 

Casca.  Ay. 

Cas.   Did  Cicero  say  any  thing? 

Casca.    Ay,  he  spoke  Greek. 

Cas.   To  what  effect? 

Casca.  Nay,  an  I  tell  you  that,  I'll  ne'er  look  you 
i'  the  face  again :  But  those  that  understood  him, 
smiled  at  one  another,  and  shook  their  heads ;  but, 
lor  mine  own  part,  it  was  Greek  to  me.  I  could  tell 
you  more  news  too ;  Marullus  and  Flavius,  for 
pulling  scarfs  off  Caesar's  images,  arc  put  to  silence. 


Fare  you  well.     There  was  more  foolery  yet,  if  I 
could  remember  it. 

Cas.  Will  you  sup  with  me  to-night,  Casca? 

Casca.   No,  I  am  promised  forth. 

Cas.    Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  if  I  be  alive,  and  your  mind  hold,  and 
your  dinner  worth  the  eating. 

Cas.    Good  ;   I  will  expect  you. 

Casca.    Do  so:    Farewell,  both.  [Exit  Cahca. 

Bru.  What  a  blunt  fellow  this  is  grown  to  be; 
He  was  quick  mettle,  when  he  went  to  school. 

Cas.   So  is  he  now,  in  execution 
Of  any  bold  or  noble  enterprize, 
However  he  puts  on  this  tardy  form. 
This  rudeness  is  a  sauce  to  his  good  wit, 
Which  gives  men  stomach  to  digest  his  words 
With  better  appetite. 

Bru.  And  so  it  is.    For  this  time  I  will  leave  you : 
To-morrow,  if  you  please  to  speak  with  me, 
I  will  come  home  to  you  ;  or,  if  you  will. 
Come  home  to  me,  and  I  will  wait  for  you. 

Cas.  I  will  do  so  :  —  till  then,  think  of  the  world. 

[Exit  Brutus. 
Well,  Brutus,  thou  art  noble ;  yet,  I  see, 
Thy  honourable  metal  may  be  wrought 
From  that  it  is  dispos'd  ^  :   Therefore  'tis  meet 
That  noble  minds  keep  ever  with  their  likes : 
For  who  so  firm,  that  cannot  be  seduc'd  ? 
Csesar  doth  bear  me  hard ;  but  he  loves  Brutus  : 
If  I  were  Brutus  now,  and  he  were  Cassius, 
He  should  not  humour  '  me.     I  will  this  night. 
In  several  hands,  in  at  his  windows  throw. 
As  if  they  came  from  several  citizens. 
Writings  all  tending  to  the  great  opinion 
That  Rome  holds  of  his  name ;  wherein  obscurely 
Caesar's  ambition  shall  be  glanced  at : 
And,  after  this,  let  Caesar  seat  him  sure  ; 
For  we  will  shake  him,  or  worse  days  endure. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III.  ^  A  Street. 

Thunder  and  Lightning.    Enter,  from  ojyposite  sides, 
Casca,  uith  his  Sword  drawn,  and  Cicero. 

Cic.  Good  even,  Casca:  Brought  you  Caesar  home? 
Why  are  you  breathless  ?  and  why  stare  you  so  ? 

Casca.   Are  not  you  mov'd,  when  all  the  sway  of 
earth 
Shakes,  like  a  thing  unfirm  ?     O  Cicero, 
I  have  seen  tempests,  when  the  scolding  winds 
Have  riv'd  the  knotty  oaks ;  and  I  have  seen 
The  ambitious  ocean  swell,  and  rage,  and  foam, 
To  be  exalted  with  the  threat'ning  clouds : 
But  never  till  to-night,  never  till  now. 
Did  I  go  through  a  tempest  dropping  fire. 
Either  there  is  a  civil  strife  in  heaven  ; 
Or  else  the  world,  too  saucy  with  the  gods. 
Incenses  them  to  send  destruction. 

Cic  Why,  saw  you  any  tiling  more  wonderful  ? 

Casca.   A  common  slave  (you  know  him  well  by 
sight) 
Held  up  his  left  hand,  which  did  flame,  and  bum 
Like  twenty  torches  join'd  ;  and  yet  his  hand, 
Not  sensible  of  fire,  remain'd  unscorch'd. 
Besides  (I  have  not  since  put  up  my  sword), 
Against  the  Capitol  I  met  a  lion, 
Who  glar'd  upon  me,  and  went  surly  by. 
Without  annoying  me :    And  there  were  drawn 
Upon  a  heap  a  hundred  ghastly  women. 
Transformed  with  their  fear ;  who  swore,  they  saw 
i  Disposed  to.  '  Cajolfc 


682 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


Act  I, 


Men,  all  on  fire,  walk  up  and  down  the  streets. 
And,  yesterday,  the  bird  of  night  did  sit, 
Even  at  noon-day,  upon  the  market-place, 
Hooting,  and  shrieking.      When  these  prodigies 
Do  so  conjointly  meet,  let  not  men  say. 
These  are  their  reasons,  —  They  are  natural ; 
For,  I  believe  they  are  portentous  things 
Unto  the  climate  that  they  point  upon. 

Cic.   Indeed,  it  is  a  strange-disposed  time: 
But  men  may  construe  things  after  their  fashion, 
Clean  from  the  purpose  of  the  things  themselves. 
Comes  Caesar  to  the  Capitol  to-morrow  ? 

Casca.    He  doth  ;  for  he  did  bid  Antonius 
Send  word  to  you,  he  would  be  there  to-morrow, 

Cic.    Good  night  then,  Casca :   this  disturbed  sky 
Is  not  to  walk  in. 

Casca.  Farewell,  Cicero. 

Enter  Cassius. 

Cas.   Who's  there  ? 

Casca.  A  Roman. 

Cas.  Casca,  by  your  voice. 

Casca.   Your  ear  is  good.     Cassius,  what  night  is 
this? 

Cas.    A  very  pleasing  night  to  honest  men. 

Casca.   Who  ever  knew  the  heavens  menace  so  ? 

Cas.   Those,  that  have  known  the  earth  so  full  of 
faults. 
For  my  part,  1  have  walk'd  about  the  streets, 
Submitting  me  unto  the  perilous  night ; 
And,  thus  unbraced,  Casca,  as  you  see, 
Have  bar'd  my  bosom  to  the  thunder-storm  : 
And,  when  the  cross  blue  lightning  seem'd  to  open 
The  breast  of  heaven,  I  did  present  myself 
Even  in  the  aim  and  very  flash  of  it. 

Casca.   But  wherefore  did  you  so  much  tempt  the 
heavens  ? 
It  is  the  part  of  men  to  fear  and  tremble. 
When  the  most  mighty  gods,  by  tokens,  send 
Such  dreadful  heralds  to  astonish  us. 

Cas.    You  are  dull,  Casca ;  and  those  sparks  of  life 
That  should  be  in  a  Roman,  you  do  want. 
Or  else  you  use  not :    You  look  pale  and  gaze. 
And  put  on  fear,  and  cast  yourself  in  wonder, 
To  see  the  strange  impatience  of  the  heavens : 
But  if  you  would  consider  the  true  cause. 
Why  all  these  fires,  why  all  these  gliding  ghosts. 
Why  birds  and  beasts,  from  quality  and  kind  •* ; 
Why  old  men,  fools,  and  children  calculate ; 
Wliy  all  these  things  change,  from  their  ordinance. 
Their  natures  and  pre-formed  faculties, 
To  monstrous  quality ;  why,  you  shall  find. 
That  heaven  hath  infus'd  them  with  these  spirits. 
To  make  them  instruments  of  fear,  and  warning. 
Unto  some  monstrous  state.      Now  could  I,  Casca, 
Name  to  thee  a  man  most  like  this  dreadful  night  j 
That  thunders,  lightens,  opens  graves,  and  roars 
As  doth  the  lion  in  the  Capitol : 
A  man  no  mightier  than  thyself,  or  me. 
In  personal  action ;  yet  prodigious  grown. 
And  fearful,  as  these  strange  eruptions  are. 

Casca.   'Tis  Caesar  that  you  mean  :    Is   it  not, 
Cassius  ? 

Cas.   Let  it  be  who  it  is  :   for  Romans  now 
Have  thewes  &  and  limbs  like  to  their  ancestors  ; 
But  woe  the  while !  our  fathers'  minds  are  dead. 
And  we  are  govern'd  with  our  mothers'  spirits ; 
Our  yoke  and  sufferings  show  us  womanish. 

Casca.   Indeed,  they  say,  the  senators  to-morrow 
♦  Why  they  deviate  from  quality  and  nature.        »  Muscles. 


Mean  to  establish  Caesar  as  a  king  : 

And  he  shall  wear  his  crown  by  sea  and  land. 

In  every  place,  save  here  in  Italy. 

Cas.   I  know  where  1  will  wear  this  dagger  then: 
Cassius  from  bondage  will  deliver  Cassius  : 
Therein,  ye  gods,  you  make  the  weak  most  strong ; 
Therein,  ye  gods,  you  tyrants  do  defeat : 
Nor  stony  tower,  nor  walls  of  beaten  brass, 
Nor  airless  dungeon,  nor  strong  links  of  iron, 
Can  be  retentive  to  the  strength  of  spirit ; 
But  life,  being  weary  of  these  worldly  bars, 
Never  lacks  power  to  dismiss  itself. 
If  I  know  this,  know  all  the  world  besides, 
That  part  of  tyranny,  that  I  do  bear, 
I  can  shake  off  at  pleasure. 

Casca.   So  can  I : 
So  every  bondman  in  his  own  hand  bears 
The  power  to  cancel  his  captivity. 

Cas,   And  why  should  Caesar  be  a  tyrant  then  : 
Poor  man  !   I  know,  he  would  not  be  a  wolf. 
But  that  he  sees  the  Romans  are  but  sheep  : 
He  were  no  lion,  were  not  Romans  hinds.  6 
Those  that  with  haste  will  make  a  mighty  fire. 
Begin  it  with  weak  straws  :    What  trash  is  Rome, 
What  rubbish,  and  what  offal,  when  it  serves 
For  the  base  matter  to  illuminate 
f?o  vile  a  thing  as  Caesar  ?  But,  O  grief ! 
Where  hast  thou  led  me  ?  I,  perhaps,  speak  this 
Before  a  willing  bondman  :  then  I  know 
My  answer  must  be  made  :    But  I  am  arm'd, 
And  dangers  are  to  me  indifferent. 

Casca.   You  speak  to  Casca  ;  and  to  such  a  man, 
That  is  no  fleering  tell-tale.     Hold  my  hand  : 
Be  factious  for  redress  of  all  these  griefs  j 
And  I  will  set  this  foot  of  mine  as  far. 
As  who  goes  farthest. 

Cas.  There's  a  bargain  made. 

Now  know  you,  Casca,  I  have  mov'd  already 
Some  certain  of  the  noblest-minded  Romans, 
To  undergo,  with  me,  an  enterprize 
Of  honourable-dangerous  consequence ; 
And  I  do  know,  by  this,  they  stay  for  me 
In  Pompey's  porch  :  for  now,  this  fearful  night. 
There  is  no  stir,  or  walking  in  the  streets ; 
And  the  complexion  of  the  element 
Is  favour'd  7,  like  the  work  we  have  in  hand, 
Most  bloody,  fiery,  and  most  terrible. 
Enter  Cinna. 

Casca.    Stand  close  awhile,  for  here  comes  one  in 
haste. 

Cas.   'Tis  Cinna,  I  do  know  him  by  his  gait; 
He  is  a  friend.  —  Cinna,  where  haste  you  so  ? 

Cin.   To  find  out  you  :   Who's  that  ?     Metellus 
Cimber  ? 

Cas.   No,  it  is  Casca  ;  one  incorporate 
To  our  attempts.      Am  I  not  staid  for,  Cinna  ? 

Cin.   I  am  glad  on't.   What  a  fearful  night  is  this? 
There's  two  or  three  of  us  have  seen  strange  sights. 

Cas.    Am  I  not  staid  for,  Cinna  ?   Tell  me. 

Cin.  Yes 

You  are.      O,  Cassius,  if  you  could  but  win 
The  noble  Brutus  to  our  party 

Cas.  Be  you  content ;  good  Cinna,  take  this  paper, 
And  look  you  lay  it  in  the  praetor's  chair. 
Where  Brutus  may  but  find  it ;  and  throw  this 
In  at  his  window :   set  this  up  with  wax 
Upon  old  Brutus'  statue  :   all  this  done. 
Repair  to  Pompey's  porch,  where  you  shall  find  us. 
Is  Decius  Brutus,  and  Trebonius,  there  ? 

6  Deer,  7  Appears. 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


683 


Cin.   All  but  Metellus  Cimber  ;  and  he's  gone 
To  seek  you  at  your  house.      Well,  I  will  hie, 
And  so  bestow  these  papers  as  you  bade  me. 

Cas.    That  done,  repair  to  Pompey's  theatre. 

{Exit  ClKNA. 
Come,  Casca,  you  and  I  will  yet,  ere  day, 
See  Brutus  at  his  house  :   three  parts  of  him 
Is  ours  already ;  and  the  man  entire. 
Upon  the  next  encounter,  yields  him  ours. 


Cascn.   O,  he  sits  high,  in  all  the  people's  hearts : 
And  that,  which  would  appear  offence  in  us, 
His  countenance,  like  richest  alchymy. 
Will  change  to  virtue,  and  to  worthiness. 

Cas.    Him,  and  his  worth,  and  our  great  need  of 
him, 
You  have  right  well  conceited.      Let  us  go, 
For  it  is  after  midnight ;  and  ere  day, 
We  will  awake  him,  and  be  sure  of  him.    [Exeunt, 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  — Brutus'5  Orchard. 

Enter  Brutus. 

Bru.   What,  Lucius  !  ho  !  — 
I  cannot,  by  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
Give  guess  how  near  to-day.  —  Lucius,  I  say  ! 
I  would  it  were  my  fault  to  sleep  so  soundly. 
When,  Lucius,  when  ?  Awake,  I  say :  What,  Lucius ! 

Enter  Lucius. 

Luc.   Call'd  you,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.   Get  me  a  taper  in  my  study,  Lucius : 
When  it  is  lighted,  come  and  call  me  here. 

iwc.   I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Bru.   It  must  be  by  his  death  :  and,  for  my  part, 
I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him. 
But  for  the  general.      He  would  be  crown'd :  — 
How  that   might  change   his   nature,  there's   the 

question. 
It  is  the  bright  day  that  brings  forth  the  adder ; 
And  that  craves  wary  walking.      Crown  him?  — 

That ;  — 
And  then,  I  grant,  we  put  a  sting  in  him. 
That  at  his  will  he  may  do  danger  with. 
The  abuse  of  greatness  is,  when  it  disjoins 
Remorse  8  from  power :    And,  to   speak  truth  of 

Caesar, 
I  have  not  known  when  his  affections  swav'd 
More  than  his  reason.      But  'tis  a  common  proofs 
That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 
Whereto  the  climber  upward  turns  his  face  : 
But  when  he  once  attains  the  upmost  round. 
He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back. 
Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees  ' 
By  which  he  did  ascend  :    So  Ca;sar  may  ; 
Then,  lest  he  may,  prevent.      And,  since  the  quarrel 
M'ill  bear  no  colour  for  the  thing  he  is. 
Fashion  it  thus ;  that  what  he  is,  augmented. 
Would  run  to  these,  and  these  extremities  : 
And  therefore  think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg. 
Which,  hatch'd,   would,  as    his  kind,   grow  mis- 
chievous ; 
And  kill  him  in  the  shell. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.   The  taper  bumeth  in  your  closet,  sir. 
Searching  the  window  for  a  flint,  I  found 
This  paper,  thus  scal'd  up ;  and,  I  am  sure, 
It  did  not  lie  there  when  I  went  to  bed. 

Bru.   Get  you  to  bed  again,  it  is  not  day. 
Is  not  to-morrow,  boy,  the  ides  of  March  ? 

Luc.   I  know  not,  sir. 

Bru.   Look  in  the  calendar,  and  bring  me  word. 
"  Pity,  tenderness.  »  Experience.  •  Low  stci* 


Luc.   I  will,  sir. 

Bru.   The  exhalations,  whizzing  in  the  air. 
Give  so  much  light,  that  I  may  read  by  them. 

[Opens  the  Letter,  and  reads. 
Brutus,  thou  sleep'st ,-  awake,  and  see  thyself. 
Shall  Rome,  ^c     Speak,  strike,  redress  1 

Brutus,  thou  deepest ;  awake 

Such  instigations  have  been  often  dropp'd 
Where  I  have  took  them  up. 
ShaU  Rome,  ^c.     Thus,  must  I  piece  it  out ; 
Shall  Rome  stand  under  one  man's  awe  ?     What ! 

Rome? 
My  ancestors  did  from  the  streets  of  Rome 
The  Tarquin  drive,  when  he  was  call'd  a  king. 
Speak,  strike,  redress  !  —  Am  I  entreated  then 
To  speak,  and  strike?     O  Rome!     I  make  thee 

promise. 
If  the  redress  will  follow,  thou  receives! 
Thy  full  petition  at  the  hand  of  Brutus. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.   Sir,  March  has  wasted  fourteen  days. 

[£hock  within. 

Bru.    'Tis  good.      Go  to  the  gate ;    somebody 
knocks.  [Exit  Lucius. 

Since  Cassius  first  did  whet  me  against  Caesar, 
I  have  not  slept. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma '-,  or  a  hideous  dream  : 
The  genius,  and  the  mortal  instruments. 
Are  then  in  council ;  and  the  state  of  man. 
Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 
The  nature  of  an  insurrection. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 
Luc   Sir,  'tis  your  brother  Cassius  at  the  door, 
Who  doth  desire  to  see  you. 

Bru.  Is  he  alone  ? 

Luc.   No,  sir,  there  are  more  with  him. 
Bru.  Do  you  know  them  ? 

Luc.   No,  sir ;  their  hats  are  pluck 'd  about  their 
ears. 
And  half  their  faces  buried  in  their  cloaks. 
That  by  no  means  I  may  discover  them 
By  any  mark  of  favour.  3 

Bru.  Let  them  enter. 

[Exit  Lucius. 
They  are  the  faction.     O  conspiracy  ! 
Sham'st  thou  to  show  thy  dangerous  brow  by  night. 
When  evils  are  most  free  ?     O,  then,  by  day. 
Where  wilt  tliou  find  a  cavern  dark  enough 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage  ?     Seek  none,  con- 
spiracy ; 
«  Vision.  3  Countenance; 


684 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


Act  II. 


Hide  it  in  smiles,  and  affability  : 
For  if  thou  path,  thy  native  semblance  on  ■», 
Not  Erebus  *  itself  were  dim  enough 
To  hide  thee  from  prevention. 

Enter  Cassius,  Casca,  Decius,  Cinna,  Metellu; 
CiMBER,  and  Trebonius. 
Cas.   I  think  we  are  too  bold  upon  your  rest : 
Good  morrow,  Brutus  ;     Do  we  trouble  you  ? 

Bru.    I  have  been  up  this  hour ;  awake  all  night 
Know  I  these  men,  that  come  along  with  you  ? 

Cas.   Yes,  every  man  of  them ;  and  no  man  here. 
But  honours  you  :  and  every  one  doth  wish. 
You  had  but  that  opinion  of  yourself. 
Which  every  noble  Roman  bears  of  you. 
This  is  Trebonius. 

Sru.  He  is  welcome  hither. 

Cas.   This,  Decius  Brutus. 
-^^"'  He  is  welcome  too. 

Cas.   This,  Casca;  this,  Cinna; 
And  this  Metellus  Cimber. 

^rU'  They  are  all  welcome. 

What  watchful  cares  do  interpose  themselves 
Betwixt  your  eyes  and  night  ? 

Cas.    Shall  I  entreat  a  word  ?  [They  whisper. 

Dec.   Here  lies  the  east :    Doth  not  the  day  break 

here  ? 
Casca.   No. 

Cin.   O,  pardon,  sir,  it  doth ;  and  yon  grey  lines. 
That  fret  the  clouds,  are  messengers  of  day. 

Casca.  You  shall  confess,that  you  are  both  deceiv'd. 
Here,  as  I  point  my  sword,  the  sun  arises  ; 
Which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  south, 
Weighing  the  youthful  season  of  the  year. 
Some  two  months  hence,  up  higher  toward  the  north 
He  first  presents  his  fire  ;  and  the  high  east 
Stands,  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here. 

£ru.   Give  me  your  hands  all  over,  one  by  ons. 
Cas.    And  let  us  swear  our  resolution. 
Bru.   No,  not  an  oath  :    If  not  the  face  6  of  men. 
The  sufferance  of  our  souls,  the  time's  abuse,  — 
If  these  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes, 
And  every  man  hence  to  his  idle  bed ; 
So  let  high-sighted  tyranny  range  on, 
Till  each  man  drop  by  lottery.      But  if  these, 
As  I  am  sure  they  do,  bear  fire  enough 
To  kindle  cowards,  and  to  steel  with  valour 
The  melting  spirits  of  women  ;  then,  countrymen, 
What  need  we  any  spur,  but  our  own  cause, 
To  prick  us  to  redress  ?  what  other  bond, 
Than  secret  Romans,  that  have  spoke  the  word. 
And  will  not  palter? 7  and  what  other  oath, 
Than  honesty  to  honesty  engag'd, 
That  this  shall  be,  or  we  will  fall  for  it  ? 
Swear  priests,  and  cowards,  and  men  cautelous  % 
Old  feeble  carrions,  and  such  suffering  souls 
That  welcome  wrongs  ;  unto  bad  causes  swear 
Such  creatures  as  men  doubt ;  but  do  not  stain 
The  even  virtue  of  our  enterprize. 
Nor  the  insuppressive  mettle  of  our  spirits. 
To  think,  that,  or  our  cause,  or  our  performance. 
Did  need  an  oath  ;  when  every  drop  of  blood. 
That  every  Roman  bears,  and  nobly  bears, 
Is  guilty  of  a  several  bastardy, 
If  he  do  break  the  smallest  particle 
Of  any  promise  that  hath  pass'd  from  him. 

Cas.    But  what  of  Cicero  ?  Shall  we  sound  him  ? 
I  think,  he  will  stand  very  strong  with  us. 

5  HelL 


Walk  in  thy  true  form. 
Perhaps  Shakspeare  wrote  faith. 
Prevaricate. 


8  Cautious. 


Casca.   Let  us  not  leave  him  out. 
^*"'  No,  by  no  means. 

Met.   O,  let  us  have  him  ;  for  his  silver  hairs 
Will  purchase  us  a  good  opinion, 
And  buy  men's  voices  to  commend  our  deeds ; 
It  shall  be  said,  his  judgment  rul'd  our  hands': 
Our  youths,  and  wildness,  shall  no  whit  appear. 
But  all  be  buried  in  his  gravity. 

Bru.  O,  name  him  not ;  let  us  not  break  with  him  9  j 
For  he  will  never  follow  any  thing 
That  other  men  begin. 

^^S'  Then  leave  him  out. 

Casca.   Indeed,  he  is  not  fit. 

Dec.    Shall  no  man  else  be  touch'd  but  only 

Ceesar  ? 
Cas.  Decius,  well  urg'd ;  —  I  think  it  is  not  meet, 
Mark  Antony,  so  well  belov'd  of  Caesar, 
Should  outlive  Caesar.     We  shall  find  of  him 
A  shrewd  contriver ;  and,  you  know,  his  means, 
If  he  improves  them,  may  well  stretch  so  far. 
As  to  annoy  us  all :   which  to  prevent. 
Let  Antony,  and  Caesar,  fall  together. 

Bru.    Our  course  will  seem  too  bloody,   Caius 
Cassius, 
To  cut  the  head  off,  and  then  hack  the  limbs ; 
Like  wrath  in  death,  and  envy  •  afterwards  : 
For  Antony  is  but  a  limb  of  Caesar. 
Let  us  be  sacrificers,  but  no  butchers,  Caius. 
We  all  stand  up  against  the  spirit  of  Caesar ; 
And  in  the  spirit  of  men  there  is  no  blood : 
O,  that  we  then  could  come  by  Caesar's  spirit, 
And  not  dismember  Caesar  !   I3ut,  alas, 
Caesar  must  bleed  for  it !   And,  gentle  friends. 
Let's  kill  him  boldly,  but  not  wrathfuUy ; 
Let's  carve  him  as  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods. 
Not  hew  him  as  a  carcase  fit  for  hounds  : 
And  let  our  hearts,  as  subtle  masters  do. 
Stir  up  their  servants  to  an  act  of  rage, 
And  after  seem  to  chide  them.      This  shall  make 
Our  purpose  necessary,  and  not  envious : 
Which  so  appearing  to  the  common  eyes, 
We  shall  be  call'd  purgers,  not  murderers. 
And  for  Mark  Antony,  think  not  of  him  ; 
For  he  can  do  no  more  than  Caesar's  arm. 
When  Ca'sar's  head  is  off. 

Cos.  Yet  I  do  fear  him  : 

For  in  the  ingrafted  love  he  bears  to  Caesar : 

Bru.    Alas,  good  Cassius,  do  not  think  of  him : 
If  he  love  Caesar,  all  that  he  can  do 
Is  to  himself;  take  thought,  and  die  for  Csesar: 
And  that  were  much  he  should ;  for  he  is  given 
To  sports,  to  wildness,  and  much  company. 

Treb.   There  is  no  fear  in  him,  let  him  not  die  ; 
For  he  will  live,  and  laugh  at  this  hereafter. 

[Clock  strikes. 
Bru.   Peace,  count  the  clock.  ^M , 

Cos.  The  clock  hath  stricken  three.  ^H 

Treb.   'Tis  time  to  part. 

Cas.  But  it  is  doubtful  yet, 

Whe'r  Caesar  will  come  forth  to-day,  or  no ; 
For  he  is  superstitious  grown  of  late ; 
Quite  from  the  main  opinion  he  held  once 
Of  fantasy,  of  dreams,  and  ceremonies  ; 
It  may  be,  these  apparent  prodigies. 
The  unaccustom'd  terror  of  this  night, 
A  nd  the  persuasion  of  his  augurers. 
May  hold  him  from  the  Capitol  to-day. 

Dec.   Never  fear  that :    If  he  be  so  resolv'd, 
I  can  o'ersway  him  ;  for  he  loves  to  hear, 

9  Let  us  not  break  the  matter  to  him.  i  Malice. 


Scene  I. 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


685 


I 


Tliat  unicorns  may  be  betray'd  with  trees, 
And  bears  with  glasses,  elephants  with  holes, 
Lions  with  toils,  and  men  with  flatterers. 
But,  when  I  tell  him,  he  hates  flatterers, 
He  says,  he  does ;  being  then  most  flattered. 
Let  me  work  : 

For  I  can  give  his  humour  the  true  bent ; 
And  I  will  bring  him  to  the  Capitol. 

Cos.   Nay,  we  will  all  of  us  be  there  to  fetch  him. 

Jiru.  By  the  eighth  hour  :    Is  tliat  the  uttermost? 

Cin.    Be  that  the  uttermost,  and  fail  not  then. 

Met.  Caius  Ligarius  doth  bear  Caesar  hard, 
Who  rated  him  for  speaking  well  of  Pompey  ; 
I  wonder,  none  of  you  have  thought  of  him. 

Brn.  Now,  good  Metellus,  go  along  by  him  *  : 
He  loves  me  well,  and  I  have  given  him  reasons  j 
Rend  him  but  hither,  and  I'll  fashion  him. 

Cos.   The  morning  comes  upon  us :   We'll  leave 
you,  Brutus : — 
And,  friends,  disperse  yourselves :  but  all  remember 
What   you   have  said,  and   show  yourselves  true 
Romans. 

Bru.    Good  gentlemen,  look  fresh  and  merrily  ; 
Let  not  our  looks  put  on  our  purposes  ; 
But  bear  it  as  our  Roman  actors  do, 
With  untir'd  spirits,  and  formal  constancy : 
And  so,  good  morrow  to  you  every  one. 

[Exeunt  nil  but  Brutus. 
Boy  !  Lucius  !  —  Fast  asleep  ?  It  is  no  matter  ; 
Enjoy  the  honey-heavy  dew  of  slumber  : 
Tliou  hast  no  figures  -^  nor  no  fantasies, 
Wliich  busy  care  draws  in  the  brains  of  men  j 
Therefore  thou  slecp'st  so  sound. 

Enter  Poktlk. 

For.  Brutus,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.   Portia,  what  mean  you?     Wherefore  rise 
you  now  ? 
It  is  not  for  your  health  thus  to  commit 
Your  weak  condition  to  the  raw-cold  morning. 

For.   Nor  for  yours  neitlier.    You  have  urgently, 
Brutus, 
Stole  from  my  bed  :    And  yesternight,  at  supper. 
You  suddenly  arose,  and  walk'd  about, 
Musing,  and  sighing,  with  your  arms  across : 
And  when  I  ask'd  you  what  the  matter  was, 
You  star'd  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks  : 
I  urg'd  you  further ;  then  you  scratch'd  your  head, 
And  too  impatiently  stamp'd  with  your  foot : 
Yet  I  insisted,  yet  you  answer'd  not ; 
But  with  an  angry  wafture  of  your  hand, 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you  :    So  I  did ; 
Fearing  to  strengthen  that  impatience, 
Which  seem'd  too  much  enkindled  ;  and,  withal. 
Hoping  it  was  but  an  effect  of  humour, 
Which  sometime  hath  liis  hour  with  every  man. 
It  will  not  let  you  eat,  nor  talk,  nor  sleep  ; 
And,  could  it  work  so  much  upon  your  shape 
As  it  hath  much  prevail'd  on  your  condition  \ 
I  should  not  know  you,  Brutus.      Dear  my  lord. 
Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

Bru.    I  am  not  well  in  health,  and  that  is  all. 

Por.  Brutus  is  wise,  and  were  he  not  in  health, 
He  would  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it, 

Bni.   Why,  so  I  do  :  — good  Portia,  go  to  bed. 

Por.    Is  Brutus  sick  ?  and  is  it  piiysical 
To  walk  unbraced,  and  suck  up  tlie  humours 
Of  the  dank  *  morning  ?  What,  is  Brutus  sick  ; 


'  By  his  house. 
*  Temper. 


3  Shapes  created  by  imagination 
*  Damp. 


And  will  he  steal  out  of  his  wholesome  bed. 
To  dare  the  vile  contagion  of  the  night? 
And  tempt  the  rheumy  6  and  unpurged  air 
To  add  unto  his  sickness  ?  No,  my  Brutus ; 
You  have  some  sick  offence  within  your  mind, 
Which,  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place, 
I  ought  to  know  of :    And,  upon  my  knees, 
I  charm  you,  by  my  once  commended  beauty, 
By  all  your  vows  of  love,  and  that  great  vow 
Which  did  incorporate  and  make  us  one. 
That  you  unfold  to  me,  yourself,  your  half, 
Why  you  are  heavy ;  and  what  men  to-night 
Have  had  resort  to  you :   for  here  have  been 
Some  six  or  seven,  who  did  hide  their  faces 
Even  from  darkness. 

Bru.  Kneel  not,  gentle  Portia, 

Por.  I  should  not  need,  if  you  were  gentle  Brutus. 
Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  me,  Brutus, 
Is  it  excepted,  I  should  know  no  secrets 
That  appertain  to  you  ?     Am  I  yourself. 
But,  as  it  were,  in  sort,  or  limitation ; 
To  keep  with  you  at  meals,  comfort  your  bed. 
And  talk  to  you  sometimes  ?     Dwell  I  but  in  the 

suburbs 
Of  your  good  pleasure  ?     If  it  be  no  more, 
Portia  is  Brutus'  harlot,  not  his  wife. 

Bru.    You  are  my  true  and  honourable  wife ; 
As  dear  to  me,  as  are  the  ruddy  diops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart. 

Por.   If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know  tliis 
secret. 
I  grant,  I  am  a  woman,  but,  withal, 
A  woman  that  lord  Brutus  took  to  wife : 
I  grant,  I  am  a  woman ;  but,  withal, 
A  woman  well  reputed ;   Cato's  daughter. 
Think  you,  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex, 
Being  so  father'd,  and  so  husbanded  ? 
Tell  me  your  counsels,  I  will  not  disclose  them : 
I  have  made  strong  proof  of  my  constancy. 
Giving  myself  a  voluntary  wound 
Here,  in  the  thigh :   Can  I  bear  that  with  patience, 
And  not  my  husband's  secrets  ? 

Bru.  O  ye  gods, 

Render  me  worthy  of  this  noble  wife ! 

[iTnocking  mthin. 
Hark,  hark  !  one  knocks  :   Portia,  go  in  a  while  ; 
And  by  and  by  thy  bosom  shall  partake 
The  secrets  of  my  heart. 
All  my  engagements  I  will  construe  to  thee, 
All  the  charactery  of  my  sad  brows:  — 
Leave  me  with  haste.  [Exit  Poutia. 

Enter  Lucius  a7id  Ligarius. 
Lucius,  who  is  that,  knocks  ? 

Luc.  Here  is  a  sick  man,  that  would  speak  with  you. 

Bru.   Caius  Ligarius,  that  Metellus  spake  of.  — 
Boy,  stand  aside.  —  Caius  Ligarius  !   how  ? 

Lig.  Vouchsafe  good  morrow  from  a  feeble  tongue. 

Bru.   O,  what  a  time  have  you  chose  out,  brave 
Caius, 
To  wear  a  kerchief?  'Would  you  were  not  sick ! 

Lig.    I  am  not  sick,  if  Brutus  have  in  hand 
Any  exploit  worthy  the  name  of  honour. 

Bru.   Such  an  exploit  liave  I  in  hand,  Ligarius, 
Had  you  a  healthful  ear  to  hear  of  it. 

Lig.    By  all  the  gods  that  Romans  bow  before, 
I  here  discard  my  sickness.      Soul  of  Rome  ! 
Brave  son,  deriv'd  from  honourable  loins ! 
Tlu)ii.  like  an  exorcist,  liast  conjur'd  up 
*>  Moiit 


686 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


Act  II. 


My  mortified  spirit.     Now  bid  me  run, 
And  I  will  strive  with  things  impossible; 
Yea,  get  the  better  of  them.     What's  to  do  ? 
Bru.   A  piece  of  work,  that  will  make  sick  men 

whole. 
Lig.  But  are  not  some  whole,  that  we  must  make 

sick? 
Bru.   That  must  we  also.     What  it  is,  my  Caius, 
I  shall  unfold  to  thee,  as  we  are  going ; 
To  whom  it  must  be  done. 

Lig.  Set  on  your  foot ; 

And,  with  a  heart  new  fir'd,  I  follow  you, 
To  do  I  know  not  what :  but  it  sufficeth, 
That  Brutus  leads  me  on. 

Bru.  Follow  me  then. 

\_Exeunt. 
SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  Caesar's  Palace. 

Thunder  and  Lightning.      Enter  C^sar,  in  his 

Night-gown. 
CcBS.   Nor  heaven,  nor  earth,  have  been  at  peace 
to-night : 
Thrice  hath  Calphurnia  in  her  sleep  cried  out. 
Help,  ho  !  they  murder  Ccesar  !  Who's  within  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Sen).   My  lord? 

C<ss-   Go  bid  the  priests  do  present  sacrifice. 
And  bring  me  their  opinions  of  success. 

Serv.   I  will,  my  lord.  {Exii. 

Enter  Calphurnia. 

Cal.   What  mean  you,   Caesar?     Think  you  to 
walk  forth? 
You  shall  not  stir  out  of  your  house  to-day. 

Cees.  Cajsar  shall  forth  :  The  things  that  threaten'd 
me. 
Ne'er  look'd  but  on  my  back  ;  when  they  shall  see 
The  face  of  Caesar,  they  are  vanished. 

Cal.    Caesar,  I  never  stood  on  ceremonies  7, 
Yet  now  they  fright  me.      There  is  one  within. 
Besides  the  things  that  we  have  heard  and  seen. 
Recounts  most  horrid  sights  seen  by  the  watch. 
A  lioness  hath  whelped  in  the  streets ; 
And  graves  have  yawn'd,  and  yielded  up  their  dead: 
Fierce  fiery  warriors  fight  upon  the  clouds, 
In  ranks,  and  squadrons,  and  right  form  of  war, 
Which  drizzled  blood  upon  the  Capitol : 
llie  noise  of  battle  hurtled  8  in  the  air. 
Horses  did  neigh,  and  dying  men  did  groan  ; 
And  ghosts  did  shriek,  and  squeal  about  the  streets. 
O  Cagsar !  these  things  are  beyond  all  use. 
And  I  do  fear  them. 

Cces.  What  can  be  avoided, 

Whose  end  is  purpos'd  by  the  mighty  gods  ? 
Yet  Caesar  shall  go  forth  :   for  these  predictions 
Are  to  the  world  in  general,  as  to  Caesar. 

Cal.  When  beggars  die,  there  are  no  comets  seen  ; 
The  heavens  themselves  blaze  forth  the  death  of 
princes. 

Cees.  Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  deaths ; 
The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 
Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard, 
It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should  fear  ; 
Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end. 
Will  come,  when  it  will  come. 

Re-enter  a  Servant. 

What  say  the  augurers  ? 
Serv.  They  would  not  have  you  to  stir  forth  to-day. 
7  Never  paid  regard  to  prodigies  or  omens.     8  Encountered. 


Plucking  the  entrails  of  an  offering  forth. 
They  could  not  find  a  heart  within  the  beast. 

Cees.   The  gods  do  this  in  shame  of  cowardice  : 
Caesar  sliould  be  a  beast  without  a  heart, 
If  he  should  stay  at  home  to-day  for  fear. 
No,  Caesar  shall  not :    Danger  knows  full  well, 
That  Caesar  is  more  dangerous  than  he. 
We  were  two  lions  litter'd  in  one  day. 
And  I  the  elder  and  more  terrible ; 
And  Caesar  shall  go  forth. 

Cal.  Alas,  my  lord, 

Your  wisdom  is  consum'd  in  confidence. 
Do  not  go  forth  to-day :    Call  it  my  fear. 
That  keeps  you  in  the  house,  and  not  your  own. 
We'll  send  Mark  Antony  to  the  senate-house  j 
And  he  shall  say,  you  are  not  well  to-day : 
Let  me,  upon  my  knee,  prevail  in  this. 

Cces.   Mark  Antony  shall  say,  I  am  not  well ; 
And,  for  thy  humour,  I  will  stay  at  home. 

Enter  Decius. 
Here's  Decius  Brutus,  he  shall  tell  them  so. 

Dec.  Caesar, all  hail!  Good  morrow,  worthy  Caesar; 
I  come  to  fetch  you  to  the  senate-house. 

Cces.   And  you  are  come  in  very  happy  time. 
To  bear  my  greeting  to  the  senators. 
And  tell  them,  that  I  will  not  come  to-day : 
Cannot,  is  false;  and  that  I  dare  not,  falser;  • 
I  will  not  come  to-day :   Tell  them  so,  Decius. 
Cal.   Say,  he  is  sick. 

Cces.  Shall  Caesar  send  a  lie? 

Have  I  in  conquest  stretch'd  mine  arm  so  far, 
To  be  afeard  to  tell  grey-beards  the  truth  ? 
Decius,  go  tell  them,  Caesar  will  not  come. 

Dec.  Most  mighty  Caesar,  let  me  know  some  cause, 
Lest  I  be  laugh 'd  at,  when  I  tell  them  so. 

Cces.   The  cause  is  in  my  will,  I  will  not  come  j 
That  is  enough  to  satisfy  the  senate. 
But,  for  your  private  satisfaction. 
Because  I  love  you,  I  will  let  you  know. 
Calphurnia  here,  my  wife,  stays  me  at  home : 
She  dreamt  to-night  she  saw  my  statua. 
Which  like  a  fountain  with  a  hundred  spouts. 
Did  run  pure  blood ;  and  many  lusty  Romans 
Came  smiling,  and  did  bathe  their  hands  in  it. 
And  these  does  she  apply  for  warnings,  portents. 
And  evils  imminent ;  and  on  her  knee 
Hath  begg'd,  that  I  will  stay  at  home  to-day. 

Dec.   This  dream  is  all  amiss  interpreted ; 
It  was  a  vision,  fair  and  fortunate  : 
Your  statue  spouting  blood  in  many  pipes. 
In  which  so  many  smiling  Romans  bath'd. 
Signifies  that  from  you  great  Rome  shall  suck 
Reviving  blood ;  and  that  great  men  shall  press 
For  tinctures,  stains,  relicks,  and  cognizance. 
This  by  Calphurnia's  dream  is  signified. 

CcBs.    And  this  way  have  you  well  expounded  it. 
Dec.  I  have,  when  you  have  heard  what  I  can  say  : 
And  know  it  now  ;   The  senate  have  concluded 
To  give,  this  day,  a  crown  to  mighty  Caesar. 
If  you  shall  send  them  word,  you  will  not  come, 
Their  minds  may  change.      Besides,  it  were  a  mock 
Apt  to  be  rendered,  for  some  one  to  say. 
Break  up  the  senate  till  another  time. 
When  Ccesar's  wife  shall  meet  with  better  dreams. 
If  Caesar  hide  himself,  shall  they  not  whisper, 
Lo,  Ccesar  is  afraid  ? 

Pardon  me,  Caesar  ;  for  my  dear,  dear  love 
To  your  proceeding  bids  me  tell  you  this ; 
And  reason  to  my  love  is  liable.  9 
9  Subordinate. 


Scene  III. 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


687 


Cas.  How  foolish  do  your  fears  seem  now,  Cal- 
phumia  ? 
I  am  ashamed  I  did  yield  to  them.  — 
Give  me  my  robe,  for  I  will  go :  — 

Enter  Publicjs,    Brutus,    Ligarius,    Metellus, 
Casca,  Trebonius,  and  Cinna. 

And  look  where  Publius  is  come  to  fetch  me. 

Pub.    Good  morrow,  Caesar. 

Ctes.  Welcome,  Publius.  — 

What,  Brutus,  are  you  stirr'd  so  early  too  ?  — 
Good  morrow,  Casca.  —  Caius  Ligarius, 
Cjesar  was  ne'er  so  much  your  enemy. 
As  that  same  ajrue  which  hath  made  you  lean.  — 
Wliat  is't  o'clock  ? 

Sru.  Caesar,  'tis  strucken  eight. 

Cces.   I  thank  you  for  your  pains  and  courtesy. 

Enter  Antoky. 
See  !   Antony,  that  revels  long  o'  nights. 
Is  notwithstanding  up  :  — 
Good  morrow,  Antony. 

■^'^t'  So  to  most  noble  Caesar. 

Cces.   Bid  them  prepare  within  :  — 
I  am  to  blame  to  be  thus  waited  for.  — 
Now,   Cinna  :  —  Now   Metellus  :  —  What  Trebo- 
nius ! 
I  have  an  hour's  talk  in  store  for  you ; 
Remember  that  you  call  on  me  to-day  : 
Be  near  me,  that  I  may  remember  you. 

Treb.   Caesar,  I  will :  — and  so  near  will  I  be, 

[^  Aside. 
That  your  best  friends  shall  wish  I  had  been  further. 
Cces.    Good  friends,  go  in,  and  taste  some  wine 
with  me  ; 
And  we,  like  friends,  will  straightway  go  together. 
Bru.   That  every  like  is  not  the  same,  O  Caesar, 
Tlie  heart  of  Brutus  yearns  '  to  think  upon  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  ^  Street  near  the  Capitol. 
Enter  Artemidorus,  reading  a  Paper. 
Art.  Caesar,  beware  of  Brutus  ;  take  heed  of  Cas- 
sius ;  come  not  near  Casca ;  have  an  eye  to  Cinna ; 
trust  not  Trebonius;  mark  well  Metellus  Cimber; 
Dec! us  Brutus  loves  thee  not ;  thou  hast  wronged 
Caius  Ligarius.  There  is  but  one  mind  in  all  these 
men,  and  it  is  betit  against  Caesar.  If  thou  be'st  not 
immortal,  look  about  you  :  Security  gives  way  to  con- 
spiracy^     The  mighty  gods  defend  thee  !    Thy  lover, 

Artemidorus. 
Here  will  I  stand,  till  Caesar  pass  along 
And  as  a  suitor  will  I  give  him  this. 
My  heart  laments,  that  virtue  cannot  live 
Out  of  the  teeth  of  emulation.* 
If  thou  read  this,  O  Ca?sar,  thou  mayst  live  ; 
If  not,  the  fates  with  traitors  do  contrive.        [Exit. 

'  Grieves.  -  Envy. 


SCENE  IV Another  Part  of  the  same  Street, 

before  the  House  of  Brutus. 

E7iter  Portia  a7id  Lucius 
Por.    1  pr'ythee,  boy,  run  to  the  senate-house ; 

Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  get  thee  gone : 

Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 

Luc.  To  know  my  errand,  madam. 

Por.  I  would  have  had  thee  there,  and  here  again. 

Ere  I  can  tell  thee  what  thou  shouldst  do  there. 

0  constancy,  be  strong  upon  my  side ! 

Set  a  huge  mountain  'tween  my  heart  and  tongue ! 

1  have  a  man's  mind,  but  a  woman's  might. 
How  hard  it  is  for  women  to  keep  counsel ! 
Art  thou  here  yet  ? 

■Luc.  Madam,  what  should  I  do  ? 

Run  to  the  Capitol,  and  nothing  else  ? 
And  so  return  to  you,  and  nothing  else  ? 

Por.  Yes,  bring  me  word,  boy,  if  thy  lord  look  well, 
For  he  went  sickly  forth  :    And  take  good  note, 
What  Cajsar  doth,  what  suitors  press  to  him. 
Hark,  boy  !  what  noise  is  that  ? 

Luc.   I  hear  none,  madam. 

Por.  Pr'ythee,  listen  well ; 

I  heard  a  bustling  rumour,  like  a  fray. 
And  the  wind  brings  it  from  the  Capitol. 

Luc.    Sooth  3,  madam,  I  hear  nothing. 

Enter  Soothsayer. 

Por.  Come  hither,  fellow : 

Which  way  hast  thou  been  ? 

Sooth.  At  mine  own  house,  good  lady. 

Por.   What  is't  o'clock  ? 

Sooth.  About  the  ninth  hour,  lady, 

Por.   Is  Caesar  yet  gone  to  the  Capitol  ? 

Sooth.    Madam,  not  yet ;   I  go  to  take  my  stand. 
To  see  him  pass  on  to  the  Capitol  ? 

Por.  Thou  hast  some  suit  to  Caesar,  hast  thou  not? 

Sooth.  That  I  have,  lady :   if  it  will  please  Cicsar 
To  be  so  good  to  Caesar,  as  to  hear  me, 
I  shall  beseech  him  to  befriend  himself. 

Por.   Why,  know'st   thou    any  harm's   intended 
towards  him  ? 

Sooth.   None  that  I  know  will  be,  much  that  I  fear 
may  chance. 
Good-morrow  to  you.     Here  the  street  is  narrow : 
The  throng  that  follows  Caesar  at  the  heels. 
Of  senators,  of  prtetors,  common  suitors. 
Will  crowd  a  feeble  man  almost  to  death : 
I'll  get  me  to  a  place  more  void,  and  there 
Speak  to  great  Caesar  as  he  comes  along.        [Exit. 

Por.   I  must  go  in.  —  Ah  me  !  how  weak  a  thing 
The  heart  of  woman  is  !  O  Brutus ! 
The  heaven  speed  thee  in  thy  enterprize ! 
Sure,  the  boy  heard  me  :  —  Brutus  hath  a  suit. 
That  Caesar  will  not  grant.  —  O,  I  grow  faint :  — 
Run,  Lucius,  and  commend  me  to  my  lord  ; 
Say,  I  am  merry  :   come  to  m©  again. 
And  bring  me  word  what  he  doth  say  to  thee. 

[Ei^nt 
»  In  truth. 


688 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


Act  III. 


ACT   IIL 


SCENE  I.  —  The  CapUol ;  the  Se/iate  sitting. 
A  Crowd  of  People  in  the  Street  leading  to  the  Ca- 
pitol :  among  tliem  Artemidorus  and  the  Sooth- 
sayer. Flourish.  Enter  C^sar,  Brutus,  Cas- 
sius,  Casca,  Decius,  Metellcs,  Trebonius, 
CiNNA,  Antony,  Lepidus,  Popilius,  Publius, 
and  others. 

Cccs.   The  ides  of  March  are  come. 
Sooth.   Ay,  Caesar ;  but  not  gone. 
Art.   Hail,  Cajsar  !    Read  this  schedule. 
Dec.   Trebonius  doth  desire  you  to  o'er-read, 
At  your  best  leisure,  this  his  humble  suit. 

Art.   O  Caesar,  read  mine  first ;  for  mine's  a  suit 
That  touches  Caesar  nearer :    Read  it,  great  Csesar. 
Cees.  What  touches  us  ourself,  shall  be  last  serv'd. 
Art.   Delay  not,  Caesar  ;  read  it  instantly. 
CcEs.   What,  is  the  fellow  mad  ? 
Pub.  Sirrah,  give  place. 

Cas.  What,  urge  you  your  petitions  in  the  street? 
Come  to  the  Capitol. 

C^SAR  enters  the  Capitol,  the  rest  following. 
All  the  Senators  rise. 
Pop.   I  wish  your  enterprize  to-day  may  thrive. 
Cas.   What  enterprize,  Popilius  ? 
Pop.  Fare  you  well. 

[Advances  to  C^sar. 
Bru.    What  said  Popilius  Lena  ? 
Cas.  He  wish'd  to-day  our  enterprize  might  thrive. 
I  fear,  our  purpose  is  discover'd. 

JBru.   Look,  how  he  makes  to  Caesar  :    Mark  him. 
Cas.    Casca,  be  sudden,  for  we  fear  prevention.  — 
Brutus,  what  shall  be  done  ?  If  this  be  known, 
Cassius  or  Caesar  never  shall  turn  back, 
For  I  will  slay  myself. 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  constant : 

Popilius  Lena  speaks  not  of  our  purposes ; 
For,  look,  he  smiles,  and  Caesar  doth  not  change. 
Cas.   Trebonius  knows  his  time ;  for  look  you, 
Brutus, 
He  draws  Mark  Antony  out  of  the  way. 

[Exeunt  Antony  and  Trebonius.      Cjesar 
and  the  Senators  take  their  Seats. 
Dec.  Where  is  Metellus  Cimber  ?   Let  him  go. 
And  presently  prefer  his  suit  to  Cassar. 

Bru.  He  isaddress'd^:  press  near,  and  second  him. 
Cin.  Casca,  you  are  the  first  that  rears  your  hand. 
Cces.   Are  we  all  ready  ?  what  is  now  amiss, 
That  Caesar,  and  his  senate  must  redress? 

Met.  Most  high,  most  mighty,  and  most  puissant 
Caesar, 
Metellus  Cimber  throws  before  thy  seat 
An  humble  heart :  —  [Kneeling. 

CeBs.  I  must  prevent  thee,  Cimber. 

These  couchings,  and  these  lowly  courtesies. 
Might  fire  the  blood  of  ordinary  men, 
And  turn  pre-ordinance,  and  first  decree, 
Into  the  law  of  children.      Be  not  fond, 
To  think  that  Cassar  bears  such  rebel  blood. 
That  will  be  thaw'd  from  the  true  quality 
With  that  which  melteth  fools  ;  I  mean,  sweet  words. 
Low-crooked  court'sies,  and  base  spaniel  fawning. 
Thy  brother  by  decree  is  banished  ; 
If  thou  dost  bend,  and  pray,  and  fawn  for  liim, 
*  Ready. 


I  spurn  thee  like  a  cur  out  of  my  way. 

Know,  Caesar  doth  not  wrong ;  nor  without  cause 

Will  he  be  satisfied. 

Met.  Is  there  no  voice  more  worthy  than  my  own. 
To  sound  more  sweetly  in  great  Caesar's  ear, 
For  the  repealing  of  my  banish'd  brother  ? 

Bru.   I  kiss  thy  hand,  but  not  in  flattery,  Caesar  ; 
Desiring  thee,  that  Publius  Cimber  may 
Have  an  immediate  freedom  of  repeal. 
Cces.   What,  Brutus? 

Cas.  Pardon,  Caesar;   Caesar,  pardon 

As  low  as  to  thy  foot  doth  Cassius  fall, 
To  beg  enfranchisement  for  Publius  Cimber. 

Cces.   I  could  be  well  raov'd,  if  I  were  as  you ; 
If  I  could  pray  to  move,  prayers  would  move  me : 
But  1  am  constant  as  the  northern  star. 
Of  whose  true  fix'd  and  resting  quality. 
There  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament. 
The  skies  are  painted  with  unnumber'd  sparks, 
They  are  all  fire,  and  every  one  doth  shine ; 
But  there's  but  one  in  all  doth  hold  his  place : 
So,  in  the  world ;  'tis  furnish'd  well  with  men, 
And  men  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  apprehensive*-. 
Yet,  in  the  number,  I  do  know  but  one 
That  unassailable  holds  on  his  rank, 
Unshak'd  of  motion  ^  :  and,  that  I  am  he : 
Let  me  a  little  show  it,  even  in  this ; 
That  I  was  constant,  Cimber  should  be  banish'd. 
And  constant  do  remain  to  keep  him  so. 

Cin.   O  Caesar, 

CcBs.  Hence !  Wilt  thou  lift  up  Olympua  ? 

Dec.   Great  Caesar, 

Cces.  Doth  not  Brutus  bootless  7  kneel  ? 

Casca.   Speak,  hands,  for  me. 

[Casca  stabs  C-^esar  in  the  neck.   C^-sar 
catches  hold  of  his  arm.  He  is  then  slabbed 
by  several  other  Conspirators,  and  at  last 
by  Marcus  Brutus. 
Caes.   Et  tu.  Brute  F  ^  —  Then,  fall,  Caesar. 

[Dies.      The  Senators  and  People  retire  in 
confusion. 
Cin.   Liberty  !   Freedom  !   Tyranny  is  dead  !  — 
Run  hence,  proclaim,  cry  it  about  the  streets. 

Cas.    Some  to  the  common  pulpits,  and  cry  out, 
Liberty,  freedom,  and  enfranchisement  ! 

Bru.    People,  and  senators  !  be  not  affrighted  j 
Fly  not ;  stand  still :  —  ambition's  debt  is  paid. 
Casca.    Go  to  the  pulpit,  Brutus. 
Dec.  And  Cassius  too 

Bru.   Where's  Publius? 

Cin.   Here,  quite  confounded  with  this  mutiny. 
Met.   Stand   fast  together,    lest   some   friend  of 
Caesar's 

Should  chance 

Bru.  Talk  not  of  standing;  —  Publius,  good  cheery 
There  is  no  harm  intended  to  your  person, 
Nor  to  no  Roman  else  ;  so  tell  them,  Publius. 

Cas.   And  leave  us,  Publius,  lest  that  the  people. 
Rushing  on  us,  should  do  your  age  some  mischief. 
Bru.   Do  so  ;  —  and  let  no  man  abide  this  deed, 
But  we  the  doers. 

Re-enter  Trebonius. 
Cas.   Where's  Antony? 

-'  Intelligent  "  Solicitation. 


7  TTnsuccessfuUy. 


8  And  thou,  Brutua 


Scene  I. 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


689 


L 


Tre.  Fled  to  his  house  amaz'd  : 

Men,  wives,  and  children,  stare,  cry  out,  and  run, 
As  it  were  doomsday. 

Brxu    Fates  !   we  will  know  your  pleasures  :  — 
That  we  shall  die,  we  know ;  'tis  but  the  time, 
And  drawing  days  out,  that  men  stand  upon. 

Cas.   Why,  he  that  cuts  off  twenty  years  of  life. 
Cuts  off  so  many  years  of  fearing  death. 

Brxi.    Grant  that,  and  then  is  death  a  benefit : 
So  are  we  Cajsar's  friends,  that  have  abridg'd 

His  time  of  fearing  death Stoop,  Romans,  stoop, 

And  let  us  bathe  our  hands  in  Csesar's  blood 
Up  to  the  elbows,  and  besmear  our  swords  : 
Then  walk  we  Ibrth ,  even  to  the  market-place : 
And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads. 
Let's  all  cry,  Peace  !   Freedom  !  and  Liberty  ! 

Cas.   Stoop,  then,   and  wash.     How  many  ages 
hence. 
Shall  this  our  lofty  scene  be  acted  over, 
In  states  unborn,  and  accents  yet  unknown  ! 

Bru.  How  many  times  shall  CjBsar  bleed  in  sport, 
That  now  on  Pompey's  basis  lies  along, 
No  worthier  tlian  the  dust ! 

Cas.  So  oft  as  that  shall  be, 

So  often  shall  the  knot  of  us  be  call'd 
TJie  men  that  gave  our  country  liberty. 

Dec.   What,  shall  we  forth  ? 

Cas.  Ay,  every  man  away : 

Brutus  shall  lead ;  and  we  will  grace  his  heels 
With  the  most  boldest  and  Ijest  hearts  of  Rome. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Bru.   Soft,  who  comes  here?     A  friend  of  An- 
tony's. 

Serv.  Thus,  Brutus,  did  my  master  bid  me  kneel ; 
Tims  did  Mark  Antony  bid  me  fall  down : 
And,  being  prostrate,  thus  he  bade  me  say, 
Brutus  is  noble,  wise,  valiant,  and  honest ; 
Caesar  was  mighty,  bold,  royal,  and  loving : 
Say,  I  love  Brutus,  and  I  honour  him ; 
Say,  I  fear'd  Caesar,  honour'd  him,  and  lov'd  him  ; 
If  Brutus  will  vouchsafe,  that  Antony 
May  safely  come  to  him,  and  be  resolv'd 
How  Caesar  hath  deserv'd  to  lie  in  death, 
Mark  Antony  shall  not  love  Caesar  dead 
So  well  as  Brutus  living ;  but  will  follow 
Tlie  fortunes  and  affairs  of  noble  Brutus 
Thorough  the  hazards  of  this  untrod  state. 
With  all  true  faith.      So  says  my  master  Antony. 

Bru.   Thy  master  is  a  wise  and  valiant  Roman  ; 
I  never  thought  him  worse. 
Tell  him,  so  please  him  come  unto  this  place, 
He  shall  be  satisfied;  and,  by  my  honour, 
Depart  untouch'd. 

Scrv.  I'll  fetch  him  presently. 

\F.Tit. 

Bru.  I  know  tJiat  we  shall  have  him  well  to  friend. 

Cas.    I  wish  we  may  ;  but  yet  have  I  a  mind, 
Tliat  fears  him  much  ;  and  my  misgiving  still 
Falls  shrewdly  to  the  purpose. 

Re-enter  Axtony. 

Bru.  But  here  comes  Antony.  — Welcome,  Mark 

Antony. 
Ant.   O  mighty  Caesar  !   Dost  thou  lie  so  low  ? 
Are  all  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils, 
Shrunk  to  this  little  measure  ?  —  Fare  thee  well.  — 
I  know  not,  gentlemen,  what  you  intend. 
Who  else  must  be  let  blood,  who  else  is  rank  9  . 
*  Grown  too  high  for  the  publtck  ufety. 


If  I  myself,  there  is  no  hour  so  fit 

As  Ca2sar's  death's  hour ;  nor  no  instrument 

Of  half  that  worth,  as  those  your  swords,  made  rich 

With  the  most  noble  blood  of  all  this  world. 

I  do  beseech  ye,  if  you  bear  me  hard. 

Now,  whilst  your  purpled  hands  do  reek  and  smoke, 

Fulfil  your  pleasure.      Live  a  thousand  years, 

I  shall  not  find  myself  so  apt  to  die  : 

No  place  will  please  me  so,  no  mean  of  death. 

As  here  by  Caesar,  and  by  you  cut  off. 

The  choice  and  master  spirits  of  this  age. 

Bru.    O  Antony  !  beg  not  your  death  of  us. 
Though  now  we  must  appear  bloody  and  cruel. 
As,  by  our  liands,  and  this  our  present  act. 
You  see  we  do ;  yet  see  you  but  our  hands, 
And  this  the  bleeding  business  they  have  done  : 
Our  hearts  you  see  not,  they  are  pitiful ; 
And  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome 
(As  fire  drives  out  fire,  so  pity,  pity,) 
Hath  done  this  deed  on  Caesar.      For  your  part. 
To  you  our  swords  have  leaden  points,  Mark  Antony : 
Our  arms,  in  strength  of  malice,  and  our  hearts. 
Of  brother's  temper,  do  receive  you  in 
With  all  kind  love,  good  thoughts,  and  reverence. 

Cas.   Your  voice  shall  be  as  strong  as  any  man's. 
In  the  disposing  of  new  dignities. 

Bru.   Only  be  patient,  till  we  have  appeas'd 
The  multitude,  beside  themselves  with  fear. 
And  then  we  will  deliver  you  the  cause, 
Why  I,  that  did  love  Caesar  when  I  struck  him, 
Have  thus  proceeded. 

Ant.  I  doubt  not  of  your  wisdom. 

Let  each  man  render  me  his  bloody  hand : 
First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  with  you  :  — 
Next,  Caius  Cassius,  do  I  take  your  hand  ; 
Now,  Decius  Brutus,  yours  ;  —  now  yours,  Me- 

tellus; 
Yours,  Cinna ;  —  and,  my  valiant  Casca,  yours  ;  — 
Though  last,  not  least  in  love,  yours,  good  Trebo- 

nius. 
Gentlemen  all,  —  alas!  what  shall  I  say? 
My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground, 
That  one  of  two  bad  ways  you  must  conceit  me. 
Either  a  coward,  or  a  flatterer.  — 
That  I  did  love  thee,  Caesar,  O,  'tis  true : 
If  then  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now. 
Shall  it  not  grieve  thge,  dearer  than  thy  death, 
To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace, 
Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes. 
Most  noble  !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse  ? 
Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds. 
Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood. 
It  would  become  me  better,  than  to  close 
In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 
Pardon  me,  Julius !  —  Here  wast  thou  bay'd,  brave 

hart; 
Here  didst  thou  fall ;  and  here  thy  hunters  stand, 
Sign'd  in  thy  spoil,  and  crimson 'd  in  thy  lethe. 
O  world  !  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart ; 
And  this,  indeed,  O  world,  the  heart  of  thee.  — 
How  like  a  deer,  stricken  by  many  princes. 
Dost  thou  here  lie  ! 

Cas.   Mark  Antony, 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  Caius  Cassius: 

The  enemies  of  Caesar  shall  say  this ; 
Then,  in  a  friend,  it  is  cold  modesty. 

Cas.   I  blame  you  not  for  praising  Caesar  so; 
But  what  compact  mean  you  to  have  with  us  ? 
Will  you  be  prick'd  in  number  of  our  friends  ; 
Or  shall  we  on,  and  not  depend  on  you  ? 

Yy 


690 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


Act  III 


^nt.  Therefore  I  took  your  liantls ;  but  was,  indeed, 
Svvay'd  from  the  point,  by  looking  down  on  Ca;sar. 
Friends  am  I  with  you  all,  and  love  you  all  ; 
Upon  this  hope,  that  you  shall  give  me  reasons, 
Why,  and  wherein,  Caesar  was  dangerous. 

liru.   Or  else  were  this  a  savage  spectacle  : 
Our  reasons  are  so  full  of  good  regard, 
That  were  you,  Antony,  the  son  of  Caesar, 
You  should  be  satisfied. 

^nt.  That's  all  I  seek  : 

And  am  moreover  suitor,  that  I  may 
Produce  his  body  to  the  market-place ; 
And  in  the  pulpit,  as  becomes  a  friend, 
Speak  in  the  order  of  his  funeral. 

JBru.   You  shall,  Mark  Antony. 

Cas.  Brutus,  a  word  with  you.  — 

You  know  not  what  you  do  ;   Do  not  consent, 

[Aside. 
That  Antony  speak  in  his  funeral : 
Know  you  how  much  the  people  may  be  mov'd  — 
By  that  which  he  will  utter  ? 

Bru.  By  your  pardon  ; 

I  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  first, 
And  show  the  reason  of  our  Cassar's  death  : 
What  Antony  shall  speak,  I  will  protest 
He  speaks  by  leave  and  by  permission  ; 
And  that  we  are  contented,  Caesar  shall 
Have  all  true  rites,  and  lawful  ceremonies. 
It  shall  advantage  more,  than  do  us  wrong. 

Cas.   I  know  not  what  may  fall ;   I  like  it  not. 

Brv,.  Mark  Antony,  here,  take  you  Caesar's  body. 
You  shall  not  in  your  funeral  speech  blame  us, 
But  speak  all  good  you  can  devise  of  Csesar ; 
And  say,  you  do't  by  our  permission  ; 
Else  shall  you  not  have  any  hand  at  all 
About  his  funeral :   And  you  shall  speak 
In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  I  am  going. 
After  my  speech  is  ended. 

Ant.  Be  it  so ; 

I  do  desire  no  more. 

Bru.   Prepare  the  body  then,  and  follow  us. 

{Exeunt  all  but  Antony. 

Ant.   O,  pardon  me,  thou  bleeding  piece  of  earth. 
That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers ! 
Thou  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man, 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood  J 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy  ■— 
Which  like  dumb  mouths,  do  ope  their  ruby  lips. 
To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue ;  — 
A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  limbs  of  men ; 
Domestick  fury,  and  fierce  civil  strife. 
Shall  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy  : 
Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use. 
And  dreadful  objects  so  familiar. 
That  mothers  shall  but  smile,  when  they  behold 
Their  infants  quarter'd  with  the  hands  of  war  j 
All  pity  chok'd  with  custom  of  fell  deeds  : 
And  Caesar's  spirit,  ranging  for  revenge. 
With  At^  by  his  side,  come  hot  from  hell. 
Shall  in  these  confines,  with  a  monarch's  voice. 
Cry,  Havock  !  '  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war ; 
That  this  foul  deed  shall  smell  above  the  earth. 
With  carrion  men  groaning  for  burial. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
You  serve  Octavius  Caesar,  do  you  not  ? 
Serv.  I  do,  Mark  Antony. 

Ant.   Caesar  did  write  for  him  to  come  to  Rome. 
1  The  signal  for  giving  no  quarter. 


Serv.   He  did  receive  his  letters,  and  is  coming  : 
And  bid  me  say  to  you  by  word  of  mouth, 
O  Caesar  ! [Seeing  the  Body. 

Ant.   Thy  heart  is  big,  get  thee  apart  and  weep. 
Passion,  I  see,  is  catching ;  for  mine  eyes 
Seeing  those  beads  of  sorrow  stand  in  thine, 
Began  to  water.      Is  thy  master  coming  ? 

Serv.   He  lies  to-night  within  seven  leagues  of 
Rome. 

Ant.  Post  back  with  speed,  and  tell  him  what  hath 
chanc'd : 
Here  is  a  mourning  Rome,  a  dangerous  Rome, 
No  Rome  of  safety  for  Octavius  yet ; 
Hie  hence,  and  tell  him  so.      Yet,  s'tay  a  while ; 
Thou  shalt  not  back,  till  I  have  borne  this  corse 
Into  the  market-place :   there  shall  I  try. 
In  my  oration,  how  the  people  take 
The  cruel  issue  of  these  bloody  men ; 
According  to  the  which,  thou  shalt  discourse 
To  young  Octavius  of  the  state  of  things. 
Lend  me  your  hand.    [Exeunt,  with  Cesar's  Body. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  Forum. 

Enter    Brutus   and    Cassius,   and   a    Throng   of 
Citizens. 

Cit.   We  will  be  satisfied;  let  us  be  satisfied. 

Bru.  Then   follow  me,  and  give  me  audience, 
friends.  — 
Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street. 
And  part  the  numbers.  — 

Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  them  stay  here  j 
Those  that  will  follow  Cassius,  go  with  him ; 
And  publick  reasons  shall  be  rendered 
Of  Caesar's  death. 

1  Cii.  I  will  hear  Brutus  speak. 

2  Cit.   I  will  hear  Cassius,   and  compare  their 

reasons. 
When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered. 

[Exit  Cassius,  with  some  of  the  Citizens. 
Brutus  goes  into  the  Rostrum. 

3  Cit.   The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended  :    Silence  ! 
Bru.   Be  patient  till  the  last. 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers  !  ^  hear  me  for  my 
cause  ;  and  be  silent  that  ye  may  hear ;  believe  me 
for  mine  honour ;  and  have  respect  to  mine  honour, 
that  you  may  believe  :  censure  me  in  your  wisdom  ; 
and  awake  your  senses  that  you  may  the  better 
judge.  If  there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any  dear 
friend  of  Caesar's,  to  him  I  say,  that  Brutus'  love 
to  Caesar  was  no  less  than  his.  If  then  that  friend 
demand,  why  Brutus  rose  against  Csesar,  this  is  my 
answer,  —  Not  that  I  loved  Csesar  less,  but  that  I 
loved  Rome  more.  Had  you  rather  Caesar  were 
living,  and  die  all  slaves ;  than  that  Caesar  were 
dead,  to  live  all  free  men  ?  As  Caesar  loved  me,  I 
weep  for  him ;  as  he  was  fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  it ; 
as  he  was  valiant,  I  honour  him :  but,  as  he  was 
ambitious,  I  slew  him :  There  is  tears,  for  his  love ; 
joy,  for  his  fortune;  honour,  for  his  valour;  and 
death,  for  his  ambition.  Who  is  here  so  base,  that 
would  be  a  bondman  ?  If  any,  speak ;  for  him 
have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so  rude,  that  would 
not  be  a  Roman  ?  If  any,  speak ;  for  him  have  I 
offended.  Who  is  here  so  vile,  that  will  not  love  his 
country  ?  If  any,  speak ;  for  him  have  I  offended. 
I  pause  for  a  reply. 

Cit.  None,  Brutus,  none. 

[Several  speaking  at  once. 
2  Friends. 


Scene  II. 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


691 


Bru.  Then  none  have  I  offended.  I  have  done  no 
more  to  Caesar,  than  you  should  do  to  Brutus.  Tlie 
question  of  his  death  is  enrolled  in  the  Capitol :  his 
glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy ;  nor 
his  offences  enforced,  for  which  he  suffered  death. 

Ejiter  Antony  and  others,  with  Cesar's  Body. 
Here  comes  his  body,  mourned  by  Mark  Antony  : 
Who,  though  he  had  no  hand  in  his  death,  shall 
receive  the  benefit  of  his  dying,  a  place  in  the 
commonwealth  ;  As  which  of  you  shall  not  ?  With 
this  I  depart ;  That  as  I  slew  my  best  lover  for  the 
good  of  Rome,  I  have  the  same  dagger  for  myself, 
when  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need  my  death. 

CU.   Live,  Brutus,  live  !  live ! 

1  CU.  Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto   his 

house. 

2  Cit.   Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ancestors. 

3  CU.  Let  him  be  Cajsar. 

4  CU.  Caesar's  better  parts 
Shall  now  be  crown'd  in  Brutus. 

1  CU.    We'll  bring  him  to  his  house  with  shouts 

and  clamours. 
Bru.   My  countrymen,  — 

2  CU.  Peace  j  silence !  Brutus  speaks. 
1  CU.  Peace,  ho ! 

Bru.   Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone, 
And,  for  my  sake,  stay  here  with  Antony  : 
Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending  to  Caesar's  glories ;  which  Mark  Antony, 
By  our  pennission,  is  allow'd  to  make. 
I  do  entreat  you  not  a  man  depart, 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  [ExU. 

1  CU.   Stay,  ho  !  and  let  us  hear  Mark  Antony. 

3  CU.   Let  him  go  up  into  the  publick  chair ; 
We'll  hear  him  :  —  Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

Ant.   For  Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholden  to  you. 

4  CU.   What  does  he  say  of  Brutus  ? 

3  CU.  He  says  for  Brutus'  sake, 
He  finds  himself  beholden  to  us  all. 

4  CU.  'Twere  best  he  speak  no  harm  of  Brutus  here. 

1  CU.   This  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 

3  CU.  Nay,  that's  certain  : 

We  are  bless'd  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

2  CU.   Peace  ;  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can  say. 
Ant.   You  gentle  Romans, 

CU.  Peace,  ho  !  let  us  hear  him. 

Ant.   Friends,   Romans,    countrymen,  lend   me 
your  ears  j 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  liim. 
The  evil,  that  men  do,  lives  after  them ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones ; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you,  Caesar  was  ambitious ; 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault ; 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answer'd  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus,  and  the  rest, 
(For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honourable  men  ;) 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me : 
But  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious  ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 
Wlien  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept : 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff: 
Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 


You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lupercal, 

I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown. 

Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition? 

Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious  ; 

And,  sure,  he  is  an  honourable  man. 

I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 

But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 

You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause  ; 

What  cause  withholds  you  then  to  mourn  for  him  ? 

0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason  !  —  Bear  with  me  ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

1  CU.    Methinks    there  is  much   reason   in  his 

sayings. 

2  CU.   If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the  matter, 
Cajsar  has  had  great  vtrrongs. 

3  CU.  Has  he,  masters  ? 

1  fear,  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

4  CU.   Mark'd  ye  his  words  ?  He  would  not  take 

the  crown  ; 
Therefore,  'tis  certain,  he  was  not  ambitious. 

1  CU.   If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide  it. 

2  CU.   Poor  soul !  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire  with 

weeping. 

3  CU,   There's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome,  than 

Antony. 

4  CU.   Now  mark  him,  he  begins  again  to  speak. 
Ant.    But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Cassar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world  :   now  lies  he  tliere. 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters  !  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honourable  men  : 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong ;   I  rather  choose 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you, 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honourable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment,  with  the  seal  of  Caesar, 

I  found  it  in  his  closet,  'tis  his  will : 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, 

(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read,) 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds, 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood  j 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory. 

And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it,  as  a  rich  legacy, 

Unto  their  issue. 

4  CU.  We'll  hear  the  will :  Read  it,  Mark  Antony. 

CU.  The  will,  the  will ;  we  will  hear  Caesar's  will. 

Ant.   Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must  not 
read  it ; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  lov'd  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men  ; 
And  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad  : 
'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs  ; 
For  if  you  should,  O,  what  would  come  of  it ! 

4  CU.   Read  the  will ;  we  will  hear  it,  Antony ; 
You  shall  read  us  the  will ;   Caesar's  will. 

Ant.  Will  you  be  patient  ?  Will  you  stay  awhile  ? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself,  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear,  I  wrong  the  honourable  men. 
Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Ctcsar :    I  do  fear  it. 

4  CU.   They  were  traitors :    Honourable  men  ! 

CU.   The  will !  the  testament ! 

2  CU.  They  were  villains,  murderers :   The  will ! 
read  the  will ! 

Ant.  You  will  compel  me  then  to  read  the  will? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 
Yy  2 


692 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


Act  III. 


And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Sliall  I  descend  ?  And  will  you  give  me  leave  ? 
Cit.   Come  down. 

2  Cit.   Descend.  \He  comes  downjrom  the  Pulpit. 

3  Cit.   You  shall  have  leave. 

4  Cit.    A  ring  ;  stand  round. 

1  Cit.    Stand  from  the  hearse,  stand  from  the  body. 

2  Cit.  Room  for  Antony ;  —  most  noble  Antony. 
Ant.  Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me  ;  stand  far  off. 
Cit.    Stand  back  !  room  !  bear  back  ! 

Ant»   If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them 
now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle :   I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  ; 
"Twas  on  a  summer's  evening  in  his  tent; 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii :  — 
Look !  in  this  place,  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through  : 
See,  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made : 
Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd ; 
And,  as  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Csesar  follow'd  it ; 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock'd,  or  no ; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 
Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  lov'd  him  ! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all : 
For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitor's  arms, 
Quite  vanquish'd  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty  heart; 
And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 
Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statua  3, 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 
O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down. 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 
O,  now  you  weep ;  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 
The  dint  4  of  pity  :   these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you,  when  you  but  behold 
Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?  Look  you  here. 
Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

1  Cit.   O  piteous  spectacle ! 

2  Cit.   O  noble  Caesar  ! 

3  Cit.   O  woful  day  ! 

4  Cit.    O  traitors,  villains ! 

1  Cit.   O  most  bloody  sight ! 

2  CU.  We  will  be  revenged:  revenge;  about, 
seek,  —  burn,  —  fire,  —  kill,  —  slay  !  —  let  not  a 
traitor  live. 

Ant.   Stay,  countrymen. 

1  CU.   Peace  there  :  —  Hear  the  noble  Antony. 

2  Cit.  We'll  hear  him,  we'll  follow  him,  we'll  die 
with  him. 

Ant.   Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir 
you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They,  that  have  done  this  deed,  are  honourable ; 
What  private  griefs  *  they  have,  alas,  I  know  not. 
That  made  them  do  it ;  they  are  wise  and  honourable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts ; 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is : 
But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man. 
That  love  my  friend ;  and  that  they  know  full  well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth. 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech. 
To  stir  men's  blood  :    I  only  speak  right  on  ; 
I  tell  you  that,  which  you  yourselves  do  know  ; 

3  Statua  for  statue,  is  common  among  the  old  writers. 
*  Impression.  '  Grievances. 


Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb 

mouths. 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me  :   But  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 
Cit.   We'll  mutiny. 

1  CU.  We'll  bum  the  house  of  Brutus. 

3  Cit.   Away  then,  come,  seek  the  conspirators. 

Ant.  Yet  hear  me,  countrymen;  yet  hear  me  speak. 

CU.  Peace,  ho!  Hear  Antony, most  noble  Antony. 

Ant.   Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know  not 
what : 
Wherein  hath  Caesar  thus  deserv'd  your  loves  ? 
Alas,  you  know  not :  —  I  must  tell  you  then:  — 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

Cit.   Most  true ;  —  the  will  j  —  let's  stay,  and  hear 
the  will. 

Ant.   Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal. 
To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives. 
To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas.  ^ 

2  CU.   Most  noble  Caesar! — we'll    revenge  his 

death. 

3  Cit.    O  royal  Caesar  ! 

Ant.   Hear  me  with  patience. 

CU.  Peace,  ho ! 

Ant.   Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks. 
His  private  arbours,  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tyber  ;  he  hath  left  them  you. 
And  to  your  heirs  for  ever ;  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar  :   When  comes  such  another? 

1  Cit.   Never,  never :  —  Come,  away,  away  : 
We'll  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place. 

And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

2  CU.   Go,  fetch  fire. 

3  CU.   Pluck  down  benches. 

4  CU.   Pluck  down  forms,  windows,  any  thing. 

\^Exeunt  Citizens,  wUh  the  Body. 
Ant.   Now  let  it  work  :   Mischief,  thou  art  afoot, 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt !  —  How  now, 
fellow  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.   Sir,  Octavius  is  already  come  to  Rome. 

Ant.   Where  is  he  ?  ^ 

Serv.   He  and  Lepidus  are  at  Caesar's  house. 

Ant.   And  thither  will  I  straight  to  visit  him  : 
He  comes  upon  a  wish.     Fortune  is  merry. 
And  in  this  mood  will  give  us  any  thing. 

Serv.   I  heard  him  say,  Brutus  and  Cassius 
Are  rid  like  madmen  through  the  gates  of  Rome. 

Ant.   Belike,  they  had  some  notice  of  the  people. 
How  I  had  mov'd  them.     Bring  me  to  Octavius. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  111.— A  Street. 

Enter  Cinna,  the  Poet. 

Cin.   I  dreamt  to-night  that  I  did  feast  with  Caesar 
And  things  unluckily  charge  my  fantasy  : 
I  have  no  will  to  wander  forth  of  doors, 
Yet  something  leads  me  forth. 

Enter  Citizens. 

1  CU.   What  is  your  name  ? 

2  Cit.  Whither  are  you  going? 

6  Near  fifty  shillings. 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


JULIUS  Ci^SAR. 


693 


3  Cit.    Where  do  you  dwell  ? 

4  Cit.    Are  you  a  married  man,  or  a  bachelor  ? 

2  Cit.    Answer  every  man  directly. 

1  Cit.    Ay,  and  briefly. 
4  Cit.    Ay,  and  wisely. 

3  Cit.    Ay,  and  truly,  you  were  best. 

Cin.  Wliat  is  my  name  ?  Whither  am  I  going  ? 
Where  do  I  dwell  ?  Am  I  a  married  man,  or  a 
bachelor  ?  Then  to  answer  every  man  directly 
and  briefly,  wisely,  and  truly.  Wisely  I  say,  I  am 
a  bachelor. 

2  Cit.  That's  as  much  as  to  say  they  are  fools  that 
marry  —  You'll  bear  me  a  bang  for  that,  I  fear. 
Proceed;  directly. 

Cin.   Directly,  I  am  going  to  Ca;sar*s  funeral. 
1  Cit.   As  a  friend,  or  an  enemy  ? 
Cin.   As  a  friend. 


2  Cit.   That  matter  is  answered  directly. 
4  Cit.    For  your  dwelling,  —  briefly. 
Cin.   Briefly,  I  dwell  by  the  Capitol. 
4  Cit.    Your  name,  sir,  truly. 
Cin.   Truly,  my  name  is  Cinna. 

1  Cit.    Tear  him  to  pieces,  he's  a  conspirator. 
Ciru    I  am  Cinna  the  poet,  I  am  Cinna  the  poet. 
4  Cit'   Tear  him  for  his  bad  verses,  tear  him  for 

his  bad  verses. 

Cin.   I  am  not  Cinna  the  conspirator. 

2  Cit.  It  is  no  matter,  his  name's  Cinna ;  pluck 
but  his  name  out  of  his  heart,  and  turn  him  going. 

3  Cit.  Tear  him,  tear  him.  Come,  brands,  ho  ! 
firebrands.  To  Brutus',  to  Cassius' ;  burn  all. 
Some  to  Decius'  house,  and  some  to  Casca's  :  some 
to  Ligarius':  away;  go.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  —  ^  Room  in  Antony's  House. 
Antony,  Octavios,  and  Lepidus,  seated  at  a  Table. 

Ant.   These  many  then  shall  die  ;  their  names  are 
prick'd. 

Oct.   Your  brother  too  must  die ;  Consent  you, 
Lepidus  ? 

Lep.   I  do  consent. 

Oct.  Prick  7  him  down,  Antony. 

Lep.  Upon  condition  Publius  shall  not  live, 
Who  is  your  sister's  son,  Mark  Antony. 

Ant.   He  shall  not  live;  look,  with  a  spot  I  damn  ^ 
him. 
But,  Lepidus,  go  you  to  Csesar's  house  ; 
Fetch  the  will  hither,  and  we  will  determine 
How  to  cut  ofif  some  charge  in  legacies. 

Leiu  What,  shall  I  find  you  here  ? 

Oct.  Or  here,  or  at 

The  Capitol.  {Exit  Lepidus. 

Ant.   Tliis  is  a  slight  unmeritable  man, 
Meet  to  be  sent  on  errands :    Is  it  fit, 
The  three-fold  world  divided,  he  should  stand 
One  of  the  three  to  share  it  ? 

Oct.  So  you  thought  him ; 

And  took  his  voice  who  should  be  prick'd  to  die, 
In  our  black  sentence  and  proscription. 

Ant.   Octavius,  I  have  seen  more  days  than  you  ; 
And  though  we  lay  these  honours  on  this  man. 
To  ease  ourselves  of  divers  slanderous  loads. 
He  shall  but  bear  them  as  the  ass  bears  gold, 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  the  business. 
Either  led  or  driven,  as  we  point  the  way ; 
And  having  brought  our  treasure  where  we  will. 
Then  take  we  down  this  load,  and  turn  him  off, 
Like  to  the  empty  ass,  to  shake  his  ears. 
And  graze  in  commons. 

Oct.  You  may  do  your  will ; 

But  he's  a  tried  and  valiant  soldier. 

Ant.    So  is  my  horse,  Octavius ;  and,  for  that, 
I  do  appoint  him  store  of  provender. 
It  is  a  creature  tliat  I  teach  to  fight. 
To  wind,  to  stop,  to  run  directly  on  ; 
His  corporal  motion  govern'd  by  my  spirit. 
And,  in  some  taste,  is  Lepidus  but  so; 
He  must  be  taught,  and  train'd,  and  bid  go  forth  : 
7  Set,  in.irk.  "  Condemn. 


A  barren-spirited  fellow ;  one  that  feeds 

On  objects,  arts,  and  imitations  ; 

Which,  out  of  use,  and  stal'd  by  other  men, 

Begin  his  fashion  :   Do  not  talk  of  him. 

But  as  a  property.      And  now,  Octavius, 

Listen  great  things.  —  Brutus  and  Cassius, 

Are  levying  powers :  we  must  straight  make  head. 

Therefore,  let  our  alliance  be  combin'd. 

Our  best  friends  made,  and  our  best  means  stretch 'd 

out; 
And  let  us  presently  go  sit  in  council. 
How  covert  matters  may  be  best  disclos'd. 
And  open  perils  surest  answered. 

Oct.   Let  us  do  so  ;  for  we  are  at  the  stake, 
And  bay'd  9  about  with  many  enemies ; 
And  some,  that  smile,  have  in  their  hearts,  I  fear. 
Millions  of  mischief.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II Before  Brutus'  Tent,  in  the  Camp 

near  Sardis. 

Drum.       Enter    Brutus,    Lucimus,   Lucius,  and 

Soldiers :  Titinius  and  Pindarus  meeting  them. 

Pru.   Stand  here. 

Luc.   Give  the  word,  ho  !  and  stand. 

Bru.   What  now,  Lucilius  ?  is  Cassius  near  ? 

Luc.   He  is  at  hand  ;  and  Pindarus  is  come 
To  do  you  salutation  from  his  master. 

[Pindarus  gives  a  Letter  to  Brutus. 

Bru.   He  greets  me  well.  —  Your  master,   Pin- 
darus, 
In  his  own  charge,  or  by  ill  oflRces, 
Hath  given  me  some  worthy  cause  to  wish 
Things  done,  undone  :  but,  if  he  be  at  hand, 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

Pin.  I  do  no  doubt. 

But  tliat  my  noble  master  will  appear 
JSuch  as  he  is,  full  of  regard,  and  honour. 

Bru.   He  is  not  doubted.  —  A  word,  Lucilius : 
How  he  receiv'd  you,  let  me  be  resolv'd. 

Luc.   With  courtesy,  and  with  respect  enough  ; 
But  not  with  such  familiar  instances. 
Nor  with  such  free  and  friendly  conference. 
As  he  hath  used  of  old. 

Bru.  Thou  hast  describ'd 

A  hot  friend  cooling :   Ever  note,  Lucilius, 
•  Surrounded,  baited. 
Yy  3 


69* 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


Act  IV. 


When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay, 

It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony. 

There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith  : 

But  hollow  men,  like  horses  hot  at  hand, 

Make  gallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle  : 

But  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur, 

They  fall  their  crests,  and,  like  deceitful  jades, 

Sink  in  the  trial.     Comes  his  army  on? 

Liic.  They  mean  this  night  in  Sardis  to  be  quar- 
ter'd ; 
The  greater  part,  the  horse  in  general, 
Are  come  with  Cassius.  {March  within. 

Bru.  Hark,  he  is  arriv'd  :  — 

March  gently  on  to  meet  him. 

Eyiter  Cassius  and  Soldiers. 

Cas.   Stand,  ho  ! 

Bru.   Stand,  ho  !   Speak  the  word  along. 

[mthin.]    Stand. 

[JVWiin.]   Stand. 

[Within.]   Stand. 

Cas.  Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  me  wrong. 

Bru.  Judge  me,  you  gods  !  Wrong  I  mine  ene- 
mies ? 
And,  if  not  so,  how  should  I  wrong  a  brother  ? 

Cas.   Brutus,   this   sober    form   of  yours    hides 
wrongs ; 
And  when  you  do  them   ■ 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  content, 

Speak  your  griefs  softly,  —  I  do  know  you  well : — 
Before  the  eyes  of  both  our  armies  here. 
Which  should  perceive  nothing  but  love  from  us, 
Let  us  not  wrangle  :    Bid  them  move  away  ; 
Then  in  my  tent,  Cassius,  enlarge  your  griefs. 
And  I  will  give  you  audience. 

Cas.  Pindarus, 

Bid  our  commanders  lead  their  charges  off 
A  little  from  this  ground. 

Bru.   Lucilius,  do  the  like ;  and  let  no  man 
Come  to  our  tent,  till  we  have  done  our  conference. 
Let  Lucius  and  Titinius  guard  our  door.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  Within  the  Tent  of  Brutus. 

Lucius  and  Titinius  at  some  distance  from  it. 

Enter  Brutus  and  Cassius. 

Cas.   That  you  have  wrong'd  me  doth  appear  in 
this: 
You  have  condemn'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella, 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians  ; 
Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side. 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Bru.  You  wrong'd  yourself,  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

Cas.   In  such  a  time  as  this,  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  '  offence  should  bear  his  comment. 

Bru.   Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemn'd  to  have  an  itching  palm  ; 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold, 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.  I  an  itching  palm  ? 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Bru.  The  name  of  Cassius  honours  this  corruption. 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cas.   Chastisement ! 

Bru.    Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  re- 
member ! 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake  ? 
'  Trifling. 


What  villain  touch'd  his  body,  that  did  stab. 
And  not  for  justice  ?  What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world, 
But  for  supporting  robbers  ;  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes  ? 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honours. 
For  so  much  trash,  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ?  — 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  mogn. 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me  ; 

I'll  not  endure  it ;  you  forget  yourself 
To  hedge  me  in  ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to ;  you're  not,  Cassius. 

Cas.   I  am. 

Bru.   I  say,  you  are  not. 

Cas.   Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself; 
Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no  further. 

Bru.    Away,  slight  man ! 

Cas.   Is't  possible  ? 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler  ? 
Shall  I  be  frighted,  when  a  madman  stares  ? 

Cas.  O  ye  gods  !  ye  gods  !  Must  I  endure  all  this  ? 

Bru.   All  this  ?  ay,  more  :    Fret,  till  your  proud 
heart  break ; 
Go  show  your  slaves  how  cholerick  you  are. 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.   Must  I  budge  ? 
Must  I  observe  you  ?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humour  ?   By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen. 
Though  it  do  split  you  :   for,  from  this  day  forth, 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter. 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Bru.    You  say,  you  are  a  better  soldier : 
Let  it  appear  so  ;  make  your  vaunting  true. 
And  it  shall  please  me  well :    For  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cas.   You  wrong  me  every  way  ;  you  wrong  me, 
Brutus : 
I  said,  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better : 
Did  I  say,  better? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cas.   When  Ceesar  lived,  he  durst  not  thus  have 
mov'd  me. 

Bru.  Peace,  peace;  you  durst  not  so  have  tempted 
him. 

Cas.   I  durst  not  ? 

Bru.   No. 

Cas.   What  ?  durst  not  tempt  him  ? 

Bru.  For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cas.   Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love, 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats : 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty, 
That  they  pass  by  me,  as  the  idle  wind, 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me  ;  — 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means  : 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  indirection.      I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions. 
Which  you  denied  me  :  Was  that  done  like  Cassius 
Should  I  have  answer'd  Caius  Cassius  so  ? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 


Scene  III. 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


695 


To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts. 
Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 

Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bni.   You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not :  —  he  was  but  a  fool, 

That  brought  my  answer  back.  —  Brutus  hath  riv'd  « 

my  heart : 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities, 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

liru.   I  do  not,  till  you  practise  them  on  me. 

Cas.   You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.    A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.   A  flatterer's  would   not,   though  they  do 
appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cas.   Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come. 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world  : 
Hated  by  one  he  loves ;  brav'd  by  his  brother ; 
Check'd  like  a  bondman ;  all  his  faults  observ'd. 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learn'd,  and  conn'd  by  rote. 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     O,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes  !  —  There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold : 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth  ; 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart : 
Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar ;  for,  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst  him 

better 
Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger : 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonour  shall  be  humour. 
O  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger,  as  the  flint  bears  fire  ; 
Who  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark. 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  liv'd 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief,  and  blood  ill-temper'd,  vexeth  him  ? 

Bru.  When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-temper'd  too. 

Cas.   Do  you  confess  so  much  ?  Give  me  your 
hand. 

Bru.   And  my  heart  too. 

Cas.  O  Brutus  ! 

Bru.  What's  the  matter? 

Cas.  Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear  with  me, 
When  that  rash  humour,  which  my  mother  gave  me, 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Bru.  Yes,  Cassius ;  and  henceforth. 

When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 

[Noise  within. 

Poet.  [  Within.']  Let  me  go  in  to  see  the  generals : 
There  is  some  grudge  between  them,  'tis  not  meet 
They  be  alone. 

Luc.   {Withiju']   You  shall  not  come  to  them. 

Poet.  \^WUhin.']  Nothing  but  death  shall  stay  me. 

Enter  Poet, 

Cas.   How  now  ?  Wliat's  the  matter  ? 
Poet.   For  shame,  you  generals :   What  do  you 
mean? 
I^ovc,  and  be  friends,  as  two  such  men  should  be  j 
For  I  have  seen  more  years,  I  am  sure,  than  ye. 
Cas.   Ha,  ha ;  how  vilely  doth  this  cynick  rhyme  ! 
<  SpUt 


Bru.  Get  you  hence,  sirrah ;  saucy  fellow,  hence. 
Cos.   Bear  with  him,  Brutus ;  'tis  his  fasiiion. 
Bru.    I'll  know  his  humour,  when  he  knows  his 
time: 
What  should  the  wars  do  with  these  jigging  fools? 
Companion  3,  hence. 

C7(M.  Away,  away,  begone. 

{Exit  Poet. 

Ent^r  LuciLius  and  Titinius. 
Bru.   Lucilius  and  Titinius,  bid  the  commanders 
Prepare  to  lodge  their  companies  to-night. 

Cas.   And  come  yourselves,  and  bring  Messala 
with  you. 
Immediately  to  us.  {Exeunt  Lucilios  and  Titinius. 
Bru.  Lucius,  a  bowl  of  wine. 

Cas.  I  did  not  think,  you  could  have  been  so  angry. 
Bru.    O  Cassius,  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 
Cas.    Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use. 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.   No  man  bears  sorrow  better :  —  Portia  is 

dead. 
Cas.    Ha!   Portia? 
Bru.   She  is  dead. 

Cas.   How  scap'd  I  killing,  when  I  cross'd  you 
so?  — 

0  insupportable  and  touching  loss  !  — 
Upon  what  sickness  ? 

Bru.  Impatient  of  my  absence ; 

And  grief,  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Have  made  themselves  so  strong  ;  —  for  with  her 

death 
That  tidings  came  ;  —  With  this  she  fell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallow 'd  file. 

Cas.   And  died  so  ? 

Bru.  Even  so. 

Cas,  O  ye  immortal  gods  I 

Enter  Lucius,  with  Wine  and  Tapers. 

Bru.    Speak  no  more  of  her.  —  Give  me  a  bowl 
of  wine :  — 
In  this  I  bury  all  unkindness,  Cassius.        {Drinks. 

Cas.  My  heart  is  thirsty  for  that  noble  pledge  :  — 
Fill,  Lucius,  till  the  wine  o'erswell  the  cup  ; 

1  cannot  drink  too  much  of  Brutus'  love.   {Drinks. 

Re-enter  Titinius,  with  Messala. 

Bru.  Come  in,  Titinius :  —  Welcome,  good  Mes- 
sala. — 
Now  sit  we  close  about  this  taper  here, 
And  call  in  question  our  necessities. 

Cas.   Portia,  art  thou  gone  ? 

Bru.  No  more,  I  pray  you.  — 

Messala,  I  have  here  received  letters. 
That  young  Octavius,  and  Mark  Antony, 
Come  down  upon  us  with  a  mighty  power. 
Bending  their  expedition  toward  Phiiippi. 

Mes.   Myself  have  letters  of  the  self-same  tenoiir. 

Bru.   With  what  addition  ? 

Mes.    Tliat  by  proscription,  and  bills  of  outlawry, 
Octavius,  Antony,  and  Lepidus, 
Have  put  to  death  an  hundred  senators. 

Bru.   Therein  our  letters  do  not  well  agree  ; 
Mine  speak  of  seventy  senators,  that  died 
By  their  proscriptions,  Cicero  being  one. 

Cas.  Cicero  one  ? 

Mes.  Ay,  Cicero  is  dead, 

And  by  tliat  order  of  proscription.  — 
Had  you  your  letters  from  your  wife,  my  lord  ? 
3  Fellow. 
Yy  4 


696 


JULIUS  Ci^SAll. 


Act  IV. 


Bru.   No,  Messala. 

Mes.   Nor  nothing  in  your  letters  writ  of  her  ? 

JBni.   Nothing,  Messala. 

Mes.  That,  methinks,  is  strange. 

Bi-u.  Why  ask  you  ?    Hear  you  aught  of  her  in 

yours? 
Mes.   No,  my  lord. 

Bru.   Now,  as  you  are  a  Roman,  tell  me  true. 
Mes.   Then  like  a  Roman  bear  the  truth  I  tell ; 
For  certain  she  is  dead,  and  by  strange  manner. 
Bru.    Why,   farewell,   Portia.  —  We  must  die, 
Messala  : 
With  meditating  that  she  must  die  once, 
I  have  tlie  patience  to  endure  it  now. 

Mes.  Even  so  great  men  great  losses  should  endure. 
Cas.    I  have  as  much  of  this  in  art  ^  as  you. 
But  yet  my  nature  could  not  bear  it  so. 

Bru.  Well,  to  our  work  alive.   What  do  you  think. 
Of  marching  to  Philippi  presently  ? 
Cas.    I  do  not  think  it  good. 
Bru.  Your  reason  ? 

Cas.  This  it  is  : 

*Tis  better,  that  the  enemy  seek  us  : 
So  shall  he  waste  his  means,  weary  his  soldiers, 
Doing  himself  offence  ;  whilst  we,  lying  still. 
Are  full  of  rest,  defence,  and  nimbleness. 

Bru.   Good  reasons  must,  of  force,  give  place  to 
better. 
The  people,  'twixt  Philippi  and  this  ground. 
Do  stand  but  in  a  forc'd  affection ; 
For  they  have  grudg'd  us  contribution  : 
The  enemy,  marching  along  by  them, 
By  them  shall  make  a  fuller  number  up. 
Come  on  refresh'd,  new-added,  and  encourag'd ; 
From  which  advantage  shall  we  cut  him  off. 
If  at  Philippi  we  do  face  him  there. 
These  people  at  our  back. 

Cas.                                    Hear  me,  good  brother. 
Bru.   Under  your  pardon You  must  note  be- 
side. 
That  we  have  try'd  the  utmost  of  our  friends. 
Our  legions  are  brim-full,  our  cause  is  ripe : 
The  enemy  increaseth  every  day, 
We,  at  the  height,  are  ready  to  decline. 
There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men. 
Which  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune ; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  miseries. 
On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat ; 
And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves. 
Or  lose  our  ventures. 

Cas.  Then,  with  your  will,  go  on  ; 

We'll  on  ourselves,  and  meet  him  at  Philippi. 

Bru.    The  deep  of  night  is  crept  upon  our  talk, 
And  nature  must  obey  necessity ; 
Which  we  will  niggard  with  a  little  rest. 
There  is  no  more  to  say  ? 

Cas.  No  more.      Good  night ; 

Early  to-morrow  will  we  rise,  and  hence. 

Brti.   Lucius,  my  gown.    \^Exit  Lucius.]    Fare- 
well, good  Messala :  — 
Good  night,  Titiiiius  :  —  Noble,  noble  Cassius, 
Good  night,  and  good  repose. 

Cccs.  O  my  dear  brother  ! 

This  was  an  ill  beginning  of  the  night: 
Never  come  such  division  'tween  our  souls  ! 
Let  it  not,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Every  thing  is  well. 

Cas.    Good  night,  my  lord. 
4  Theory. 


Bru.  Good  night,  good  brother. 

Tit.  Mes.    Good  night,  lord  Brutus. 
Bru.  Farewell,  every  one. 

[Exeunt  Cas.  Tit.  and  Mes. 

Re-enter  Lucius,  with  the  Gown. 

Give  me  the  gown.     Where  is  thy  instrument  ? 

Luc.   Here  in  the  tent. 

Bru.  What,  thou  speak'st  drowsily  ? 

Poor  knave,  I  blame  thee  not;  thou  art  o'er-watch'd. 
Call  Claudius,  and  some  other  of  my  men ; 
I'll  have  them  sleep  on  cushions  in  my  tent. 

Luc.   Varro,  and  Claudius ! 

Enter  Varro  and  Claudius. 
Var.    Calls  my  lord  ? 

Bru.   I  pray  you,  sirs,  lie  in  my  tent,  and  sleep ; 
It  may  be,  I  shall  raise  you  by  and  by 
On  business  to  my  brother  Cassius. 

Var.  So  please  you,  we  will  stand,  and  watch  your 

pleasure. 
Bru.   I  will  not  have  it  so :   lie  down,  good  sirs ; 
It  may  be,  I  shall  otherwise  bethink  me. 
Look,  Lucius,  here's  the  book  I  sought  for  so ; 
I  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  gown. 

[Servants  lie  down. 
Luc.  I  was  sure  your  lordship  did  not  give  it  me. 
Bru.   Bear  with  me,  good  boy,  I  am  much  for- 
getful. 
Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  awhile, 
And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two. 
Luc.   Ay,  my  lord,  an  it  please  you. 
Bru.  It  does,  my  boy ; 

I  trouble  thee  too  much,  but  thou  art  willing. 
Luc.   It  is  my  duty,  sir. 

Bru.    I  sliould  not  urge  thy  duty  past  thy  might ; 
I  know,  young  bloods  look  for  a  time  of  rest. 
Luc.   I  have  slept,  my  lord,  already. 
Bi-u.  It  is  well  done ;  and  thou  shalt  sleep  again  ; 
I  will  not  hold  thee  long  :   if  I  do  live, 
I  will  be  good  to  thee.  [Masick  and  a  Song. 

This  is  a  sleepy  tune  :  —  O  murd'rous  slumber ! 
Lay'st  thou  thy  leaden  mace  ^  upon  my  boy, 
That    plays  thee  musick  ?  —  Gentle  knave,  good 

night ; 
I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  wrong  to  wake  thee. 
If  thou  dost  nod,  thou  break'st  thy  instrument ; 
I'll  take  it  from  thee ;  and,  good  boy,  good  night. 
Let  me  see,  let  me  see ;  —  Is  not  the  leaf  turn'd 

down. 
Where  I  left  reading  ?  Here  it  is,  I  think. 

[He  sits  down. 

Enter  the  Ghost  of  CiESAR. 
How  ill  this  taper  burns !  —  Ha !  who  comes  here  ? 
I  think  it  is  the  weakness  of  mine  eyes. 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comes  upon  me  —  art  thou  any  thing  ? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil. 
That  mak'st  my  blood  cold,  and  my  hair  to  stare  ? 
Speak  to  me,  what  art  thou. 

Ghost.   Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Why  com'st  thou  ? 

Ghost.  To  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  see  me  at  Philippi. 

Bru.    Well; 
Then  I  shall  see  thee  again  ? 

Ghost.  Ay,  at  Philippi. 

[Ghost  vanishes. 
i  Sceptre. 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


697 


Bru.   Why,  I  will  see  thee  at  Philippi  then.  — 
Now  I  have  taken  heart,  thou  vanishest . 
Ill  spirit,  I  would  hold  more  talk  with  tliee.  — 
Boy !  Lucius  !  —  Varro  !  Claudius !  Sirs,  awake !  — 
Claudius ! 

Luc.   The  strings,  my  lord,  are  false. 

Bru.   He  thinks,  he  still  is  at  his  instnunent.  — 
Lucius,  awake. 

Luc   My  lord ! 

Bru.   Didst  thou  dream,  Lucius,  that   thou  so 
cry'dst  out  ? 

Luc,   My  lord,  I  do  not  know  that  I  did  cry. 

Bru.   Yes,  that  tliou  didst :    Didst  thou  see  any 
thing  ? 

Luc.   Nothing,  my  lord. 


Bru.   Sleep  again,  Lucius.  —  Sirrah,  Claudius  ! 
Fellow  tliou  !  awake. 

Var.   My  lord! 

Clau.   My  lord  ! 

Brti.  Why  did  you  so  cry  out,  sirs,  in  your  sleep  ? 

Var.  Clau.    Did  we,  my  lord? 

Bru.  Ay  ;   Saw  you  any  thing  ? 

Var,   No,  my  lord,  I  saw  nothing. 

Clau,  Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Bru,  Co,  and  commend  me  to  my  brother  Cassius ; 
Bid  him  sot  on  his  powers  betimes  before, 
And  we  will  follow. 

Var.  Clau.  It  shall  be  done,  my  lord. 

\_Exeunt, 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  Tlie  Plains  of  Philippi. 

Enter  Octavius,  Antont,  and  their  Army, 
Oct.  Now,  Antony,  our  hopes  are  answered : 
You  said  the  enemy  would  not  come  down. 
But  keep  the  hills  and  upper  regions  ; 
It  proves  not  so  :   their  battles  are  at  hand  ; 
They  mean  to  warn  ^  us  at  Philippi  here, 
Answering  before  we  do  demand  of  them. 

Ant.   Tut,  I  am  in  their  bosoms,  and  I  know, 
Wherefore  they  do  it :   they  could  be  content 
To  visit  other  places  ;  and  come  down 
With  fearful  bravery,  thinking,  by  this  face. 
To  fasten  in  our  thoughts  that  they  have  courage  ; 
But  'tis  not  so. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Prepare  you,  generals : 

The  enemy  comes  on  in  gallant  show ; 
Their  bloody  sign  of  battle  is  hung  out, 
And  something's  to  be  done  immediately. 

Ant.   Octavius,  lead  your  battle  softly  on. 
Upon  the  left  hand  of  the  even  field. 

Oct.   Upon  tlie  right  hand  I,  keep  thou  the  left. 

Ant.   Why  do  you  cross  me  in  this  exigent  ? 

Oct,   I  do  not  cross  you  ;  but  I  will  do  so. 

\_March. 

Drum.     Enter  B&utus,  Cassius,  and  their  Armt/ ; 
Luciuus,  TiTiNius,  Messala,  and  others. 

Bru.   They  stand,  and  would  have  parley. 

Cas.   Stand  fast,  Titinius:  We  must  out  and  talk. 

Oct.   Mark  Antony,  shall  we  give  sign  of  battle  ? 

Ant.   No,  Caesar,  we  will  answer  on  the  charge. 
Make  forth,  the  generals  would  have  some  words. 

Oct.    Stir  not  until  the  signal. 

Bru,   Words  before  blows  :  Is  it  so,  countrymen  ? 

Oct.    Not  that  we  love  words  better,  as  you  do. 

Bru.   Good  words  are  better  than  bad  strokes, 
Octavius. 

Ant,   In  your  bad  strokes,  Brutus,  you  give  good 
words : 
Witness  the  hole  you  made  in  Caesar's  heart, 
Crj'ing,  Long  live  f  hail  Ccesar  I 

Cas,  Antony, 

The  posture  of  your  blows  are  yet  unknown  ; 
But  for  your  words,  they  rob  the  Hybla  bees, 
And  leave  them  honey  less. 

*  Summon. 


Ant,  Not  stingless  too. 

Bru.   O,  yes,  and  soundless  too  j 
For  you  have  stol'n  their  buzzing,  Antony, 
And,  very  wisely,  threat  before  you  sting. 

Ant.   Villains,  you  did  not  so,  when  your  vile 
daggers 
Hack'd  one  another  in  the  sides  of  Caesar : 
You  show'd  your  teeth  like  apes,  and  fawn'd  like 

hounds, 
And  bow'd  like  bondmen,  kissing  Caesar's  feet. 
Whilst  damned  Casca,  like  a  cur  behind. 
Struck  Caesar  on  the  neck.      O  flatterers ! 

Cas,  Flatterers !  —  Now,  Brutus,  thank  yourself: 
This  tongue  had  not  offended  so  to-day, 
If  Cassius  might  have  rul'd. 

Oct.  Come,  come,  the  cause :   If  arguing  make  us 
sweat. 
The  proof  of  it  will  turn  to  redder  drops. 
Look ; 

I  draw  a  sword  against  conspirators ; 
When  think  you  that  the  sword  goes  up  again  ?  — 
Never  till  Csesar's  three  and  twenty  wounds 
Be  well  aveng'd ;  or  till  another  Caesar 
Have  added  slaughter  to  the  sword  of  traitors. 

Bru.  Caesar,  thou  canst  not  die  by  traitors'  hands. 
Unless  thou  bring'st  them  with  thee. 

Oct,  So  I  hope ; 

I  was  not  born  to  die  on  Brutus'  sword. 

Bru,    O,  if  thou  wert  the  noblest  of  thy  strain, 
Young  man,  thou  couldst  not  die  more  honourable. 

Cas.  A    peevish  school-boy,  worthless  of  such 
honour, 
Join'd  with  a  masker  and  a  reveller. 

Ant,   Old  Cassius  still ! 

Oct,  Come,  Antony  ;  away.  — 

Defiance,  traitors,  hurl  we  in  your  teeth  : 
If  you  dare  fight  to  day,  come  to  the  field ; 
If  not,  when  you  have  stomachs. 

[^Exeunt  Octavius,  Antony,  and  their  Army, 

Cas,   Why  now,  blow,  wind ;  swell,  billow  ;  and 
swim,  bark  ! 
The  storm  is  up,  and  all  is  on  the  hazard. 

Bru,   Ho! 
Lucilius  ;  hark,  a  word  with  you. 

Luc,  My  lord. 

[Brutus  and  Luciuus  converse  apart. 

Cas.   Messala,  — 

Mes.  What  says  my  general  ? 

Cas.  Messala, 


698 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


Act  V. 


Tliis  is  my  birth-day ;  as  this  very  day 

Was  Cassius  born.     Give  me  thy  hand,  Messala  : 

Be  thou  my  witness,  that,  against  my  will, 

As  Pompey  was,  am  I  compell'd  to  set 

Upon  one  battle  all  our  liberties. 

You  know,  that  I  held  Epicurus  strong, 

And  his  opinion  :   now  I  change  my  mind, 

And  partly  credit  things  that  do  presage. 

Coming  from  Sardis,  on  our  former  '  ensign 

Two  mighty  eagles  fell,  and  there  they  perch'd, 

Gorging  and  feeding  from  our  soldiers'  hands  j 

Who  to  Philippi  here  consorted  "  us ; 

This  morning  are  they  fled  away,  and  gone  ; 

And  in  their  steads,  do  ravens,  crows,  and  kites, 

Fly  o'er  our  heads,  and  downward  look  on  us. 

As  we  were  sickly  prey  ;  their  shadows  seem 

A  canopy  most  fatal,  under  which 

Our  army  lies,  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost. 

Mess,   Believe  not  so. 

Cas.  I  but  believe  it  partly ; 

For  I  am  fresh  of  spirit,  and  resolv'd 
To  meet  all  perils  very  constantly. 

Bru.   Even  so,  Lucilius. 

Cas.  Now,  most  noble  Brutus, 

The  gods  to  day  stand  friendly  ;  that  we  may. 
Lovers  in  peace,  lead  on  our  days  to  age  ! 
But,  since  the  affairs  of  men  rest  still  uncertain, 
Let's  reason  with  the  worst  that  may  befall. 
If  we  do  lose  this  battle,  then  is  this 
The  very  last  time  we  shall  speak  together  : 
What  are  you  then  determined  to  do  ? 

Bru.   Even  by  the  rule  of  that  philosophy. 
By  which  I  did  blame  Cato  for  the  death 
Which  he  did  give  himself :  —  I  know  not  how, 
But  I  do  find  it  cowardly  and  vile. 
For  fear  of  what  might  fall,  so  to  prevent 
The  time  of  life  :   arming  myself  with  patience, 
To  stay  the  Providence  of  some  high  pov  ers 
That  govern  us  below. 

Cas.  Then,  if  we  lose  this  battle. 

You  are  contented  to  be  led  in  triumph 
Thorough  the  streets  of  Rome  ? 

Bru.   No,   Cassius,   no :    think  not,  thou  noble 
Roman, 
That  ever  Brutus  will  go  bound  to  Rome  ; 
He  bears  too  great  a  mind.      But  this  same  day 
Must  end  that  work  the  ides  of  March  begun ; 
And  whether  we  shall  meet  again  I  know  not. 
Therefore  our  everlasting  farewell  take  :  — 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Cassius  ! 
If  we  do  meet  again,  why  we  shall  smile  ; 
If  not,  why  then  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Cas,    For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Brutus  ! 
If  we  do  meet  again,  we'll  smile  indeed  : 
If  not,  'tis  true,  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Bru.  Why  then,  lead  on.  —  O,  that  a  man  might 
know 
The  end  of  this  day's  business,  ere  it  come  ! 
But  it  sufficeth,  that  the  day  will  end. 
And  then  the  end  is  known.  —  Come,  ho  !  away  ! 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  TI.  —  The  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarum.     Enter  Brutus  and  Messala. 

Bru.   Ride,  ride,  Messala,  ride,  and  give  these 
bills  9 
Unto  the  legions  on  the  other  side :  {^Loud  Alarum. 

1  Foremost.  8  Accompanied. 

9  Directions  for  the  officers. 


Let  them  set  on  at  once  ;  for  I  perceive 
But  cold  demeanour  in  Octavius'  wing, 
And  sudden  push  gives  them  the  overthrow. 
Ride,  ride,  Messala  :   let  them  all  come  down. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum.     Enter  Cassius  and  Titinius. 

Cas.    O,  look,  Titinius,  look,  the  villains  fly  : 
Myself  have  to  mine  own  turn'd  enemy  : 
This  ensign  here  of  mine  was  turning  back ; 
I  slew  the  coward,  and  did  take  it  from  him. 

Tit.   O  Cassius,  Brutus  gave  the  word  too  early : 
Who  having  some  advantage  on  Octavius, 
T«>ok  it  too  eagerly  :   his  soldiers  fell  to  spoil, 
Whilst  we  by  Antony  were  all  enclos'd. 

Enter  Pindarus. 

Pin.   Fly  further  off,  my  lord,  fly  further  off; 
Mark  Antony  is  in  your  tents,  my  lord ! 
Fly  therefore,  noble  Cassius,  fly  far  off. 

Cas.  This  hill  is  far  enough.   Look,  look,  Titinius ; 
Are  those  my  tents,  where  I  perceive  the  fire  ? 

Tit.   They  are,  my  lord. 

Cas.  Titinius,  if  thou  lov'st  me, 

Mount  thou  my  horse,  and  hide  thy  spurs  in  him. 
Till  he  have  brought  thee  up  to  yonder  troops. 
And  here  again  that  I  may  rest  assur'd. 
Whether  yond'  troops  are  friend  or  enemy. 

Tit.   I  will  be  here  again,  even  with  a  thought. 

[EjcU. 

Cas.   Go,  Pindarus,  get  higher  on  that  hill ; 
My  sight  was  ever  thick  ;  regard  Titinius, 
And  tell  me  what  thou  not'st  about  the  field.  — 

[Exit  Pinbarus. 
This  day  I  breathed  first :   time  is  come  round, 
And  where  I  did  begin,  there  I  shall  end ; 
My  life  is  run  his  compass.  —  Sirrah,  what  news? 

Pin.    [Above.]    O  my  lord  ! 

Cas.   What  news  ? 

Pin.   Titinius  is 
Enclosed  round  about  with  horsemen,  that 
Make  to  him  on  the  spur  ;  —  yet  he  spurs  on.  — 
Now  they  are  almost  on  him  ;  now,  Titinius  !  — 
Now  some  'light :  —  O,  he  'lights  too  —  he's  ta'en 
—  and,  hark  !  [Shout. 

They  shout  for  joy. 

Cas.  Come  down,  behold  no  more.  — 

O,  coward  that  I  am,  to  live  so  long. 
To  see  my  best  friend  ta'en  before  my  face  ! 

Enter  Pindarus, 

Come  hither,  sirrah : 

In  Partliia  did  I  take  thee  prisoner  ; 

And  then  I  swore  thee,  saving  of  thy  life. 

That  whatsoever  I  did  bid  thee  do. 

Thou  shouldst  attempt  it.     Come  now,  keep  thine 

oath  ! 
Now  be  a  freeman  ;  and,  with  this  good  sword, 
That  ran  through  Caesar's  bowels,  search  this  bosom. 
Stand  not  to  answer  :    Here,  take  thou  the  hilts  ; 
And,  when  my  face  is  cover'd  as  'tis  now, 
Guide  thou  the  sword,  —  Caesar,  thou  art  reveng'd, 
Even  with  the  sword  that  kill'd  thee.  [Dies. 

Pin.   So  I  am  free,  yet  would  not  so  have  been. 
Durst  I  have  done  my  will.      O  Cassius  ! 
Far  from  this  country  Pindarus  shall  run. 
Where  never  Roman  shall  take  note  of  him. 

[Exit. 


Scene  III. 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


699 


Re-enter  Titinius  with  Messala. 

Mes.   It  is  but  change,  Titinius ;  for  Octavius 
Is  overthrown  by  noble  Brutus'  power, 
As  Cassius'  legions  are  by  Antony. 

Tit.   These  tidings  will  well  comfort  Cassius. 

Mes.  Where  did  you  leave  him  ? 

Tit.  All  disconsolate, 

With  Pindarus  his  bondman,  on  this  hill. 

Mes.   Is  not  that  he,  that  lies  upon  the  ground  ? 

Tit.   He  lies  not  like  the  liying.      O  my  heart ! 

Mes.   Is  not  that  he  ? 

Tit.  No,  this  was  he,  Messala, 

But  Cassius  is  no  more.  —  O  setting  sun  ! 
As  in  thy  red  rays  thou  dost  sink  to-night, 
So  in  his  red  blood  Cassius'  day  is  set ; 
The  sun  of  Rome  is  set !   Our  day  is  gone ; 
Clouds,  dews,  and  dangers  come ;  our  deeds  are  done  j 
Mistrust  of  my  success  hath  done  this  deed. 

Afes.  Mistrust  of  good  success  hath  done  this  deed. 

0  hateful  error,  melancholy's  child  ! 

Why  dost  thou  show  to  the  apt  thoughts  of  men 
The  things  that  are  not  ?  O  error,  soon  conceiv'd, 
Thou  never  com'st  unto  a  happy  birth. 
But  kill'st  the  mother  that  engender'd  thee. 

Tit.  What,  Pindarus?  Where  art  thou,  Pindarus? 

Mes.   Seek  him,  Titinius  :  whilst  I  go  to  meet 
The  noble  Brutus,  thrusting  this  report 
Into  his  ears  :    I  may  say,  tlirusting  it ; 
For  piercing  steel,  and  darts  envenomed. 
Shall  be  as  welcome  to  the  ears  of  Brutus, 
As  tidings  of  this  sight. 

7\t.  Hie  you,  Messala, 

And  I  will  seek  for  Pindarus  the  while. 

[EtU  Messala. 
Why  didst  thou  send  me  forth,  brave  Cassius  ? 
Did  I  not  meet  thy  friends,  and  did  not  they 
Put  on  my  brows  this  wreath  of  victory, 
And  bid  me  giv't  thee  ?  Didst  thou  not  hear  their 

shouts  ? 
Alas  !  thou  hast  misconstrued  every  thing. 
But  hold  thee,  take  this  garland  on  thy  brow  ; 
Thy  Brutus  bid  me  give  it  thee,  and  I 
Will  do  his  bidding.  —  Brutus,  come  apace. 
And  see  how  I  regarded  Caius  Cassius.  — 
By  your  leave,  gods  :  —  This  is  a  Roman's  part : 
Come,  Cassius'  sword,  and  find  Titinius'  heart. 

[Dies. 

Alarum.     Re-enter  Messala,  unth  Brutus,  young 
Cato,  Strato,  Volumnius,  and  Lucilius. 

Bru.   Where,  where,  Messala,  doth  his  body  lie  ? 

Mes.   Lo,  yonder  ;  and  Titinius  mourning  it. 

Bru.   Titinius'  face  is  upward. 

Cato.  He  is  slain. 

Bru.  O  Julius  Caesar,  thou  art  mighty  yet ! 
Thy  spirit  walks  abroad,  and  turns  our  swords 
In  our  own  proper  entrails.  [Low  Alarums. 

Cato.  Brave  Titinius ! 

Look,  whe'r  he  have  not  crown'd  dead  Cassius  ! 

Bru.  Are  yet  two  Romans  living  such  as  these?  — 
Tlic  hist  of  all  the  Romans,  fare  thee  well ! 
It  is  impossible  that  ever  Rome 

Should  breed  thy  fellow Friends,  I  owe  more  tears 

To  tins  dead  man,  than  you  sliall  see  me  pay.— 

1  shall  find  time,  Cassius,  I  shall  find  time.  — 
Come,  therefore,  and  to  Thassos  send  his  body ; 
I  lis  funeral  shall  not  be  in  our  camp. 

Lest  it  discomfort  us.  —  Lucilius,  come; 
And  come,  young  Cato,  let  U8  to  the  field.  — 


Labeo,  and  Flavins,  set  our  battles  on  :  — 
''J'is  three  o'clock  ;  and,  Romans,  yet  ere  night 
We  shall  try  fortune  in  a  second  fight.        \^Exeunt, 

SCENE  IV.  ^Another  Fart  of  the  Field. 

Alarum.     Enter,  fighting.  Soldiers  of  both  Armies  ; 
then  Brutus,  Cato,  Lucilius,  and  others. 

Bru.  Yet,  countrymen,  O,  yet  hold  up  your  heads ! 
Cato.   What  bastard  doth  not  ?  Who  will  go  with 
me? 
I  will  proclaim  my  name  about  the  field  : 
I  am  tlie  son  of  Marcus  Cato,  ho  ! 
A  foe  to  tyrants,  and  my  country's  friend; 
I  am  the  son  of  Marcus  Cato,  ho  ! 

[Charges  the  Enemy. 
Bru.   And  I  am  Brutus,  Marcus  Brutus,  I ; 
Brutus,  my  country's  friend  ;  know  me  for  Brutus. 
[Exit,  charging  the  Enemy.     Cato  is  over- 
powered, and  falls. 
Luc.   O  young  and  noble  Cato,  art  thou  down  ? 
Why,  now  thou  diest  as  bravely  as  Titinius  ; 
And  mayst  be  honour'd,  being  Cato's  son. 
1  Sold.   Yield,  or  thou  diest. 
Luc.  Only  I  yield  to  die  : 

There  is  so  much  that  thou  wilt  kill  me  straight ; 

[Offering  Money, 
Kill  Brutus,  and  be  honour'd  in  his  death. 

1  Sold.   We  must  not.  —  A  noble  prisoner  ! 

2  Sold.   Room,  ho !  Tell  Antony,  Brutus  is  ta'en. 
1  Sold.    I'll    tell   the  news.  —  Here  comes   the 

general : 

Enter  Antony. 

Brutus  is  ta'en,  Brutus  is  ta'en,  my  lord. 

Ant.   Where  is  he  ? 

Luc.   Safe,  Antony ;  Brutus  is  safe  enough : 
I  dare  assure  thee,  that  no  enemy 
Shall  ever  take  alive  the  noble  Brutus  : 
The  gods  defend  him  from  so  great  a  shame  ! 
When  you  do  find  him  or  alive,  or  dead, 
He  will  be  found  like  Brutus,  like  himself. 

Ant.  This  is  not  Brutus,  friend ;  but,  I  assure  you, 
A  prize  no  less  in  worth  :  keep  this  man  safe, 
Give  him  all  kindness :   I  had  ratlier  have 
Such  men  my  friends  than  enemies.     Go  on, 
And  see  whe'r  Brutus  be  alive,  or  dead  : 
And  bring  us  word,  unto  Octavius'  tent. 
How  every  thing  is  chanc'd.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Another  Fart  of  the  Field. 

Enter  Brutus,  Dardanius,  Clitus,  Strato,  and 
Volumnius. 

Bru.   Come,  poor  remains  of  friends,  rest  on  this 
rock. 

CU.   Statilius  show'd  the  torch-light;  but,  my  lord, 
He  came  not  back  ;  he  is  or  ta'en,  or  slain. 

Bru.    Sit  thee  down,  Clitus,  slaying  is  the  word; 
It  is  a  deed  in  fashion.     Hark  tliee,  Clitus.  — 

f  Whispering. 

Cli.  What,  I,  my  lord  ?  No,  not  for  all  the  world. 

Bi-u.  Peace,  then,  mo  words. 

Cli.  I'll  rather  kill  myself. 

Bru.   Hark  thee,  Dardanius !         [  Whispers  him. 

Dar.  I  do  such  a  deed  ? 

Cli.   O,  Dardanius ! 

Dar.    O,  Clitus ! 

Cli.   What  ill  request  did  Brutus  make  to  thee  ? 

Dar.  To  kill  him,  Clitus :   Look,  he  meditates. 


700 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


Act  V, 


Cli.   Now  is  that  noble  vessel  full  of  gnef. 
That  it  runs  over  even  at  his  eyes. 

Bru.  Come  hither,  good  Volumnius :  list  a  word. 

Vol.   What  says  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Why,  this,  Volumnius  : 

The  ghost  of  Caesar  hath  appear'd  to  me 
Two  several  times  by  night :  at  Sardis,  once ; 
And,  this  last  night,  here  in  Philippi*  fields. 
I  know,  my  hour  is  come. 

Vol.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bru.   Nay,  I  am  sure  it  is,  Volumnius. 
Thou  seest  the  world,  Volumnius,  how  it  goes  j 
Our  enemies  have  beat  us  to  the  pit : 
It  is  more  worthy  to  leap  in  ourselves, 
Than  tarry  till  they  push  us.      Good  Volumnius, 
Thou  know'st,  that  we  two  went  to  school  together ; 
Even  for  that  our  love  of  old  I  pray  thee, 
Hold  thou  my  sword-hilts,  whilst  I  run  on  it. 

Vol.   That's  not  an  oflSce  for  a  friend,  my  lord. 

\_Alarum  still. 

Cli.   Fly,  fly,  my  lord ;  there  is  no  tarrying  here. 

Bru.   Farewell  to  you ;  —  and  you  ;  —  and  you, 
Volumnius.  — 
Strato,  thou  hast  been  all  this  while  asleep  ; 
Farewell  to  thee,  too,  Strato.  —  Countrymen. 
My  heart  doth  joy,  that  yet  in  all  my  life, 
I  found  no  man,  but  he  was  true  to  me. 
I  shall  have  glory  by  this  losing  day, 
More  than  Octavius,  and  Mark  Antony, 
By  this  vile  conquest  shall  attain  unto. 
So  fare  you  well  at  once  ;  for  Brutus'  tongue 
Hath  almost  ended  his  life's  history : 
Night  hangs  upon  mine  eyes ;  my  bones  would  rest. 
That  have  but  labour'd  to  attain  this  hour. 

[Alarum.     Cry  within ;  Fly,  fly,  fly. 

Cli.   Fly,  my  lord,  fly. 

Bru.  Hence  ;  I  will  follow  thee. 

{^Exeunt  Clitus,  Dardanius,  and  Volumnius. 
I  pr'ythee,  Strato,  stay  thou  by  thy  lord  : 
Thou  art  a  fellow  of  a  good  respect ; 
Thy  life  hath  had  some  sraatch  of  honour  in  it : 
Hold  then  my  sword  and  turn  away  thy  face, 
Wliile  I  do  run  upon  it.     Wilt  thou,  Strato? 


Stra.    Give  me  your  hand  first:    Fare  you  well, 

my  lord. 
Bru.  Farewell,  good  Strato. — Caesar,  now  be  still, 
I  kill'd  not  thee  with  half  so  good  a  will. 

[He  runs  on  his  Sword,  and  dies. 

Alarum.       Retreat.      Enter    Octavius,    Antony, 
Messala,  Lucilius,  and  their  Army. 

Oct.   What  man  is  that  ? 

Mes.   My  master's  man.  —  Strato,  where  is  thy 
master  ? 

Stra.   Free  from  the  bondage  you  are  in,  Messala; 
The  conquerors  can  but  make  a  fire  of  him  j 
For  Brutus  only  overcame  himself, 
And  no  man  else  hath  honour  by  his  death. 

Luc.  So  Brutus  should  be  found.  —  I  thank  thee, 
Brutus, 
That  thou  hast  prov'd  Lucilius'  saying  true. 

Oct.  All  that  serv'd  Brutus,  I  will  entertain  them.' 
Fellow,  wilt  thou  bestow  thy  time  with  me  ? 

Stra.   Ay,  if  Messala  will  prefer  ^  me  to  you. 

Oct.   Do  so,  Messala. 

Mes.  How  died  my  master,  Strato' 

Stra.   I  held  the  sword,  and  he  did  run  on  it. 

Mes.   Octavius,  then  take  him  to  follow  thee, 
That  did  the  latest  service  to  my  master. 

Ant.   This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all : 
All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 
Did  that  they  did  in  envy  of  great  Caesar ; 
He  only,  in  a  general  honest  thought, 
And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 
His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 
So  mix'd  in  him,  that  Nature  might  stand  up, 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  This  was  a  man  ! 

Oct.   According  to  his  virtue  let  us  use  him, 
With  all  respect  and  rights  of  burial. 
Within  my  tent  his  bones  to-night  shall  lie, 
Most  like  a  soldier,  order'd  honourably.  — 
So,  call  the  field  to  rest :   and  let's  away. 
To  part  the  glories  of  this  happy  day.         [Exeunt. 
»  Receive  into  my  service.  '  Recommend. 


-7=^ 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


M.  Antony, 

OCTAVIUS   C^SAR, 
M.   ^MIL     LePIDI 

Sextus  Pompeius. 
DoMiTius  Enobarbus,  ~ 
Ventidius, 
Eros, 

SCARUS, 

Dehcetas, 
Demetrius, 

PuiLO, 

Mecenas, 

Agrippa, 

Dolabella, 

Proculekjs, 

Thyreus, 

Gallus, 


Triuvivirs. 


-  Friends  of  Antony. 


Friends  to  Caesar. 


Menas,  ■] 

Menecrates,   1-  Friends  of  Pompey. 

Varrius,         J 

Taurus,  Lieutenant- General  to  Caesar. 

Canidius,  Lieutenant- General  to  Antony. 

SiLius,  an  Officer  in  Ventidius's  Army. 

EuPHRONius,  an  Ambassador  from  Antony  to  Caesar. 

Alexas,    Mardian,     Seleucus,    and    Diomedes; 

Attendants  on  Cleopatra. 
A  Soothsayer. 
A  Clown. 


SCENE,  dispersed; 


Cleopatra,  Queen  of  Egypt. 

QcTAviA,  Sister  to  Caesar,  and  Wife  to  Antony. 

J         ^        '    j-  Attendants  on  Cleopatra. 

Officers,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  other  Attendants, 
in  several  Parts  of  the  Roman  Emjnre. 


WITH   THY   SHARP  TBKTU    THIB    KNOT   1NTRIN810AT1 
or  LIFK    AT  ONOE    DNTIK  ;    POOR  VBNOMODS   FOOt, 


ANTONY    AND    CLEOPATRA 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  Alexandria.       A    lioom    in   Cleo- 
patra'^  Palace. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Philo. 

Phi.   Nay,  but  this  dotage  of  our  general's, 
O'erflows  the  measure  :    Those  his  goodly  eyes, 
That  o'er  the  files  and  musters  of  the  war 
Have  glow'd  like  plated  Mars,  now  bend,  now  turn, 
The  office  and  devotion  of  their  view 
Upon  a  tawny  front :    his  captain's  heart, 
Which  in  the  scuffles  of  great  fights  had  burst 
The  buckles  on  his  breast,  reneges  '  all  temper ; 
And  is  become  the  bellows  and  the  fan, 
To  cool  a  gipsy's  will.      Look,  where  they  come ! 

FlourLi/i.      Enter  Antony   and    Cleopatra,    with 
tlieir  Trains;  Eunucfisf (tuning  her. 

Take  but  gootl  note,  and  you  shall  see  in  him 
The  triple  pillar  of  the  world  transform'd 
Into  a  strumpet's  fool :   behold  and  see. 

Cleo.   If  it  be  love  indeed,  tell  me  how  much. 
Ant.   There's  beggary  in    the  love  that  can  be 

reckon'd. 
Cleo.   I'll  set  a  bourn  <  how  far  to  be  bclov'd. 
Ant-  Then  must  thou  needs  find  out  new  heaven, 
new  earth. 


Rcnounco. 


'  Bound  or  liniit. 


Enter  an  Attendant. 

Att.   News,  my  good  lord,  from  Rome 

Ant.  Grates  -  me  :  —  The  sum  ? 

Cleo.   Nay,  hear  them,  Antony. 
Fulvia,  perchance,  is  angry  ;   Or,  who  knows 
If  the  scarce-bearded  Cajsar  have  not  sent 
His  powerful  mandate  to  you.  Do  this,  or  this; 
Take  in  *  that  kingdom,  and  enfranchise  that ; 
Perform  t,  or  else  we  damn  thee. 

Ant.  How,  my  love  ! 

Cleo.   Perchance,  —  nay,  and  most  like, 
You  must  not  stay  here  longer,  your  dismission 
Is  come  from  Cajsar  ;  therefore  hear  it,  Antony.  — 
Where's  Fulvia's  process?*  Caisar's,  I  would  say? — 

Both  ?  — 
Call  in  the  messengers.  —  As  I  am  Egypt's  queen. 
Thou  blushest,  Antony  ;  and  that  blood  of  thine 
Is  Caesar's  homager  :  else  so  thy  cheek  pays  shame. 
When   shrill-tongued  Fulvia  scolds.  —  The  mes- 
sengers. 

Ant.  Let  Rome  in  Tyber  melt !  and  the  wide  arch 
Of  the  rang'd  empire  fall  !   Here  is  my  space  ; 
Kingdoms  are  clay  :  our  dungy  earth  alike 
Feeds  Iniast  as  man  :    The  nobleness  of  life 
Is,  to  do  thus ;  when  such  a  mutual  pair 

{^Embracing. 
And  such  a  twain  can  do't,  in  which,  I  bind, 

3  Offends.  '•  Subdue,  conquer.  *  Sununons. 


702 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  1. 


On  pain  of  punishment,  the  world  to  weet  6, 
We  stand  up  peerless. 

Cleo.  Excellent  falsehood ! 

Why  did  he  marry  Fulvia,  and  not  love  her  ?  — 
I'll  seem  the  fool  I  am  not ;  Antony 
Will  be  himself. 

Ant.  But  stirr'd  by  Cleopatra.  — 

Now,  for  the  love  of  Love,  and  her  soft  hours, 
Let's  not  confound?  the  time  with  conference  harsh  : 
There's  not  a  minute  of  our  lives  should  stretch 
Without  some  pleasure  now  :  What  sport  to-night  ? 

CleO'   Hear  the  ambassadors. 

Ant.  Fye,  wrangling  queen  ! 

Whom  every  thing  becomes,  to  chide,  to  laugh, 
To  weep ;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself,  in  thee,  fair  and  admir'd  ! 
No  messenger ;  but  thine  and  all  alone, 
To-night,  we'll  wander  through  the  streets,  and  note 
The  qualities  of  people.      Come,  my  queen ; 
Last  night  you  did  desire  it :  —  Speak  not  to  us. 

{^Exeunt  Ant.  and  Cleop.  with  their  Train. 

Dem.   Is  Caesar  with  Antonius  priz'd  so  slight  ? 

Phi.   Sir,  sometimes,  when  he  is  not  Antony, 
He  comes  too  short  of  that  great  property 
Which  still  should  go  with  Antony. 

Dem.  1  am  full  sorry. 

That  he  approves  the  common  liar  8,  who 
Thus  speaks  of  him  at  Rome  :    But  I  will  hope 
Of  better  deeds  to-morrow.      Rest  you  happy  ! 

'iExeunt. 
SCENE  II.  —  Another  Room. 

Enter  Charmian,  Iras,  Alexas,  awrfa  Soothsayer. 

Char.  Lord  Alexas,  sweet  Alexas,  most  any  thing 
Alexas,  almost  most  absolute  Alexas,  where's  the 
soothsayer  that  you  praised  so  to  the  queen  ?  O,  that 
I  knew  this  husband,  which,  you  say,  must  change 
his  horns  with  garlands  ! 

Alex.   Soothsayer. 

Sooth.   Your  will  ? 

Char.  Is  this  the  man  ?  —  Is't  you,  sir,  that  know 
things  ? 

Sooth.    In  nature's  infinite  book  of  secrecy, 
A  little  I  can  read. 

Alex.  Show  him  your  hand. 

Enter  Enobarbus. 

Eno.  Bring  in  the  banquet  quickly  :  wine  enough, 
Cleopatra's  health  to  drink. 

Char.    Good  sir,  give  me  good  fortune. 

Sooth.   I  make  not,  but  foresee. 

Char.   Pray,  then,  foresee  me  one. 

Sooth.   You  shall  be  yet  far  fairer  than  you  are. 

Char.   He  means,  in  flesh. 

Iras.    No,  you  shall  paint  when  you  are  old. 

Char.   Wrinkles  forbid ! 

Alex.  Vex  not  his  prescience ;  be  attentive. 

Char.    Hush! 

Sooth.   You  shall  be  more  beloving,  than  beloved. 

Char.   I  had  rather  heat  my  liver  with  drinking. 

Alex.   Nay,  hear  him. 

Char.  Good  now,  some  excellent  fortune  !  Let 
me  be  married  to  three  kings  in  a  forenoon,  and 
widow  them  all :  find  me  to  marry  me  with  Octavius 
Cajsar,  and  companion  me  with  my  mistress. 

Sooth.  You  shall  outlive  the  lady  whom  you  serve. 

Char.  O  excellent!  I  love  long  life  better  than  figs. 

Sooth.  You  have  seen  and  proved  a  fairer  former 
fortune 
Than  that  which  is  to  approach. 

fi  Know.  ''  Consume.  ^  Fame. 


Char.    Nay,  come,  tell  Iras  hers. 

Alex.   We'll  know  all  our  fortunes. 

Eno.  Mine,  and  most  of  our  fortunes,  to-nighl, 
shall  be  —  drunk  to  bed. 

Char.   Pr'ythee,  tell  her  but  a  worky-day  fortune. 

Sooth.   Your  fortunes  are  alike. 

Iras.   But  how  ?  but  how  ?  give  me  particulars. 

Sooth.   I  have  said. 

Char.  Our  worser  thoughts  heavens  mend!  Alex- 
as, —  come,  his  fortune,  his  fortune.  —  O,  let  him 
marry,  sweet  Isis  9,  I  beseech  thee  !  And  let  her  die, 
and  give  him  a  worse  !  and  let  worse  follow  worse, 
till  the  worst  of  all  follow  him  laughing  to  his  grave. 
Good  Isis,  hear  me  this  prayer,  though  thou  deny  me 
a  matter  of  more  weight ;  good  Isis,  I  beseech  thee  ! 

Iras.  Amen.  Dear  goddess,  hear  that  prayer  of 
the  people !  Dear  Isis,  keep  decorum,  and  fortune 
him  accordingly ! 

Char.    Amen. 

Eno.   Hush  !  here  comes  Antony. 

Char.  Not  he,  the  queen. 

Enter  Cleopatra. 

Cleo.   Saw  you  my  lord  ? 

Eno.  No,  lady. 

Cleo.  Whs  he  not  here  ? 

Char.  No,  madam. 

Cleo.  He  was  disposed  to  mirth  ;  but  on  a  sudden 
A  Roman  thought  hath  struck  him.  — Enobarbus. 

Eno.  Madam. 

Cleo.  Seek  him  and  bring  him  hither.  Where's 
Alexas  ? 

Alex.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service.  —  My  lord 
approaches. 

Enter  Antony,  with  a  Messenger  and  Attendants. 
Cleo.  We  will  not  look  upon  him  :   Go  with  us. 

[Exeunt    Cleopatra,    Enobarbus,     Alexas, 
Iras,  Charmian,  Soothsayer,  and  Attendants. 

Mess.  Fulvia  thy  wife  first  came  into  the  field. 

Ant.  Against  my  brother  Lucius  ? 

Mess.  Ay  : 
But  soon  that  war  had  end,  and  the  time's  state 
Made  friends  of  them,  jointing  their  force  'gainst 

Caesar  ; 
Whose  better  issue  in  the  war,  from  Italy,^ 
Upon  the  first  encounter,  drave  them. 

Ant.  Well, 

What  worst  ? 

Mess.  The  nature  of  bad  news  infects  the  teller. 

Ant.  When  it  concerns  the  fool,  or  coward.  — On : 
Things,  that  are  past,  are  done  with  me. — 'Tis  thus: 
Who  tells  me  true,  though  in  his  tale  lie  death, 
I  hear  him  as  he  flatter'd. 

Mess.  Labienus 

(This  is  stiff  news)  hath,  with  his  Parthian  force. 
Extended '   Asia  from  Euphrates ; 
His  conquering  banner  shook,  from  Syria 
To  Lydia,  and  to  Ionia  ; 
Whilst 

Ant.  Antony,  thou  wouldst  say  — 

Mess.  O,  my  lor3 

Ant.  Speak  to  me  home,  mince  not  the  general 

tongue ;  j^  - 

Name  Cleopatra  as  she's  call'd  in  Rome  ;  Wt  I 

Rail  thou  in  Fulvia's  phrase :  and  taunt  my  faults      sf  | 
With  such  full  licence,  as  both  truth  and  malice 
Have   power  to   utter.        O,  then  we  bring  forth 
weeds, 
9  An  Egyptian  goddess.  '  Over-run. 


dl 


Scene  II. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


703 


When  our  quick  winds  « lie  still;  and  our  ills  told  us, 
Is  as  our  earing.'     Fare  thee  well  a  while. 

Mess.  At  your  noble  pleasure.  [Exit. 

Ant.    From  Sicyon  how  the  news  ?   Speak  there. 

1  Att.  The  man  from  Sicyon.  —  Is  there  sucli  an 

one? 

2  Alt.  He  stays  upon  your  will. 

^nt.  _  Let  him  appear,  — 

Tliese  strong  Egyptian  fetters  I  must  break. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Or  lose  myself  in  dotage.  —  What  are  you  ? 

2  Mess.  Fulvia  thy  wife  is  dead. 

Ant.  Where  died  she  ? 

2  Mess.  In  Sicyon  : 
Her  length  of  sickness,  with  what  else  more  serious 
Importeth  thee  to  know,  this  bears.    [Gives  a  Letter. 

Ant.  Forbear  me.  — 

[Exit  Messenger. 
There's  a  great  spirit  gone  !  Thus  did  I  desire  it : 
What  our  contempts  do  often  hurl  from  us. 
We  wish  it  ours  again  ;  the  present  pleasure. 
By  revolution  lowering,  does  become 
The  opposite  of  itself;  she's  good,  being  gone  ; 
The  hand  could  pluck  her  back,  that  shov'd  her  on. 
I  must  from  this  enchanting  queen  break  off ; 
Ten  thousand  harms,  more  than  the  ills  I  know. 
My  idleness  doth  hatch.  —  How  now !  Enobarbus  ! 

Enter  Enobarbus. 

Eno.  What's  your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Ant.  I  must  with  haste  from  hence. 

Eno.  Why  then,  we  kill  all  our  women :  We  see 
how  mortal  an  unkindness  is  to  them ;  if  they  suft'er 
our  departure,  death's  the  word. 

Ant.  I  must  be  gone. 

Eno.  Under  compelling  occasion,  let  women  die : 
It  were  pity  to  cast  tliem  away  for  nothing ;  though, 
between  them  and  a  great  cause,  they  should  be 
esteemed  nothing.  Cleopatra,  catching  but  the 
least  noise  of  this,  dies  instantly ;  I  have  seen  her 
die  twenty  times  upon  far  poorer  moment. 

Ant.  She  is  cunning  past  man's  thought. 

Eno.  Alack,  sir,  no ;  her  passions  are  made  of 
nothing  but  the  finest  part  of  pure  love  :  We  can- 
not call  her  winds  and  waters,  sighs  and  tears ;  they 
are  greater  storms  and  tempests  than  almanacks  can 
report :  this  cannot  be  cunning  in  her  ;  if  it  be,  she 
makes  a  shower  of  rain  as  well  as  Jove. 

Ant.  'Would  I  had  never  seen  her  ! 

Eno.  O,  sir,  you  had  then  left  unseen  a  wonder- 
ful piece  of  work  ;  which  not  to  have  been  blessed 
withal,  would  have  discredited  your  travcL 

Ant.  Fulvia  is  dead. 

Eno.  Sir? 

Ant.  Fulvia  is  dead. 

Eno.  Fulvia? 

Ant.  Dead. 

Eno.  Why,  sir,  give  the  gods  a  thankful  sacrifice. 
When  it  pleaseth  their  deities  to  take  the  wife  of  a 
man  from  him,  it  shows  to  man  the  tailors  of  the 
earth  ;  comforting  therein,  that  when  old  robes  are 
worn  out,  there  are  otliers  to  make  new.  If  there 
were  no  more  women  but  Fulvia,  then  had  you  in- 
deed a  cut,  and  the  case  to  be  lamented  :  this  grief 
is  crowned  with  consolation  ;  and,  indeed,  the  tears 
live  in  an  onion,  that  should  water  this  sorrow. 

'In  some  editions  minds. 

3  Tilling,  ploughing  ;  prepares  us  to  produce  good  8e;d. 


Ant.  The  business  slie  hath  broached  in  the  state, 
Cannot  endure  my  absence. 

Eno.  And  the  business  you  have  broached  here, 
cannot  be  without  you ;  especially  that  of  Cleopatra's, 
which  wholly  depends  on  your  abode. 

Ant.  No  more  light  answers.     Let  our  officers 
Have  notice  what  we  propose,      I  shall  break 
The  cause  of  our  expedience  *  to  the  queen. 
And  get  her  love  *  to  part.      For  not  alone 
The  death  of  Fulvia,  with  more  urgent  touches. 
Do  strongly  speak  to  us  :  but  tlie  letters  too 
Of  many  our  contriving  friends  in  Rome 
Petition  us  at  home :   Sextus  Pompeius 
Hatli  given  the  dare  to  Caesar,  and  commands 
The  empire  of  the  sea :  our  slippery  people 
(  Whose  love  is  never  link'd  to  the  deserver, 
Till  his  deserts  are  past,)  begin  to  throw 
Pompey  the  great,  and  all  his  dignities, 
Upon  his  son  ;  who,  high  in  name  and  power, 
Higher  than  both  in  blood  and  life,  stands  up 
For  the  main  soldier :   whose  quality,  going  on. 
The  sides  o'tlie  world  may  danger :  Much  is  breeding. 
Which,  like  the  courser's  hair,  hath  yet  but  life. 
And  not  a  serpent's  poison.      Say,  our  pleasure. 
To  such  whose  place  is  under  us,  requires 
Our  quick  remove  from  hence. 

Eno.  I  shall  do't.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IIL 
Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  Alexas. 

Cleo.   Where  is  he  ? 

Char.  I  did  not  see  him  since. 

Cleo.  See  where  he  is,  who's  with  him,  what  he 
does : — 
I  did  not  send  you^ :  —  If  you  find  him  sad, 
Say,  I  am  dancing ;  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sudden  sick :  Quick,  and  return, 

[Exit  Alkxas. 

Char.  Madam,  methinks,  if  you  did  love  him  dearly. 
You  do  not  hold  the  metliod  to  enforce 
The  like  from  him. 

Cteo.  What  should  I  do,  I  do  not? 

Char.  In  each  thing  give  him  way,  cross  hi  in  in 
nothing. 

Cleo.  Thou  teachest  like  afool :  the  way  to  lose  him. 

Char.  Tempt  him  not  so  too  far  :  I  wish,  forbear ; 
In  time  we  hate  that  which  we  often  fear. 

Enter  Antont. 
But  here  comes  Antony. 

Cleo.  I  am  sick,  and  sullen. 

Ant.  I  am  sorry  to  give  breathing  to  my  purpose.  — 

Cleo.  Help  me  away,  dear  Charmian,  I  shall  fall  ; 
It  cannot  be  thus  long,  the  sides  of  nature 
Will  not  sustain  it. 

Ant.  Now,  my  dearest  queen,  — 

Cleo.  Pray  you,  stand  further  from  me. 

Ant.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Cleo.  I  know,  by  that  same  eye,  there's  some  good 
news. 
What  says  tlie  married  woman  ?  —  You  may  go ; 
'Would,  she  had  never  given  you  leave  to  come ! 
Let  her  not  say,  'tis  I  tliat  keep  you  here, 
I  have  no  power  upon  you ;  hers  you  are. 

Ant.   The  gods  best  know,  — 

Cleo.  O,  never,  was  there  queen, 

«  Expedition.  *  Le.n\e. 

6  Look  as  if  I  did  not  send  fou. 


704 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  I. 


So  mightily  betray'd  !   Yet,  at  the  first, 
I  saw  the  treasons  planted. 

j4nt.  Cleopatra,  — 

C/eo.  Why  should  I  think,  you  can  be  mine,  and  true, 
Though  you  in  swearing  shake  the  throned  gods. 
Who  have  been  false  to  Fulvia?  Riotous  madness. 
To  be  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 
Which  break  themselves  in  swearing  ! 

jint.  Most  sweet  queen,  — 

Cleo.  Nay,  pray  you,  seek  no  colour  for  your  going. 
But  bid  farewell,  and  go  :  when  you  sued  staying, 
Then  was  the  time  for  words :  No  going  then  ;  — 
Eternity  was  in  our  lips,  and  eyes ; 
Bliss  in  our  brows  bent  7 ;  none  our  parts  so  poor. 
But  was  a  race  »  of  heaven  ;  They  are  so  still, 
Or  thou,  the  greatest  soldier  of  the  world, 
Art  turn'd  the  greatest  liar. 

^nt.  How  now,  lady  ! 

Cleo.  I  would,  I  had  thy  inches;  thou  shouldst  know, 
There  were  a  heart  in  Egypt. 

Ant.  Hear  me,  queen  : 

The  strong  necessity  of  time  commands 
Our  services  awhile  ;  but  my  full  heart 
Remains  in  use  with  you.      Our  Italy 
Shines  o'er  with  civil  swords :    Sextus  Pompeius 
Makes  his  approaches  to  the  port  9  of  Rome : 
Equality  of  two  domestick  powers 
Breeds  scrupulous  faction :   The  hated,  grown  to 

strength. 
Are  newly  grown  to  love :  the  condemn'd  Pompey, 
Rich  in  his  father's  honour,  creeps  apace 
Into  the  hearts  of  such  as  have  not  thriv'd 
Upon  the  present'state,  whose  numbers  threaten  ; 
And  quietness,  grown  sick  of  rest,  would  purge 
By  any  desperate  change  :    My  more  particular. 
And  that  which  most  with  you  should  safe  my  going. 
Is  Fulvia's  death. 

Cleo.  Though  age  from  folly  could  not  give  me 
freedom, 
It  does  from  childishness :  —  Can  Fulvia  die  ? 

Ant.    She's  dead,  my  queen : 
Look  here,  and,  at  thy  sovereign  leisure,  read 
The  garboils  she  awak'd  '  ;  at  the  last,  best : 
See,  when,  and  where  she  died. 

Cleo.  O  most  false  love  ! 

Where  be  the  sacred  vials  thou  shouldst  fill 
With  sorrowful  water  ?  Now  I  see,  I  see. 
In  Fulvia's  death,  how  mine  receiv'd  shall  be. 

Ant.   Quarrel  no  more,  but  be  prepar'd  to  know 
The  purposes  1  bear;  which  are,  or  cease. 
As  you  shall  give  the  advice  :    Now,  by  the  fire, 
That  quickens  Nilus'  slime,  I  go  from  hence. 
Thy  soldier,  servant ;  making  peace,  or  war. 
As  thou  afFect'st. 

Cleo.  Cut  my  lace,  Charmian,  come ;  — 

But  let  it  be.  —  I  am  quickly  ill,  and  well : 
So  Antony  loves. 

Ant.  My  precious  queen,  forbear ; 

And  give  true  evidence  to  his  love,  which  stands 
A  n  honourable  trial. 

Cleo.  So  Fulvia  told  me. 

I  pr'ythee,  turn  aside,  and  weep  for  her ; 
Then  bid  adieu  to  me,  and  say,  the  tears 
Belong  to  Egypt  2 :    Good  now,  play  one  scene 
Of  excellent  dissembling  ;  and  let  it  look 
Like  perfect  honour. 

Ant.      '  You'll  heat  my  blood  ;  no  more. 

^  The  arch  of  our  eye-brows.  8  Smack  or  flavour. 

•  S^^^-     .  1  The  commotion  she  occasioned. 

■  To  me,  the  queen  of  Egypt 


Cleo.   You  can  do  better  yet ;  but  this  is  meetly. 

Ant.   Now  by  my  sword, 

Cleo.  And  target,  —  Still  he  mends ; 

But  this  is  not  the  best :    Look,  pr'ythee,  Charmian, 
How  this  Herculean  Roman  does  become 
The  carriage  of  his  chafe.  3 

/int.  I'll  leave  you,  lady. 

Cleo.   Courteous  lord,  one  word. 
Sir,  you  and  I  must  part,  —  but  that's  not  it : 
Sir,  you  and  I  have  lov'd,  —  but  there's  not  it ; 
That  you  know  well :   Something  it  is  I  would, — 
O,  my  oblivion  *  is  a  very  Antony, 
And  I  am  all  forgotten. 

Ant.  But  that  your  royalty 

Holds  idleness  your  subject,  I  should  take  you 
For  idleness  itself. 

Cleo.  'Tis  sweating  labour, 

To  bear  such  idleness  so  near  the  heart 
As  Cleopatra  this.      But,  sir,  forgive  me ; 
Since  my  becomings  kill  me,  when  they  do  not 
Eye  well  to  you  :    Your  honour  calls  you  hence ; 
Therefore  be  deaf  to  my  unpitied  folly. 
And  all  the  gods  go  with  you  !  upon  your  sword 
Sit  laurel'd  victory  !  and  smooth  success 
Be  strew'd  before  your  feet ! 

Ant.  Let  us  go.      Come ; 

Our  separation  so  abides,  and  flies. 
That  thou,  residing  here,  go'st  yet  with  me. 
And  I,  hence  fleeting,  here  remain  with  thee. 
Away.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 


Rome.     An  Apartment  in  Cajsar'i 
House. 


Enter  Octavius  Caesar,  Lepidus,  and  Attendants. 

Cces.  You  may  see,  Lepidus,  and  henceforth  know 
It  is  not  Caesar's  natural  vice  to  hate 
One  great  competitor  :    From  Alexandria 
This  is  the  news ;   He  fishes,  drinks,  and  wastes 
The  lamps  of  night  in  revel :   is  not  more  manlike 
Than  Cleopatra  ;  nor  the  queen  Ptolemy 
More  womanly  than  he  :   hardly  gave  audience,  or 
Vouchsaf'd  to  think  he  had  partners:    You  shall 

find  there 
A  man,  who  is  the  abstract  of  all  faults 
That  all  men  follow. 

Lep.  I  must  not  think,  there  are 

Evils  enough  to  darken  all  his  goodness : 
His  faults,  in  him,  seem  as  the  spots  of  heaven. 
More  fiery  by  night's  blackness ;  hereditary. 
Rather  than  purchas'd  ^  ;  what  he  cannot  change, 
Than  what  he  chooses. 

CcBS.   You  are  too  indulgent :   Let  us  grant,  it  is 
not 
Amiss  to  press  the  bed  of  Ptolemy ; 
To  give  a  kingdom  for  a  mirth  ;  to  sit 
And  keep  the  turn  of  tippling  with  a  slave  ; 
To  reel  the  streets  at  noon,  and  stand  the  buflTet 
With  knaves  unworthy  :   say,  this  becomes  him, 
(As  his  composure  must  be  rare  indeed. 
Whom  these  things  cannot  blemish,)  yet  must  Antony 
No  way  excuse  his  soils,  when  we  do  bear 
So  great  weight  in  his  lightness.      If  he  fiU'd 
His  vacancy  with  his  voluptuousness. 
Full  surfeits,  and  the  dryness  of  his  bones. 
Call  on  him  ^  for't :  but,  to  confound  '  such  time. 
That  drums  him  from  his  sport,  and  speaks  as  loud 

3  Rage.  <  Oblivious  memory, 

*  Procured  by  his  own  fault. 

6  Visit  him.  7  Consume. 


Scene  IV. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


705 


As  his  own  state,  and  ours,  —  'tis  to  be  chid 
As  we  rate  boys ;  who  being  mature  in  knowledge, 
Pawn  their  experience  to  their  present  pleasure, 
And  so  rebel  to  judgment. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Lep.  Here's  more  news. 

Jl/«5.   Thy  biddings  have  been  done  ;  and  every 
hour. 
Most  noble  Casar,  shalt  thou  have  report 
How  'tis  abroad.     Pompey  is  strong  at  sea ; 
And  it  appears,  he  is  belov'd  of  those 
That  only  have  fear'd  Caesar :   to  the  ports 
The  discontents  8  repair,  and  men's  reports 
Give  him  much  wrong'd. 

Ciss.  I  should  have  known  no  less :  — 

It  hath  been  taught  us  from  tlie  primal  state, 
That  he,  which  is,  was  wish'd,  until  he  were ; 
And  the  ebb'd  man,  ne'er  lov'd,  till  ne'er  worth  love, 
Comes  dear'd,  by  being  lack'd.9  This  common  body, 
Like  a  vagabond  flag  upon  the  stream, 
Goes  to,  and  back,  lackeying  the  varying  tide. 
To  rot  itself  with  motion. 

Mess.  Cajsar,  I  bring  thee  word, 

Menecrates  and  Menas,  famous  pirates, 
Make  the  sea  serve  them ;  which  they  ear  and  wound 
With  keels  of  every  kind :   Many  hot  inroads 
They  make  in  Italy  ;  the  borders  maritime 
I^ack  blood  '  to  think  on't,  and  flush  youth  revolt : 
No  vessel  can  peep  forth,  but  'tis  as  soon 
I'liken  as  seen  ;  for  Pompey's  name  strikes  more, 
Than  could  his  war  resisted. 

Cas.  Antony, 

Leave  thy  lascivious  wassels.'^     When  thou  once 
Was  beaten  from  Modena,  where  thou  slew'st 
Hirtius  and  Pansa,  consuls,  at  thy  heel 
Did  famine  follow  ;  whom  thou  fought'st  against 
Though  daintily  brought  up,  with  patience  more 
Than  savages  could  suflTer  :    Thou  didst  drink 
What  beasts  would  cough  at :  thy  palate  then  did 

deign 
The  roughest  berry  on  the  rudest  hedge ; 
Yoa,  like  the  stag,  when  snow  the  pasture  sheets. 
The  barks  of  trees  thou  browsed'st ;  on  the  Alps, 
It  is  reported,  thou  didst  eat  strange  flesh, 
Which  some  did  die  to  look  on :    And  all  this 
(It  wounds  thine  honour,  that  I  speak  it  now,) 
Was  borne  so  like  a  soldier,  that  thy  cheek 
So  much  as  lank'd  not. 

Lep.  It  is  pity  of  him. 

Cers.   Let  his  shames  quickly 
Drive  him  to  Rome :   'Tis  time  we  twain 
Did  show  ourselves  i'  the  field ;  and,  to  that  end. 
Assemble  we  immediate  council :    Pompey 
Thrives  in  our  idleness. 

Lep.  To-morrow,  Casar, 

I  shall  be  furnish'd  to  inform  you  rightly 
Both,  what  by  sea  and  land  I  can  be  able. 
To  'front  this  present  time. 

Cces.  Till  which  encounter, 

It  is  my  business  too.     Farewell. 

Lep.   Farewell,  my  lord  :   What  you  shall  know 
mean  time 
Of  stirs  abroad,  I  shall  beseech  you,  sir, 
To  let  me  be  partaker. 

Ctes.  Doubt  not,  sir ; 

I  knew  it  for  my  bond.'  [Exmnt. 

"  nisrontcnted.  »  Endeared  by  being  misted. 

'  Turn  pale. 

-  Feaslings ;  in  the  old  copy  it  is  vaissaUft,  I  e 
'  My  boundcn  duty. 


SCENE  V Alexandria.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  Mardian 

Cleo.   Charmian,  — 

Char.   Madam. 

Cleo.   Ha,  ha  !  — 
Give  me  to  drink  mandragora.^ 

Char.  Why,  madam  ? 

Cleo.   That  I  might  sleep  out  this  great  gap  of 
time. 
My  Antony  is  away. 

Char.  You  think  of  him 

Too  much. 

Cleo.  O,  treason ! 

Char.  Madam,  I  trust,  not  so. 

Cleo.  O  Charmian, 

Where  think'st  thou  he  is  now  ?    Stands  he,  or  sits 

he? 
Or  does  he  walk  ?  or  is  he  on  his  horse  ? 
Do  bravely,  horse !    for  wot'st    thou    whom   thou 

mov'st  ? 
The  demi- Atlas  of  this  earth,  the  arm 
And  burgonet  *  of  men.  —  He's  speaking  now, 
Or  murmuring,  Where's  my  serpent  of  old  Nile  ? 
For  so  he  calls  me  :   Now  I  feed  myself 
With  most  delicious  poison  :  —  Think  on  me, 
That  am  with  Phoebus'  amorous  pinches  black, 
And  wrinkled  deep  in  time  ?  Broad-fronted  Csesar, 
When  thou  wast  here  above  the  ground,  I  was 
A  morsel  for  a  monarch  :  and  great  Pompey 
Would  stand,  and  make  his  eyes  grow  in  my  brow ; 
There  would  he  anchor  liis  aspect,  and  die 
With  looking  on  his  life. 

Enter  A  lex  as. 

AUx.  Sovereign  of  Egypt,  hail ! 

Cleo.   How  much  unlike  art  thou  Mark  Antony? 
Yet  coming  from  him,  that  great  medicine  hath 
With  his  tinct  gilded  thee.  — 
How  goes  it  with  my  brave  Mark  Antony  ? 

Alex.   Last  thing  he  did,  dear  queen. 
He  kiss'd,  —  the  last  of  many  doubled  kisses,  — 
This  orient  pearl ;  —  His  speech  sticks  in  my  heart. 

Cleo.   Mine  ear  must  pluck  it  thence. 

Alex.  Good  friend,  quoth  lie, 

Say,  The  firm  Roman  to  great  Egypt  sends 
This  treasure  of  an  oyster;  at  whose  footy 
To  mend  the  petty  present,  I  unll  piece 
Her  opulent  throne  with  kingdoms  ;  All  the  easty 
Say  thou,  shall  call  her  mistress.      So  he  nodded, 
And  soberly  did  mount  a  termagant  ^  steed. 
Who  neigh'd  so  high,  that  what  I  would  have  spoke 
Was  beastly  dumb'd  by  him. 

Cleo.  What,  was  he  sad,  or  merry  ? 

Alex.   Like  to  the  time  o'  tlie  year  between  the 
extremes 
Of  hot  and  cold  ;  he  was  nor  sad,  nor  merry. 

Cleo.   O  well-divided  disposition  !  —  Note  him, 
Note  him,  good  Charmian,  'tis  the  man  ;  but  note 

him  : 
He  was  not  sad :   for  he  would  shine  on  those 
That  make  their  looks  by  his  :   he  was  not  merry ; 
Which  seem'd  to  tell  them,  his  remembrance  lay 
In  Egypt  with  his  joy  :   but  between  both  ; 
O  heavenly  mingle  !  —  Bc'st  tJjou  sad  or  merry. 
The  violence  of  either  thee  becomes  ; 
So  does  it  no  man  else.  —  Met'st  thou  my  posts  ' 

••  A  sleepy  potion.  *  A  helmet  *  Furious 

Zz 


706 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  II. 


Alex.   Ay,  madam,  twenty  several  messengers  : 
Why  do  you  send  so  thick  ? 

Cleo.  Who's  born  that  day 

When  I  forget  to  send  to  Antony, 
Shall  die  a  beggar.  —  Ink  and  paper,  Charmian.  — 
Welcome,  my  good  Alexas.  —  Did  I,  Charmian, 
Ever  love  Caesar  so  ? 

Char.  O  that  brave  Caesar  ! 

Cleo.   Be  chok'd  with  such  anotlier  emphasis ! 
Say,  the  brave  Antony. 

Char,  The  valiant  Csesar  ! 


Cleo.   By  Isis,  I  will  give  thee  bloody  teeth, 
If  thou  with  Caesar  paragon  again 
My  man  of  men. 

Char.  By  your  most  gracious  pardon, 

I  sing  but  after  you. 

Cleo.  My  salad  days  ; 

When  1  was  green  in  judgment :  —  Cold  in  blood, 
To  say,  as  I  said  then  !  —  But,  come,  away : 
Get  me  ink  and  paper  :  he  shall  have  every  day 
A  several  greeting,  or  I'll  unpeople  Egypt. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  Messina.     A  Room  in  Pompey's 
House. 

Enter  Pompey,  Menecrates,  and  Men  as. 

Pom.   If  the  great  gods  be  just,  they  shall  assist 
The  deeds  of  justest  men. 

Mene.  Know,  worthy  Pompey, 

That  what  they  do  delay,  they  not  deny. 

Pom.   Whiles   we  are   suitors  to   their  throne, 
decays 
The  thing  we  sue  for. 

Mene.  We,  ignorant  of  ourselves. 

Beg  often  our  own  arms,  which  the  wise  powers 
Deny  us  for  our  good  ;  so  find  we  profit, 
By  losing  of  our  prayers. 

Po7n.  I  shall  do  well : 

The  people  love  me,  and  the  sea  is  mine ; 
My  power's  a  crescent,  and  my  auguring  hope 
Says,  it  will  come  to  the  full.      Mark  Antony 
In  Egypt  sits  at  dinner,  and  will  make 
No  wars  without  doors  :    Caesar  gets  money,  where 
He  loses  hearts  :    Lepidus  flatters  both. 
Of  both  is  flatter'd  ;  but  he  neither  loves. 
Nor  either  cares  for  him. 

Men.  Caesar  and  Lepidus 

Are  in  the  field  ;  a  mighty  strength  they  carry. 

Pom.   Where  have  you  this  ?  'tis  false. 

Men.  From  Silvius,  sir. 

Pom.   He  dreams ;   1  know,  they  are  in   Rohie 
together. 
Looking  for  Antony :   But  all  charms  of  love. 
Salt  Cleopatra,  soften  thy  wan'd  i  lip  ! 
Let  witchcraft  join  with  beauty  ! 
Tie  up  the  libertine  in  a  field  of  feasts. 
Keep  his  brain  fuming  ;  Epicurean  cooks. 
Sharpen  with  cloyless  sauce  his  appetite  ; 
That  sleep  and  feeding  may  prorogue  his  honour. 
Even  till  -  a  Lethe'd  dulness. —  How  now,  Varrius? 

Enter  Varrius. 

Var.   This  is  most  certain  that  I  shall  deliver : 
Mark  Antony  is  every  hour  in  Rome 
Expected  ;  since  he  went  from  Egypt,  'tis 
A  space  for  further  travel. 

Pom.  1  could  have  given  less  matter 

A  better  ear.  —  Menas,  I  did  not  think. 
This  amorous  surfeiter  would  have  don'd3  his  helm  4 
For  such  a  petty  war  :   his  soldiership 
Is  twice  the  other  twain  :    But  let  us  rear 
The  higher  our  opinion,  that  our  stirring 


I  Can  from  the  lap  of  Egypt's  widow  pluck 
The  ne'er  lust-wearied  Antony. 

Men.  I  cannot  hope, 

Caesar  and  Antony  shall  well  greet  together  : 
His  wife,  that's  dead,  did  trespasses  to  Caesar ; 
His  brother  warr'd  upon  him ;  although,  I  think. 
Not  mov'd  by  Antony. 

Pom.  I  know  not,  Menas, 

How  lesser  enmities  may  give  way  to  greater. 
Were't  not  that  we  stand  up  against  them  all, 
'Twere    pregnant    they   should    square  *   between 

themselves ; 
For  they  ha,ve  entertained  cause  enough 
To  draw  their  swords  :   but  how  the  fear  of  us 
May  cement  their  divisions,  and  bind  up 
The  petty  difference,  we  yet  not  know. 
Be  it  as  our  gods  will  have  it !   It  only  stands 
Our  lives  upon,  to  use  our  strongest  hands. 
Come,  Menas.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Rome.     A  Room  in  the  House  of 
Lepidus. 

Enter  Enobarbus  and  Lepidus. 

Lep.   Good  Enobarbus,  'tis  a  worthy  deed, 
And  shall  become  you  well,  to  entreat  your  captain 
To  soft  and  gentle  speech.. 

Eno.  I  shall  entreat  him 

To  answer  like  himself :   If  Caesar  move  him, 
Let  Antony  look  over  Caesar's  head. 
And  speak  as  loud  as  Mars.     By  Jupiter, 
Were  I  the  wearer  of  Antonius'  beard, 
I  would  not  shave  to-day. 

Lep.  'Tis  not  a  time 

For  private  stomaching. 

Eno.  Every  time 

Serves  for  the  matter  that  is  then  bom  in  it. 

Lep.  But  small  to  greater  matters  must  give  way. 

Eno.   Not  if  the  small  come  first. 

Lep.  Your  speech  is  passion  : 

But,  pray  you,  stir  no  embers  up.      Here  comes 
The  noble  Antony. 


-  Declined,  faded. 

3  Done  on ;  i.  e.  put  on. 


2  To. 

*  Helmet. 


Eno. 


Enter  Antony  and  Ventimus. 
And  yonder,  Caesar. 


Enter  Caesar,  Mec^enas,  and  Agrippa. 

Ant.   If  we  compose  ^  well  here,  to  Parthia  : 
Hark  you,  Ventidius. 

Cees.  I  do  not  know, 

Mecaenas;  ask  Agrippa. 

5  Quarrel.  ^  Agree. 


Scene  II. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


'707 


Lep>  Noble  friends, 

That  which  combin'd  us  was  most  great,  and  let  not 
A  leaner  action  rend  us.      What's  amiss, 
May  it  be  gently  heard :    When  we  debate 
Our  trivial  difference  loud,  we  do  commit 
Murder  in  healing  wounds  :   Then,  noble  partners, 
(The  rather,  for  I  earnestly  beseech,) 
Touch  you  the  sourest  points  with  sweetest  terms. 
Nor  curstness  7  grow  to  the  matter. 

Ant.  'Tis  spoken  well ; 

Were  we  before  our  armies,  and  to  fight, 
I  should  do  thus. 

Cccs.   Welcome  to  Rome. 

Ant.  Thank  you. 

CcEs.  Sit. 

Ant.  Sit,  sir ! 

Cees.  Nay, 

Then  — 

Ant.  I  learn,  you  take  things  ill,  which  are  not  so ; 
Or,  being,  concern  you  not. 

Cces.  I  must  be  laugh'd  at. 

If,  or  for  nothing,  or  a  little,  I 
Should  say  myself  offended  ;  and  witli  you 
Chiefly  i*  the  world  :  more  laugh'd  at,  that  I  should 
Once  name  you  derogately,  when  to  sound  your 

name 
It  not  concem'd  me. 

Ant.  My  being  in  Egypt,  Caesar, 

What  was't  to  you  ? 

Cfss.   No  more  than  my  residing  here  at  Rome 
Might  be  to  you  in  Egypt :    Yet,  if  you  there 
Did  practise  8  on  my  state,  your  being  in  Egypt 
Might  be  my  question. 9 

Ant.  How  intend  you,  practis'd  ? 

Cees.  You  may  be  pleas'd  to  catch  at  mine  intent, 
By  what  did  here  befall  me.   Your  wife,  and  brother. 
Made  wars  upon  me  ;  and  their  contestation 
Was  theme  for  you,  you  were  the  word  of  war. 

Ant.    You  do  mistake  your  business ;  my  brother 
never 
Did  urge  me  in  his  act :   I  did  enquire  it ; 
And  have  my  learning  from  some  true  reports, 
That  drew  their  swords  with  you.    Did  he  not  rather 
Discredit  my  authority  with  yours  ; 
And  make  the  wars  aUke  against  my  stomach, 
Having  alike  your  cause  ?  Of  this,  my  letters 
Before  did  satisfy  you.      If  you'll  patch  a  quarrel. 
As  matter  whole  you  have  not  to  make  it  with, 
It  must  not  be  with  this. 

Cees.  You  praise  yourself 

By  laying  defects  of  judgment  to  me ;  but 
You  patch'd  up  your  excuses. 

Ant.  Not  so,  not  so  ; 

I  know  you  could  not  lack,  I  am  certain  on't, 
Very  necessity  of  this  thought,  that  I, 
Your  partner  in  the  cause  'gainst  wliich  he  fought, 
Could  not  with  graceful  eyes  attend  those  wars 
Which  fronted  •  mine  own  peace.     As  for  my  wife, 
I  would  you  had  her  spirit  in  such  another : 
The  third  o'  the  world  is  yours  ;  which  with  a  snaffle 
You  may  pace  easy,  but  not  such  a  wife. 

Eno.  ' Woidd  we  had  all  such  wives,  that  the  men 
might  go  to  wars  with  the  women  ! 

Ant.   So  much  uncurable,  her  garboils  ',  Caesar 
Made  out  of  her  impatience,  (which  not  wanted 
Shrewdness  of  policy  too,)  I  grieving  grant. 
Did  you  too  much  disquiet :  for  that,  you  must 
But  say,  I  could  not  help  it. 

7  Let  not  ill  humour  be  added.    "  Uie  bad  art*  or  stratagems. 
"  Subject  of  conversation.         >  Opposed.         •  Coininotiuns. 


Cces.  I  wrote  to  you, 

When  rioting  in  Alexandria  ;  you 
Did  pocket  up  my  letters,  and  with  taunts 
Did  gibe  my  missive  3  out  of  audience. 

Ant.  Sir, 

He  fell  upon  me,  ere  admitted ;  then 
Three  kings  I  had  newly  feasted,  and  did  want 
Of  what  I  was  i'  the  morning  :   but,  next  day, 
I  told  him  of  myself ;  which  was  as  much 
As  to  have  ask'd  Iiim  pardon  :   Let  this  fellow 
Be  nothing  of  our  strife ;  if  we  contend. 
Out  of  our  question^  wipe  him. 

Cces.  You  have  broken 

The  article  of  your  oath ;  which  you  shall  never 
Have  tongue  to  charge  me  with. 

Lep.  Soft,  CiEsar. 

Ant.   No,  Lepidus,  let  him  speak  ; 
The  honour's  sacred  which  he  talks  on  now, 
Supposing  that  I  lack'd  it :    But  on,  Caesar ; 
The  article  of  my  oath,  — 

Cces.   To  lend  me  arms,  and  aid,  when  I  reqtiir'd 
them ; 
The  which  you  both  denied. 

Ant.  Neglected,  rather ; 

And  then,  when  poison'd  hours  had  bound  me  up 
From  mine  own  knowledge.      As  nearly  as  I  may, 
I'll  play  the  penitent  to  you  :   but  mine  lionesty 
Shall  not  make  poor  my  greatness,  nor  my  power 
Work  without  it :    Truth  is,  that  Fulvia, 
To  have  me  out  of  Egypt,  made  wars  here ; 
For  which  myself,  the  ignorant  motive,  do 
So  far  ask  pardon,  as  befits  mine  honour 
To  stoop  in  such  a  case. 

Lep.  'Tis  nobly  spoken. 

Mec.  If  it  might  please  you,  to  enforce  no  further 
The  griefs  5  between  ye  :  to  forget  tliem  quite. 
Were  to  remember  that  tlie  present  need 
Speaks  to  atone  *5  you. 

Lep.  Worthily  spoke,  Mecaenas. 

Eno.  Or,  if  you  borrow  one  another's  love  for 
the  instant,  you  may,  when  you  hear  no  more  words 
of  Pompey,  return  it  again :  you  shall  have  time  to 
wrangle  in,  when  you  have  nothing  else  to  do. 

Ant.   Thou  art  a  soldier  only  ;  speak  no  more. 

Eno.  That  truth  should  be  silent,  I  had  almost 
forgot. 

Ant.   You  wrong  this  presence,  therefore  speak 
no  more. 

Eno.   Go  to,  then  ;  your  considerate  stone. 

CiBS.   I  do  not  much  dislike  the  matter,  but 
The  manner  of  his  speech  :   for  it  cannot  be. 
We  shall  remain  in  friendship,  our  conditions  ^ 
So  differing  in  their  acts.      Yet,  if  I  knew 
What  hoop  should  hold  us  staunch,  from  edge  to  edge 
O'  the  world  I  would  pursue  it. 

Agr.  Give  me  leave,  Caesar,  — 

CcBs.   Speak,  Agrippa. 

Agr.   Thou  nast  a  sister  by  the  mother's  side, 
Admir'd  Octavia:   great  Mark  Antony 
Is  now  a  widower. 

Cees.  Say  not  so,  Agrippa  ; 

If  Cleopatra  heard  you,  your  reproof 
Were  well  deserv'd  of  rashness. 

Ant.   I  am  not  married,  Caesar  :  let  me  hear 
Agrippa  furtlier  speak. 

Agr.   To  hold  you  in  perpetual  amity, 
To  make  you  brothers,  and  to  knit  your  hearts 
With  an  tmslipping  knot,  take  Antony 

'  Meuenser.  <  Conversation.  *  Grievances 

<<  Reconcile.  *  Disposition. 

Zz   2 


708 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  II. 


Octavia  to  his  wife  :   whose  beauty  claims 
No  worse  a  husband  than  the  best  of  men  ; 
"Whose  virtue,  and  whose  general  graces,  speak 
That  which  none  else  can  utter.     By  this  marriage, 
All  little  jealousies,  which  now  seem  great, 
And  all  great  fears,  which  now  import  their  dangers, 
Would  then  be  nothing  :   truths  would  be  but  tales 
Where  now  half  tales  be  truths  :   her  love  to  both, 
Would,  each  to  other,  and  all  loves  to  both. 
Draw  after  her.      Pardon  what  I  have  spoke ; 
For  'tis  a  studied,  not  a  present  thought, 
By  duty  ruminated. 

ylnt.  Will  Caesar  speak  ? 

CcBS.   Not  till  he  hears  how  Antony  is  touch'd 
With  what  is  spoke  already. 

Ant.  What  power  is  in  Agrippa, 

If  I  would  say,  Agrippa,  be  it  so, 
To  make  this  good  ? 

CcBs.  The  power  of  Caesar,  and 

His  power  unto  Octavia. 

Ant.  May  I  never 

To  this  good  purpose,  that  so  fairly  shows. 
Dream  of  impediment !  —  Let  me  have  thy  hand  : 
Further  this  act  of  grace ;  and,  from  this  hour. 
The  heart  of  brothers  govern  in  our  loves, 
And  sway  our  great  designs  ! 

Cces.  There  is  my  hand. 

A  sister  I  bequeath  you,  whom  no  brother 
Did  ever  love  so  dearly :   Let  her  live 
To  join  our  kingdoms,  and  our  hearts  j  and  never 
Fly  off  our  loves  again  ! 

Lep.  Happily,  amen  ! 

Ant.    I  did  not  think  to  draw  my  sword  'gainst 
Pompey ; 
For  he  hath  laid  strange  courtesies,  and  great. 
Of  late  upon  me  :    I  must  thank  him  only. 
Lest  my  remembrance  suffer  ill  report  j 
At  heel  of  that,  defy  him. 

Lep.  Time  calls  upon  us  : 

Of  us  must  Pompey  presently  be  sought, 
Or  else  he  seeks  out  us. 

Ant.  And  where  lies  he  ? 

Cees.    About  the  Mount  Misenum. 

Ant.  What's  his  strength 

By  land  ? 

CcBS.         Great  and  increasing :  but  by  sea 
He  is  an  absolute  master. 

Ant.  So  is  the  fame. 

'Would,  we  had  spoke  together !   Haste  we  for  it : 
Yet,  ere  we  put  ourselves  in  arms,  despatch  we 
The  business  we  have  talk'd  of. 

Cees.  With  most  gladness ; 

And  do  invite  you  to  my  sister's  view, 
Whither  straight  I  will  lead  you. 

Ant.  Let  us,  Lepidus, 

Not  lack  your  company, 

Lep.  Noble  Antony, 

Not  sickness  should  detain  me. 

[^Flourish.     Exeunt  C^sar,  Antony,  and 
Lepidus. 

Mec.   Welcome  from  Egypt,  sir. 

Eno.  Half  the  heart  of  Caesar,  worthy  Mecaenas  ! 
—  my  honourable  friend,  Agrippa  !  — 

Agr.    Good  Enobarbus  ! 

Mec.  We  have  cause  to  be  glad,  that  matters  are 
so  well  digested.      You  staid  well  by  it  in  Egypt. 

Eno.   Ay,  sir;  we  did  sleep  day  out  of  counte- 
nance, and  made  the  night  light  with  drinking. 

Mec.   Eight  wild  boars  roasted  whole  at  a  break- 
fast, and  but  twelve  persons  there;   Is  this  true? 


Eno.  This  was  but  as  a  fly  by  an  eagle  :  we  had 
much  more  monstrous  matter  offcast,  which  worthily 
deserved  noting. 

Mec.  Slie's  a  most  triumphant  lady,  if  report  be 
square  8  to  her. 

Eno.  When  she  first  met  Mark  Antony,  she 
pursed  up  his  heart  upon  the  river  of  Cydnus. 

Agr.  There  she  appeared  indeed ;  or  my  reporter 
devised  well  for  her. 

Eno.   I  vf'iW  tell  you  : 
The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 
Burn'd  on  the  water  :   the  poop  was  beaten  gold  ; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed,  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them  :  the  oars  were 

silver ; 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 
The  water,  which  they  beat,  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.      For  her  own  person, 
It  beggar'd  all  description  :   she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion,  (cloth  of  gold,  of  tissue,) 
O'er-picturing  that  Venus,  where  we  see. 
The  fancy  out-work  nature :   on  each  side  her, 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  diverse-colour'd  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 
And  what  they  undid,  did. 

Agr.  O,  rare  for  Antony  ! 

Eno.   Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes. 
And  made  their  bends  adornings  :   at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers ;  the  silken  tackles 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands. 
That  yarely  frame  9  the  office.      From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.      The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her;  and  Antony, 
Enthron'd  in  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
Whistling  to  the  air ;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too, 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Agr.  Rare  Egyptian  ! 

Eno.   Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her, 
Invited  her  to  supper  :   she  replied. 
It  should  be  better,  he  became  her  guest ; 
Which  she  entreated :    Our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  No  woman  heard  speak, 
Being  barber'd  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast ; 
And,  for  his  ordinary,  pays  his  heart, 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agr.  Royal  wench  ! 

She  made  great  Caesar  lay  his  sword  to  bed. 

Eno.   I  saw  her  once 
Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street : 
And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke,  and  panted. 
That  she  did  make  defect,  perfection, 
And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth. 

Mec.   Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly. 

Eno.   Never  ;  he  will  not. 
Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety  :    Other  women 
Cloy  th'  appetites  they  feed  ;  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies.      For  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her. 

Mec.    If  beauty,  wisdom,  modesty,  can  settle 
The  heart  of  Antony,  Octavia  is 
A  blessed  lottery  to  him. 

Agr.  Let  us  go.  — 

Good  Enobarbus,  make  yourself  my  guest. 
Whilst  you  abide  here. 

8  Suit  with  her  merits.  f  Readily  perform 


Scene  III. 

Eno. 


ANTOMY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


709 


( 


Humbly,  sir,  I  thank  you. 
\^Exeunt. 
SCENE  III. —A  Room  in  Cajsar'*  House. 

Enter  Caesar,  Asttony,  Octavia  between  them  ,- 
Attendants  and  a  Soothsayer. 

Ant.   The  world,  and  my  great  office,  will  some- 
times 
Divide  me  from  your  bosom. 

Octa.  All  which  time 

Before  the  gods  my  knee  shall  bow  in  pr&yers 
To  them  for  you. 

A7U.  Good  night,  sir.  —  My  Octavia, 

Read  not  my  blemishes  in  the  world's  report ; 
I  have  not  kept  my  square  ;  but  that  to  come 
Shall  all  be  done  by  the  rule.      Good  night,  dear 
lady.  — 

Octa.    Good  night,  sir. 

CcBs.   Good  night.  {Exeunt  C^sar  and  Octavia. 

Ant.  Now,  sirrah  !  you  do  wish  yourself  in  Egypt? 

Sooth.  Would  I  had  never  come  from  thence,  nor 
you 
Thither ! 

Ant.        If  you  can,  your  reason  ? 

Sooth.  I  see't  in 

My  motion,  have  it  not  in  my  tongue  :   But  yet 
Hie  you  again  to  Egypt. 

Ant.  Say  to  me, 

Whose  fortunes  shall  rise  higher,  CsBsar's,  or  mine? 

Sooth.   Caesar's. 
Therefore,  O  Antony,  stay  not  by  his  side  : 
Thy  daemon,  that's  thy  spirit  which  keeps  thee,  is 
Noble,  courageous,  high,  unmatchable, 
Where  Cajsar's  is  not ;  but  near  him,  thy  angel 
Becomes  a  Fear,  as  being  o'erpower'd ;  therefore 
Make  space  enough  between  you. 

Ant.  Speak  this  no  more. 

Sooth.  To  none  but  thee ;   no  more,  but  when  to 
thee. 
If  thou  dost  play  with  him  at  any  game. 
Thou  art  sure  to  lose ;  and,  of  that  natural  luck, 
He  beats  thee  'gainst  the  odds ;  thy  lustre  thickens. 
When  he  shines  by :    I  say  again,  thy  spirit 
Is  all  afraid  to  govern  thee  near  him  j 
But,  he  away,  'tis  noble. 

Ant.  Get  thee  gone  : 

Say  to  Ventidius,  I  would  speak  with  him  : 

{Exit  Soothsayer. 
He  shall  to  Parthia.  —  Be  it  art,  or  hap. 
He  hath  spoken  true  :    the  very  dice  obey  him ; 
And,  in  our  sports,  my  better  cunning  faints 
Under  his  chance  :  if  we  draw  lots,  he  speeds  : 
His  cocks  do  win  the  battles  still  of  mine, 
When  it  is  all  to  nought ;  and  his  quails  '  ever 
Beat  mine,  inhoop'd'^  at  odds.      I  will  to  Egypt : 
And,  though  I  make  this  marriage  for  my  peace, 

Enter  Ventidius. 

I*  the  east  my  pleasure  lies  :  —  O,  come,  Ventidius, 
You  must  to  Parthia ;  your  conmiission's  ready  : 
Follow  me,  and  receive  it.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  l\.— A  Street. 
Enter  Lefidus,  Mec^nas,  and  Aorifpa. 

Lep.   Trouble  yourselves  no  further :   pray  you 
hasten 
Your  generals  after. 

'  The  ancients  used  to  match  quails  as  we  match  cocks. 
'  Inclosed. 


Agr.  Sir,  Mark  Antony 

Will  e'en  but  kiss  Octavia,  and  we'll  follow. 

I.ep.   Till  I  shall  see  you  in  your  soldier's  dress, 
Wliich  will  become  you  both,  farewell. 

Mec.  We  shall. 

As  I  conceive  the  journey,  be  at  mount  s 
Before  you,  Lepidus. 

Lep.  Your  way  is  bhorter, 

IVIy  purposes  do  draw  me  much  about ; 
You'll  win  two  days  upon  me. 

Mec.  Agr.  Sir,  good  success  ! 

Lep.   Farewell.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Alexandria.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  Alexas. 

Cleo.  Give  me  some  musick ;  musick ;  moody  *  food 
Of  us  that  trade  in  love. 

Attend.  TTie  musick,  ho ! 

Enter  Mardian. 

Cleo.   Let  it  alone  ;  let  us  to  billiards : 
Come,  Charmian. 

Char.   My  arm  is  sore,  best  play  with  Mardian. 

Cleo.    Come,  you'll  play  with  me,  sir? 

Mar.   As  well  as  I  can,  madam. 

Cleo.   And  when  good  will  is  show'd,  though  it 
come  too  short. 

The  actor  may  plead  pardon.     I'll  none  now : 

Give  me  mine  angle,  —  We'll  to  the  river :  there. 
My  musick  playing  far  off,  I  will  betray 
Tiawny.finn'd  fishes  ;  my  bended  hook  shall  pierce 
Their  slimy  jaws ;  and,  as  I  draw  them  up, 
I'll  think  them  every  one  an  Antony, 
And  say,  Ah  !  ha !  you're  caught. 

Char.  'Twas  merry,  when 

You  wager'd  on  your  angling  ;  when  your  diver 
Did  hang  a  salt-fish  on  his  hook,  which  he 
With  fervency  drew  up. 

Cleo.  That  time !  —  O  times  !  — 

I  laugh'd  him  out  of  patience ;  and  next  mom. 
Ere  the  ninth  hour,  I  drunk  him  to  his  bed ; 
Then  put  my  tires  ^  and  mantles  on  him,  whilst 
I  wore  his  sword  Philippan.     O  !  from  Italy ; 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Ram  thou  thy  fruitful  tidings  in  mine  ears. 
That  long  time  have  been  barren. 

Mess.  Madam,  madam,  — 

Cleo.   Antony's  dead  ?  — 
If  thou  say  so,  villain,  thou  kill'st  thy  mistress : 
But  well  and  free, 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  gold  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss ;  a  hand,  that  kings 
Have  lipp'd,  and  trembled  kissing. 

Mess.  First,  Madam,  he's  well. 

Cleo.  Why,  there's  more  gold.   But,  sirrah,  mark ; 
We  use 
To  say,  the  dead  are  well ;  bring  it  to  that, 
The  gold  I  give  thee,  will  I  melt,  and  pour 
Down  thy  ill-uttering  throat. 

Mess.   Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Cleo.  Well,  go  to,  I  will ; 

But  there's  no  goodness  in  thy  face  :   if  Antony 
Be  free  and  healthful,  —  why  so  tart  a  favour  <* 
To  trumpet  such  good  tidings  ?     If  not  well. 
Thou  shouldst  come  like  a  fury  crown'd  with  snakes, 
Not  like  a  formal  man.  ^ 

'  Mount  Miscnura.        <  Melancholy.       »  Head  dresa. 
6  So  sour  a  countenance  ?  A  man  in  his  senses. 

Z  z  3 


710 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  II. 


Mess.  Will't  please  you  hear  me  ? 

Clco.  I  have  a  mind  to  strike  thee,  ere  thou  speak'st: 
Yet,  if  thou  say,  Antony  lives,  is  well, 
Or  friends  with  Caesar,  or  not  captive  to  him, 
I'll  set  thee  in  a  shower  of  gold,  and  hail 
llich  pearls  upon  thee. 

Mess.  Madam,  he's  well. 

Cleo.  Well  said. 

Mess.   And  friends  with  Caesar. 

Cleo.  Thou'rt  an  honest  man. 

Mess.   Cassar  and  he  are  greater  friends  than  ever. 

Cleo.   Make  thee  a  fortune  from  me. 

Mess.  But  yet,  madam  — 

Cleo.   I  do  not  like  but  yet,  it  does  allay 
Tlie  good  precedence  ;  fye  upon  but  yet : 
But  yet  is  as  a  gaoler  to  bring  forth 
Some  monstrous  malefactor.     Pr'ythee,  friend. 
Pour  out  the  pack  of  matter  to  mine  ear. 
The  good  and  bad   together :     He's   friends  with 

Cassar  ; 
In  state  of  health,  thou  say'st ;  and,  thou  say'st  free. 

Mess.    Free,  madam  !  no ;  I  made  no  such  report : 
He's  bound  unto  Octavia. 

Cleo.  I  am  pale,  Charmian. 

Mess.   Madam,  he's  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleo.   The  most  infectious  pestilence  upon  thee ! 
{Strikes  him  down. 

Mess.    Good  madam,  patience. 

Cleo.  What  say  you  ?  —  Hence. 

[Strikes  him  again. 
Horrible  villain  !  or  I'll  spurn  thine  eyes 
Like  balls  before  me ;   I'll  unhair  thy  head; 

[She  hales  him  up  and  down. 
Thou  shalt  be  whipp'd  with  wire,  and  stew'd  in  brine. 
Smarting  in  ling'ring  pickle. 

Mess.  Gracious  madam, 

Ij  that  do  bring  the  news,  made  not  the  match. 

Cleo.  Say,  'tis  not  so,  a  province  I  will  give  thee. 
And  make  thy  fortunes  proud  :   the  blow  thou  hadst 
Shall  make  thy  peace,  for  moving  me  to  rage  ; 
And  I  will  boot "  thee  with  what  gift  beside 
ITiy  modesty  can  beg. 

Mess.  He's  married,  madam. 

Cleo.   Rogue,  thou  hast  liv'd  too  long. 

[Draws  a  Dagger. 

Mess.  Nay,  then  I'll  run  :  — 

What  mean  you,  madam  ?  I  have  made  no  fault. 

[Exit. 

Char.  Good  madam,  keep  yourself  within  yourself; 
The  man  is  innocent. 

Cleo.  Some  innocents  'scape  not  the  thunderbolt. — 
Melt  Egypt  into  Nile  !  and  kindly  creatures 
Turn  all  to  serpents  !  —  Call  the  slave  again ; 
Though  I  am  mad,  I  will  not  bite  him :  —  Call. 

Char.   He  is  afeard  to  come. 

Cleo.  I  will  not  hurt  him  :  — 

These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  that  they  strike 
A  meaner  than  myself ;  since  I  myself 
Have  given  myself  the  cause.  ■ —  Come  hither,  sir. 

Re-enter  Messenger. 

Though  it  be  honest,  it  is  never  good 
To  bring  bad  news :    Give  to  a  gracious  message 
An  host  of  tongues ;  but  let  ill  tidings  tell 
Themselves,  when  they  be  felt. 

Mess.  I  have  done  my  duty. 

Cleo.   Is  he  married  ? 
I  cannot  hale  thee  worser  than  I  do, 
If  thou  again  say,  Yes. 

8  Recompense. 


Mess.  He  is  married,  madam. 

Cleo.   The  gods  confound  thee !  dost  thou  hold 
there  still  ? 

Mess.    Should  I  lie,  madam  ? 

Cleo.  O,  I  would,  thou  didst ; 

So  half  my  Egypt  were  submerg'd,  and  made 
A  cistern  for  scal'd  snakes !    Go,  get  thee  hence ; 
Hadst  thou  Narcissus  in  thy  face,  to  me 
Thou  wouldst  appear  most  ugly.      He  is  married  ? 

Mess.    I  crave  your  highness'  pardon. 

Cleo.  He  is  married  ? 

Mess.   Take  no  offence,  that  I  would  not  offend 
you: 
To  punish  me  for  what  you  make  me  do. 
Seems  much  unequal :    He  is  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleo.  O,  that  his  fault  should  make  a  knave  of  thee> 
That  art  not !  —  What ?  thou'rt  sure  oft?  —  Get 

thee  hence : 
The  merchandize  which  thou  has  brought  from  Rome 
Are  all  too  dear  for  me ;  Lie  they  upon  thy  hand, 
And  be  undone  by  'em !  [Exit  Messenger. 

Char.  Good  your  highness,  patience. 

Cleo.  In  praising  Antony,  I  have  dispraised  Caesar. 

Char.   Many  times,  madam. 

Cleo.  I  am  paid  for't  now. 

Lead  me  from  hence, 

I  faint;   O  Iras,  Charmian, — 'Tis  no  matter:  — 
Go  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas  ;  bid  him 
Report  the  feature  of  Octavia,  her  years, 
Her  inclination,  let  him  not  leave  out 
The  colour  of  her  hair  :  — bring  me  word  quickly. — 

[Exit  Alexas. 
Let  him  for  ever  go  ;  —  Let  him  not  —  Charmian, 
Though  he  be  painted  one  way  like  a  Gorgon, 
T'other  way  he's  a  Mars :  —  Bid  you  Alexas 

[To  Mardian. 
Bring  me  word,  how  tall  she  is.  —  Pity  me,  Char- 
mian, 
But  do  not  speak  to  me. — Lead  me  to  my  chamber. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VL  —  iV^ear  Misenum. 

Enter  Pompey  and  Men  as,  at  one  side,  with  Drum 
and  Trumpet :  at  another,  Cmsxk,  Lepidus, 
Antony,  Enobarbus,  Mecjenas,  with  Soldiers 
marching. 

Pom.   Your  hostages  I  have,  so  have  you  mine ; 
And  we  shall  talk  before  we  fight. 

Cces.  Most  meet. 

That  first  we  come  to  words  ;  and  therefore  have  we 
Our  written  purposes  before  us  sent ; 
Which,  if  thou  hast  consider'd,  let  us  know 
If  't  will  tie  up  thy  discontented  sword  ; 
And  carry  back  to  Sicily  much  tall  9  youth 
That  else  must  perish  here. 

Pom.  To  you  all  three. 

The  senators  alone  of  this  great  world. 
Chief  factors  for  the  gods,  —  I  do  not  know. 
Wherefore  my  father  should  revengers  want. 
Having  a  son,  and  friends ;  since  Julius  Caesar, 
Who  at  Philippi  the  good  Brutus  ghosted  ', 
There  saw  you  labouring  for  him.     What  was  it, 
That  mov'd  pale  Cassius  to  conspire  ?     And  what 
Made  the  all-honour'd,  honest,  Roman  Brutus, 
With  the  arm'd  rest,  courteous  of  beauteous  freedom, 
To  drench  the  Capitol ;  but  that  they  would 
Have  one  man  but  a  man  ?   And  that  is  it. 
Hath  made  me  rig  my  navy ;  at  whose  burden 
9  Brave.  '  Haunted 


Scene  VI. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


711 


The  anger'd  ocean  foams ;  witli  which  I  meant 
To  scourge  the  ingratitude  that  despiteful  Rome 
Cast  on  my  noble  father. 

Cces.  Take  your  time. 

Ant.   Thou  canst  not  fear^  us,  Pompey,  with  thy 
sails, 
We'll  speak  with  thee  at  sea  :  at  land,  thou  know'st 
How  much  we  do  o'er-count  thee. 

Pom.  At  land,  indeed. 

Thou  dost  o'er-count  me  of  my  father's  house : 
But,  since  the  cuckoo  builds  not  for  himself. 
Remain  in't  as  thou  mayst. 

Lep.  Be  pleas'd  to  tell  us, 

(For  this  is  from  the  present 3,)  how  you  take 
The  ofl'ers  we  have  sent  you. 

Cees.  There's  the  point. 

Ant.   Which  do  not  be  entreated  to,  but  weigh 
What  it  is  worth  embrac'd. 

C<es.  And  what  may  follow, 

To  try  a  larger  fortune. 

Pom.  You  have  made  me  offer 

Of  Sicily,  Sardinia  ;  and  I  must 
Rid  all  the  sea  of  pirates  ;  then,  to  send 
Measures  of  wheat  to  Rome  :    This  'greed  upon, 
To  part  with  unhack'd  edges,  and  bear  back 
Our  targe  •♦  undinted. 

Cces.   Ant.   Lep.  That's  our  offer. 

Pom.  Know  then, 

I  came  before  you,  here,  a  man  prepar'd 
To  take  this  offer  :    But  Mark  Antony 
Put  me  to  some  impatience :  —  Though  I  lose 
Tlie  praise  of  it  by  telling,  You  must  know. 
When  Caesar  and  your  brothers  were  at  blows, 
Your  mother  came  to  Sicily,  and  did  find 
Her  welcome  friendly. 

Ant.  I  have  heard  it,  Pompey  ; 

And  am  well  studied  for  a  liberal  thanks. 
Which  I  do  owe  you. 

Pom.  Let  me  have  your  hand  : 

I  did  not  think,  sir,  to  have  met  you  here. 

Ant.   The  beds  i'  the  east  are  soft ;  and  thanks  to 
you, 
That  call'd  me,  timelier  than  my  purpose,  hither. 
For  I  have  gain'd  by  it. 

Cees.  Since  I  saw  you  last. 

There  is  a  change  upon  you. 

Pom.  Well,  I  know  not 

What  counts  *  liarsh  fortune  casts  upon  my  face  ; 
But  in  my  bosom  shall  she  never  come, 
To  make  my  heart  her  vassal. 

Lep.  Well  met  here. 

Pom.  I  hope  so,  Lepidus.  —  Thus  we  are  agreed: 
1  crave  our  composition  may  be  written, 
And  seal'd  between  us. 

Cces.  That's  the  next  to  do. 

Pom.   We'll  feast  each  other,  ere  we  part ;  and 
let  us 
Draw  lots  who  shall  begin. 

Ant.  That  will  I,  Pompey. 

Pom.    No,  Antony,  take  the  lot :  but,  first. 
Or  last,  your  fine  Egyptian  cookery 
Shall  have  the  fame.    I  have  heard,  that  Julius  Caesar 
Grew  fat  with  feasting  there. 

Ant.  You  have  heard  much. 

Pom.   I  have  fair  meanings,  sir. 

Ant.  And  fair  words  to  them. 

P&m.    Then  so  much  have  I  heard  : 
And  I  have  heard,  ApoUodorus  carried  — 


a  AflVight 

*  Target,  shield. 


3  Present  subject 
">  Scores,  maru. 


Eno.   No  more  of  that :  —  He  did  so. 

Pom..  What,  I  pray  you  ? 

Eno.    A  certain  queen  to  Caesar  in  a  mattress. 

Pom.    I  know  thee    now ;  —  How    far'st   tliou, 
soldier  ? 

Eno.  Well : 

And  well  am  like  to  do :  for,  I  perceive, 
Four  feasts  are  toward. 

Pom.  Let  me  shake  thy  hand  ; 

I  never  hated  thee :   I  have  seen  thee  fight. 
When  I  have  envied  thy  behaviour. 

Eno.  Sir, 

I  never  lov'd  you  much ;  but  I  have  prais'd  you. 
When  you  have  well  deserv'd  ten  times  as  much 
As  I  have  said  you  did. 

Pom.  Enjoy  thy  plainness, 

It  nothing  ill  becomes  thee.  — 
Aboard  my  galley,  I  invite  you  all : 
Will  you  lead,  lords  ? 

Cces.   Ant.  Lep.        Show  us  the  way,  sir. 

Pom.  Come. 

[Exeunt  Pompey,  Cjesar,  Antont,  Le- 
pidus, Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 

Men.  Thy  father,  Pompey,  would  ne'er  have 
made  this  treaty.  —  [Aside.]  —  You  and  I  have 
known  ^  sir. 

Eno.   At  sea,  I  think. 

Men.   We  have,  sir. 

Eno.   You  have  done  well  by  water. 

Men.    And  you  by  land. 

Eno.  I  will  praise  any  man  that  will  praise  me, 
though  it  cannot  be  denied  what  I  have  done  by 
land. 

Men.   Nor  what  I  have  done  by  water. 

Eno.  Yes,  something  you  can  deny  for  your  own 
safety  :  you  have  been  a  great  thief  by  sea. 

Men.   And  you  by  land. 

Eno.  There  I  deny  my  land  service.  But  give 
me  your  hand,  Menas  :  If  our  eyes  had  authority, 
here  they  might  take  two  thieves  kissing. 

Men.  All  men's  faces  are  true,  whatsoe'er  their 
hands  are. 

Eno.  But  there  is  never  a  fair  woman  has  a  true 
face. 

Men.   No  slander ;  they  steal  hearts. 

Eno.   We  came  hither  to  fight  with  you. 

Men.  For  my  part,  I  am  sorry  it  is  turned  to  a 
drinking.  Pompey  doth  this  day  laugh  away  his 
fortune. 

Eno.   If  he  do,  sure  he  cannot  weep  it  back  again. 

Meiu  You  have  said,  sir.  We  looked  not  for 
Mark  Antony  here ;  Pray  you,  is  he  married  to 
Cleopatra  ? 

Eno.   Caesar's  sister  is  called  Octavia. 

Men.  True,  sir ;  she  was  the  wife  of  Caius  Mar- 
cell  us. 

Eno.  But  she  is  now  the  wife  of  Marcus  Antonius. 

Men.    Pray  you,  sir  ? 

Eno.   'Tistrue. 

Men.  Then  is  Caesar  and  he  for  ever  knit  together. 

Eno.  If  I  were  bound  to  divine  of  this  unity,  I 
would  not  prophesy  so. 

Men.  I  think  the  jxjlicy  of  that  puri>ose  made 
more  in  the  marriage,  than  the  love  of  the  parties. 

Eno.  I  tliink  so  too.  But  you  shall  find,  the 
band  that  seems  to  tie  their  friendship  together, 
will  be  the  very  strangler  of  tlieir  amity :  Octavia 
is  of  a  holy,  cold,  and  still  conversation. 

Men.    Who  would  not  have  his  wife  so  ? 
«  Been  acquainted. 
Z  z  4 


712 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  II. 


E710.  Not  he,  that  himself  is  not  so ;  which  is 
Mark  Antony.  He  will  to  his  Egyptian  dish  again  : 
then  shall  the  sighs  of  Octavia  blow  the  fire  up  in 
Cajsar  ;  and,  as  I  said  before,  that  which  is  tlie 
strengtii  of  their  amity,  shall  prove  the  immediate 
author  of  their  variance.  Antony  will  use  his  affec- 
tion where  it  is ;  he  married  but  his  occasion  here. 

Me7i.  And  thus  it  may  be.  Come,  sir,  will  you 
aboard  ?   I  have  a  health  for  you. 

Eno.  I  shall  take  it,  sir :  we  have  used  our  throats 
in  Egypt. 

Men.   Come ;  let's  away.  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII On  board  Pompey's  Galley, 

lying  near  Misenum. 

Mustek.   Enter  two  or  three  Servants,  with  a  Banquet. 

1  Serv.  Here  they'll  be,  man  :  Some  o'  their  plants  9 
are  ill-rooted  already;  the  least  wind  i' the  world 
will  blow  them  down. 

2  Sero.   Lepidus  is  high-coloured. 

1  Serv.   They  have  made  him  drink  alms-drink. 

2  Serv.  As  they  pinch  one  another  by  the  dis- 
position, he  cries  out,  iVb  more ;  reconciles  them  to 
his  entreaty,  and  himself  to  the  drink. 

1  Serv.  But  it  raises  the  greater  war  between 
him  and  his  discretion. 

2  Serv.  Why  this  it  is  to  have  a  name  in  great 
men's  fellowship  :  I  had  as  lief  have  a  reed  that  will 
do  me  no  service,  as  a  partizan  '  I  could  not  heave. 

1  Serv.  To  be  called  into  a  huge  sphere,  and  not 
to  be  seen  to  move  in't,  are  the  holes  where  eyes 
should  be,  which  pitifully  disaster  the  cheeks. 

A  Sennet  sounded.     Enter  C^sar,  Antony,  Pom- 

PEY,  Lepidus,  Agrippa,  MfiCiENAs,  Enobarbus, 

Menas,  with  other  Captains. 

Ant.   Thus  do  they,    sir:     [To  C^sar.]    They 
take  the  flow  o'  the  Nile 
By  certain  scales  i'  the  pyramid  ;  they  know. 
By  the  height,  the  lowness,  or  the  mean,  if  dearth, 
Or  foison  2,  follow :    The  higher  Nilus  swells. 
The  more  it  promises :   as  it  ebbs,  the  seedsman 
Upon  the  slime  and  ooze  scatters  his  grain, 
And  shortly  comes  to  harvest. 

Lep.   You  have  strange  serpents  there. 

Ant.   Ay,  Lepidus. 

Lep.  Your  serpent  of  Egypt  is  bred  now  of  your 
mud  by  the  operation  of  your  sun  :  so  is  your  cro- 
codile. 

Ant.   They  are  so. 

Pom.  Sit,  —  and  some  wine.  — ■  A  health  to 
Lepidus. 

Lep.  I  am  not  so  well  as  I  should  be,  but  I'll 
ne'er  out. 

Eno.  Not  till  you  have  slept ;  I  fear  me,  you'll 
be  in,  till  then. 

Lep.  Nay,  certainly,  I  have  heard,  the  Ptolemies' 
pyramises  are  very  goodly  things ;  without  contra- 
diction, I  have  heard  that. 

Men.   Pompey,  a  word.  [Aside. 

Pom.  Say  in  mine  ear  :   What  is't  ? 

Men.  Forsake  thy  seat,  I  do  beseech  thee,  captain. 
And  hear  me  speak  a  word.  [Adde. 

Pom.  Forbear  me  till  anon.  — 

This  wine  for  Lepidus. 

Lep.   What  manner  o'  thing  is  your  crocodile  ? 

Ant.  It  is  shaped,  sir,  like  itself;  and  it  is  as  broad 
as  it  hath  breadth  :   it  is  just  so  high  as  it  is,  and 
moves  with  its  own  organs:   it  lives  by  that  which 
»  Feet  '  Pike.  2  plenty. 


nourisheth  it ;  and  the  elements  once  out  of  it,  it 
transmigrates. 

Lep.   What  colour  is  it  of? 

Ant.    Of  its  own  colour  too. 

Lep.   '  Tis  a  strange  serpent. 

Ant.   'Tis  so.      And  the  tears  of  it  are  wet. 

Cces.   Will  this  description  satisfy  him  ? 

Ant.   With  the  health  that  Pompey  gives  him, 
else  he  is  a  very  epicure. 

Pom.   [To  Mev AS  aside]   Go,  hang,  sir,  hang! 
Tell  me  of  that  ?  away  ! 
Do  as  I  bid  you.  —  Where's  this  cup  I  called  for  ? 

Men.   If  for  the  sake  of  merit  thou  wilt  hear  me, 
Rise  from  thy  stool.  [Aside. 

Pom.  I  think,  thou'rt  mad.      The  matter  ? 

[Rises,  and  walks  aside. 

Men.  I  have  ever  held  my  cap  off  to  thy  fortunes. 

Pom.   Thou   hast   serv'd   me  with  much  faith  : 
What's  else  to  say  ? 
Be  jolly,  lords. 

Ant.  These  quick-sands,  Lepidus, 

Keep  off  them,  for  you  sink. 

Men.   Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  all  the  world  ? 

Pom.  What  sayst  thou  ? 

Men.   Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  the  whole  world? 
That's  twice. 

Pom.   How  should  that  be  ? 

Men.  But  entertain  it,  and. 

Although  thou  think  me  poor,  I  am  the  man 
Will  give  thee  all  the  world. 

Pom.  Hast  thou  drunk  well  ? 

Men.   No,  Pompey,  I  have  kept  me  from  the  cup. 
Thou  art,  if  thou  dar'st  be,  the  earthly  Jove : 
Whate'er  the  ocean  pales  3,  or  sky  inclips*. 
Is  thine,  if  thou  wilt  have't. 

Pom.  Show  me  which  way. 

Men.   These  three  world-sharers,  these  compe- 
titors ^, 
Are  in  thy  vessel  :    Let  me  cut  the  cable  ; 
And,  when  we  are  put  off,  fall  to  their  throats : 
All  there  is  thine. 

Pom.  Ah,  this  thou  shouldst  have  done. 

And  not  have  spoke  on't !  in  me,  'tis  villainy ; 
In  thee,  it  had  been  good  service.    Thou  must  know, 
'Tis  not  my  profit  that  doth  lead  mine  honour ; 
Mine  honour,  it.      Repent,  that  e'er  thy  tongue 
Hath  so  betray'd  thine  act :    Being  done  unknown, 
I  should  have  found  it  afterwards  well  done  ; 
But  must  condemn  it  now.      Desist,  and  drink. 

Men.   For  this  ?  [Aside. 

I'll  never  follow  thy  pall'd^  fortunes  more.  — 
Who  seeks,  and  will  not  take,  when  once  'tis  offer'd. 
Shall  never  find  it  more. 

Pom.  This  health  to  Lepidus. 

Ant,   Bear  him  ashore.  —  I'll  pledge  it  for  him, 
Pompey. 

Eno.   Here's  to  thee,  Menas. 

Men.  Enobarbus,  welcome. 

Pom.   Fill,  till  the  cup  be  hid. 

Eno    There's  a  strong  fellow,  Menas. 

[Pointi7ig  to  the  Altendayit  who  carries  off 
Lepidus. 

Men.  Why  ? 

Eno.  He  bears 

The  third  part  of  the  world,  man  ;   Seest  not? 

Men.   The  third  part  then  is  drunk  :  'Would  it 
were  all. 
That  it  might  go  on  wheels  ! 

Eno.   Drink  thou  ;  increase  the  reels. 
3  Encompasses.    *  Embraces.    »  Confederates.    ^  Cloyed. 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


713 


Men.   Come. 

Pom.   This  is  not  yet  an  Alexandrian  feast. 

^nt.  It  ripens  towards  it.  — Strike  the  vessels,  hoi 
Here  is  to  Caisar. 

CcBS.  I  could  well  forbear  it. 

It's  monstrous  labour  when  I  wash  my  brain, 
And  it  grows  fouler. 

Aiit.  Be  a  child  o'  the  time. 

Cees.   Possess  7  it,  I'll  make  answer :   But  I  had 
rather  fast 
From  all,  four  days,  than  drink  so  much  in  one. 

Eno.    Ha,  my  brave  emperor  !  [To  Antony. 

Sliall  we  dance  now  the  Egyptian  Bacchanals, 
And  celebrate  our  drink  ? 

Pom.  Let's  ha't,  good  soldier. 

Ant.   Come,  let  us  all  take  hands  ; 
Till  tliat  the  conqueripg  wine  hath  steep'd  our  sense 
In  soft  and  delicate  Lethe. 

Eno.  All  take  hands.  — 

Make  battery  to  our  ears  with  the  loud  musick  :  — 
The  while,  I'll  place  you  :  Then  the  boy  shall  singj 
Tlie  holding  8  every  man  shall  bear,  as  loud 
As  his  strong  sides  can  volley. 

[MvMck  plays.     Enobarbu3   places  them 
hand  in  hand. 

SONG. 

Come,  thou  monarch  of  the  vine, 
Plumpy  Bacchus,  with  pink  eyne^  : 
In  thy  vats  our  cares  be  drowned  ; 
With  thy  grapes  our  hairs  be  crown  d; 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round ; 
Cup  us  till  the  world  go  round  ! 


Cess.   What  would  you  more  ?  —  Pompcy,  good 
night.      Good  brother. 
Let  me  request  you  off:   our  graver  business 
Frowns  at  this  levity.  —  Gentle  lords,  let's  part ; 
You  see,  we  have  burnt  our  cheeks ;  strong  Eno- 

barbe 
Is  weaker  tlian  the  wine ;  and  mine  own  tongue 
Splits   what    it   speaks ;    the   wild    disguise    hath 

almost 
Antick'd  us  all.     What  needs  more  words  ?     Good 

night.  — 
Good  Antony,  yoiu*  hand. 

Pom.  I'll  try  you  o'  the  shore. 

Ant.   And  shall,  sir :  give's  your  hand. 
Ponu  O,  Antony, 

You  have  my  father's  house,  —  But  what  ?  we  are 

friends  : 
Come,  down  into  the  boat. 

Eno.  Take  heed  you  fall  not.  — 

[Exeunt  Pompey,  Caesar,  Antony,  and 
Attendants, 
Menas,  I'll  not  on  shore. 

Men.  No,  to  my  cabin.  — 

These  drums,  these  trumpets,  flutes  !  what !  — 
Let  Neptune  hear  we  bid  a  loud  farewell 
To  these   great  fellows  :    sound,  and   be  hang'd, 
sound  out. 

[A  Flourish  of  Trumpets,  with  Drums. 
Eno.   Ho,  says  'a !  —  There's  my  cap. 
Men,  Ho !  —  noble  captain ! 

Come.  \^Exeuiit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  ^  Plain  in  Syria. 

finter  Ventipius,  as  after  Conquest,  with  Sinus, 
and  other  Romans,  Officers,  and  Soldiers;  the 
dead  Body  of  Pacorus  borne  before  him. 

Ven.  Now,  darting  Parthia,  art  thou  struck  ;  and 
now 
Pleas'd  fortune  does  of  Marcus  Crassus'  death 
Make  me  revenger.  —  Bear  the  king's  son's  body 
Before  our  army  :  —  Thy  Pacorus,  Orodes  ', 
Pays  this  for  Marcus  Crassus. 

SU.  Noble  Ventidius, 

Whilst  yet  with  Parthian  blood  thy  sword  is  warm, 
The  fugitive  Parthians  follow  ;  spur  through  Media, 
IMesopotamia,  and  the  shelters  whither 
The  routed  fly  :   so  thy  grand  captain  Antony 
Shall  set  thee  on  triumphant  chariots,  and 
Put  garlands  on  tliy  head. 

Vcn.  O  Silius,  Silius, 

I  have  done  enough  :    A  lower  place,  note  well. 
May  make  too  great  an  act :    For  learn  tliis,  Silius; 
Better  leave  undone,  than  by  our  deed  acquire 
Too  high  a  fame,  when  him  we  serve's  away. 
Cajsar,  and  Antony,  have  ever  won 
More  in  their  officer,  than  person  :    Sossius, 
One  of  my  place  in  Syria,  his  lieutenant, 
For  quick  accumulation  of  renown. 
Which  he  achiev'd  by  the  minute,  lost  his  favour : 
Wlio  does  i'  tlie  wars  more  than  his  captain  can, 

'  Un«lcrstand.  "  Hiirdcn,  cltorus.  "  Eyes. 

'  Pacorus  wag  the  son  of  Orodes,  king  of  I'aitliia 


Becomes  his  captain's  captain ;  and  ambition, 

The  soldier's  virtue,  rather  makes  choice  of  loss, 

Than  gain,  which  darkens  him. 

I  could  do  more  to  do  Antonius  good. 

But  'twould  offend  him  ;  and  in  his  offence 

Should  my  performance  perish. 

SU.  Thou  hast,  Ventidius, 

That  without  which  a  soldier,  and  his  sword. 
Grants    scarce   distinction.      Thou  wilt   write   to 
Antony  ? 

Ven.   I'll  humbly  signify  what  in  his  name. 
That  magical  word  of  war,  we  have  eflected  ; 
How,  with  his  banners,  and  his  well-paid  ranks. 
The  ne'er-yet-beaten  horse  of  Parthia 
We  have  jaded  out  o'  the  field. 

SU.  Where  is  lie  now  ? 

Ven.   He  purposeth  to  Athens :  whither  with  what 
haste 
The  weight  we  must  convey  with  us  will  permit. 
We  shall  appear  before  him. — On,  there;  pass  along. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Rome.     An  Ante-chamber  in 
Cssar'j  House. 

Enter  Agripfa  and  Enobarbcs,  meeting, 

Agr.   What,  are  the  the  brothers  parted  ? 

Eno.   They  have  despatch'd  with  Pompey,  he  is 
gone ; 
The  otlicr  three  are  sealing.     Octavia  weeps 
To  ynxTX  fiom  Rome:   Caesar  is  sad ;  and  Lepidus, 


714 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  III. 


Since  Pompey's  feast,  as  Meiias  says,  is  troubled 
With  the  green-sickness. 

Agr.  *Tis  a  noble  Lepidus. 

Eno.   A  very  fine  one  :   O,  how  he  loves  Cajsar  ! 
Agr.   Nay,  but  how  dearly  he  adores  Mark  An- 
tony ! 
Eno.   Caesar,  why  he's  the  Jupiter  of  men. 
Agr.   What's  Antony  ?  The  god  of  Jupiter. 
Eno.  Spake  you  of  Ca)sar  ?  How  ?  the  nonpareil ! 
Agr.   ()  Antony!   O  thou  Arabian  bird !  3 
Eno.  Would  you  praise  Cajsar,  say,  —  Caesar  ;  — ■ 

go  no  further. 
Agr.   Indeed,  he  ply'd  them  both  with  excellent 

praises. 
Eno.   But  he  loves  Caesar  best ;  —  Yet  he  loves 
Antony : 
Ho  !  hearts,  tongues,  figures,  scribes,  bards,  poets, 

cannot 
Think,  speak,  cast,  write,  sing,  number,  ho,  his  love 
To  Antony.      But  as  for  Caesar, 
Kneel  down,  kneel  down,  and  wonder. 

Atp'.  Both  he  loves. 

Eno.   They  are  his  shards  *,  and  he  their  beetle. 
So.  —  [  Trumjyets. 

This  is  to  horse.  —  Adieu,  noble  Agrippa. 

Agr.  Good  fortune,  worthy  soldier ;  and  farewell. 

Enter  C^esar,  Antony,  Lepidus,  and  Octavia. 

Ant.   No  further,  sir. 

C^s.   You  take  from  me  a  great  part  of  myself; 
Use  me  well  in  it.  —  Sister,  prove  such  a  wife 
As  my  thoughts  make  thee, and  as  my  furthest  band  5 
Shall  pass  on  thy  approof.  —  Most  noble  Antony, 
Let  not  the  piece  of  virtue  ^,  which  is  set 
Betwixt  us,  as  the  cement  of  our  love, 
To  keep  it  builded,  be  the  ram,  to  batter 
The  fortress  of  it :  for  better  might  we 
Have  loved  without  this  mean,  if  on  both  parts 
This  be  not  cherish'd. 

Ant.  Make  me  not  oflfended 

In  your  distrust. 

Cces.  I  have  said. 

Ant.  You  shall  not  find, 

Though  you  be  therein  curious  ',  the  least  cause 
For  what  you  seem  to  fear :    So,  the  gods  keep  you, 
And  make  the  hearts  of  Romans  serve  your  ends  ! 
We  will  here  part. 

Cees.   Farewell,  my  dearest  sister,  fare  thee  well ; 
The  elements  be  kind  to  thee,  and  make 
Thy  spirits  all  of  comfort !  fare  thee  well. 

beta.   My  noble  brother  !  — 

Ant.   The  April's  in  her  eyes :    It  is  love's  spring, 
And  these  the  showers  to  bring  it  on. — Be  cheerful. 

Octa.  Sir,  look  well  to  my  husband's  house ;  and — 

C^s.  What, 

Octavia  ? 

Octa.       I'll  tell  you  in  your  ear. 

Ant.   Her  tongue  will  not  obey  her  heart,  nor  can 
Her   heart    inform  her  tongue :    the  swan's  down 

feather, 
That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  full  of  tide, 
And  neither  way  inclines. 

Eno.   Will  Caesar  weep  ?         [Aside  to  Agrippa. 

Agr.  He  has  a  cloud  in's  face. 

Eno.  He  were  the  worse  for  that,  were  he  a  horse  j 
So  is  he,  being  a  man. 

Agr.  Why,  Enobarbus? 

When  Antony  found  Julius  Ca;sar  dead. 

Bond. 


3  The  phoenix. 
•"'  Octavia. 


1  Wing-cases. 
7  Scrupulous. 


He  cried  almost  to  roaring ;  and  he  wept. 
When  at  Philippi  he  found  Brutus  slain. 

^710.   That  year,  indeed,  he  was  troubled  witli 
rheum ; 
What  willingly  he  did  confound  8,  he  wail'd  : 
Believe  it,  till  I  weep  too. 

CcBS.  No,  sweet  Octavia, 

You  shall  hear  from  me  still :  the  time  shall  not 
Out-go  my  thinking  on  you. 

Ant.  Come,  sir,  come  ; 

I'll  wrestle  with  you  in  my  strength  of  love  : 
Look,  here  I  have  you  ;  thus  I  let  you  go. 
And  give  you  to  the  gods. 

Ca;s.  Adieu  ;  be  happy  ! 

Lep.  Let  all  the  number  of  the  stars  give  light 
To  thy  fair  way  ! 

CiBS.  Farewell,  farewell !     [Xisses  Octavia. 

Ant.  Farewell ! 

[Trumpets  sound.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. —  Alexandria.  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  A  lex  as. 

Cleo.  Whereis  the  fellow? 

Alex.  Half  afeard  to  come. 

Cleo.    Go  to,  go  to  :  —  Come  hither,  sir. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Alex.  Good  majesty, 

Herod  of  Jewry  dare  not  look  upon  you. 
But  when  you  are  well  pleas'd. 

Cleo.  That  Herod's  head 

I'll  have  :    But  how  ?  when  Antony  is  gone. 
Through  whom  I  might  command  it.  —  Come  thou 
near. 

Mess.   Most  gracious  majesty,  — 

Cleo.  Didst  thou  behold 

Octavia  ? 

Mess.   Ay,  dread  queen. 

Cleo.  Where  ? 

Mess.  Madam,  in  Rome 

I  look'd  her  in  the  face,  and  saw  her  led 
Between  her  brother  and  Mark  Antony. 

Cleo.   Is  she  as  tall  as  me  ? 

Mess.  She  is  not,  madam. 

Cleo.  Didst  hear  her  speak?  is  she  shrill-tongu'd, 
or  low  ? 

Mess.   Madam,  I  heard  her  speak;   she  is  low- 
voic'd. 

Cleo.   That's  not  so  good  :  —  He  cannot  like  her 
long- 

Char.   Like  her  !   O  Isis  !   'tis  impossible. 

Cleo.   I  think  so,  Charmian  :  Dull  of  tongue,  and 
dwarfish !  — 
What  majesty  is  in  her  gait  ?   Remember, 
If  e'er  thou  look'dst  on  majesty. 

Mess.  She  creeps ; 

Her  motion  and  her  station  i  are  as  one  : 
She  shows  a  body  rather  than  a  life ; 
A  statue,  than  a  breather. 

Cleo.  Is  this  certain  ? 

MesHs.   Or  I  have  no  observance. 

Char.  Three  in  Egypt 

Cannot  make  better  note. 

Cleo.  He's  very  knowing, 

I  do  perceive't :  —  There's  nothing  in  her  yet :  — 
The  fellow  has  good  judgment. 

Char.  Excellent. 

Cleo.    Guess  at  her  years,  I  pr'ythee. 

8  Destroy.  '  Standing  still. 


Scene  IV. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


715 


Madam, 


Mess. 
She  was  a  widow. 

Cleo.  Widow  ?  —  Charm  ian,  hark. 

Mess.    And  I  do  think,  she's  tliirty. 

Cleo.   Bear'st  thou  her  face  in  mind  ?  is  it  long, 
or  round  ? 

Mess.   Round  even  to  faultiness. 

Cleo.  For  the  most  part  too. 

They  are  foolish  that  arc  so. —  Her  hair,  what  colour? 

Afess.  Brown,  madam :  And  her  forehead  is  as  low 
As  she  would  wish  it. 

Cleo.  There  is  gold  for  thee. 

TIjou  must  not  take  my  former  sharpness  ill  : 
I  will  employ  thee  back  again ;   I  find  thee 
Most  fit  for  business  :    Go,  make  thee  ready  ; 
Our  letters  are  prepar'd.  [Exit  Messenger. 

Char.  A  proper  man. 

Cleo.    Indeed  he  is  so  :    I  repent  me  much, 
That  so  I  harry'd'2  him.     Why,  methinks,  by  him, 
This  creature's  no  such  thing. 

Char.  O,  nothing,  madam. 

Cleo.  The  man  hath  seen  some  majesty,  and  should 
know. 

C/iar.   Hath  he  seen  majesty  ?  Isis  else  defend, 
And  serving  you  so  long  ! 

deo.   I  have  one  thing  more  to  ask  him  yet,  good 
Charmian : 
But  'tis  no  matter :  thou  shalt  bring  him  to  me 
Where  I  will  write :   All  may  be  well  enough. 

Char.   I  warrant  you,  madam.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — Athens.      A   Room  in  Antony's 
House. 

Enter  Antony  and  Octavia. 

Ant.   Nay,  nay,  Octavia,  not  only  that,  — 
That  were  excusable,  that,  and  thousands  more 
Of  semblable  import,  —  but  he  hath  wag'd 
New  wars  'gainst  Pompey ;  made  his  will,  and  read  it 
To  publick  ear : 

Spoke  scantly  of  me :   when  perforce  he  could  not 
But  pay  me  terms  of  honour,  cold  and  sickly 
He  vented  them  ;  most  narrow  measure  lent  me  : 
When  the  best  hint  was  given  him,  he  not  took't. 
Or  did  it  from  his  teeth.  ' 

Octa.  O  my  good  lord, 

Believe  not  all ;  or,  if  you  must  believe, 
Stomach  ^  not  all.      A  more  unhappy  lady. 
If  this  division  chance,  ne'er  stood  between. 
Praying  for  both  parts  : 
And  the  good  gods  will  mock  me  presently, 
When  I  shall  pray,  0  bless  my  lord  and  husband  ! 
Undo  that  prayer,  by  crying  out  as  loud, 
0,  bless  my  brother!   Husband  win,  win  brother. 
Prays,  and  destroys  the  prayer ;  no  midway 
'Twixt  these  extremes  at  all. 

Ant.  Gentle  Octavia, 

Let  your  best  love  draw  to  that  point,  which  seeks 
Best  to  preserve  it :    If  I  lose  mine  honour, 
I  lose  myself:   better  I  were  not  yours. 
Than  yours  so  branchless.      But,  as  you  requested, 
Yourself  shall  go  between  us :  The  mean  time,  lady, 
ril  raise  the  preparation  of  a  war 
Shall  stain  *  your  brother;  Make  your  soonest  haste : 
So  your  desires  are  yours. 

Octa.  Thanks  to  my  lord. 

The  Jove  of  power  make  me  most  weak,  most  weak, 
Your  reconciler !   Wars  'twixt  you  twain  would  be 


^  Pullctl,  lugged. 
♦  Resent 


3  Indistinct,  tiirough  his  teeth. 
'  Disgrace. 


As  if  the  world  should  cleave,  and  that  slain  men 
Should  solder  up  the  rift. 

Ant.   When  it  appears  to  you  where  this  begins. 
Turn  your  displeasure  that  way ;  for  our  faults 
Can  never  be  so  equal,  that  your  love 
Can  equally  move  with  them.    Provide  your  going; 
Choose  your  own  company,  and  command  what  cost 
Your  heart  has  mind  to.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Enobarbus  and  Eaos,  meeting. 

Eno.   How  now,  friepd  Eros? 

Eros.   There's  strange  news  come,  sir. 

Eno.   What,  man  ? 

Eros.  Caesar  and  Lepidus  have  made  wars  upon 
Pompey. 

Eno.   This  is  old ;  What  is  the  success  ?  6 

Eros.  Caesar,  having  made  use  of  him  7  in  the 
wars  'gainst  Pompey,  presently  denied  him  rivality  8; 
would  not  let  him  partake  in  the  glory  of  the  action : 
and  not  resting  here,  accuses  him  of  letters  he  had 
formerly  wrote  to  Pompey ;  upon  his  own  appeal  9, 
seizes  him  :  So  the  poor  tliird  is  up,  till  deatli  en- 
large his  confine. 

.£^710.   Then,  world,  thou  hast  a  pair  of  chaps,  no 
more ; 
And  throw  between  them  all  the  food  thou  hast. 
They'll  grind  the  one  the  other.    Where's  Antony  ? 

Eros.   He's  walking  in  the  garden  —  thus ;  and 
spurns 
The  rush  that  lies  before  him ;  cries,  Foolf  Lepidus  I 
And  threats  the  throat  of  that  his  officer, 
That  murder'd  Pompey. 

Eno.  Our  great  navy's  rigged. 

Eros.   For  Italy,  and  Caesar.     More,  Domitius  j 
My  lord  desires  you  presently :  my  news 
I  might  have  told  hereafter. 

Eno.  'Twill  be  naught : 

But  let  it  be.  —  Bring  me  to  Antony. 

Eros.   Come,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  — Rome.  A  RoominCesssix'sUouse. 
Enter  Cssar,  Aguippa,  and  Mec^nas. 

Cces.   Contemning  Rome,  he  has  done  all  this  : 
And  more  ; 
In  Alexandria,  —  liere's  the  manner  of  it,  — 
I'  the  market  place,  on  a  tribunal  silver'd, 
Cleopatra  and  himself  in  chairs  of  gold 
Were  publickly  enthron'd ;  at  the  feet,  sat 
Caesarion,  whom  they  call  my  father's  son ; 
And  all  the  unlawful  issue,  that  their  lust 
Since  then  hath  made  between  them.      Unto  her 
He  gave  the  'stablishment  of  Egypt ;  made  her 
Of  lower  Syria,  Cyprus,  Lydia, 
Absolute  queen. 

Mec.  This  in  the  publick  eye  ? 

Cces.  V  the  common  show-place,  where  they  ex- 
ercise. 
His  sons  he  there  proclaim'd,  The  kings  of  kings  : 
Great  INIedia,  Parthia,  and  Armenia, 
He  gave  to  Alexander  ;  to  Ptolemy  he  assigned 
Syria,  Cilicia,  and  Phoenicia  :   She 
In  the  habiliments  of  the  goddess  Isis 
That  day  appear'd ;  and  oft  before  gave  audience. 
As  'tis  reported,  so. 

Mec.  Let  Rome  be  thus 

Infonn'd. 


•  What  follows  ? 
*    *  Equal  raiik. 


»■  e.  Lpiiidus. 
Accusatioa 


716 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Acr  IIL 


Agr.  Who,  queasy  '  with  his  insolence 

Already,  will  their  good  thoughts  call  from  him. 

C(E&.   The  people  know  it ;  and  have  now  receiv'd 
His  accusations. 

Agr.  Whom  does  he  accuse  ? 

C(BS.   Caesar  :   and  that,  having  in  Sicily 
Sextus  Pompeius  spoil'd,  we  had  not  rated  ^  him 
His  part  o'  the  isle  :   then  does  he  say,  he  lent  me 
Some  shipping  unrestor'd  ;   lastly,  he  frets, 
That  Lepidus  of  the  triumvirate 
Should  be  depos'd ;  and,  being,  that  we  detain 
All  his  revenue, 

Agr,  Sir,  this  should  be  answer'd. 

CcBs.  'Tis  done  already,  and  the  messenger  gone. 
I  have  told  him,  Lepidus  was  grown  too  cruel ; 
That  he  his  high  authority  abus'd, 
And  did  deserve    his   change ;    for  what    I   have 

conquer 'd, 
I  grant  him  pai-t ;  but  then,  in  his  Armenia, 
And  other  of  his  conquer'd  kingdoms,  I 
Demand  the  like. 

Mec  He'll  never  yield  to  that. 

Cces.  Nor  must  not  then  be  yielded  to  in  this. 

Enter  Octavia. 

Octa.   Hail,  Caesar,  and  my  lord  !  hail,  most  dear 
Caesar ! 

Ciss.   That  ever  I  should  call  thee,  cast-away  ! 

Octa.   You  have  not  call'd  me  so,  nor  have  you 
cause. 

Cees.  Why  have  you  stol'n  upon  us  thus  ?    You 
come  not 
Like  Csesar's  sister  :   The  wife  of  Antony 
Should  have  an  army  for  an  usher,  and 
The  neighs  of  horse  to  tell  of  her  approach. 
Long  ere  she  did  appear ;  the  trees  by  the  way 
Should  have  borne  men  ;  and  expectation  fainted. 
Longing  for  what  it  had  not :  nay,  the  dust 
Should  have  ascended  to  the  roof  of  heaven, 
Rais'd  by  your   populous  troops  :     But  you  are 

come 
A  market-maid  to  Rome ;  and  have  prevented 
The  ostent '  of  our  love,  which,  left  unshown. 
Is  often  left  unlov'd  :   we  should  have  met  you 
By  sea,  and  land ;  supplying  every  stage 
With  an  augmented  greeting. 

Octa.  Good  my  lord, 

To  come  thus  was  I  not  constrain'd,  but  did  it 
On  my  free-will.      My  lord,  Mark  Antony, 
Hearing  that  you  prepar'd  for  war,  acquainted 
My  griev'd  ear  withal ;  whereon,  I  begg'd 
His  pardon  for  return. 

CcES.  Which  soon  he  granted. 

Being  an  obstruct  'tween  his  lust  and  him. 

Octa.   Do  not  say  so,  my  lord. 

CcBs.  I  have  eyes  upon  him, 

And  his  affairs  come  to  me  on  the  wind. 
Where  is  he  now  ? 

Octa.  My  lord,  in  Athens. 

CiBS.   No,  my  most  wronged  sister  ;   Cleopatra 
Hath  nodded  him  to  her.    He  hath  given  his  empire 
To  Cleopatra ;  they  now  are  levying 
The  kings  o'  the  earth  for  war :  He  hath  assembled 
Bocchus,  the  king  of  Libya ;  Archelaus, 
Of  Cappadocia ;   Philadelphos,  king 
Of  Paphlagonia  ;  the  Thracian  king,  Adallas  : 
King  Malchus  of  Arabia ;  king  of  Pont ; 
Herod  of  Jewry  ;  Mithridates,  king 
Of  Comagene  ;   Polemon  and  Amintas, 

1  Sick,  disgusted.  2  Assigned.  3  Show,  token. 


The  kings  of  Mede,  and  Lycaonia,  with  a 
More  larger  list  of  scepters. 

Octa.  Ah  me,  most  wretched,^ 

That  have  my  heart  parted  betwixt  two  friends, 
TJiat  do  afflict  each  other ! 

Cass.  Welcome  hither : 

Your  letters  did  withhold  our  breaking  forth  ; 
Till  we  perceiv'd  both  how  you  were  wrong  led. 
And  we  in  negligent  danger.      Cheer  your  heart : 
Be  you  not  troubled  with  the  time,  which  drives 
O'er  your  content  these  strong  necessities ; 
But  let  determin'd  things  to  destiny 
Hold  unbewail'd  their  way.     Welcome  to  Rome : 
Nothing  more  dear  to  me.      You  are  abus'd 
Beyond  the  mark  of  thought :   and  the  high  gods, 
To  do  you  justice,  make  them  ministers 
Of  us,  and  those  that  love  you.     Best  of  comfort ; 
And  ever  welcome  to  us. 

Agr.  Welcome,  lady. 

Mec   Welcome,  dear  madam. 
Each  heart  in  Rome  does  love  and  pity  you  : 
Only  the  adulterous  Antony,  most  large 
In  his  abominations,  turns  you  off; 
And  gives  his  potent  regiment  "*  to  a  trull, 
That  noises  it  against  us. 

Octa.  Is  it  so,  sir? 

C(Bs.   Most  certain.     Sister,  welcome  :  Pray  you. 
Be  ever  known  to  j>atience :   My  dearest  sister ! 

\Exeunt, 

SCENE   VII Antony's   Camp  near  the  Pro- 
montory of  Actium. 

Enter  Cleopatra  and  Enobarbus. 

Cleo.   I  will  be  even  with  thee,  doubt  it  not. 

Eno.   But  why,  why,  why  ? 

Cleo.  Thou  hast  forspoke  ^  my  being  in  these  wars  j 
And  say'st,  it  is  not  fit. 

Eno.  Well,  is  it?  is  it? 

Cleo.   Is't  not  ?  Denounce  against  us,  why  should 
not  we 
Be  there  in  person  ? 

Eno.  Well,  I  could  reply  :  — 

Cleo.  What  is't  you  say  ? 

Eno.   Your  presence  needs  must  puzzle  Antony ; 
Take  from  his  heart,  take  from  his  brain,  from  his 

time. 
What  should  not  then  be  spar'd.     He  is  already 
Traduc'd  for  levity ;  and  'tis  said  in  Rome, 
That  Photinus  an  eunuch,  and  your  maids. 
Manage  this  war. 

Cleo.  Sink  Rome ;  and  their  tongues  rot. 

That  speak  against  us  !   A  charge  we  bear  i'  the  war, 
And,  as  the  president  of  my  kingdom,  will 
Appear  there  for  a  man.      Speak  not  against  it ; 
I  will  not  stay  behind. 

Eno.  Nay,  I  have  done  : 

Here  comes  the  emperor. 

Enter  Antony  and  Canidius. 

Atit.  Is't  not  strange,  Canidius, 

That  from  Tarentum,  and  Brundusium, 
He  could  so  quickly  cut  the  Ionian  sea. 
And  take  in  6   Toryne  ?  —  You  have  heard  on't, 
sweet  ? 

Cleo.   Celerity  is  never  more  admir'd. 
Than  by  the  negligent. 

Ant.  A  good  rebuke, 

Which  might  have  well  become  the  best  of  men, 
4  Government  *  Forbid.  «  Take,  subdue. 


Scene  VII. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


717 


To  taunt  at  slackness.  —  Canidius,  we 
Will  fight  witli  him  by  sea. 

Cleo.  By  sea  !  What  else  ? 

Can.    Why  will  my  lord  do  so  ? 

Ant.  For  7  he  dares  us  to't. 

Eno.   So  hath  my  lord  dar'd  him  to  single  fight. 

Can.   Ay,  and  to  wage  this  battle  at  Pharsalia, 
Where  Ca;sar  fought  with  Pompey :  But  these  offers, 
Which  serve  not  for  his  vantage,  he  shakes  off; 
And  so  should  you. 

Eno.  Your  ships  are  not  well  mann'd  : 

Your  mariners  are  muleteers,  reapers,  people 
Ingross'd  by  swift  impress  8  ;  in  Cajsar's  fieet 
Are  those,  that  often  have  'gainst  Pompey  fought : 
Their  ships  are  yare9  ;  yours,  heavy.      No  disgrace 
Shall  fall  you  for  refusing  him  at  sea, 
Being  prepar'd  for  land. 

Ant.  By  sea,  by  sea. 

Eno.   Most  worthy  sir,  you  therein  tlirow  away 
The  absolute  soldiership  you  have  by  land  ; 
Distract  your  army,  which  doth  most  consist 
Of  war-mark'd  footmen  ;  leave  unexecuted 
Your  own  renowned  knowledge ;  quite  forego 
The  way  which  promises  assurance :   and 
Give  up  yourself  merely  to  chance  and  hazard. 
From  firm  security. 

Ant.  I'll  fight  at  sea. 

Cleo.   I  have  sixty  sails  ',  Caesar  none  better. 

Ant.    Our  overplus  of  shipping  will  we  burn  ; 
And,  with  the  rest  full-mann'd  from  the  head  of 

Actium 
Beat  the  approaching  Caesar.     But  if  we  fail, 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
We  then  can  do't  at  land.  —  Thy  business  ? 

Mess.  The  news  is  true,  my  lord ;  he  is  descried ; 
Caesar  has  taken  Toryne. 

Ant.    Can  he  be  there  in  person?  'tis  impossible; 
Strange,  that  his  power  should  be.  —  Canidius, 
Our  nineteen  legions  thou  shalt  hold  by  land. 
And  our  twelve  thousand  horse: — We'll  to  our 
ship; 

Enter  a  Soldier. 
Away,  my  Thetis!  « —  How  now,  worthy  soldier  ? 

Sold.  O  noble  emperor,  do  not  fight  by  sea ; 
Trust  not  to  rotten  planks  :  Do  you  misdoubt 
This  sword,    and   these   my   wounds?      Let   the 

Egyptians, 
And  the  Phoenicians,  go  a  ducking;  we 
Have  used  to  conquer,  standing  on  the  earth, 
And  fighting  foot  to  foot 

Ant.  Well,  well,  away. 

[Exeunt  Antony,    Cleopatra,  and    Eno- 

BARBUS. 

Sold.    By  Hercules,  I  think,  I  am  i'  the  right. 

Can.  Soldier,  thou  art :  but  his  whole  action  grows 
Not  in  the  jiower  on't :    So  our  leader's  led, 
And  we  are  women's  men. 

Sold.  You  keep  by  land 

The  legions  and  the  horse  whole,  do  you  not  ? 

Cayi.   Marcus  Octavius,  Marcus  Justeius, 
Publicola,  and  Caelius,  are  for  sea : 
But  we  keep  whole  by  land.     Tliis  speed  of  Caesar's 
Carries  3  beyond  belief. 

Sold.  While  he  was  yet  in  Rome, 

His  power  went  out  in  such  distractions,  as 
Beguil'd  all  spies. 


*  Bcfau»e. 
'  Ships. 


"  Pressed  in  ha«tc. 
«  Cleopatra. 


»  Ready 
*  Goca. 


Can.  Who's  his  lieutenant,  hear  you  ? 

Sold.   They  say,  one  Taurus. 

Can.  Well  I  know  the  man. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.    The  emperor  calls  for  Canidius. 
Can.   With  news  the  time's  with  labour;    and 
throes  forth  *, 
Each  minute,  some.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.  —A  Plain  near  Actium. 
Enter  Cesar,  Taurus,  Officers^  and  others. 
Cres.   Taurus,  — 
Taur.  My  lord. 

CcBs.  Strike  not  by  land ;  keep  whole  : 

Provoke  not  battle,  till  we  have  done  at  sea. 
Do  not  exceed  the  prescript  of  this  scroll : 
Our  fortune  lies  upon  this  jump.  5  {Exeunt, 

Enter  Antony  and  Enobarbus. 
Ant.  Set  we  our  squadrons  on  yon'  side  o'  the  hill, 
In  eye  of  Caesar's  battle  ;  from  which  place 
We  may  the  number  of  the  ships  behold, 
And  so  proceed  accordingly.  \Exexint. 

Enter  Canidius,  marching  unth  his  Land  Army  ojie 
Way  over  the  Stage;  and  Taurus,  the  Lieutenant 
of  C^sAR,  the  other  Way.  AJler  their  going  in, 
is  heard  the  noise  of  a  Sea-Fight. 

Alarum.     Re-enter  Enobarbus. 

Eno.   Naught,  naught,  all  naught !  I  can  behold 
no  longer : 
The  Antoniad^,  the  Egyptian  admiral. 
With  all  their  sixty,  fly,  and  turn  the  rudder; 
To  see't,  mine  eyes  are  blasted. 

Enter  Scarus. 

Scar.  Gods,  and  goddesses. 

All  the  whole  synod  of  them  ! 

Eno.  What's  thy  passion  ? 

Scar.    Tlic  greater  cantle  7  of  the  world  is  lost 
With  very  ignorance ;  we  have  kiss'd  away 
Kingdoms  and  provinces. 

Lno.  How  appears  the  fight  ? 

Scar.    On  our  side  like  the  token'd  "  pestilence, 
Where  death  is  sure.     Yon'  ribald-rid  nag  of  Egypt, 

Whom  leprosy  o'ertake  !  i'  the  midst  o'  the  fight, 

When  vantage  like  a  pair  of  twins  appear'd, 

Both  as  the  same,  or  rather  ours  the  elder, 

The  brize  '  upon  her,  like  a  cow  in  June, 
Hoists  sails,  and  flies. 

Eno.  That  I  beheld  :   mine  eyes 

Did  sicken  at  the  sight  on't,  and  could  not 
Endure  a  further  view. 

Scar.  She  once  being  loord''. 

The  noble  ruin  of  her  magick,  Antony, 
Claps  on  his  sea-wing,  and  like  a  doling  mallard. 
Leaving  the  fight  in  height,  flies  after  her : 
I  never  saw  an  action  of  such  shame ; 
Experience,  manhood,  honour,  ne'er  before 
Did  violate  so  itself. 

Eno.  Aleck,  alack  ! 

Enter  Camoius. 
Can.   Our  fortune  on  the  sea  is  out  of  breath. 
And  sinks  most  lamentably.      Had  our  general 
^  Brings  forth.       »  Hazard.      "  Name  of  Cleoi>atra'8  ship 
{  £°"'*^^.    .      Spotted.       1  The  gad-fly  that  stings  catlla 
«  Brought  cloM  to  the  wind.  * 


718 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  III. 


Been  what  !ie  knew  himself,  it  had  gone  well : 
O,  he  has  given  example  for  our  flight, 
Most  grossly,  by  his  oxvn. 

Eiio.    Ay,  are  you  thereahouts  ?  Why  then,  good 
night 
Indeed.  [^  Aside- 

Can.   Towards  Peloponnesus  are  they  fled. 

Scar.   'Tis  easy  to't;  and  there  I  will  attend 
What  further  comes. 

Can.  To  Caesar  will  1  render 

My  legions,  and  my  horse  ;  six  kings  already 
Show  rae  the  way  of  yielding. 

Eno.  I'll  yet  follow 

The  wounded  chance  of  Antony,  though  my  reason 
Sits  in  the  wind  against  me.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IX. 


Alexandria. 
Palace. 


A   Room  in  the 


Enter  Antony  and  Attendants. 

Ant.    Hark,  the  land  bids  me  tread    no   more 
upon't, 
It  is  asham'd  to  bear  me  !      Friends,  come  hither, 
I  am  so  lated  3  in  the  world,  that  I 
Have  lost  ray  way  for  ever :  —  I  have  a  ship 
Laded  with  gold  ;  take  that,  divide  it :   fly. 
And  make  your  peace  with  Cassar. 

Alt.  Fly  !  not  we. 

Ant.   I  have  fled  myself;    and  have  instructed 
cowards 
To  run,  and  show  their  shoulders.  —  Friends,  be 

gone ; 
I  have  myself  resolved  upon  a  course, 
Which  has  no  need  of  you  ;  be  gone  : 
IVIy  treasure's  in  the  harbour,  take  it.  —  O, 
1  follow'd  that  I  blush  to  look  upon : 
My  very  hairs  do  mutiny ;  for  the  white 
Reprove  the  brown  for  rashness,  and  they  them 

For  fear  and  doting Friends,  be  gone  ;  you  shall 

Have  letters  from  me  to  some  friends,  that  will 
Sweep  your  way  for  you.      Pray  you,  look  not  sad. 
Nor  make  replies  of  loathness  :   take  the  hint 
Which  my  despair  proclaims ;  let  that  be  left 
Which  leaves  itself :   to  the  sea-side  straightway  : 
I  will  possess  you  of  that  ship  and  treasure. 
Leave  me,  I  pray,  a  little;   'pray  you  now:  — 
Nay,  do  so;  for,  indeed,  I  have  lost  command, 
Therefore  I  pray  you  :  —  I'll  see  you  by  and  by. 

[Sits  down. 
Enter  Eros,  and  Cleopatra,  led  by  Charmian  and 
Iras. 

Eros.   Nay,  gentle   madam,  to  him:  —  Comfort 
him. 

Iras.   Do,  most  dear  queen. 

Char.    Do  !    Why,  what  else  ? 

Cleo.   Let  me  sit  down.      O  Juno  ! 

Ant.   No,  no,  no,  no,  no. 

Eros.    See  you  here,  sir  ? 

Ant.    O  fye,  fye,  fye. 

Char.    Madam,  — 

Iras.   Madam  ;   O  good  empress  !  — 

Eros.    Sir,  sir, — 

Ant.  Yes,  my  lord,  yes ;  —  He '',  at  Philippi,  kept 
His  sword  even  like  a  dancer ;   while  I  struck 
The  lean  and  wrinkled  Cassius :  and  'twas  I, 
That  the  mad  Brutus  ended  :    he  alone 
Dealt  on  lieu  tenantry  *,  and  no  practice  had 
In  the  brave  squares  of  war:  Yet  now  —  No  matter. 
3  Belated,  benighted.  4  Cassar. 

*  Fought  by  his  officers. 


Cleo.    Ah,  stand  by. 

Eros.   The  queen,  my  lord,  the  queen. 

Iras.    Go  to  him,  madam,  speak  to  him  j 
He  is  unqualitied^  with  very  shame. 

Cleo.   Well  then Sustain  me  :  —  O ! 

Eros.   Most    noble    sir,    arise;    the   queen    ap- 
proaches ; 
Her  head's  declin'd,  and  death  will  seize  her ;  but  7 
Your  comfort  makes  the  rescue. 

Ant.   I  have  offended  reputation  ; 
A  most  unnoble  swerving. 

Eros.  Sir,  the  queen. 

Ant.   O,  whither  hast  thou  led  me,  Egypt  ?  See, 
How  I  convey  my  shame  out  of  thine  eyes 
By  looking  back  on  what  I  have  left  behind 
'Stroy'd  in  dishonour. 

Cleo.  O  my  lord,  my  lord  ! 

Forgive  my  fearful  sails  !   I  little  thought, 
You  would  have  follow'd. 

Ant.  Egypt,  thou  knew'st  too  v/cll, 

My  heart  was  to  thy  rudder  tied  by  the  strings, 
And  thou  shouldst  tow  me  after  :    O'er  my  spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knew'st ;  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
Command  me. 

Cleo.  O,  my  pardon. 

Ant.  Now  I  must 

To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  lowness  ;  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  play'd  as  I  pleas'd 
Making,  and  marring  fortunes.      You  did  know 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror ;  and  that 
My  sword,  made  weak  by  my  affection,  would 
Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

Cleo.  O  pardon,  pardon. 

Ant.   Fall  not  a  tear,  I  say  :   one  of  them  rates  8 
All  that  is  won  and  lost :    Give  me  a  kiss ; 
Even  this  repays  me.  —  We  sent  our  schoolmaster 
Is  he  come  back  ?  —  Love,  I  am  full  of  lead  :  — 
Some  wine,  within  there,  and  our  viands :  —  For- 
tune knows, 
We  scorn  her  most,  when  most  she  offers  blows. 

[Exennt. 

SCENE  X.  —  Caesar's  Camp  in  Egypt. 
Enter  C^sar,  Dolabella,  Thyreus,  and  others. 

Cees.  Let  him  appear  that's  come  from  Antony. — . 
Know  you  him  ? 

Dol.  Caesar,  'tis  his  schoolmaster  9 ; 

An  argument  that  he  is  pluck'd,  when  hither 
He  sends  so  poor  a  pinion  of  his  wing, 
Which  had  superfluous  kings  for  messengers, 
Not  many  moons  gone  by. 

Enter  Euphronius. 

CcBS.  Approach,  and  speak. 

Eup.   Such  as  I  am,  I  come  from  Antony : 
I  was  of  late  as  petty  to  his  ends, 
As  is  the  morn-dew  on  the  myrtle  leaf 
To  his  grand  sea. 

CcBS.  Be  it  so ;   Declare  thine  office. 

Eup.   Lord  of  his  fortunes  he  salutes  thee,  and 
Requires  to  live  in  Egypt :   which  not  granted. 
He  lessens  his  requests  :   and  to  thee  sues. 
To  let  him  breathe  between  the  heavens  and  carlli, 
A  private  man  in  Athens  :    This  for  him. 
Next,  Cleopatra  does  confess  thy  greatness  ; 
6  Divested  of  his  faculties.      ?  Unless.      »  Equals  in  value 
9  Euphronius,  schoolmaster  to  Antony's  children. 


Scene  XI. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


19 


b 


Submits  her  to  thy  might ;  and  of  thee  craves 
The  circle  '  of  the  Ptolemies  for  her  heirs, 
Now  hazarded  to  thy  grace. 

Cees.  For  Antony, 

I  have  no  ears  to  his  request.     The  queen 
Of  audience,  nor  desire,  shall  fail ;  so  she 
From  Egypt  drive  her  all-disgraced  friend, 
Or  take  his  life  there :   This  if  she  perfonn, 
She  shall  not  sue  unheard.     So  to  them  both. 

Eup.   Fortune  pursue  thee ! 

C<ss.  Bring  him  through  the  bands. 

[Exit  EUPHRONIUS. 

To  try  thy  eloquence,  now  'tis  time  :   Despatch  ; 
From  Antony  win  Cleopatra  :   promise, 

[To  TnvREUs. 
And  in  our  name,  what  she  requires ;  add  more, 
From  thine  invention,  offers  :   women  are  not. 
In  their  best  fortunes,  strong ;  but  want  will  perjure 
Tlie  ne'er  touch'd  vestal :  Try  thy  cunning,  Thyreus; 
Make  thine  own  edict  for  thy  pains,  which  we 
Will  answer  as  a  law. 

Tliyr.  Caesar,  I  go. 

C(Bs.   Observe  how  Antony  becomes  his  flaw  ^  ; 
And  what  thou  think'st  his  very  action  speaks 
In  every  power  that  moves. 

Thyr.  Caesar,  I  shall.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  XI.  — Alexandria.  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Cleopatra,    Enobarbus,    Charmian,   and 
Iras. 

Cleo.   What  shall  we  do,  Enobarbus  ? 

Eno.  Think,  and  die. 

Cleo.   Is  Antony,  or  we,  in  fault  for  this  ? 

Eno.    Antony  only,  that  would  make  his  will 
Lord  of  his  reason.      What  although  you  fled 
From  that  great  face  of  war,  whose  several  ranges 
Frighted  each  other  ?  why  should  he  follow  ? 
The  itch  of  his  affection  should  not  then 
Have  nick'd  his  captainship ;  at  such  a  point. 
When  half  to  half  the  world  oppos'd,  he  being 
The  mered  question  3 :   'Twas  a  shame  no  less 
Than  was  iiis  loss,  to  course  your  flying  flags. 
And  leave  his  navy  gazing. 

Cleo.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

Enter  Antont,  with  Euphronius. 

Ant.   Is  this  his  answer  ? 

Eup.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.  The  queen 

Shall  then  have  courtesy,  so  she  will  yield 
Us  up. 

Eup.   He  says  so. 

Ant.  Let  her  know  it.  — 

To  the  boy  Csesar  send  this  grizzled  head, 
And  he  will  fill  thy  wishes  to  the  brim 
With  principalities. 

Cleo.  That  head,  my  lord  ? 

Ant.   To  him  again  ;   Tell  him  he  wears  the  rose 
Of  youth  upon  him  ;  from  which  the  world  should 

note 
Something  particular  :   his  coin,  ships,  legions. 
May  be  a  coward's  ;  whose  ministers  would  prevail 
Under  the  service  of  a  child,  as  soon 
As  i'  the  command  of  Cajsar  :    I  dare  him  therefore 
To  lay  his  gay  caparisons  *  apart, 

'  Diadem,  the  orowa 

«  Conforms  hiinsolf  to  this  breach  of  his  fortune. 

'  The  only  cause  of  dispute. 

*  Circiun.staiices  of  spktulour. 


And  answer  me  declin'd  *,  sword  against  sword. 
Ourselves  alone  :    I'll  write  it ;  follow  me. 

[Exeunt  Antony  and  Euphronjus. 
Eno.   Yes,  like  enough,  high-battled  Cajsar  will 
Unstate  his  happiness,  and  be  stag'd  to  the  show, 
Against  a  sworder.  —  I  see,  men's  judgments  are 
A  parcel  6  of  their  fortunes  ;  and  things  outward 
Do  draw  the  inward  quality  after  them. 
To  suffer  all  alike.      That  he  should  dream, 
Knowing  all  measures,  the  full  Caesar  will 
Answer  his  emptiness ;  —  Caesar,  thou  hast  subduM 
His  judgment  too. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 
Att.  A  messenger  from  Caesar. 

Cleo.    What,    no   more    ceremony  ?  —  See,    my 
women  !  — 
Against  the  blown  rose  may  they  stop  their  nose, 
That  kneel'd  unto  the  buds.  —  Admit  him,  sir. 
Eno.   Mine  honesty,  and  I,  begin  to  square.  7 

[Asiile. 
The  loyalty,  well  held  to  fools,  does  make 
Our  faith  mere  folly :  —  Yet,  he  that  can  endure 
To  follow  with  allegiance  a  fallen  lord. 
Does  conquer  him  that  did  his  master  conquer. 
And  earns  a  place  i'  the  story. 

Enter  Thyreus. 

Geo.  Caesar's  will  ? 

Thyr.   Hear  it  apart. 

Cko.  None  but  friends  ;  say  boldly. 

Thyr.   So,  haply,  are  they  friends  to  Antony. 

Eno.   He  needs  as  many,  sir,  as  Caesar  has ; 
Or  needs  not  us.     If  Caesar  please,  our  master 
Will  leap  to  be  his  friend  :   For  us,  you  know, 
Whose  he  is,  we  are  ;  and  that's  Caesar's. 

Thyr.  So.  — 

Thus  then,  thou  most  renown'd  ;  Caesar  entreats, 
Not  to  consider  in  what  case  thou  stand'st, 
P^urther  than  he  is  Caesar. 

Cleo.  Go  on  :   Right  royal. 

Thyr.   He  knows,  that  you  embrace  not  Antony 
As  you  did  love,  but  as  you  fear'd  him. 

Cleo.  O ! 

Thyr.  The  scars  upon  your  honour,  tlierefore,  he 
Does  pity,  as  constrained  blemishes 
Not  as  deserv'd. 

Cleo.  He  is  a  god,  and  knows 

What  is  most  right :   Mine  honour  was  not  yielded, 
But  conquer'd  merely. 

Eno.  To  be  sure  of  that,   [Asiile. 

I  will  ask  Antony.  —  Sir,  sir,  thou'rt  so  leaky, 
That  we  must  leave  thee  to  thy  sinking,  for 
Thy  dearest  quit  thee.  [Exit  Enobarbus. 

Thyr.  Shall  I  say  to  Caesar 

What  you  require  of  him  ?  for  he  partly  begs 
To  be  desir'd  to  give.      It  much  would  plea.se  him. 
That  of  his  fortunes  you  should  make  a  staff' 
To  lean  upon :   but  it  would  warm  his  spirits, 
To  hear  from  me  you  had  left  Antony, 
And  put  yourself  under  his  shrowd. 
The  universal  landlord. 

Cleo.  What's  your  name  ? 

Thyr.   My  name  is  Thyreus. 

Cleo.  Most  kind  messenger. 

Say  to  great  Ca'sar  this.  In  disputation  ^ 
I  kiss  his  conquering  hand  :   tell  him  I  am  prompt 
To  lay  my  crown  at  his  feet,  and  tliere  to  kneel  : 

*  In  age  and  power.     ^  A  re  of  a  piece  with  them.     ?  Quarrel 

*  Supposed  to  be  an  error  for  dc/mtalion,  i.  e.  by  proxy. 


720 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  id. 


Tell  him,  from  his  all-obeying  9  breath  I  hear 
The  doom  of  Egypt. 

Thyr.  'Tis  your  noblest  course. 

Wisdom  and  fortune  combating  together, 
If  that  the  former  dare  but  what  it  can, 
No  chance  may  shake  it.      Give  me  grace  '  to  lay 
My  duty  on  your  hand. 

Cko.  Your  Caesar's  father 

Oft,  when  he  hath  mus'd  of  taking  kingdoms  in  2, 
Bestow'd  his  lips  on  that  unworthy  place, 
As  it  rain'd  kisses. 

Re-enter  Antony  and  Enobarbus. 

^nt.  Favours,  by  Jove  that  thunders  !  — 

What  art  thou,  fellow  ? 

2%r.  One,  that  but  performs 

The  bidding  of  the  fullest  man,  and  worthiest 
To  have  command  obey'd. 

JSno.  You  will  be  whipp'd. 

Ant.   Approach,  there  :  —  Ay,  you  kite  !  —  Now 
gods  and  devils ! 
Authority  melts  from  me:  Of  late,when  Icry'd,  Ho! 
Like  boys  unto  a  muss  3,  kings  would  start  forth. 
And  cry.  Your  will  ?  Have  you  no  ears  ?  I  am 

Enter  Attendants. 
Antony  yet.   Take  hence  this  Jack  4,  and  whip  him. 

Eno.  'Tis  better  playing  with  a  lion's  whelp, 
Than  with  an  old  one  dying. 

Ant.  Moon  and  stars  ! 

Whip  him  :  —  Were't  twenty  of  the  greatest  tribu- 
taries 
That  do  acknowledge  Caesar,  should  I  find  them 
So  saucy  with  the  hand  of  she  here,  (What's  her  name 
Since  she  was  Cleopatra  ?)  —  Whip  him,  fellows, 
Till,  like  a  boy,  you  see  him  cringe  his  face, 
And  whine  aloud  for  mercy :    Take  him  hence. 

Thi/r.   Mark  Antony,  — 

Ant.  Tug  him  away  :  being  whipp'd. 

Bring  him  again  :  —  This  Jack  of  Caesar's  shall 
Bear  us  an  errand  to  him.  — 

[Exeunt  Attend,  with  Thyreus. 
You  were  half  blasted  ere  I  knew  you  :  —  Ha ! 
Have  I  my  pillow  left  unpress'd  in  Rome, 
Forborne  the  getting  of  a  lawful  race, 
And  by  a  gem  of  women,  to  be  abus'd 
By  one  that  looks  on  feeders  ?  ^ 

Cleo.  Good  my  lord,  — 

Ant.   You  have  been  a  boggier  ever :  — 
But  when  we  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard, 
(O  misery  on't!)  the  wise  gods  seel  ^  our  eyes; 
In  our  own  filth  drop  our  clear  judgments  ;  make  us 
Adore  our  errors  ;  laugh  at  us,  while  we  strut 
To  our  confusion. 

Cleo.  O,  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Ant.   I  found  you  as  a  morsel,  cold  upon 
Dead  Caesar's  trencher  :   nay,  you  were  a  fragment 
Of  Cneius  Pompey's  ;  besides  what  hotter  hours, 
Unregister'd  in  vulgar  fame,  you  have 
Luxuriously  pick'd  out :  —  For,  I  am  sure. 
Though  you  can  guess  what  temperance  should  be, 
You  know  not  what  it  is. 

Cleo.  Wherefore  is  this  ? 

Ant.   To  let  a  fellow  that  will  take  rewards. 
And  say,  God  quit  you  !  be  familiar  with 
My  playfellow,  your  hand ;  this  kingly  seal, 
And  plighter  of  high  hearts  !  — 

9  Obeyed.         '  Grant  me  the  favo'.ir.         2  Conquering. 
3  Scramble.  4  a  term  of  contempt. 

*  Servants.  ^  Close  up. 


I  have  savage  cause  ; 

And  to  proclaim  it  civilly,  were  like 

A  halter'd  neck,  which  does  the  hangman  thank 

For  being  yare  7  about  him.  —  Is  he  whipp'd  ? 

He-enter  Attendants,  with  Thyreus. 

1  Att.   Soundly,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Cry'd  he?  and  begg'd  he  pardon  ? 

1  Att.   He  did  ask  favour. 

Ant.   If  that  thy  father  live,  let  him  repent 
Thou  was  not  made  his  daughter ;  and  be  thou  sorry 
To  follow  Caesar  in  his  triumph,  since 
Thou  hast  been  whipp'd  for  following  him  :   hence- 
forth. 
The  white  hand  of  a  lady  fever  thee. 
Shake  thou  to  look  on't.  —  Get  thee  back  to  Caesar, 
Tell  him  thy  entertainment :   Look,  thou  say, 
He  makes  me  angry  with  him  :   for  he  seems 
Proud  and  disdainful ;  harping  on  what  I  am  ; 
Not  what  he  knew  I  was  :    He  makes  me  angry ; 
And  at  this  time  most  easy  'tis  to  do't ; 
When  my  good  stars,  that  were  my  former  guides, 
Have  empty  left  their  orbs,  and  shot  their  fires 
Into  the  abysm  of  hell.      If  he  mislike 
My  speech,  and  what  is  done ;  tell  him,  he  has 
Hipparchus,  my  enfranchis'd  bondman,  whom 
He  may  at  pleasure  whip,  or  hang,  or  torture. 
As  he  shall  like,  to  quit  8  me  :    Urge  it  thou  : 
Hence,  with  thy  stripes,  begone.      \_Exit  Thyrkl's. 

Cleo.   Have  you  done  yet  ? 

Ant.  Alack,  our  terrene  ^  moon 

Is  now  eclips'd ;  and  it  portends  alone 
The  fall  of  Antony  ! 

Cleo.  I  must  stay  his  time. 

Ant.   To  flatter  Caesar,  would  you  mingle  eyes 
With  one  that  ties  his  points  ? 

Cleo.  Not  know  me  yet  ? 

Ant.   Cold-hearted  toward  me  ? 

Cleo.  Ah,  dear,  if  I  be  so, 

From  my  cold  heart  let  heaven  engender  hail. 
And  poison  it  in  the  source ;  and  the  first  stone 
Drop  in  my  neck :   as  it  determines  ',  so 
Dissolve  my  life  !    The  next  Caesarion  2  smite  ! 
Till,  by  degrees,  the  memory  of  myself. 
Together  with  my  brave  Egyptians  all. 
By  the  discandying  3  of  this  pelleted  storm. 
Lie  graveless ;  till  the  flies  and  gnats  of  Nile 
Have  buried  them  for  prey  ! 

Ant.  I  am  satisfied. 

Caesar  sits  down  in  Alexandria  ;  where 
I  will  oppose  his  fate.      Our  force  by  land 
Hath  nobly  held  ;  our  sever'd  navy  too 
Have  knit  again,  and  fleet  ^  threatening  most  sea- 
like. 
Where  hast  thou  been,  my  heart  ?  —  Dost  thou  hear, 

lady? 
If  from  the  field  I  shall  return  once  more 
To  kiss  these  lips,  I  will  appear  in  blood ; 
I  and  my  sword  will  earn  our  chronicle ; 
There  is  hope  in  it  yet. 

Cleo.  That's  my  brave  lord  ! 

Ant.   I  will  be  treble-sinew'd,  hearted,  breath'd, 
And  fight  maliciously  :   for  when  mine  hours 
Were  nice  ^  and  lucky,  men  did  ransome  lives 
Of  me  for  jests  ;  but  now,  I'll  set  my  teeth. 
And  send  to  darkness  all  that  stop  me.  —  Come, 
Let's  have  one  other  gaudy  night :   call  to  me 

7  Ready,  handy.  ^  Requite.  ^  Earthly. 

1  Dissolves.  2  Her  son  by  Julius  Casar. 

3  Melting.  *  Float.  *  Trifling. 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


721 


All  my  sad  captains,  fill  our  bowls ;  once  more 
Let's  mock  the  midnight  bell. 

Cleo.  It  is  my  birth-day  : 

I  had  thought  to  have  held  it  poor ;  but,  since  my  lord 
Is  Antony  again,  I  will  be  Cleopatra. 

Ant.   We'll  yet  do  well. 

Cleo.    Call  all  his  noble  captains  to  my  lord. 

Ant.    Do  so,  we'll  speak  to  them;  and  to-night 
I'll  force 
The  wine  peej)  through  their  scars.  —  Come  on,  my 

queen ; 
There's  sap  in't  yet.     The  next  time  I  do  fight, 


I'll  make  death  love  me ;  for  1  will  contend 
Even  with  his  pestilent  scythe. 

\^Exeunt  Antony,  Clhopatra,  and 
Attendants. 
Eno.   Now  he'll  out-stare  the  lightning.      To  be 
furious 
Is,  to  be  frighted  out  of  fear  :   and  in  that  mood, 
The  dove  will  peck  the  estridge  7 ;  and  I  see  still, 
A  diminution  in  our  captain's  brain 
Restores  his  heart :    When  valour  preys  on  reason. 
It  eats  the  sword  it  fights  with.      I  will  seek 
Some  way  to  leave  him.  [^Exit- 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I Caesar'5  Camp  at  Alexandria. 

Enter   C^sar,  reading  a  Letter;    Agrippa,   Me- 
c^NAS,  and  others. 

Cces.   He  calls  me,  boy ;  and  chides,  as  he  had 
power 
To  beat  me  out  of  Egypt :  my  messenger 
He  hath  whipp'd  with  rods  ;  dares  me  to  personal 

combat, 
Cfissar  to  Antony  :   Let  the  old  ruffian  know, 
I  have  many  other  ways  to  die ;  mean  time, 
Laugh  at  his  challenge. 

Mec.  Caesar  must  think. 

When  one  so  great  begins  to  rage,  he's  hunted 
Even  to  falling.      Give  him  no  breath,  but  now 
Make  boot  ^  of  his  distraction  :   Never  anger 
Made  good  guard  for  itself. 

Cces.  Let  our  best  heads 

Know,  that  to  morrow  the  last  of  many  battles 
We  mean  to  fight :  —  Within  our  files  there  are, 
Of  tliose  that  serv'd  Mark  Antony  but  late, 
Enough  to  fetch  him  in.      See  it  be  done ; 
And  feast  the  army;  we  have  store  to  do't, 
And  they  have  eam'd  the  waste.     Poor  Antony  ! 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Alexandria.     A  Room  in  tlie 
Palace. 

Enter    Antont,    Cleopatra,  Enobarbus,   Char- 
MiAN,  Iras,  Alexas,  and  others. 

Ant.   He  will  not  fight  with  me,  Domitius. 

Eno.  No, 

AyU.   Why  should  he  not  ? 

Eno,   He  thinks,  being  twenty  times  of  better 
fortune. 
He  is  twenty  men  to  one. 

Ant.  To-morrow,  soldier. 

By  sea  and  land  I'll  fight :   or  1  will  live. 
Or  bathe  my  dying  honour  in  the  blood 
Shall  make  it  live  again.     Woo't  thou  fight  well  ? 

Ejio.    I'll  strike  ;  and  cry,  7"ake  alU 

Ant.  Well  said  ;  come  on.  — 

Call  forth  my  household  servants  ;  let's  to-night 

Enter  Servants. 
Be  bounteous  at  our  meal.  —  Give  me  thy  hand, 
Thou  hast  been  rightly  honest ;  so  hast  thou  ;  — 
And  thou,  —  and  thou,  —  and  thou  ;  —  you  have 

serv'd  me  well. 
And  kings  have  been  your  fellows. 
'  Take  advantage. 


Cleo.  What  means  this  ? 

Eno.   *Tis  one  of  those  odd  tricks,  which  sorrow 
shoots  [^sufe. 

Out  of  the  mind. 

Ant.  And  thou  art  honest  too. 

I  wish  I  could  be  made  so  many  men  ; 
And  all  of  you  clapp'd  up  together  in 
An  Antony  ;  that  I  might  do  you  service. 
So  good  as  you  have  done. 

Sei-v.  The  gods  forbid  ! 

Ant.  Well,  my  good  fellows,  wait  on  me  to-night : 
Scant  not  my  cups ;  and  make  as  much  of  me, 
As  when  mine  empire  was  your  fellow  too. 
And  suflfer'd  my  command. 

Cleo.  What  does  he  mean  ? 

Eno.    To  make  his  followers  weep. 

Ant.  Tend  me  to-night. 

May  be,  it  is  the  period  of  your  duty  : 
Haply,  you  shall  not  see  me  more  ;  or  if, 
A  mangled  shadow  :   perchance  to-morrow 
You'll  serve  another  master.      I  look  on  you. 
As  one  that  takes  his  leave.     Mine  honest  friends, 
I  turn  you  not  away ;  but,  like  a  master 
Married  to  your  good  service,  stay  till  death : 
Tend  me  to-night  two  hours,   I  ask  no  more. 
And  the  gods  yield  »  you  for't ! 

Eno.  What  mean  you,  sir, 

To  give  them  this  discomfort  ?    Look,  they  weep ; 
And  I,  an  ass,  am  onion-eyed ;  for  shame. 
Transform  us  not  to  women. 

Ant.  Ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Now  the  witch  take  me,  if  I  meant  it  thus  ! 
Grace  grow  where  those  drops  fall !    My  hearty 

friends. 
You  take  me  in  too  dolorous  a  sense ; 
I  spake  to  you  for  your  comfort .   did  desire  you 
To  burn  this  night  with  torches  :  Know,  my  hearts, 
I  hope  well  of  to-morrow  ;  and  will  lead  you. 
Where  rather  I'll  expect  victorious  life, 
Tlian  death  and  honour.     Let's  to  supi>cr  ;  come. 
And  drown  consideration.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  ^Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  tu^  Soldiers  to  their  Guards. 

1  Sold-  Brother,  good  night :  to-morrow  is  the  day. 

2  Sold.  It  will  determine  one  way  :   fare  you  well. 
Heard  you  of  nothing  strange  about  the  streets  ? 

1  Sold.    Nothing  :    What  new  s  ? 

2  Sold.  Belike,  'tis  but  a  rumour  ; 
Good  night  to  you. 

1  Sold.  Well,  sir,  good  nigljt. 

7  Ostricli.  8  Reward, 

3  A 


722 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  IV. 


Enter  two  other  Soldiers. 

2  Sold.  Soldiers, 
Have  careful  watch. 

3  Sold,  And  you  :   Good  night,  good  night. 

\_The  first  two  place  theviselves  at 
their  Posts. 

4  Sold.   Here  we:    [Thej/ take  their  Posts.]  and 

if  to-morrow 
Our  navy  thrive,  I  have  an  absolute  hope 
Our  landmen  will  stand  up. 

3  Sold.  'Tis  a  brave  army, 

I      And  full  of  purpose. 

I  [Musick  of  Hautboys  under  the  Stage. 

j         4  Sold.  Peace,  what  noise  ? 

1  Sold.  List,  list ! 

2 Sold.   Hark! 

1  Sold.   Musick  i'  the  air. 

3  Sold.  Under  the  earth. 

4  Sold.  It  signs  9  well, 
Does't  not  ? 

3  Sold.         No. 

1  Sold.      Peace,  1  say.     What  should  this  mean  ? 

2  Sold.  'Tis  the  god  Hercules,  whom  Antony  lov'd. 
Now  leaves  him. 

1  Sold.  Walk ;  let's  see  if  other  watchmen 
Do  hear  what  we  do.  [  Thei/  advance  to  another  Post. 

2  Sold.  How  now,  masters  ? 

Sold.  How  now  ? 

How  now  ?  do  you  hear  tliis  ? 

[Several  speaking  together. 
I  Sold.  Ay;   Is't  not  strange ? 

3  Sold.   Do  you  hear,  masters  ?  do  you  hear  ? 

1  Sold.  Follow  the  noise  so  far  as  we  have  quarter. 
Let's  see  how't  will  give  off. 

Sold.   [Several  speaking.]    Content :  'Tis  strange. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —^  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Antony  and  Cleopatra;  Charmian,  and 
others,  attending. 

Ant.   Eros !  mine  armour,  Eros  ! 
Cleo.  Sleep  a  little. 

Ant.  No,  my  chuck.  —  Eros,  come  ;  mine  armour, 
Eros! 

Enter  Eros,  with  Armour. 
Come,  my  good  fellow,  put  thine  iron  on  :  — 
If  fortune  be  not  ours  to-day,  it  is 
Because  we  brave  her.  —  Come. 

Cleo.  Nay,  I'll  help  too. 

What's  this  for  ? 

Ant.  Ah,  let  be,  let  be  !  thou  art 

The  armourer  of  my  heart :  —  False,  false ;  this,  this. 

Cleo.   Sooth,  la,  I'll  help  :    Thus  it  must  be. 

Ant.  Well,  well ; 

We  shall  thrive  now.  —  Seest  thou,  my  good  fellow? 
Go  put  on  thy  defences. 

Eros.  Briefly,  sir. 

Cleo.  Is  not  this  buckled  well  ? 

Ant.  Rarely ;  rarely  : 

He  that  unbuckles  this,  till  we  do  please 
To  doff't  1  for  our  repose,  shall  hear  a  storm.  — 
Thou  fumblest,  Eros  ;  and  my  queen's  a  squire 
More  tight  ^  at  this  than  thou  :  Despatch.  —  O  love, 
That  thou  couldst  see  my  wars  to-day,  and  knew'st 
The  royal  occupation  1  thou  shouldst  see 

I  Put  it  off.  »  Handy. 


Enter  an  OflBcer  armed. 

A  workman  in't.  —  Good  morrow  to  thee ;  wel- 
come ; 
Thou  look'st  like  him  that  knows  a  warlike  charge : 
To  business  that  we  love,  we  rise  betime, 
And  go  to  it  with  delight. 

1  Off.  A  thousand,  sir, 
Early  though  it  be,  have  on  their  riveted  trim, 
And  at  the  port  expect  you. 

[Shout.     Trumpets.     Flam 

Enter  other  OfBcers,  and  Soldiers. 

2  Off.  The  morn  is  fair.  —  Good  morrow,  gene 
All.   Good  morrow,  general. 
Ant.  'Tis  well  blown, 

This  morning,  like  the  spirit  of  a  youth 
That  means  to  be  of  note,  begins  betimes.  — 
So,  so  ;  come,  give  me  that :   this  way,  well  said 
Fare  thee  well,  dame,  whate'er  becomes  of  me: 
This  is  a  soldier's  kiss  :   rebukable  [Kisses  her. 

And  worthy  shameful  check  it  were,  to  stand 
On  more  mechanick  compliment ;   I'll  leave  thee. 
Now,  like  a  man  of  steel.  —  You  that  will  fight. 
Follow  me  close  ;   I'll  bring  you  to't.  —  Adieu. 

[Exeunt  Antony,   Eros,   Officers,   and 
Soldiers. 

Char.   Please  you,  retire  to  your  chamber  ? 

Cleo.  Lead  me. 

He  goes  forth  gallantly.      That  he  and  Caasar  might 
Determine  this  great  war  in  single  fight ! 
Then,  Antony,  —  But  now,  —  Well,  on.    [Exeunt* 

SCENE  V.  —  Antony's  Camp  near  Alexandria. 

Trumpets  sound.      Enter   Antony  and  Eros  ;  a 
Soldier  meeting  them. 

Sold.   The  gods  make  this  a  happy  day  to  Antony. 

Ant.   'Would  thou  and  those  thy  scars  had  once 
prevail'd 
To  make  me  fight  at  land  1 

Sold.  Hadst  thou  done  so. 

The  kings  that  have  revolted,  and  the  soldier 
That  has  this  morning  left  thee,  would  have  still 
Follow'd  thy  heels. 

Ant.  Who's  gone  this  morning  ? 

Sold,  Who? 

One  ever  near  thee  :   Call  for  Enobarbus, 
He  shall  not  hear  thee  ;  or  from  Csesar's  camp 
Say,  /  am  none  of  thine. 

Ant.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Sold.  ^ir, 

He  is  with  Caesar. 

Eros.  Sir,  his  chests  and  treasure 

He  has  not  with  him. 

Ant.  Is  he  gone  ? 

Sold.  Most  certain. 

Ant.    Go,  Eros,  send  his  treasure  after  ;  do  it ; 
Detain  no  jot,  I  charge  thee :   write  to  him  ^H 

(I  will  subscribe)  gentle  adieus,  and  greetings:        iH  I 
Say,  that  I  wish  he  never  find  more  cause  ^B  I 

To  change  a  master.  —  O,  my  fortunes  have 
Corrupted  honest  men;  —  Eros,  despatch.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  Caesar's  Camp  before  Alexandria. 

Flourish.  Enter  Cjesar,  with  Agrippa,  Enobarbus, 
and  others. 
Cces.   Go  forth,  Agrippa,  and  begin  the  fight : 
Our  will  is,  Antony  be  took  alive; 
Make  it  so  known. 


Scene  VII. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


723 


Agr.   Caesar,  I  shall.  \ETit  Aorippa. 

Cxs.   The  time  of  universal  peace  is  near  : 
Prove  this  a  prosperous  day,  the  three-nook'd  world 
Shall  bear  the  olive  freely. 

Enier  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Antony 

Is  come  into  the  field. 

Cces.  Go,  charge  Agrippa 

Plant  those  that  have  revolted  in  the  van, 
That  Antony  may  seem  to  spend  his  fury 
Upon  himself.  [Exeurit  C-«sar  and  his  Train. 

Eno.    Alexas  did  revolt ;  and  went  to  Jewry, 
On  affairs  of  Antony  :  tliere  did  persuade 
Great  Herod  to  incline  himself  to  Caesar, 
And  leave  his  master  Antony  :   for  this  pains, 
Cajsar  hath  hang'd  him.      Canidius,  and  the  rest 
That  fell  away,  have  entertainment,  but 
No  honourable  trust.      I  have  done  ill ; 
Of  which  I  do  accuse  myself  so  sorely, 
That  I  will  joy  no  more. 

EiUer  a  Soldier  of  Cmskvls. 

Sold.  Enobarbus,  Antony 

Hath  after  thee  sent  all  thy  treasure,  with 
His  bounty  overplus:   The  messenger 
Came  on  my  guard,  and  at  thy  tent  is  now. 
Unloading  of  his  mules. 

Eno.  I  give  it  you. 

Sold.  Mock  me  not,  Enobarbus. 

I  tell  you  true  :   Best  that  you  saf 'd  the  bringer 
Out  of  tlie  host ;   I  must  attend  mine  office. 
Or  would  have  done't  myself.      Your  emperor 
Continues  still  a  Jove.  \^ExU  Soldier. 

Eno.   I  am  alone  the  villain  of  the  earth, 
And  feel  I  am  so  most.      O  Antony, 
'i'hou  mine  of  bounty,  how  wouldst  thou  have  paid 
My  better  service,  when  my  turpitude 
Thou  dost  so  crown  with  gold !    This  blows  3  my 

heart: 
If  swifl  thought  break  it  not,  a  swifter  mean 
Shall  outstrike  thought :  but  thought  will  do't,  I  feel. 
I  fight  against  thee  !  —  No  :    I  will  go  seek 
Some  ditch,  wherein  to  die  ;  the  foul'st  best  fits 
My  latter  part  of  life.  [£xif. 

SCENE  \ll.  — Field  of  Battle  between  the  Camps. 

Alarum.    Drums  and  Trumpets.    Enter  Agrippa, 

and  others. 

Agr.   Retire,  we  have  engaged  ourselves  too  far : 
Cassar  himself  has  work,  and  our  oppression 
Exceeds  what  we  expected.  [Exeunt. 

Alarum.     Enter  Antony  and  Scarus,  wounded. 

Scar.  O  my  brave  emperor,  this  is  fought  indeed  ! 
Had  we  done  so  at  first,  we  had  driven  them  home 
With  clouts  about  their  heads. 

Ant.  Thou  bleed*st  apace. 

Scar.   I  had  a  wound  here  that  was  like  a  T, 
But  now  'tis  made  an  H. 

Ant.  They  do  retire. 

Scar.  We'll  beat  'em  into  bench-holes  ;  I  have  yet 
Room  for  six  scotches  *  more. 

Enter  Eros. 
Eros.   They  arc  beaten,  sir ;  and  our  advantage 
serves 
For  a  fair  victory. 

3  Swells.  *  Cuu. 


Scar.  liCt  us  score  their  backs. 

And  snatch  'em  up,  as  we  take  hares,  behind; 
'Tis  sport  to  maul  a  runner. 

Ant.  I  will  reward  thee 

Once  for  thy  spritely  comfort,  and  ten-fold 
For  thy  good  valour.      Come  thee  on. 

Scar.  I'll  halt  after.      lExeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.  —  Under  the  Walls  of  Alexandria. 

Alarum.     Enter  Antony,  marching}  Scarur,  and 
Forces. 

Ant.   We  have  beat  him  to  his  camp ;   Run  one 
before, 
And  let  the  queen  know  of  our  guests. — To-morrow, 
Before  the  sun  shall  see  us,  we'll  spill  the  blood 
That  has  to-day  escap'd.      I  thank  you  all ; 
For  doughty  ^-handed  are  you  ;  and  have  fought 
Not  as  you  serv'd  the  cause,  but  as  it  had  been 
Each  man's  like  mine ;  you  have  shown  all  Hectors. 
Enter  the  city,  clasp  your  wives,  your  friends. 
Tell  them  your  feats ;  whilst  they  with  joyful  tears 
Wash  the  congealment  from  your  wounds,  and  kiss 
The  honour'd  gashes  whole.  —  Give  me  thy  hand  ; 

[ToScARus. 

Enter  Cleopatra,  attended. 

To  this  great  fairy  6  I'll  commend  thy  acts, 

Make  her  tlianks  bless  thee.  —  O  thou  day  o'  the 

world. 
Chain  mine  arm'd  neck ;  leap  thou,  attire  and  all. 
Through  proof  of  harness  7  to  my  heart,  and  there 
Ride  on  the  pants  triiimphing. 

Cleo.  Lord  of  lords ! 

O  infinite  virtue  !  com'st  thou  smiling  from 
The  world's  great  snare  uncaught  ? 

Ant.  My  nightingale. 

We  have  beat  them  to  their   beds.     What,  girl? 

though  grey 
Do  something  mingle  with  our  brown ;  yet  have  we 
A  brain  that  nourishes  ovu:  nerves,  and  can 
Get  goal  for  goal  of  youth.      Behold  this  man  ; 
Conunend  unto  his  lips  thy  favouring  hand ; 
Kiss  it,  my  warrior :  —  He  hath  fought  to-day. 
As  if  a  god,  in  hate  of  mankind,  had 
Destroy'd  in  such  a  shape. 

Cleo.  1*11  give  thee,  friend, 

An  armour  all  of  gold ;  it  was  a  king's. 

Ant.   He  has  deserv'd  it,  were  it  carbuncled 
Like  holy  Phoebus'  car.  —  Give  me  thy  hand; 
Through  Alexandria  make  a  jolly  march  ; 
Bear  our  hack'd  targets  like  the  men  that  owe  ^  thenu 
Had  our  great  palace  tlie  capacity 
To  camp  this  host,  we  all  would  sup  together ; 
And  drink  carouses  to  the  next  day's  fate, 
Which  promises  royal  peril.  —  Trumpeters, 
With  brazen  din  blast  you  the  city's  ear ; 
Make  mingle  with  our  rattling  tambourines ; 
That   heaven   and   earth   may  strike  their  sounds 

together. 
Applauding  our  approach.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  lX.  —  CsssaT'sCamp. 
Sentinels  on  their  Post.     Enter  Enobarbus. 

1  Sold.   If  we  be  not  reliev'd  within  this  hour, 
We  must  return  to  the  court  of  guard :   The  night 

»  Brave. 

•  Beauty  united  with  power,  wa«  the  popular  charactcris. 
tick  of  fairies.  '  Armour  of  proof.  "Own. 

3  A   52 


724 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  IV. 


Is  shiny ;  and,  they  say,  we  shall  embattle 
By  the  second  hour  i'  the  morn. 

2  Sold.  This  last  day  was 
A  shrewd  one  to  us. 

Mno.  O,  bear  me  witness,  night,  — 

3  Sold.   What  man  is  this? 

2  Sold.  Stand  close,  and  list  to  him. 
Uno.   Be  witness  to  me,  O  thou  blessed  moon. 

When  men  revolted  shall  upon  record 
Bear  hateful  memory,  poor  Enobarbus  did 
Before  thy  face  repent !  — 

1  Sold.  Enobarbus ! 

3  Sold.  Peace ; 
Hark  further. 

Uno.    O  sovereign  mistress  of  true  melancholy. 
The  poisonous  damp  of  night  disponge  upon  me ; 
That  life,  a  very  rebel  to  my  will. 
May  hang  no  longer  on  me :    Throw  my  heart 
Against  the  flint  and  hardness  of  my  fault ; 
Which,  being  dried  with  grief,  will  break  to  powder, 
And  finish  all  foul  thoughts.      O  Antony, 
Nobler  than  my  revolt  is  infamous. 
Forgive  me  in  thine  own  particular; 
But  let  the  world  rank  me  in  register 
A  master-leaver,  and  a  fugitive  : 

0  Antony  !   O  Antony !  [Dies. 

2  Sold.  Let's  speak 
To  him. 

1  Sold.   Let's  hear  him,  for  the  things  he  speaks 
May  concern  Caesar. 

3  Sold.  Let's  do  so.      But  he  sleeps. 

1  Sold.   Swoons  rather  ;  for  so  bad  a  prayer  as  his 
Was  never  yet  for  sleeping. 

2  Sold.  Go  we  to  him. 

3  Sold.    Awakcj  awake,  sir ;  speak  to  us. 

2  Sold.  Hear  you,  sir  ? 
1  Sold.   The  hand  of  death  hath  raught  9  him. 

Hark,  the  drums  [Drums  ajur  off. 

Demurely  wake  the  sleepers.  Let  us  bear  him 
To  the  court  of  guard ;  he  is  of  note  :  our  hour 
Is  fully  out. 

3  Sold.  Come  on  then  ; 

He  may  recover  yet.  [Exeunt  with  the  Body. 

SCENE  X. — Between  the  two  Camps. 
Enter  Antony  and  Scarus,  with  Forces,  marching. 

Ant.   Their  preparation  is  to-day  by  sea ; 
We  please  them  not  by  land. 

Scar.  For  both,  my  lord. 

Ant.  I  would,  they'd  fight  i'  the  fire,  or  in  the  air  j 
We'd  fight  there  too.      But  this  it  is  ;  our  foot 
Upon  the  hills  adjoining  to  the  city. 
Shall  stay  with  us ;  order  for  sea  is  given  ; 
They  have  put  forth  the  haven,  further  on, 
Where  their  appointment  we  may  best  discover, 
\nd  look  on  their  endeavour.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  C^sar,  and  his  Forces,  marching. 
Cces.  But  ^  being  charg'd,  we  will  be  still  by  land. 
Which,  as  I  tak't,  we  shall ;  for  his  best  force 
Is  forth  to  man  his  gallies.      To  the  vales. 
And  hold  our  best  advantage.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Antony  and  Scarus. 
Ant.  Yet  they're  not  join'd :   Where  yonder  pine 
does  stand, 

1  shall  discover  all :    I'll  bring  thee  word 
Straight,  how  'tis  like  to  go.  [Exit. 

B  Reached.  '  Without 


Scar.  Swallows  have  built 

In  Cleopatra's  sails  their  nest :   the  augurers 
Say,    they  know  not,  —  they  cannot  tell :  —  look 

grimly. 
And  dare  not  speak  their  knowledge.      Antony 
Is  valiant,  and  dejected  ;  and,  by  starts, 
His  fretted  fortunes  give  him  hope,  and  fear. 
Of  what  he  has,  and  has  not. 

Alarum  afar  off,  as  at  a  Sea  Fight. 

Re-enter  Antony. 
Ant.  All  is  lost ; 

This  foul  Egyptian  hath  betrayed  me  : 
My  fleet  hath  yielded  to  the  foe :  and  yonder 
They  cast  their  caps  up,  and  carouse  together 
Like  friends  long  lost.  —  Triple-tum'd  whore !  2  'tis 

thou 
Hast  sold  me  to  this  novice ;  and  my  heart 
Makes  only  wars  on  thee.  —  Bid  them  all  fly ; 
For  when  I  am  reveng'd  upon  my  charm, 
I  have  done  all :  —  Bid  them  all  fly,  begone. 

Exit  Scarus. 
O  sun,  thy  uprise  shall  I  see  no  more : 
Fortune  and  Antony  part  here ;  even  here 
Do  we  shake  hands. — All  come  to  this? — The  hearts 
That  spaniel'd  me  at  heels,  to  whom  I  gave 
Their  wishes,  do  discandy,  melt  their  sweets 
On  blossoming  Caesar ;  and  this  pine  is  bark'd, 
That  over-topp'd  them  all.      Betray'd  I  am  : 
O  this  false  soul  of  Egypt !  this  grave  charm. 
Whose  eye  beck'd  forth  my  wars,  and  call'd  them 

home; 
Whose  bosom  was  my  crownet  3,  my  chief  end, 
Like  a  right  gipsy,  hath,  at  fast  and  loose  4, 
Beguil'd  me  to  the  very  heart  of  loss.  — 
What,  Eros,  Eros! 

Enier  Cleopatra. 

Ah  !  thou  spell !    Avaunt. 

Cleo.   Why  is  my  lord  enrag'd  against  his  love '? 

Aiit.   Vanish  :  or  I  shall  give  thee  thy  deserving. 
And  blemish  Caesar's  triumph.     Let  him  take  thee. 
And  hoist  thee  up  to  the  shouting  plebeians : 
Follow  his  chariot,  like  the  greatest  spot 
Of  all  thy  sex ;  most  monster-like,  be  shown 
For  poor'st  diminutives  s,  to  dolts ;  and  let 
Patient  Octavia  plough  thy  visage  up 
With  her  prepared  nails.     [Exit  Cleo.]     'Tis  well 

thou'rt  gone. 
If  it  be  well  to  live  :    But  better  'twere 
Thou  fell'st  into  my  fury,  for  one  death 
Might  have  prevented  many.  —  Eros,  ho  !  — 
The  shirt  of  Nessus  is  upon  me :   Teach  me, 
Alcides,  thou  mine  ancestor,  thy  rage : 
Let  me  lodge  Lichas  6  on  the  horns  o'  the  moon  ; 
And  with  those  hands  that  grasp'd  the  heaviest  club, 
Subdue  my  worthiest  self.      The  witch  shall  die  ; 
To  the  Roman  boy  she  hath  sold  me,  and  I  fall 
Under  this  plot :   she  dies  for't Eros,  ho  !  [Exit. 

SCENE  XI Alexandria.   A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  Mardian. 
Cleo.  Help  me,  my  women !  O,  he  is  more  mad 
Than  Telamon  7  for  his  shield ;  the  boar  of  Thessaly 
Was  never  so  emboss'd.s 

2  Cleopatra  first  belonged  to  Julius  Caesar,  then  to  Antony, 
and  now,  as  Antony  supposes,  to  Augustus.  3  Finish. 

"■  A  cheating  game,  at  present  named  pricking  at  the  belt. 

5  For  the  smallest  piece  of  money. 

fi  The  boy  that  brought  the  poisoned  shirt  to  Hercules. 

7  Ajax  Telamon  for  the  shield  of  Achilles. 

8  Foaming  at  the  mouth.  < 


Scene  XII. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


725 


Char.  To  the  monument ; 

There  lock  yourself,  and  send  him  word  you  are 

dead. 
The  soul  and  body  rive  not  more  in  parting, 
Than  greatness  going  off. 

Cleo-  To  the  monument :  — 

Mardian,  go  tell  him  I  have  slain  myself; 
Say,  that  the  last  I  spoke  was,  Antony, 
And  word  it,  pr'ythee,  piteously :   Hence, 

Mardian ;  and  bring  me  how  he  takes  my  death 

To  the  monument  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  XU.—jinotherRoom, 
Enter  Antony  and  Eros. 

Ant.   Eros,  thou  yet  behold'st  me ! 

■Eros.  Ay,  noble  lord. 

u4nt.   Sometime,  we  see  a  cloud  that's  dragonish; 
A  vapour,  sometime,  like  a  bear,  or  lion, 
A  tower'd  citadel,  a  pendant  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  upon*t,  that  nod  unto  the  world. 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air :   Thou  hast  seen  these 

signs ; 
They  are  black  vesper's  pageants. 

£ros.  Ay,  my  lord. 

jint.   That  which  is  now  a  horse,  even  with  a 
thought. 
The  rack  9  dislimns  :  and  makes  it  indistinct, 
As  water  is  in  water. 

Eros.  It  does,  my  lord. 

ulnt.   My  good  knave,  Eros,  now  tliy  captain  is 
Even  such  a  body :  here  I  am  Antony ; 
Yet  cannot  hold  this  visible  shape,  my  knave. 

I  made  these  wars  for  Egypt ;  and  the  queen, 

Whose  heart,  I  thought,  I  had,  for  she  had  mine ; 
Which,  whilst  it  was  mine,  had  annex'd  unto't 
A  million  more,  now  lost,  —  she,  Eros,  has 
Tack'd  cards  with  Caesar,  and  false  play'd  my  glory 

Unto  an  enemy's  triumph. 

Nay,  Weep  not,  gentle  Eros ;  there  is  left  us 
Ourselves  to  end  ourselves O,  thy  vile  lady  ! 

Enter  Mardian. 
She  has  robb'd  me  of  my  sword. 

^^ar'  No,  Antony ; 

My  mistress  lov'd  thee,  and  her  fortunes  mingled 
With  thine  entirely. 

■^ni-  Hence,  saucy  eunuch ;  peace ; 

She  hath  betray'd  me,  and  shall  die  the  death. 

Mar.  Deatli  of  one  person  can  be  paid  but  once ; 
A  nd  that  she  has  discharged :  What  thou  wouldst  do. 
Is  done  unto  thy  hand  :  the  last  she  spake 
Was,  Antony  !  most  noble  Antony  ! 
Then  in  the  midst  a  tearing  groan  did  break 
The  name  of  Antony  ;  it  was  divided 
Between  her  heart  and  lips  :   she  render'd  life. 
Thy  name  so  buried  in  her. 

Ant.  Dead  then  ? 

Mar.  Dead. 

Ant.   Eros,  unarm  ;  the  long  day's  task  is  done, 
And  we  must  sleep  :  —  That  thou  depart'st  hence 

safe. 
Does  pay  thy  labour  richly  j  Go.  —  Off,  pluck  off;  — 

[Exit  Mardian. 
Tlic  seven-fold  shield  of  Ajax  cannot  keep 
The  battery  from  my  heart.      O,  cleave,  my  sides  ! 
Heart,  once  be  stronger  than  thy  continent ', 
Crack  thy  frail  case !  —  Apace,  Eros,  apace.  — 
»  The  fleeting  clouds. 
'  i.  r.  The  thing  that  contains  thco. 


No  more  a  soldier  :  —  bruis'd  pieces,  go  ; 

You  have  been  nobly  borne.  —  From  me  a  while. 

[Exit  Eros. 
I  will  o'ertake  thee,  Cleopatra,  and 
Weep  for  my  pardon.      So  it  must  be,  for  now 
All  length  is  torture  ;  —  Since  the  torch  is  out. 
Lie  down,  and  stray  no  further :    Now  all  labour 
Mars  what  it  does  ;  yea,  very  force  entangles 
Itself  with  strength  :    Seal  then,  and  all  is  done.  — 
Eros  !  —  I  come,  my  queen  :  —  Eros  !  Stay  for  me: 
Where  souls  do  couch  on  flowers,  we'll  hand  in 

hand. 
And  with  our  sprightly  port  make  the  ghosts  gaze : 
Dido  and  her  ^neas  shall  want  troops. 
And  all  the  haunt  be  ours Come,  Eros,  Eros ! 

Re-enter  Eros. 
Eros.   What  would  my  lord  ? 
-^w^  Since  Cleopatra  died, 

I  have  liv'd  in  such  dishonour,  that  the  gods 
Detest  my  baseness.      I,  that  with  my  sword 
Quarter'd  the  world,  and  o'er  green  Neptune's  back 
With  ships  made  cities,  condemn  myself,  to  lack 
The  courage  of  a  woman ;  less  noble  mind 
Than  she,  which,  by  her  death,  our  Caesar  tells, 
/  am  conqueror  of  mi/self.      Thou  art  sworn,  Eros, 
That,  when  the  exigent  should  come,  (which  now 
Is  come,  indeed,)  when  I  should  see  behind  me 
The  inevitable  prosecution  of 
Disgrace  and  horror,  that,  on  my  command, 
Thou  then  wouldst  kill  me :  do't ;  the  time  is  come ; 
Thou  strik'st  not  me,  'tis  Caesar  thou  defeat'st. 
Put  colour  in  thy  cheek. 

Eros.  The  gods  withliold  me  ! 

Shall  I  do  that,  which  all  the  Parthian  darts, 
Though  enemy,  lost  aim,  and  could  not  ? 

Ant.  Eros, 

Wouldst  thou  be  window'd  in  great  Rome,  and  see 
Thy  master  thus  with  pleach'd'^  arms,  bending  down 
His  corrigible  neck,  his  face  subdued 
To  penetrative  shame ;  whilst  the  wheel'd  seat 
Of  fortunate  Caesar,  drawn  before  him,  branded 
His  baseness  that  ensued  ? 

Eros.  I  would  not  see't. 

Ant.   Come  then  ;  for  with  a  wound  I  must  be 
cur'd. 
Draw  that  thy  honest  sword,  which  thou  hast  worn 
Most  useful  for  thy  country. 

Eros.  O,  sir,  pardon  me. 

Ant.  When  I  did  make  thee  free,  swor'st  thou  not 
then 
To  do  this  when  I  bade  thee  ?     Do  it  at  once  ; 
Or  thy  precedent  services  are  all 
But  accidents  unpurpos'd.      Draw,  and  come. 

Eros.  Turn  from  me  then  that  noble  countenance, 
Wherein  the  worship  s  of  the  whole  world  lies. 

Ant.  Lo  thee !  [  Tumingfrom  him. 

Eros.   My  sword  is  drawn. 

Ant.  Then  let  it  do  at  once 

The  thing  why  thou  hast  drawn  it. 

Eros.  My  dear  master, 

My  captain,  and  my  emperor  !  let  me  say, 
Before  I  strike  this  bloody  stroke.  Farewell. 

Ant.   'Tis  said,  man ;  —  and  farewell. 

Eros.   Farewell,  great  chief.   Shall  I  strike  now  ? 

Ant.  Now,  Eros. 

Eros.   Why,  there  then  :  _  [Falls  on  his  sword.] 
Thus  do  I  escape  the  sorrow 
Of  Antony's  death. 

•  Folded.  3  Dignity. 

3  A   3 


726 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  IV. 


^rU.  Thrice  nobler  than  myself ! 

Thou  teachest  me,  O  valiant  Eros,  what 
I  should,  and  thou  couldst  not.     My  queen  and 

Eros 
Have,  by  their  brave  instruction,  got  upon  me 
A  nobleness  in  record :    But  I  will  be 
A  bridegroom  in  my  death,  and  run  into't 
As  to  a  lover's  bed.     Come  then  ;  and,  Eros, 
Thy  master  dies  thy  scholar ;  to  do  thus 

[Falling  on  his  sword. 
I  leam'd  of  thee.  How  !  not  yet  dead?  not  dead? — 
The  guard !  —  ho  !  —  O,  despatch  me. 

Enter  Dercetas  and  Guard. 

1  Guard.  What's  the  noise  ? 
Ant,  I  have  done  my  work  ill,  friends  :   O,  make 

an  end 
Of  what  I  have  begun. 

2  Guard.  The  star  is  fallen. 
1  Guard.   And  time  is  at  his  period. 

AU.  Alas,  and  woe  ! 

Ant.  Let  him  that  loves  me  strike  me  dead. 

1  Guard.  Not  I. 

2  Guard.   Nor  I. 

3  Guard.   Nor  any  one.  \^Exeunt  Guard. 
Der.  Thy  death  and  fortunes  bid  thy  followers  fly. 

This  sword  but  shown  to  Caesar,  with  this  tidings. 
Shall  enter  me  with  him. 

Enter  Diomedes. 

Dio.  Where's  Antony? 

Ber,  There,  Diomed,  there. 

Dio.  Lives  he  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  answer,  man  ?  [^Exit  Dercetas. 

Ant.   Art  thou  there,  Diomed  ?  Draw  thy  sword, 
and  give  me 
SuiHcient  strokes  for  death. 

Dio.  Most  absolute  lord. 

My  mistress  Cleopatra  sent  me  to  thee. 

Ant.  When  did  she  send  thee  ? 

Dio.  Now,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Where  is  she  ? 

Dio.   Lock'd  in  her  monument.     She  had  a  pro- 
phesying fear 
Of  what  hath  come  to  pass :  for  when  she  saw 
(Which  never  shall  be  found,)  you  did  suspect 
She  had  dispos'd  with  Caesar,  and  that  your  rage 
Would  not  be  purg'd,  she  sent  you  word  she  was 

dead; 
But,  fearing  since  how  it  might  work,  hath  sent 
Me  to  proclaim  the  truth ;  and  I  am  come, 
I  dread,  too  late. 

Ant.   Too  late,  good  Diomed :  —  Call  my  guard, 
I  pr'ythee. 

Dio.  What,    ho !    the    emperor's    guard !    The 
guard,  what,  ho  ! 
Come,  your  lord  calls. 

Enter  some  of  the  Guard. 
Ant.  Bear  me,  good  friends,  where  Cleopatra  bides ; 
Tis  the  last  service  that  I  shall  command  you. 
1  Guard.  Woe  are  we,  sir,  you  may  not  live  to 
wear 
All  your  true  followers  out. 

All.  Most  heavy  day ! 

Ant.  Nay,  good  my  fellows,  do  not  please  sharp 
fate 
To  grace  it  with  your  sorrows :   bid  that  welcome 
Which  comes  to  punish  us,  and  we  punish  it 
Seeming  to  bear  it  lightly.     Take  me  up  : 


I  have  led  you  oft ;  carry  me  now,  good  friends. 
And  have  my  thanks  for  all. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  Antomy 

SCENE  Xlll.  ^  A  Mo7iument. 
Enter  above,  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  and  Iras. 
Cleo.   O,  Charmian,  I  will  never  go  from  hence. 
C/iar.    Be  comforted,  dear  madam. 
Cleo.  No,  I  will  not ; 

All  strange  and  terrible  events  are  welcome. 
But  comforts  we  despise  ;  our  size  of  sorrow, 
Proportion'd  to  our  cause,  must  be  as  great 

Enter  Diomedes. 
As  that  which  makes  it.  —  How  now  ?  is  he  dead  ? 

Dio.   His  death's  upon  him,  but  not  dead. 
Look  out  o'  the  other  side  your  monument. 
His  guard  have  brought  him  thither. 

Enter  Antony,  borne  by  the  Guard. 

Cleo.  O  thou  sun. 

Burn  the  great  sphere  thou  mov'st  in  !  — darkling 

stand 
The  varying  shore  o'  the  world !  —  O  Antony  ! 
Antony,  Antony  !  —  Charmian,  help  ;  help,  Iras ; 
Help,  friends  below ;  Let's  draw  him  hither. 

Ant.  Peace : 

Not  Caesar's  valour  hath  o'erthrown  Antony, 
But  Antony's  hath  triumphed  on  itself. 

Cleo.   So  it  should  be,  that  none  but  Antony 
Should  conquer  Antony  ;  but  woe  'tis  so  ! 

Ant.   I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  ;  only 
I  here  imp6rtune  death  awhile,  until 
Of  many  thousand  kisses  the  poor  last 
I  lay  upon  thy  lips.  — 

Cleo.  I  dare  not,  dear 

(Dear  my  lord,  pardon,)  I  dare  not. 
Lest  I  be  taken  :  not  the  imperious  show 
Of  the  full-fortun'd  Csesar  ever  shall 
Be  brooch'd  ■*  with  me  ;  if  knife,  drugs,  serpents,  have 
Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I  am  safe : 
Your  wife  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes, 
And  still  conclusion  ^,  shall  acquire  no  honour 
Demuringupon  me.  —  But  come,  come,  Antony,— 
Help  me,  my  women, —  we  must  draw  thee  up  ;  — 
Assist,  good  friends. 

Ant.  O,  quick,  or  I  am  gone. 

Cleo.   Here's  sport  indeed !  —  How  heavy  weighs 
my  lord ! 
Our  strength  is  all  gone  into  heaviness, 
That  makes  the  weight :  Had  I  great  Juno's  power. 
The  strong  wing'd  Mercury  should  fetch  thee  up. 
And  set  thee  by  Jove's  side.     Yet  come  a  little,  — 
Wishers  were  ever  fools ;  —  O,  come,  come,  come ; 
[They  draw  Antony  ^lp. 
And  welcome,  welcome  !  die,  where  thou  hast  liv'd : 
Quicken  6  with  kissing ;  had  my  lips  that  power. 
Thus  would  I  wear  them  out. 

AU.  A  heavy  sight. 

Ant.   I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  : 
Give  me  some  wine,  and  let  me  speak  a  little. 

Cleo.   No,  let  me  speak  ;  and  let  me  rail  so  high. 
That  the  false  housewife  Fortune  break  her  wheel,    Jfl^  I 
Frovok'd  by  my  offence.  "^P 

Ant.  One  word,  sweet  queen : 

Of  Caesar  seek  your  honour,  with  your  safety.  —  O  ! 

Cleo.   They  do  not  go  together. 

Ant.  Gentle,  hear  me :  ^m 

None  about  Caesar  trust,  but  Proculeius.  ^jr  | 

*  Ornamented         *  Sedate  determination.        «  Revivft 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


CUo.   My  resolution,  and  my  hands,  I'll  trust; 
None  about  Caesar. 

AnX.  The  miserable  change  now  at  my  end, 
Lament  nor  sorrow  at :  but  please  your  thoughts, 
In  feeding  them  with  those  my  former  fortunes 
Wherein  I  liv'd,  the  greatest  prince  o'  the  world, 
The  noblest :  and  do  now  not  basely  die, 
Nor  cowardly  ;  put  oflf  my  helmet  to 
My  countryman,  a  Roman,  by  a  Roman 
Valiantly  vanquish'd.      Now,  my  spirit  is  going  ; 
I  can  no  more.  \_DieS' 

Clco.  Noblest  of  men,  woo't  die  ? 

Hast  thou  no  care  of  me  ?     Shall  I  abide 
In  this  dull  world,  which  in  thy  absence  is 
No  better  than  a  stye  ?  —  O,  see,  my  women, 
The  crown  o*  the  earth  doth  melt :  —  My  lord !  — 
O,  wither'd  is  the  garland  of  the  war, 
The  soldier's  pole  is  fallen ;  young  boys,  and  girls 
Are  level  now  with  men ;  the  odds  is  gone. 
And  there  is  nothing  left  remarkable 
Beneath  the  visiting  moon.  [She  faints. 

Char.  O  quietness,  lady  ! 

Iras.   She  is  dead  too,  our  sovereign. 

Char.  Lady,  — 

Iras.  Madam,  — 

C/iar.   O  madam,  madam,  madam ! 


727 

Royal  Egypt ! 


Iras. 
Empress  ! 

Char.         Peace,  peace,  Iras. 

Cleo.   No  more,   but  e'en  a  woman;  and  com- 
manded 
By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks. 
And  does  the  meanest  chares.  7  —  It  were  for  me 
To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods  ; 
To  tell  them,  that  this  world  did  equal  theirs. 
Till  they  had  stolen  our  jewel.     All's  but  naught ; 
Patience  is  sottish  ;  and  impatience  does 
Become  a  dog  that's  mad  :    Then  is  it  sin, 
To  rush  into  the  secret  house  of  death, 
Ere  death  dare  come  to  us? —  How  do  you,  women? 
What,  what?  good  cheer!  Why,  how  now,  Charmian? 
My  noble  girls !  —  Ah,  women,  women,  look  ! 
Our   lamp   is  spent,   it's  out :  —  Good   sirs,  take 
heart :  —  [To  the  Guard  below. 

We'll  bury  him :  and  then  what's  brave,  what's  noble, 
Let's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion, 
And  make  death  proud  to  take  us.      Come  away  : 
This  case  of  that  huge  spirit  now  is  cold. 
Ah,  women,  women  !  come  ;  we  have  no  friend 
But  resolution,  and  the  briefest  end. 

[Exeunt ;  those  above  bearing  off  Antony's  Body. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —  Caesar'i  Camp  before  Alexandria. 

E-nJter  Caesar,  Aorifpa,  Dolabella,  Mecjenas, 
Gallus,  Proculeius,  and  others. 

CcBs.   Go  to  him,  Dolabella,  bid  him  yield  ; 
Being  so  frustrate,  tell  him,  he  mocks  us  by 
The  pauses  that  he  makes. 

Dot.  Caesar,  I  shall.      [Exit  Dolabella. 

Enter  Dercetas,  with  the  Sword  of  Antony. 

Cces.  Wherefore  is  that  ?  and  what  art  thou,  that 
dar'st 
Appear  thus  to  us  ? 

Der.  I  am  call'd  Dercetas ; 

Mark  Antony  I  serv'4,  who  best  was  worthy. 
Best  to  be  serv'd :   whilst  he  stood  up  and  spoke. 
He  was  my  master  :   and  I  wore  my  life. 
To  spend  upon  his  haters  :    If  thou  please 
To  take  me  to  tliee,  as  I  was  to  him 
I'll  be  to  Caesar  ;   If  thou  pleasest  not, 
I  yield  thee  up  my  life. 

Cces.  What  is't  tliou  say'st  ? 

Der.   I  say,  O  Caesar,  Antony  is  dead. 

Cccs.  The  breaking  of  so  great  a  thing  should  make 
A  greater  crack :  The  round  world  should  have  shook 
Lions  into  civil  streets. 

And  citizens  to  their  dens.  —  The  death  of  Antony 
Is  not  a  single  doom  ;  in  the  name  lay 
A  moiety  of  the  world. 

Der.  He  is  dead,  Caesar  ; 

Not  by  a  public  minister  of  justice, 
Nor  by  a  hired  knife  ;  but  tliat  self  hand. 
Which  writ  his  honour  in  the  acts  it  did, 
Hath,  with  the  courage  which  the  heart  did  lend  it, 
Splitted  the  heart.  —  Tliis  is  his  sword, 
I  I'obb'd  his  wound  of  it ;  behold  it  stain'd 
With  his  most  noble  blood. 


C<Bs.  Look  you  sad,  friends  ? 

The  gods  rebuke  me,  but  it  is  a  tidings 
To  wash  the  eyes  of  kings. 

Ai^r.  And  strange  it  is. 

That  nature  must  compel  us  to  lament 
Our  most  persisted  deeds. 

Mec.  His  taints  and  honours 

Waged  equal  with  him. 

jigr.  A  rarer  spirit  never 

Did  steer  humanity :   but  you  gods  will  give  us 
Some  faults  to  make  us  mend.      Caesar  is  touch'd. 

Mec.  When  such  a  spacious  mirror's  set  before  him, 
He  needs  must  see  himself. 

Cces.  O  Antony ! 

I  have  follow'd  thee  to  this :  —  But  we  do  lance 
Diseases  in  our  bodies :   I  must  perforce 
Have  shown  to  thee  such  a  declining  day. 
Or  look  on  thine  ;  we  could  not  stall  together 
In  the  whole  world  :   but  yet  let  me  lament. 
With  tears  as  sovereign  as  the  blood  of  hearts. 
That  thou,  my  brother,  my  competitor 
In  top  of  all  design,  my  mate  in  empire, 
Friend  and  companion  in  the  front  of  war, 
Tlie  arm  of  mine  own  body,  and  the  heart 
Where  mine  his^  tlioughts  did  kindle, — that  oui 

stars, 
Unreconciliable,  should  divide 
Our  equalness  to  tliis.  —  Hear  me,  good  friends,  — • 
But  I  will  tell  you  at  some  meeter  season  ; 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Tlie  business  of  this  man  looks  out  of  him. 
We'll  hear  him  what  he  says.  —  Whence  are  you 
Mess.   A    poor   Egyptian    yet.     The  queen  my 
mistress, 
Con6n'd  in  all  she  has,  her  monument. 
Of  thy  mtcnts  desires  instruction  ; 

7  Task-work.  «  It& 

3  A   4 


728 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  V. 


That  she  preparedly  may  frame  herself 
To  the  way  she's  forc'd  to. 

Ca;s.  Bid  her  have  good  heart ; 

She  soon  shall  know  of  us,  by  some  of  ours, 
How  honourable  and  how  kindly  we 
Determine  for  her :  for  Caesar  cannot  live 
To  be  ungentle. 

Mess.  So  the  gods  preserve  thee !   \_Exit. 

CcBs.   Come  hither,  Proculeius ;   Go,  and  say, 
We  purpose  her  no  shame  ;  give  her  what  comforts 
The  quality  of  her  passion  shall  require ; 
Lest,  in  her  greatness,  by  some  mortal  stroke 
She  do  defeat  us :   for  her  life  in  Rome 
Would  be  eternal  in  our  triumph  :    Go, 
And,  with  your  speediest,  bring  us  what  she  says, 
And  how  you  find  of  her. 

Pro.  Caesar,  I  shall.  {Exit  Proculeius. 

C<Bs.   Gallus,  go  you  along.  — Wliere's  Dolabella, 
To  second  Proculeius  ?  \Ex\i  Gallus. 

Agr.  Mec.  Dolabella ! 

Cces.   Let  him  alone,  for  I  remember  now 
How  he's  employed  ;  he  shall  in  time  be  ready. 
Go  with  me  to  my  tent ;  where  you  shall  see 
How  hardly  I  was  drawn  into  this  war; 
How  calm  and  gentle  I  proceeded  still 
In  all  my  writings  :    Go  with  me  and  see 
What  I  can  show  in  this.  \_Exeunt. 


SCENE  I L— Alexandria. 

Monument. 


A  Room  in  the 


Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  and  Iras. 

Cleo.   My  desolation  does  begin  to  make 
A  better  life  :   'Tis  paltry  to  be  Caesar; 
Not  being  fortune,  he's  but  fortune's  knave  9, 
A  minister  of  her  will ;   And  it  is  great 
To  do  that  thing  that  ends  all  other  deeds  ; 
Which  shackles  accidents ;  and  bolts  up  change  ; 
Which  sleeps,  and  never  palates  more  the  dung. 
The  beggar's  nurse  and  Caesar's. 

Enter,  to  the  Gates  of  the  Monument,  Proculeius, 
Gallus,  and  Soldiers. 

Pro.  Caesar  sends  greeting  to  the  queen  of  Egypt ; 
And  bids  thee  study  on  what  fair  demands 
Thou  mean'st  to  have  him  grant  thee. 

Cleo.    [Within.]  What's  thy  name ? 

Pro.   My  name  is  Proculeius. 

Cleo.   [JVithin.]  Antony 

Did  tell  me  of  you,  bade  me  trust  you ;  but 
I  do  not  greatly  care  to  be  deceiv'd, 
That  have  no  use  for  trusting.     If  your  master 
Would  have  a  queen  his  beggar,  you  must  tell  him. 
That  majesty,  to  keep  decorum,  must 
No  less  beg  than  a  kingdom  :  if  he  please 
To  give  me  conquer'd  Egypt  for  my  son, 
He  gives  me  so  much  of  mine  own,  as  I 
Will  kneel  to  him  with  thanks. 

Pro.  Be  of  good  cheer ; 

You  are  fallen  into  a  princely  hand,  fear  nothing : 
Make  your  full  reference  freely  to  my  lord. 
Who  is  so  full  of  grace,  that  it  flows  over 
On  all  that  need  :    Let  me  report  to  him 
Your  sweet  dependancy  :   and  you  shall  find 
A  conqueror,  that  will  pray  in  aid  for  kindness. 
Where  he  for  grace  is  kneel'd  to. 

Cleo.    [Within.']  Pray  you,  tell  him 

I  am  his  fortune's  vassal,  and  I  send  him 
The  greatness  he  has  got.      I  hourly  learn 
9  Servant. 


A  doctrine  of  obedience ;  and  would  gladly 
Look  him  i'  the  face. 

Pro.  This  I'll  report,  dear  lady. 

Have  comfort ;  for,  I  know,  your  plight  is  pitied 
Of  him  that  caus'd  it. 

Gal.  You  see  how  easily  she  may  be  surpris'd ; 
[Here  Proculeius,  and  two  of  the  Guard, 
ascend  the  Monument  by  a  Ladder  placed 
against  a  Window,  and  having  descended, 
come  behind  Cleopatra.  Som£  of  the  Guard 
unbar  and  open  the  Gates. 
Guard  her  till  Caesar  come. 

[To  Proculeius  and  the  Guard.    Exit 
Gallus. 

Iras.   Royal  queen  ! 

Char.    O  Cleopatra !  thou  art  taken,  queen  !  — 

Cleo.   Quick,  quick,  good  hands. 

[Drawing  a  Dagger. 

Pro.  Hold,  worthy  lady,  hold : 

[Seizes  and  disarms  her. 
Do  not  yourself  such  wrong,  who  are  in  this 
Reliev'd,  but  not  betray'd. 

Cleo.  What,  of  death  too 

That  rids  our  dogs  of  languish  ? 

Pro.  Cleopatra, 

Do  not  abuse  my  master's  bounty,  by 
The  undoing  of  yourself :   let  the  world  see 
His  nobleness  well  acted,  which  your  death 
Will  never  let  come  forth. 

Cleo.  Where  art  thou,  death  ? 

Come  hither,  come !  come,  come,  and  take  a  queen 
Worth  many  babes  and  beggars  ! 

Pro.  O,  temperance,  lady  ! 

Cleo.    Sir,  I  will  eat  no  meat,  I'll  not  drink,  sir; 
If  idle  talk  will  once  be  necessary, 
I'll  not  sleep  neither  :   This  mortal  house  I'll  ruin, 
Do  Caesar  what  he  can.      Know,  sir,  that  I 
Will  not  wait  pinion'd  at  your  master's  court : 
Nor  once  be  chastis'd  with  the  sober  eye 
Of  dull  Octavia.      Shall  they  hoist  me  up, 
And  show  me  to  the  shouting  varletry  i 
Of  censuring  Rome  ?  Rather  a  ditch  in  Egypt 
Be  gentle  grave  to  me  !  rather  on  Nilus'  mud 
Lay  me  stark  naked,  and  let  the  water-flies 
Blow  me  into  abhorring  !  rather  make 
My  country's  high  pyramides  my  gibbet, 
And  hang  me  up  in  chains  ! 

Pro.  You  do  extend 

These  thoughts  of  horror  further  than  you  shall 
Find  cause  in  Caesar. 

Enter  Dolabella. 

Dol.  Proculeius, 

What  thou  hast  done  thy  master  Caesar  knows, 
And  he  hath  sent  for  thee  :   as  for  the  queen, 
I'll  take  her  to  my  guard. 

Pro.  So,  Dolabella, 

It  shall  content  me  best :  be  gentle  to  her.  — 
To  Caesar  I  will  speak  what  you  shall  please, 

[To  Cleopatra. 
If  you'll  employ  me  to  him. 

Cleo.  Say,  I  would  die 

[Exeunt  Proculeius  and  Soldiers. 

Dol.  Most  noble  empress,  you  have  heard  of  me  ? 

Cleo.   I  cannot  tell. 

Dol.  Assuredly,  you  know  me. 

Cleo.  No  matter,  sir,  what  I  have  heard  or  known. 
You  laugh,  when  boys,  or  women,  tell  their  dreams ; 
Is't  not  your  trick  ? 

1  Rabble. 


Scene  II. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


729 


Dol.  I  understand  not,  madam. 

Cteo.  I  dream'd,  there  was  an  emperor  Antony ;  — 
O,  such  another  sleep,  that  I  might  see 
But  such  another  man  ! 

Dol.  If  it  might  please  you,  — 

Cleo.   His  face  was  as  the  heavens ;  and  therein 
stuck 
A  sun,  and  moon;  which  kept  their  course,  and 

lighted 
The  little  O,  the  earth. 

Dol.  Most  sovereign  creature, — 

Cleo.   His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean  :   his  rear'd  arm 
Crested  the  world  :  Ids  voice  was  propertied 
As  all  the  tuned  spheres,  and  that  to  friends  ; 
But  when  he  meant  to  quail  2  and  shake  the  orb, 
He  was  as  rattling  thunder.      For  his  bounty. 
There  was  no  winter  in't ;  an  autumn  'twas, 
That  grew  the  more  by  reaping :    In  his  livery 
Walk'd  crowns,  and  crownets ;  realms  and  islands 

were 
As  plates  3  dropp'd  from  his  pocket. 

Dol.  Cleopatra,  — 

Cleo.   Think  you,  there  was,  or  might  be,  such  a 
man 
As  this  I  dream'd  of? 

Dol.  Gentle  madam,  no. 

Cleo.   You  lie  up  to  the  hearing  of  the  gods. 
But,  if  there  be,  or  ever  were  one  such, 
It's  past  the  size  of  dreaming  :    Nature  wants  stuff 
To  vie  strange  forms  with  fancy ;  yet,  to  imagine 
An  Antony,  were  nature's  piece  'gainst  fancy. 
Condemning  shadows  quite. 

Dol.  Hear  me,  good  madam  : 

Your  loss  is  as  yourself,  great :  and  you  bear  it 
As  answering  to  the  weight :   Would  I  might  never 
O'ertake  pursu'd  success,  but  I  do  feel. 
By  the  rebound  of  yours,  a  grief  that  shoots 
My  very  heart  at  root. 

Cleo.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Know  you,  what  Caesar  means  to  do  with  me  ? 

Dol.  1  am  loath  to  tell  you  what  I  would  you  knew. 

Cleo.   Nay,  pray  you,  sir,  — 

Dol.  Though  he  be  honourable,  — 

Cleo.   He'll  lead  me  then  in  triumph  ? 

Dd.  Madam  ;  he  will ; 

I  know  it. 

[  Within.'^  Make  way  there,  —  Caesar. 

Enter  C^sar,   Gallus,   Proculeius,   MecjENas, 
Seleucus,  and  Attendants. 

Cess.  Which  is  the  queen 

Of  Egypt? 

Dol.  *Tis  the  emperor,  madam. 

[Cleopatra  kneels. 

Cces.  Arise, 

You  shall  not  kneel  — 
I  pray  you,  rise  ;  rise,  Egypt. 

Cleo.  Sir,  the  gods 

Will  have  it  thus ;  my  master  and  my  lord 
I  must  obey. 

Cees.  Take  to  you  no  hard  thoughts : 

The  record  of  what  injuries  you  did  us, 
Though  written  in  our  flesh,  we  shall  remember 
As  things  but  done  by  chance. 

Cleo.  Sole  sir  o'  the  world, 

I  cannot  project  ♦  mine  own  cause  so  well 
To  make  it  clear  ;  but  do  confess,  I  have 
Been  laden  with  like  frailties,  which  before 
Have  often  sham'd  our  sex. 


2  Crush. 


3  Silver  money. 


«  Shape  or  form. 


Cees.  Cleopatra,  know, 

We  will  extenuate  rather  than  enforce : 
If  you  apply  yourself  to  our  intents, 
(Which  towards  you  are  most  gentle,)  you  shall  find 
A  benefit  in  this  change ;  but  if  you  seek 
To  lay  on  me  a  cruelty,  by  taking 
Antony's  course,  you  shall  bereave  yourself 
Of  my  good  purposes,  and  put  your  children 
To  that  destruction  which  I'll  guard  them  from. 
If  thereon  you  rely.      I'll  take  my  leave. 

Cleo.  And  may;  through  all  the  world :  'tis  yours: 
and  we 
Your  'scutcheons,  and  your  signs  of  conquest,  shall 
Hang  in  what  place  you  please.     Here,  my  good 
lord. 

Cces.   You  shall  advise  me  in  all  for  Cleopatra. 

Cleo.  This  is  the  brief  of  money,  plate,  and  jewels, 
I  am  possess'd  of :   'tis  exactly  valued : 
Not  petty  things  admitted.  —  Where's  Seleucus  ? 

Sel.   Here,  madam. 

Cleo.  This  is  my  treasurer ;  let  him  speak,  my  lord, 
Upon  his  peril,  that  I  have  reserv'd 
To  myself  nothing.      Speak  the  truth,  Seleucus. 

Sel.   Madam, 
I  had  rather  seel  5  my  lips,  than,  to  my  peril. 
Speak  that  which  is  not. 

Cleo.  What  have  I  kept  back' 

Sel.  Enough  to  purchase  what  you  have  made 
known. 

C<es.   Nay,  blush  not,  Cleopatra;  I  approve 
Your  wisdom  in  the  deed. 

Cleo.  See,  Caesar !  O,  behold. 

How  pomp  is  follow'd !  mine  will  now  be  yours ; 
And,  should  we  shift  estates,  yours  would  be  mine 
The  ingratitude  of  this  Seleucus  does 
Even  make  me  vrild ;  —  O  slave,  of  no  more  trust 
Than  love  that's  hir'd !  —  What,  goest  thou  back  ? 

thou  shalt 
Go  back,  I  warrant  thee ;  but  I'll  catch  thine  eyes. 
Though  they  had  wings:  Slave,  soul-less  villain,dogi 
O  rarely  base ! 

Cces.  Good  queen,  let  us  entreat  you. 

Cleo.   O  Caesar,  what  a  wounding  shame  is  this ; 
That  thou,  vouchsafing  here  to  visit  me. 
Doing  the  honour  of  thy  lordliness 
To  one  so  meek,  that  mine  own  servant  should 
Parcel  0  the  sum  of  my  disgraces  by 
Addition  of  his  envy  !   Say,  good  Caesar, 
That  I  some  lady  trifles  have  reserv'd, 
Immoment  toys,  things  of  such  dignity 
As  we  greet  modem  7  friends  withal :  and  say, 
Some  nobler  token  I  have  kept  apart 
For  Livia  8,  and  Octavia,  to  induce 
Their  mediation  ;  must  I  be  unfolded 
With  one  that  I  have  bred?    The  gods !  It  smites  me 
Beneath  the  fall  I  have.      Pr'ythee,  go  hence ; 

[  To  Seleucus. 
Or  I  shall  show  the  cinders  of  my  spirits 
Through  the  ashes  of  my  chance.  —  Wert  thou  a 

man, 
Thou  wouldst  have  mercy  on  me. 

CcBs.  Forbear,  Seleucus. 

[Exit  Seleucus. 

Cleo.  Be  it  known,  that  we,  the  greatest,  are  mis- 
thought 
For  things  that  others  do ;  and,  when  we  fall. 
We  answer  others*  merits  in  our  name, 
Are  therefore  to  be  pitied. 


*  Sew  up. 
'  Common. 


•  Addta 

«  Cctar'i  wire. 


7S0 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  V. 


Cpa.  Cleopatra, 

Not  what  you  have  reserv'd,  nor  what  acknowledg'd, 
Put  we  i'  the  roll  of  conquest :   still  be  it  yours, 
Bestow  it  at  your  pleasure ;  and  believe, 
Caisar's  no  merchant,  to  make  prize  with  you 
Of  things  that  merchants  sold.  Therefore  be  cheer'd ; 
Make  not  your  thoughts  your  prisons  :  no,  dear 

queen ; 
For  we  intend  so  to  dispose  you,  as 
Yourself  shall  give  us  counsel.     Feed,  and  sleep  : 
Our  care  and  pity  is  so  much  upon  you, 
That  we  remain  your  friend ;  And  so,  adieu. 

Cleo.  My  master,  and  my  lord  ! 

Cces.  Not  so :   Adieu. 

[Exeunt  C^sar  and  his  Train. 

Cleo.  He  words  me,  girls,  he  words  me,  that  I 
should  not 
Be  noble  to  myself ;  but  hark  thee,  Charmian. 

[Whispers  Charmian. 

Iras.  Finish,  good  lady ;  the  bright  day  is  done. 
And  we  are  for  the  dark. 

Cleo.  Hie  thee  again : 

I  have  spoke  already,  and  it  is  provided  j 
Go,  put  it  to  the  haste. 

Char.  Madam,  I  will. 

Re-enter  Dolabella. 

Dol.   Where  is  the  queen  ? 

Char.  Behold,  sir.  [ExU  Charmian. 

Cleo.  Dolabella? 

Dol.  Madam,  as  thereto  sworn  by  your  command, 
Which  my  love  makes  religion  to  obey, 
I  tell  you  this :   Caesar  through  Syria 
Intends  his  journey ;  and,  within  three  days. 
You  with  your  children  will  he  send  before : 
Make  your  best  use  of  this :   I  have  perform'd 
Your  pleasure  and  my  promise. 

Cleo.  Dolabella, 

I  shall  remain  your  debtor. 

Dol.  I  your  servant. 

Adieu,  good  queen ;  I  must  attend  on  Caesar. 

Cleo.   Farewell,  and  thanks.   [Exit  Dol]  Now, 
Iras,  what  think'st  thou  ? 
Thou,  an  Egyptian  puppet,  shall  be  shown 
In  Rome,  as  well  as  I :  mechanick  slaves 
With  greasy  aprons,  rules,  and  hammers,  shall 
Uplift  us  to  the  view ;  in  their  thick  breaths, 
Hank  of  gross  diet,  shall  we  be  enclouded. 
And  forc'd  to  drink  their  vapour. 

Iras.  The  gods  forbid  ! 

Cleo.  Nay,  'tis  most  certain,  Iras :   Saucy  lictors 
Will  catch  at  us,  like  strumpets :  and  scald  rhymers 
Ballad  us  out  o'  tune :  the  quick  9  comedians 
Extemporally  will  stage  us,  and  present 
Our  Alexandria  revels  ;  Antony 
Shall  be  brought  drunken  forth,  and  I  shall  see 
Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  '  my  greatness. 

Iras.  O  the  good  gods  ! 

Cleo.  Nay,  that  is  certain. 

Iras.   I'll  never  see  it ;  for,  I  am  sure  my  nails 
Are  stronger  than  mine  eyes. 

Cleo.  Why  that's  the  way 

To  fool  their  preparation,  and  to  conquer 
Their  most  absurd  intents.  —  Now,  Channian  ?  — 

Enter  Charmian. 
Show  me,  my  women,  like  a  queen  —  Go  fetch 
My  best  attires;  —  I  am  again  for  Cydnus. 

To  meet  Mark  Antony ;  —  Sirrah,  Iras,  go 

9  Lively.  i  Female  characters  were  played  by  boys. 


Now,  noble  Charmian,  we'll  despatch  indeed : 
And,  when  thou  hast  done  this  chare,  I'll  give  thee 

leave 
To  play  till  doomsday.  —  Bring  our  crown  and  all. 
Wherefore's  tliis  noise? 

[Exit  Iras.    A  Noise  within. 

Enter  one  of  the  Guard. 

Guard.  Here  is  a  rural  fellow. 

That  will  not  be  denied  your  highness'  presence  ; 
He  brings  you  figs. 

Cleo.  Let  him  come  in.   How  poor  an  instrument 

[Exit  Guard. 
May  do  a  noble  deed  !  he  brings  me  liberty. 
My  resolution's  plac'd,  and  I  have  nothing 
Of  woman  in  me  :    Now  from  head  to  foot 
I  am  marble-constant :  now  the  fleeting  moon 
No  planet  is  of  mine. 

Re-enter  Guard,  with  a  Clown  bringing  a  Basket. 

Guard.  This  is  the  man. 

Cleo.   Avoid,  and  leave  him.  [Exit  Guard. 

Hast  thou  the  pretty  worm  of  Nilus  there. 
That  kills  and  pains  not  ? 

Clown.  Truly  I  have  him  :  but  I  would  not  be 
the  party  that  should  desire  you  to  touch  him,  for 
his  biting  is  immortal ;  those,  that  do  die  of  it,  do 
seldom  or  never  recover. 

Cleo.   Remember'st  thou  any  that  have  died  on't  ? 

Clown.  Very  many,  men  and  women  too.  I  heard 
of  one  of  them  no  longer  than  yesterday  :  a  very 
honest  woman,  but  something  given  to  lie ;  as  a 
woman  should  not  do,  but  in  the  way  of  honesty : 

how  she  died  of  the  biting  of  it,  what  pains  she  felt 

Truly,  she  makes  a  very  good  report  o'  the  worm  : 
But  he  that  will  believe  all  that  they  say,  shall  never 
be  saved  by  half  that  they  do :  But  this  is  most 
fallible,  the  worm's  an  odd  worm. 

Cleo.   Get  thee  hence  ;  farewell. 

Clown.   I  wish  you  all  joy  of  the  worm. 

Cleo.   Farewell.  [Clown  sets  down  the  Basket. 

Clown.  You  must  think  this,  look  you,  that  the 
worm  will  do  his  kind.  2 

Cleo.   Ay,  ay;  farewell. 

Clown.  Look  you,  the  worm  is  not  to  be  trusted, 
but  in  the  keeping  of  wise  people  ;  for,  indeed,  there 
is  no  goodness  in  the  worm. 

Cleo.   Take  thou  no  care ;  it  shall  be  heeded. 

Clown.  Very  good  :  give  it  nothing,  I  pray  you, 
for  it  is  not  worth  the  feeding. 

Cleo.   Will  it  eat  me? 

Clown,  You  must  not  think  I  am  so  simple,  but 
I  know  the  devil  himself  will  not  eat  a  woman  -.  I 
know,  that  a  woman  is  a  dish  for  the  gods,  if  the 
devil  dress  her  not. 

Cleo.   Well,  get  thee  gone  ;  farewell. 

Cloum.Yes,  forsooth ;  I  wish  you  joy  of  the  worm. 

[ExU. 
Re-enter  Iras,  with  a  Robe,  Crown,  ^c. 

Cleo.   Give  me  my  robe,  put  on  my  crown ;  I  have 
Immortal  longings  in  me :    Now  no  more 
The  juice  of  Egypt's  grape  shall  moist  this  lip  :  — 
Yare,  yare  3,  good  Iras ;  quick.  —  Methinks,  I  hear 
Antony  call ;  I  see  him  rouse  himself 
To  praise  my  noble  act ;  I  hear  him  mock 
The  luck  of  Caesar,  which  the  gods  give  men 
To  excuse  their  after  wrath  :   Husband,  I  come 
Now  to  that  name  my  courage  prove  my  title ! 

2  Act  according  to  his  nature.  ^  Make  haste 


I 


Scene  II. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


731 


I  am  fire,  and  air ;  my  other  elements 

I  give  to  baser  life So,  —  have  you  done  ? 

Come  then,  and  take  the  last  warmth  of  my  lips. 
Farewell,  kind  Charmian  ;  —  Iras,  long  farewell. 

[JHsses  them.     Iras  /uUs  and  dies. 
Have  I  the  aspick  in  my  lips  ?     Dost  fall  ? 
If  thou  and  nature  can  so  gently  part, 
If  thus  thou  vanishest,  thou  tell'st  the  world 
It  is  not  worth  leave-taking. 

Char.  Dissolve,  thick  cloud,  and  rain  ;  that  I  may 
say. 
The  gods  themselves  do  weep  ! 

Cleo.  This  proves  me  base : 

If  she  first  meet  the  curled  Antony, 
He'll  make  demand  of  her ;  and  spend  that  kiss, 
Which  is  my  heaven  to  have.    Come,  mortal  wretch, 
[To  the  Jsp,  which  she  applies  to  her  Breast. 
With  thy  sharp  teeth  this  knot  intrinsicate 
Of  life  at  once  untie :  poor  venomous  fool, 
Be  angry  and  despatch.      O,  couldst  thou  speak  ! 
That  I  might  hear  thee  call  great  Caesar,  ass 
Unpolicied !  ♦ 

Char,  O  eastern  star ! 

Cleo.  Peace,  peace ! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast, 
Tliat  sucks  the  nurse  asleep  ? 

Char.  O,  break  !   O,  break  ! 

Cleo.   As  sweet  as  balm,  as  soft  as  air,  as  gentle  — 
O  Antony  !  —  Nay,  I  will  take  thee  too  ;  — 

[Jjyjilying  another  Asp  to  her  Arm. 
What  should  I  stay  —       [  Falls  on  a  Bed,  and  dies. 

Char.  In  this  wild  world  ?  —  So,  fare  thee  well.  — 
Now  boast  thee,  death  !  in  thy  possession  lies 

A  lass  unparallel'd Downy  windows  close  ; 

And  golden  Phoebus  never  be  beheld 

Of  eyes  again  so  royal !   Your  crovm's  awry ; 

I'll  mend  it,  and  then  play. 

Enter  the  Guard,  rushing  in. 
1  Guard.   Where  is  the  queen? 
Char.  Speak  softly,  wake  her  not. 

1  Guard.   Csesar  hath  sent  — 
Char.  Too  slow  a  messenger. 

[Applies  the  Asp. 
O,  come  :  apace,  despatch  :   I  partly  feel  thee. 

1  Guard.  Approach,  ho !  All's  not  well :  Caesar's 

beguil'd. 

2  Guard.   There's  Dolabella  sent  from  Caesar;  — 

call  him. 
1  Guard.  What  work  is  here  ?  —  Charmian,  is  this 

well  done? 
Char.   It  is  well  done,  and  fitting  for  a  princess 
Descended  of  so  many  royal  kings. 
Ah,  soldier !  [Dies. 

*  Unpolitic,  to  leave  me  to  myself. 


Enter  Dolabella. 

Dol.   How  goes  it  here  ? 

2  Guard.  AH  dead. 

j)ol.  Caesar,  thy  thoughts 

Touch  their  eflTects  in  this :   Thyself  art  coming 
To  see  perform'd  the  dreaded  act,  which  thou 
So  sought'st  to  hinder. 

[Within.']  A  way  there,  way  for  Caesar  ! 

Enter  Cjbsak,  and  Attendants. 

Dol.   O,  sir,  you  are  too  sure  an  augurer ; 
That  you  did  fear,  is  done. 

Ctes.  Bravest  at  the  last; 

She  levell'd  at  our  purposes,  and,  being  royal, 
Took  her  own  way.  — The  manner  of  their  deaths  ? 
I  do  not  see  them  bleed. 

j)ol.  Who  was  last  with  them  ? 

1  Guard.  A  simple  countryman,  that  brought  her 
figs; 
This  was  his  basket. 

CiBs.  Poison'd  then. 

1  Guard.  O  Caesar, 

This  Charmian  liv'd  but  now ;  she  stood,  and  spake; 
I  found  her  trimming  up  the  diadem 
On  her  dead  mistress  ;  trembling  she  stood, 
And  on  the  sudden  dropp'd. 

^^j.  O  noble  weakness  ! 

If  they  had  swallow'd  poison,  'twould  appear 
By  external  swelling :  but  she  looks  like  sleep, 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace.  * 

j)ol.  Here,  on  her  breast. 

There  is  a  vent  of  blood,  and  something  blown  : 
The  like  is  on  her  arm. 

1  Guard.   This  is  an  aspick's  trail :  and  these  fig- 
leaves 
Have  slime  upon  them,  such  as  the  aspick  leaves 
Upon  the  caves  of  Nile. 

Cces.  Most  probable. 

That  so  she  died ;  for  her  physician  tells  me, 
She  hath  pursu'd  conclusions  infinite 
Of  easy  ways  to  die.  —  Take  up  her  bed ; 
And  bear  her  women  from  the  monument :  — 
She  shall  be  buried  by  her  Antony  ; 
No  grave  upon  the  earth  shall  clip  ^  in  it 
A  pair  so  famous.     High  events  as  these 
Strike  those  that  make  them  :  and  their  story  is 
No  less  in  pity  than  his  glory,  which 
Brought  them  to  be  lamented.      Our  army  shall. 
In  solemn  show,  attend  this  funeral ; 
And  then  to  Rome.  —  Come,  Dolabella,  see 
High  order  in  this  great  solemnity.  [Exeunt. 


»  Graceful  appearance 


•  Enfold 


o/ 


A^ 


^ 


CYMBELINE. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


I 


Cymbeline,  King  of  Britain. 

Ci.OTEK,  Son  to  the  Queen  by  a  former  Husband. 

Leonatus  Posthumus,   o  Gentleman,   Husband  to 

Imogen. 
Belauius,  a  banished  Lord,  disguised  under  the  Name 

of  Morgan. 
^  (Sons  to  Cymbeline,  disguised  under 

OUIDERIUS.     I  .,        Tkr  /•  Ti  J   /~» 

•  i       the  Names  of  Poi.ydore  and  Lad- 

ArVIRAGUS,    1  I   a  .      11    I      • 

(_      WAL,  supposed  Sons  to  iselarius. 
Philario,  Friend  to  Posthumus,  1 
Iachimo,  Friend  to  Philario,         J 
A  French  Gentleman,  Friend  to  Philario. 
Caius  Lucius,  General  of  the  Roman  Forces. 
A  Roman  Captain. 

SCENE,  sometimes  in  Britain 


Italians. 


Two  British  Captains. 
PisANio,  Servant  to  I'ostlmmus. 
Cornelius,  a  Physician. 
Two  Gentlemen. 
Two  Gaolers. 


Queen,  Wife  to  Cyml)eline. 

Imogen,  Daughter  to  Cymbeline  by  a  former  Queen. 

Helen,  Woman  to  Imogen. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Roman  Senators,  Tribunes,  Appari- 
tions, a  Soothsayer,  a  Dutcli  Gentleman,  a  Spanish 
Gentleman,  Musicians,  Officers,  Oiplains,  Soldiers, 
Messengers,  and  other  Attendants. 

sometimes  in  Italy. 


WHY.    nw.    nnT    BLEEi 


C  Y  M  B  E  L  I  N  E 


ACT  I. 


SCENE    I.  —  Britain.      T/ie  Garden  behind 
Cymbeline's  Palace. 

Enter  tivo  Gentleiuen. 

1  Gent.   You  do  not  meet  a  man  but  frowns  :  our 

bloods  ' 
No  more  obey  the  heavens,  than  our  courtiers  ; 
Still  seem,  as  does  the  king's. 

2  Gent.  But  what's  the  matter  ? 

1  Gent.   His  daughter,  and  the  heir  of  his  king- 

dom, whom 
He  purpos'd  to  his  wife's  sole  son,  (a  widow, 
That  late  he  married,)  hath  referred  herself 
Unto  a  poor  but  worthy  gentleman :  She's  wedded; 
Her  husband  banish'd  ;  she  imprison'd  :   all 
Is  outward  sorrow  ;  though,  I  think,  the  king 
lie  touch'd  at  very  heart. 

2  Gent.  None  but  the  king  ? 

1  Gent.  He,  that  hath  lost  her,  too:  so  is  the  queen. 
That  most  desir'd  the  match  :    But  not  a  courtier, 
Although  they  wear  their  faces  to  the  bent 

Of  the  king's  looks,    hath  a  heart  that  is  not 
Glad  at  the  thing  they  scowl  at. 

2  Gent.  And  why  so? 

1  Gent.  He  that  hath  miss'd  the  princess,  is  a  thing 
Too  bad  for  bad  report :   and  he  that  hath  her, 
( I  mean,  that  married  her,  —  alack,  good  man  !  — 
And  therefore  banish'd, )  is  a  creature  such 
As,  to  seek  through  the  regions  of  the  earth 

'  Inclination,  natural  disposition. 


For  one  his  like,  there  would  be  something  failing 
In  him  that  should  compare.      I  do  not  think, 
So  fair  an  outward,  and  such  stuff  within. 
Endows  a  man  but  he. 

2  Gent.  You  speak  him  far.  2 

1  Gent.   I  do  extend  him,  sir,  within  himself; 
Crush  him  together,  rather  than  unfold 

His  measure  duly.  3 

2  Gent.  What's  his  name,  and  birth  ? 

I  Gent.  I  cannot  delve  him  to  the  root:  His  father 
Was  call'd  Sicilius,  who  did  join  his  honour, 
Against  the  Romans,  with  Cassibelan ; 
But  had  his  titles  by  Tenantius"*,  whom 
He  serv'd  with  glory  and  admir'd  success  : 
So  gain'd  the  sur-addition,  Leonatus  : 
And  had,  besides  this  gentleman  in  question, 
Two  other  sons,  who,  in  the  wars  o'  the  time, 
Died  with  their  swords  in  hand;  for  which  their j 

father 
(Then  old  and  fond  of  issue)  took  such  sorrow, 
'I  hat  he  quit  being  ;  and  bis  gentle  lady, 
Big  of  this  gentleman,  our  theme,  deceas'd 
As  he  was  born.     The  king,  he  takes  the  babe 
To  his  protection  ;  calls  him  Posthumus  ; 
Breeds  him,  and  makes  him  of  his  bed-chamber : 
Puts  him  to  all  the  learnings  that  his  time 
Could  make  him  the  receiver  of ;  which  he  took. 
As  we  do  air,  fast  as  'twas  minister'd  :   and 

2  i.e.  You  praise  him  extensively. 

3  My  praise,  however  extensive,  is  within  his  merit 
'»  The  father  of  Cymbcline. 


Act  I.  Scene  II. 


CYMBELINE. 


733 


In  his  spring  became  a  harvest :    Liv'd  in  court 
(Which  rare  it  is  to  do)  most  prais'd,  most  lov'd  : 
A  sample  to  the  youngest ;  to  the  more  mature, 
A  glass  that  feated*  tliem  ;  and  to  the  graver, 
A  child  that  guided  dotards  :   to  his  mistress. 
For  whom  he  now  is  banished,  —  her  own  price 
Proclaims  how  she  esteem 'd  him  and  his  virtue ; 
By  her  election  may  be  truly  read, 
What  kind  of  man  he  is. 

2  Gent.  I  honour  him 

Even  out  of  your  report.  But,  'pray  you,  tell  me, 
Is  she  sole  child  to  the  king  ? 

1  Gent.  His  only  child. 
He  had  two  sons,   (if  this  be  worth  your  hearing, 
Mark  it,)  the  eldest  of  tliem  at  three  years  old, 

r  the  swathing  clothes  the  other,  from  their  nursery 
Were  stolen :  and  to  this  hour,  no  guess  in  knowledge 
Which  way  they  went. 

2  Gent.  How  long  is  this  ago  ? 

1  Gent.   Some  twenty  years. 

2  Gent.   That  a  king's  children  should  be  so  con- 

vey'd  ! 
So  slackly  guarded  ;   And  the  search  so  slow, 
That  could  not  trace  them  ! 

1  Gent.  Howsoe'er  'tis  strange. 
Or  that  the  negligence  may  well  be  laugh'd  at, 
Yet  is  it  true,  sir. 

2  Gent.  I  do  well  believe  you. 

1  Gent.   We  must  forbear ;  Here  comes  the  gen- 
tleman. 
The  queen  and  princess.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  same. 
Enter  the  Queen,  Posthumus,  and  Imogen. 

Queen.  No,  be  assur'd,  you  shall  not  find  me, 
daughter. 
After  the  slander  of  most  step-mothers, 
Evil-eyed  unto  you  :  you  are  my  prisoner,  but 
Your  gaoler  shall  deliver  you  the  keys 
That  lock  up  your  restraint.      For  you,  Posthdmus, 
So  soon  as  I  can  win  the  offended  king, 
I  will  be  known  your  advocate  :   marry,  yet 
The  fire  of  rage  is  in  him  ;  and  'twere  good. 
You  lean'd  unto  his  sentence,  with  what  patience 
Your  wisdom  may  inform  you. 

Post.  Please  your  highness, 

I  will  from  hence  to-day. 

Queen.  You  know  the  peril :  — 

I'll  fetch  a  turn  about  the  garden,  pitying 
The  pangs  of  barr'd  affections  ;  though  the  king 
Hath  charg'd  you  should  not  speak  together. 

[Exit  Queen. 

Into.  O 

Dissembling  courtesy  !  How  fine  this  tyrant 
Can  tickle  where  she  wounds  !  —  My  dearest  hus- 
band, 
I  something  fear  my  father's  wrath  ;  but  nothing, 
(Always  reserv'd  my  holy  duty,)  what 
His  rage  can  do  on  me :  You  must  be  gone  ; 
And  I  shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 
Of  angry  eyes  ;  not  comforted  to  live, 
But  that  there  is  tliis  jewel  in  the  world, 
That  I  may  see  again. 

Post.  My  queen  !  my  mistress ! 

O,  lady,  weep  no  more  ;  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  susi>ccted  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man  !    I  will  remain 
Tlie  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  troth. 
^  Formed  their  manners. 


My  residence  in  Rome  at  one  Philario's ; 
Who  to  my  father  was  a  friend,  to  me 
Known  but  by  letter  :  thither  write,  my  queen, 
And  with  mine  eyes  I'll  drink  the  words  you  send. 
Though  ink  be  made  of  gall. 

Re-enter  Queen. 

Queen.  Be  brief,  I  pray  you  : 

If  the  king  come  I  shall  incur  I  know  not 
How  much  of  his  displeasure  :   Yet  I'll  move  him 

[Aside. 
To  walk  this  way :   I  never  do  him  wrong, 
But  he  does  buy  my  injuries,  to  be  friends ; 
Pays  dear  for  my  offences.  [Exit. 

Post.  Should  we  be  taking  leave 

As  long  a  term  as  yet  we  have  to  live. 
The  loathness  to  depart  would  grow  :   Adieu  ! 

Itno.    Nay,  stay  a  little  : 
Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself, 
Such  parting  were  too  petty.     Look  here,  love  j 
This  diamond  was  my  mother's  :  take  it,  heart ; 
But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife. 
When  Imogen  is  dead. 

Post.  How  !  how  !  another  ?  — . 

You  gentle  gods,  give  me  but  this  I  have. 
And  sear  up^  my  embracements  from  a  next 
With  bonds  of  death  !  —  Remain  thou  here 

[Putting  on  the  liing. 
While  sense  can  keep  it  on  !  And  sweetest,  fairest. 
As  I  my  poor  self  did  exchange  for  you. 
To  your  so  infinite  loss;  so  in  our  trifles 
I  still  win  of  you  :    For  my  sake,  wear  this ; 
It  is  a  manacle  of  love ;  I'll  place  it 
Upon  this  fairest  prisoner. 

[Putting  a  bracelet  on  her  Amu 

Imo.  O,  the  gods  } 

When  shall  we  see  again  ? 

Enter  Cymbeline,  and  Lords. 

Post.  Alack,  the  king  ! 

Ci/m.   Thou  basest  thing,  avoid !  hence,  from  my 
sight ! 
If,  after  this  command,  thou  fraught'  the  court 
With  thy  unworthiness,  thou  diest :   Away ! 
Thou  art  poison  to  my  blood. 

Post.  The  gods  protect  you  ? 

And  bless  the  good  remainders  of  the  court ! 
I  am  gone.  [Exit. 

Imo.  There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death 

More  sharp  than  this  is. 

Ci/m.  O  disloyal  thing, 

That  shouldst  repair  my  youth ;  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me ! 

Imo.  I  beseech  you,  sir. 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation  ;   I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath  ;  a  touch  more  rare  * 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Ci/m.  Past  grace  ?  obedience  ? 

Imo.   Past  hope,  and  in  despair ;  that  way,  past 
grace. 

Cynu  That  mightst  have  had  the  sole  son  of  my 
queen  ! 

Imo.  O  bless'd,  that  I  might  not!  I  chose  an  eagle. 
And  did  avoid  a  puttock.  9 

Ct/m.   Thou  took'st  a  beggar  j  wouldst  have  made 
my  throne 
A  seat  for  baseness. 

Imo.  No ;  I  rather  added 

A  lustre  to  it. 


«  Close  up. 

8  A  more  exquisite  feeling. 


7  Fill 
«  Akit& 


734 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  I. 


Cijm.  O  thou  vile  one  ! 

Imo.  Sir, 

It  is  your  fault  that  I  have  loved  Posthumus  : 
"You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow ;  and  he  is 
A  man,  worth  any  woman  ;  overbuys  me 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

Cynu  What !  — art  thou  mad  ? 

Imo.  Almost,  sir ;  Heaven  restore  me  !  —  'Would 
I  were 
A  neat-herd's  '  daughter  !  and  my  Leonatus 
Our  neighbour  shepherd's  son  ! 

He-enter  Queen. 
Cym.  Thou  foolish  thing!  — 

They  were  again  together :   you  have  done 

\To  the  Queen. 
Not  after  our  command.      Away  with  her, 
And  pen  her  up. 

Queen.  'Beseech  your  patience:  —  Peace, 

Dear  lady  daughter,  peace  ;  —  Sweet  sovereign. 
Leave  us  to  ourselves;  and  make  yourself  some 

comfort 
Out  of  your  best  advice.^ 

Cym.  Nay,  let  her  languish 

A  drop  of  blood  a  day ;  and,  being  aged, 
Die  of  this  folly  !  [Exit. 


Queen. 


Enter  Pisanio. 
Fye  !  —  you  must  give  way  : 


Here  is  your  servant.  —  How  now,  sir?  What  news? 

Fis.   My  lord  your  son  drew  on  my  master. 

Queen.  Ha ! 

No  harm,  I  trust,  is  done  ? 

PL'S.  There  might  have  been. 

But  that  my  master  rather  play'd  than  fought, 
And  had  no  help  of  anger  :  they  were  parted 
By  gentlemen  at  hand. 

Queen.  I  am  very  glad  on't. 

Imo.   Your  son's  my  father's  friend  ;  he  takes  his 
part.  — 
To  draw  upon  an  exile  !  —  O  brave  sir  !  — 
I  would  they  were  in  Africk  both  together  ; 
Myself  by  with  a  needle,  that  I  might  prick 
The  goer  back.  — Why  came  you  from  your  master  ? 

Pis.    On  his  command :    He  would  not  suffer  me 
To  bring  him  to  the  haven  :   left  these  notes 
Of  what  commands  I  should  be  subject  to, 
When  it  pleas'd  you  to  employ  me. 

Queen.  This  hath  been 

Your  faithful  servant ;  I  dare  lay  mine  honour. 
He  will  remain  so. 

Pis.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness. 

Queen.   Pray,  walk  a  while. 

Imo.  About  some  half  hour  hence, 

I  pray  you  speak  with  me  :  you  shall,  at  least. 
Go  see  my  lord  aboard :  for  this  time,  leave  me. 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  ^  publick  Palace. 
Enter  Cloten,  and  two  Lords. 
Clo.   Have  I  hurt  him  ? 

2  Lord.  No,  faith ;  not  so  much  as  his  patience. 

[Aside. 

1  Lord.  Hurt  him  ?  his  body's  a  passable  carcass, 
if  he  be  not  hurt :  it  is  a  thoroughfare  for  steel  if  it 
be  not  hurt. 

2  Lord.   His  steel  was  in  debt. 

Clo.   The  villain  would  not  stand  me. 

1  Cattle-keeper.  2  Consideration. 


2  Lord.  No ;  but  he  fled  forward  still,  toward 
your  face.  [Aside. 

1  Lord.  Stand  you !  You  have  land  enough  of 
your  own  :  but  he  added  to  your  having ;  gave  you 
some  ground. 

2  Lord.  As  many  inches  as  you  have  oceans : 
Puppies !  [Aside. 

Clo.   I  would  they  had  not  come  between  us. 

2  Lord.  So  would  I,  till  you  had  measured  how 
long  a  fool  you  were  upon  the  ground.  [Aside. 

Clo.  And  that  she  should  love  this  fellow,  and 
refuse  me ! 

1  Lord.  Sir,  as  I  told  you  always,  her  beauty  and 
her  brain  go  not  together :  She's  a  good  sign,  but  I 
have  seen  small  reflection  of  her  wit.  3 

2  Lord.  She  shines  not  upon  fools,  lest  tlie  reflec- 
tion should  hurt  her.  [Aside. 

Clo.  Come,  I'll  to  my  chamber :  "Would  there 
had  been  some  hurt  done ! 

2  Lord.  I  wish  not  so ;  unless  it  had  been  the  fall 
of  an  ass,  which  is  no  great  hurt.  [Aside, 

Clo.   You'll  go  with  us? 

1  Lord.   I'll  attend  your  lordship. 
Clo.  Nay,  come,  let's  go  together. 

2  Lord.   Well,  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —A  Room  in  Cymbeline'5  Palace, 
Enter  Imogen  and  Pisanio. 

Imo.  I  would  thou  grew'st  unto  the  shores  o'  the 
haven. 
And  question'dst  every  sail :  if  he  should  write, 
And  I  not  have  it,  'twere  a  paper  lost 
As  offer'd  mercy  is.     What  was  the  last 
That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

Pis.  'Twas,  His  queen,  his  queen  I 

Imo.   Then  wav'd  his  handkerchief? 

Pis.  And  kiss'd  it,  madam. 

Imo.  Senseless  linen  !  happier  therein  than  I !  — 
And  that  was  all  ? 

Pis.  No,  madam  ;  for  so  long 

As  he  could  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief. 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of  his  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sail'd  on, 
How  swift  his  ship. 

Imo.  Thou  shouldst  have  made  him 

As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

Pis.  Madam,  so  I  did. 

Imo.  I  would  have  broke  mine  eye-strings ;  crack' d 
them,  but 
To  look  upon  him  ;  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle : 
Nay,  follow'd  him,  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air ;  and  then 
Have   turn'd    mine   eye,   and  wept.  —  But,   good 

Pisanio, 
When  shall  we  hear  from  him  ? 

Pis.  Be  assur'd,  madam. 

With  his  next  'vantage.  ^ 

Imo.   I  did  not  take  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 
Most  pretty  things  to  say :   ere  I  could  tell  liim. 
How  I  would  think  on  him,  at  certain  hours. 
Such  thoughts,  and  such;  or  I  could  make  him  swear 

3  To  understand  the  force  of  this  idea,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered  that  anciently  almost  every  sign  had  a  motto,  or  some 
attempt  at  a  witticism  underneath  it. 

*  Opportunity. 


Scene  V, 


CYMBEIJNE. 


735 


I 


The  slies  of  Italy  should  not  betray 
Mine  interest,  and  his  honour  ;  or  liave  charg'd  him, 
At  the  sixth  hour  of  morn,  at  noon,  at  midnight, 
To  encounter  me  with  orisons  *,  for  then 
I  am  in  heaven  for  him  :   or  ere  I  could 
Give  him  that  parting  kiss,  which  I  had  set 
Betwixt  two  charming  words,  comes  in  my  father, 
And,  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north, 
Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Lady.  The  queen,  madam. 

Desires  your  highness'  company. 

lino.   Those  things  I  bid  you  do,  get  ihcm  de- 
spatch'd.  — 
I  will  attend  the  queen. 

Pis.  Madam,  I  shall. 

,        ■  [_Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  An  Apartment  in  Philario'5 
House. 

Enter  Fhilario,  Iachimo,  a  Frenchman,  a  Dutch- 
man, awl  a  Spaniard. 

lack.  Believe  it,  sir :  I  have  seen  him  in  Britain  : 
he  was  tlien  of  a  crescent  note*,  expected  to  prove 
so  worthy,  as  since  he  hath  been  allowed  the  name 
of:  but  I  could  then  have  looked  on  him  without 
the  help  of  admiration  ;  though  the  catalogue  of  his 
endowments  had  been  tabled  by  his  side,  and  I  to 
peruse  him  by  items. 

Phi.  You  speak  of  him  when  he  was  less  fur- 
nished, than  now  he  is,  with  that  which  makes  him 
both  without  and  within. 

French.  I  have  seen  him  in  France :  we  had  very 
many  there,  could  behold  the  sun  with  as  firm  eyes 
as  he. 

Inch.  This  matter  of  marrying  his  king's  daugh- 
ter, (wherein  he  must  be  weighed  rather  by  her  value, 
than  his  own,)  words  him,  I  doubt  not,  a  great  deal 
from  the  matter. 

French.   And  then  his  banishment :  — — 

lach.  Ay,  and  the  approbation  of  those,  that 
weep  tliis  lamentable  divorce,  under  her  colours,  are 
wonderfully  to  extend  7  him  ;  be  it  but  to  fortify  her 
judgment,  which  else  an  easy  battery  might  lay  flat, 
for  taking  a  beggar  without  more  quality.  But  how 
comes  it,  he  is  to  sojourn  witli  you  ?  How  creeps 
acquaintance? 

Phi.  His  father  and  I  were  soldiers  together ;  to 
whom  I  have  been  often  bound  for  no  less  than  my 
life:  

Enter  Posthumus. 

Here  comes  the  Briton  :  Let  him  be  so  entertained 
amongst  you,  as  suits  with  gentlemen  of  your 
knowing,  to  a  stranger  of  his  quality.  —  I  beseech 
you  all,  be  better  known  to  this  gentleman  ;  whom 
I  commend  to  you,  as  a  noble  friend  of  mine  :  How 
worthy  he  is,  I  will  leave  to  appear  hereafter,  rather 
than  story  him  in  his  own  hearing. 

French'  Sir,  we  have  known  together  in  Orleans. 

Post.  Since  when  I  have  been  debtor  to  you  for 
courtesies,  which  I  will  be  ever  to  pay,  and  yet  pay 
still. 

French.  Sir,  you  o'er-rate  my  poor  kindness  :  I 
was  glad  I  did  atone  8  my  countryman  and  you  ;  it 
had  been  pity,  you  should  liave  been  put  together 

*  Meet  me  with  reciprocal  prayer.      •>  Increasing  in  fame. 
7  Piaisehim.  ^  Reconcile. 


with  so  mortal  a  purpose,  as  then  each  bore,  upon 
importance  9  of  so  slight  and  trivial  a  nature. 

Post.  By  your  pardon,  sir,  I  was  then  a  young 
traveller  :  rather  shunn'd  to  go  even  with  wliat  I 
lieard.  than  in  my  every  action  to  be  guided  by 
otliers'  experiences :  but,  upon  my  mended  judg- 
ment, if  I  offend  not  to  say  it  is  mended,)  my 
quarrel  was  not  all  altogether  slight. 

French.  'Faith,  yes,  to  be  put  to  the  arbitremcnt 
of  swords ;  and  by  such  two,  tliat  would,  by  all 
likelihood,  have  confounded  '  one  the  other,  or  have 
fallen  both. 

lach.  Can  we,  with  manners,  ask  what  was  the 
diHcrence  ? 

French.  Safely,  I  think  :  'twas  a  contention  in 
publitk,  which  may,  without  contradiction,  suffer 
the  report.  It  was  much  like  an  argument  that  fell 
out  last  night,  where  each  of  us  fell  in  praise  of  our 
country  mistresses  :  This  gentleman  at  that  time 
vouching,  (and  upon  warrant  of  bloody  affirmation,) 
his  to  be  more  fair,  virtuous,  wise,  chaste,  constant, 
qualified,  and  less  attemptable,  than  any  the  rarest 
of  our  ladies  in  France. 

lach.  That  lady  is  not  now  living  ;  or  this  gen- 
tleman's opinion,  by  this,  worn  out. 

Post.   She  holds  her  virtue  still,  and  I  my  mind. 

lach.  You  must  not  so  far  prefer  her  'fore  ours 
of  Italy. 

Post.  Being  so  far  provoked  as  I  was  in  France, 
I  would  abate  her  nothing  ;  though  I  profess  myself 
her  adorer,  not  her  friend.  ■* 

lach.  As  fair,  and  as  good,  (a  kind  of  hand-in- 
hand  comparison, )  had  been  something  too  fair,  and 
too  good,  for  any  lady  in  Britany.  If  she  went  be- 
fore others  I  have  seen,  as  that  diamond  of  yours 
out-lustres  many  I  have  beheld,  I  could  not  but 
believe  she  excelled  many  :  but  I  have  not  seen  tlie 
most  precious  diamond  that  is,  nor  you  the  lady. 

Post.  I  praised  her,  as  I  rated  her:  so  do  I  my 
stone. 

lach.   What  do  you  esteem  it  at  ? 

Post.   More  than  the  world  enjoys. 

lach.  Eitlier  your  un  paragoned  mistress  is  dead, 
or  slie's  outpriz'd  by  a  trifle. 

Post.  You  are  mistaken  :  the  one  may  be  sold, 
or  given  :  if  there  were  wealth  enough  for  the  pur- 
chase, or  merit  for  the  gift :  the  other  is  not  a  thing 
for  sale,  and  only  the  gift  of  the  gods. 

lach.   Which  the  gods  have  given  you  ? 

Post.   Which,  by  their  graces,  I  will  keep. 

lach.  You  may  wear  her  in  title  yours :  but,  you 
know,  strange  fowl  light  upon  neighbouring  ponds. 
Your  ring  niay  be  stolen  too :  so,  of  your  brace  of 
unprizeable  estimations,  the  one  is  but  frail,  and  the 
other  casual  ;  a  cunning  thief,  or  a  that-way  accom- 
plished courtier,  would  hazard  the  winning  both  of 
first  and  last. 

Post.  Your  Italy  contains  none  so  accomplished 
a  courtier,  to  convince  '  the  honour  of  my  mistress ; 
if,  in  the  holding  or  loss  of  that,  you  term  her  frail. 
I  do  nothing  doubt,  you  have  store  of  thieves ;  not- 
withstanding I  fear  not  my  ring. 

Phi.   I^et  us  leave  here,  gentlemen. 

Post.  Sir,  with  all  my  heart.  ITiis  worthy  sig- 
nior,  I  thank  him,  makes  no  stranger  of  me ;  we 
are  familiar  at  first. 

lach.  With  five  times  so  much  conversation,  I 
should  get  ground  of  your  fair  mistress :  make  her 


9  Instigation. 
'  Lover. 


'  Destroyed. 
•  Overcome. 


736 


CYMBELINE. 


go  back,  even  to  the  yielding;  had  I  admittance, 
and  opportunity  to  friend. 
Post.   No,  no. 

lach.  I  dare,  thereon,  pawn  the  moiety  of  my 
estate  to  your  ring ;  which,  in  my  opinion,  o'er- 
values  it  something  :  But  I  make  my  wager  rather 
against  your  confidence,  than  her  reputation  :  and, 
to  bar  your  offence  herein  too,  I  durst  attempt  it 
against  any  lady  in  the  world. 

Post.   You  are  a  great  deal  abused  in  too  bold  a 
persuasion  j  and  I  doubt  not  you  sustain  what  you're 
worthy  of,  by  your  attempt. 
lack.   What's  that? 

Post.  A  repulse  :  Though  your  attempt,  as  you 
call  it,  deserve  more ;  a  punishment  too. 

Phi.  Gentlemen,  enough  of  this :  it  came  in  too 
suddenly ;  let  it  die  as  it  was  born,  and,  1  pray  you, 
be  better  acquainted. 

lach.  'Would  I  had  put  my  estate,  and  my 
neighbour's,  on  the  approbation  ^  of  what  I  have 
spoke. 

Post.  What  lady  would  you  choose  to  assail  ? 
lach.  Yours;  whom  in  constancy,  you  think, 
stands  so  safe.  1  will  lay  you  ten  thousand  ducats 
to  your  ring,  that,  commend  me  to  the  court  where 
your  lady  is,  with  no  more  advantage  than  the  op- 
portunity of  a  second  conference,  and  I  will  bring 
from  thence  that  honour  of  hers,  which  you  imagine 
so  reserved. 

Post.   I  will  wage  against  your  gold,  gold  to  it : 
my  ring  I  hold  dear  as  my  finger ;  'tis  part  of  it. 
lach.   You  are  a  friend,  and  therein  the  wiser. 
Post.   This  is  but  a  custom  in  your  tongue  :   you 
bear  a  graver  purpose,  I  hope. 

lach.  I  am  the  master  of  my  speeches  ;  and  would 
undergo  what's  spoken,  I  swear. 

Post.  Will  you  ?  —  I  shall  but  lend  my  diamond 
till  your  return  :  —  Let  there  be  covenants  drawn 
between  us  :  My  mistress  exceeds  in  goodness  the 
hugeness  of  your  unworthy  thinking  :  I  dare  you 
to  this  match  :  here's  my  ring. 
Phi.   I  will  have  it  no  lay. 

lach.  By  the  gods  it  is  one  :  —  If  I  bring  you  no 
sufficient  testimony  that  I  have  enjoyed  your  mis- 
tress, my  ten  thousand  ducats  are  yours ;  so  is  your 
diamond  too.  If  I  come  ofl^,  and  leave  her  in  such 
honour  as  you  have  trust  in,  she  your  jewel,  this 
your  jewel,  and  my  gold  are  yours  :  —  provided,  I 
have  your  commendation  &,  for  my  more  free  enter- 
tainment. 

Post.  I  embrace  these  conditions ;  let  us  have 
articles  betwixt  us :  —  only,  thus  far  you  shall  an- 
swer. If  you  make  your  voyage,  and  give  me  di- 
rectly to  understand  you  have  prevailed,  I  am  no 
further  your  enemy,  she  is  not  worth  our  debate : 
if  she  remain  unseduced,  (you  not  making  it  a[)pear 
otherwise,)  for  your  ill  opinion,  and  the  assault  you 
have  made  to  her  chastity,  you  shall  answer  me  with 
your  sword. 

lach.  Your  hand ;  a  covenant :  We  will  have 
these  things  set  down  by  lawful  counsel,  and  straight 
away  for  Britain  ;  lest  the  bargain  should  catch  cold, 
and  starve :  I  will  fetch  my  gold,  and  have  our  two 
wagers  recorded. 
Post.   Agreed. 

[Exeunt  Posthumus  and  Iachimo. 
French.   Will  this  hold,  think  you  ? 
Phi.    Signior  Iachimo  will  not  from  it.      Pray  let 
us  follow  'em.  [Exeunt. 

*  Proot.  5  Recommendation. 


Act  I 

SCENE  VI.  —  Britain.     A  Room  m  Cymbeline's 
Palace. 

Enter  Queen,  Ladies,  and  Cornelius. 

Queen.   Whiles  yet  the  dew's  on  ground,   gathei 
those  flowers; 
Make  haste  :   Who  has  the  note  of  them  ? 

1  Ladi/.  I,  madam. 

Queen.   Despatch. [Exeunt  Ladies. 

Now,  master  doctor;  have  you  brought  those  drugs  ? 

Cor.   Pleaseth  your  highness,  ay ;  here  they  are, 
madam  :  [Presenting  a  small  Box. 

But  I  beseech  your  grace,  (without  offence  ; 
My  conscience  bids  me  ask ;)  wherefore  you  have 
Commanded  of  me  these  most  poisonous  compounds. 
Which  are  the  movers  of  a  languishing  death ; 
But,  though  slow,  deadly  ? 

Queen.  I  do  wonder,  doctor. 

Thou  ask'st  me  such  a  question  :    Have  I  not  been 
Thy  pupil  long  ?    Hast  thou  not  learn'd  me  how 
To  make  perfumes  ?  distil  ?  preserve  ?  yea,  so, 
That  our  great  king  himself  doth  woo  me  oft 
For  my  confections  ?   Having  thus  far  proceeded, 
(Unless  thou  think'st  me  devilish,)  is't  not  meet 
That  I  did  amplify  my  judgment  in 
Other  conclusions  ?  6     I  will  try  the  forces 
Of  these  thy  compounds  on  such  creatures  as 
We  count  not  worth  the  hanging,  (but  none  human,) 
To  try  the  vigour  of  them,  and  apply 
Allayments  to  their  act;  and  by  them  gather 
Their  several  virtues,  and  eflTects. 

Cor.  Your  highness 

Shall  from  this  practice  but  make  hard  your  heart : 
Besides,  the  seeing  these  effects  will  be 
Both  noisome  and  infectious. 

Queen.  O,  content  thee.  — 

Enter  Pisanio. 

Here  comes  a  flattering  rascal ;  upon  him     [Aside. 
Will  I  first  work  :   he's  for  his  master. 
And  enemy  to  my  son.  —  How  now,  Pisanio  ?  — 
Doctor,  your  service  for  this  time  is  ended ; 
Take  your  own  way. 

Cor.  I  do  suspect  you,  madam  ; 

But  you  shall  do  no  harm.  [Aside. 

Queen.  Hark  thee,  a  word.  — 

[To  Pisanio. 

Cor.    [Aside.}   I  do  not  like  her.    She  doth  think, 
she  has 
Strange  lingering  poisons :    I  do  know  her  spirit. 
And  will  not  trust  one  of  her  malice  with 
A  drug  of  such  a  nature  :    Tliose  she  has. 
Will  stupify  and  dull  the  sense  awhile : 
Which  first,  perchance,  she'll  prove  on  cats  and  dogs; 
Then  afterward  up  higher ;  but  there  is 
No  danger  in  what  show  of  death  it  makes. 
More  than  the  locking  up  the  spirits  a  time. 
To  be  more  fresh,  reviving.      She  is  fool'd 
With  a  most  false  eflfect ;  and  I  the  truer. 
So  to  be  false  with  her. 

Queen.  No  further  service,  doctor. 

Until  I  send  for  thee. 

Cor.  I  humbly  take  my  leave. 

[Eait. 

Queen.  Weeps  she  still,  say'st  thou  ?     Dost  thou 
think,  in  time 
She  will  not  quench  ;  and  let  instructions  enter 
Where  folly  now  possesses  ?   Do  thou  work  ; 
When  thou  shalt  bring  me  word,  she  loves  my  son, 
6  Experiments. 


I 


Scene  VII. 


CYMBELINE. 


737 


k 


I'll  tell  thee,  on  the  instant,  thou  art  then 
As  great  as  is  thy  master :   greater  ;  for 
His  fortunes  all  lie  speechless,  and  his  name 
Is  at  last  grasp  :    Return  he  cannot,  nor 
Continue  where  he  is :   to  shift  his  being  7, 
Is  to  exchange  one  misery  witli  another ; 
And  every  day,  that  comes,  coines  to  decay 
A  day's  work  in  him  :    What  shalt  thou  expect, 
To  be  depender  on  a  thing  that  leans  ? 
"Who  cannot  be  new  built ;  nor  has  no  friends, 

\_The  Queen  drops  n  Box :  Pisa  Nib  takes  it  rip. 
So  much  as  but  to  prop  him  ? —  Tliou  tak'st  up 
Thou  know'st  not  what ;  but  take  it  for  thy  labour  : 
It  is  a  thing  I  made,  which  hath  the  king 
Five  times  redeem'd  from  deqth :   I  do  not  know 
What  is  more  cordial :  —  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  take  it ; 
It  is  an  earnest  of  a  further  good 
That  I  mean  to  thee.     Tell  tJiy  mistress  how 
The  case  stands  with  her  ;  do't,  as  from  thyself. 
Tljink  what  a  chance  thou  changest  on  ;  but  think 
Thou  hast  thy  mistress,  still ;  to  boot,  my  son. 
Who  shall  take  notice  of  thee  :   I'll  move  the  king 
To  any  shape  of  thy  preferment,  such 
As  thou'lt  desire  ;  and  then  myself,  I  chiefly, 
That  set  thee  on  to  this  desert,  am  bound 
To  load  thy  merit  richly.     Call  my  women  ; 
Think  on  my  words.    [Exit  Pisa.]  —  A  sly  and 

constant  knave ; 
Not  to  be  shak'd  :  the  agent  for  his  master ; 
And  the  remembrancer  of  her,  to  hold 
The  hand  fast  to  her  lord.  —  I  have  given  him  that, 
Which,  if  he  take,  shall  quite  unpeople  her 
Of  Hegers  for  her  sweet ;  and  which  she,  after. 
Except  she  bend  her  humour,  shall  be  assur'd 

Re-enter  Pisanio  and  Ladies. 
To  taste  of  too.  —  So,  so ;  —  well  done,  well  done  : 
The  violets,  cowslips,  and  the  primroses. 
Bear  to  my  closet :  —  Fare  thee  well,  Pisanio  ; 
Think  on  my  words.      [Exeunt  Queen  and  Ladies. 

Pis.  And  shall  do  : 

But  when  to  my  good  lord  I  prove  untnie, 
I'll  choke  myself:  there's  all  I'll  do  for  you. 

[ExU. 

SCENE  VII Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Imogen. 

Tmo.   A  father  cruel,  and  a  step-dame  false  ; 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady, 
Tliat  hath  her  husband  banish'd ;  —  O,  that  hus- 
band! 
My  supreme  crown  of  grief !  and  those  repeated 
Vexations  of  it !   Had  I  been  thief-stolen. 
As  my  two  brothers,  happy  !  but  most  miserable 
Is  the  desire  that's  glorious;    Blessed  be  those, 
How  mean  soe'er,  that  have  their  honest  wills, 
Which  seasons  comfort.  —  Who  may  this  be  ?  Fye ! 

Enter  Pisanio  and  Iachimo. 

Pis.   Madam,  a  noble  gentleman  of  Rome ; 
Comes  from  my  lord  with  letters. 

lack.  Change  you,  madam  ? 

The  worthy  Leonatus  is  in  safety, 
And  greets  your  highness  dearly. 

[Presents  a  Letter. 
Imo.  Thanks,  good  sir : 

You  are  kindly  welcome. 

lach.   All  of  her,  that  is  out  of  door,  most  rich  ! 

[Aside. 
7  To  change  his  abode. 


If  she  be  furnish'd  with  a  mind  so  rare. 

She  is  alone  the  Arabian  bird ;  and  I 

Have  lost  the  wager.      Boldness  be  my  friend! 

Arm  me,  audacity,  from  head  to  foot ! 

Or,  like  the  Parthian,  I  shall  flying  fight ; 

Rather,  directly  fly. 

Imo.  [Reads.]  —  He  is  one  of  the  noblest  note,  to 
whose  kindnesses  I  am  most  infinitely  tied.  Reflect 
upon  him  accordingly,  as  you  value  your  truest 

Leonatus. 
So  far  I  read  aloud : 
But  even  the  very  middle  of  my  heart 

Is  warm'd  by  the  rest,  and  takes  it  tliankfully. 

You  are  as  welcome,  worthy  sir,  as  I 

Have  words  to  bid  you  ;  and  shall  find  it  so, 

In  all  that  I  can  do. 

lach.  Thanks,  fairest  lady.  — 

What !  are  men  mad  ?  Hath  nature  given  them  eyes 
To  see  this  vaulted  arch,  and  the  ricli  crop 
Of  sea  and  land,  which  can  distinguish  'twixt 
The  fiery  orbs  above,  and  the  twinn'd  stones 
Upon  the  number'd  beach  ?  and  can  we  not 
Partition  make  with  spectacles  so  precious 
'Twixt  fair  and  foul  ? 

Imo.  What  makes  your  admiration  ? 

lach.   It  cannot  be  i'  the  eye ;  for  apes  and  mon- 
keys, 
'Twixt  two  such  shes,  would  chatter  this  way,  and 
Contemn  with  mows  8  the  other  :   Nor  i*  the  judg» 

ment ; 
For  idiots  in  this  case  of  favour,  would 
Be  wisely  definite. 

Imo.  What  is't,  dear  sir, 

Thus  raps  you  ?  Are  you  well  ? 

lach.   Thanks,  madam;  well:  —  'Beseech  you, 
sir,  desire  [To  Pisanio. 

My  man's  abode  where  I  did  leave  him :  he 
Is  strange  and  peevish.  9 

Fis.  I  was  going,  sir, 

To  give  him  welcome.  [Exit  Pisanio. 

Imo.   Continues  well  my  lord  ?  His  health  'be- 
seech you? 

lach.   Well,  madam. 

Imo.   Is  he  dispos'd  to  mirth  ?  I  hope  he  is. 

lach.   Exceeding  pleasant ;  none  a  stranger  there 
So  merry  and  so  gamesome  :  he  is  call'd 
The  Briton  reveller. 

Imo.  WTien  he  was  here, 

He  did  incline  to  sadness ;  and  oft-times 
Not  knowing  why. 

lach.  I  never  saw  him  sad. 

There  is  a  Frenchman  his  companion,  one 
An  eminent  monsieur,  that,  it  seems,  much  loves 
A  Gallian  girl  at  home :  he  furnaces 
The  thick  sighs  from  him  ;  whiles  the  jolly  Briton 
(Your  lord,  I  mean,)  laughs  from's  free  lungs, 

cries  01 
Can  my  sides  hold,  to  think,  that  man,  —  who  knotos 
By  history,  report,  or  his  oum  proof, 
What  woman  is,  yea,  what  she  cannot  choose 
But  m  ust  be,  —  will  his  free  hours  languish  for 
Assur'd  bondage  ? 

Imo.  Will  my  lord  say  so  ? 

lach.   Ay,  madam  ;  with  his  eyes  in  flood  with 
laughter. 
It  is  a  recreation  to  be  by, 
And  hear  him  mock  the  Frenchman  :   But,  heavens 

know, 
Some  men  are  much  to  blame. 

*  Making  moutht.  •  Shy  and  foolish. 

SB 


738 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  I. 


Imo.  Not  he,  I  hope. 

lach.   Not  he  :   But  yet  heaven's  bounty  towards 
him  might 
Be  us'd  more  thankfully.      In  himself,  'tis  much 
In  you,  —  which  I  count  his,  beyond  all  talents, — 
Wliilst  I  am  bound  to  wonder,  I  am  bound 
To  pity  too. 

Imo.  What  do  you  pity,  sir  ? 

laclu   Two  creatures,  heartily. 

Imo.  Am  I  one,  sir? 

You  look  on  me :   What  wreck  discern  you  in  me. 
Deserves  your  pity  ? 

lack.  Lamentable!  What! 

To  hide  me  from  the  radiant  sun,  and  solace 
I'  the  dungeon  by  a  snuff'? 

Imo.  I  pray  you,  sir, 

Deliver  with  more  openness  your  answers 
To  my  demands.      Why  do  you  pity  me  ? 

lach.   Tliat  others  do, 

I  was  about  to  say,  enjoy  your But 

It  is  an  office  of  the  gods  to  'venge  it, 
Not  mine  to  speak  on't. 

Imo.  You  do  seem  to  know 

Something  of  me,  or  what  concerns  me :   'Pray  you 
(Since  doubting  things  go  ill  often  hurts  more 
Than  to  be  sure  they  do :    For  certainties 
Either  are  past  remedies ;  or,  timely  knowing, 
The  remedy  then  born,)  discover  to  me 
Wliat  both  you  spur  and  stop.^ 

lach.  Had  I  this  cheek 

To  bathe  my  lips  upon ;  this  hand,  whose  touch. 
Whose  every  touch,  would  force  the  feeler's  soul 
To  the  oath  of  loyalty  ;  this  object,  which 
Takes  prisoner  the  wild  motion  of  mine  eye, 
Fixing  it  only  here  :  should  I  then  join 
With  hands  made  hard  with  hourly  falsehood, 
(With  falsehood  as  with  labour,)  it  were  fit 
That  all  the  plagues  of  hell  should  at  one  time 
Encounter  such  revolt. 

Imo.  My  lord,  I  fear, 

Has  forgot  Britain. 

lach.  And  himself.     Not  I, 

Inclin'd  to  this  intelligence,  pronounce 
The  beggary  of  his  change  ;  but  'tis  your  graces 
That,  from  my  mutest  conscience,  to  my  tongue, 
Charms  this  report  out. 

Imo.  Let  me  hear  no  more. 

lach.  O  dearest  soul !  your  cause  doth  strike  my 
heart 
With  pity,  that  doth  make  me  sick.     A  lady 
So  fair,  and  fasten'd  to  an  empery  3, 
Would  make  the  great'st  king  double  !  to  be  part- 

ner'd 
With  tomboys,  hir'd  with  that  self-exhibition  4 
Which  your  own  coffers  yield  !   O  be  reveng'd  ; 
Or  she,  that  bore  you,  was  no  queen,  and  you 
Recoil  from  your  great  stock. 

Imo.  Reveng'd ! 

How  should  I  be  reveng'd  ?  If  this  be  true, 
(As  I  have  such  a  heart,  that  both  mine  ears 
Must  not  in  haste  abuse,)  if  it  be  true. 
How  should  I  be  reveng'd  ? 

lach.  ~  Should  he  make  me 

Live  like  Diana's  priest  ?  Revenge  it,  lady  ! 
I  dedicate  myself  to  your  sweet  pleasure  j 
More  noble  than  that  runagate  to  your  bed ; 
And  will  continue  fast  to  your  affection. 
Still  close,  as  sure. 

2  What  you  seem  anxious  to  utter,  and  yet  withhold 

3  Sovereign  command.  <  Allowance,  pension. 


Imo.  What  ho,  Pisanio  ! 

lach.   Let  me  my  service  tender  on  your  lips. 

Imo.  Away  !  —  I  do  condemn  mine  ears,  that  liave 
So  long  attended  thee.  —  If  thou  wert  honourable. 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st ;  as  base,  as  strange. 
Thou  wrong'st  a  gentleman,  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report,  as  thou  from  honour  ;  and 
Solicit'st  here  a  lady,  that  disdains 
Thee  and  the  devil  alike.  —  What  ho,  Pisanio  '  — . 
The  king  my  father  shall  be  made  acquainted 
Of  thy  assault :   if  he  shall  think  it  fit, 
A  saucy  stranger  in  his  court,  to  mart 
As  in  a  Roman  stew,  he  hath  a  court 
He  little  cares  for,  and  a  daughter  whom 
He  not  respects  at  all.  —  What  ho,  —  Pisanio  ! 

lach.   O  happy  Leonatus  !   I  may  say  ; 
The  credit  that  thy  lady  hath  of  thee. 
Deserves  thy  trust ;  and  thy  most  perfect  goodness 
Her  assur'd  credit !  —  Blessed  live  you  long  ! 
A  lady  to  the  worthiest  sir,  that  ever 
Country  call'd  his !  and  you,  his  mistress,  only 
For  the  most  worthiest  fit !   Give  me  your  pardon. 
I  have  spoke  this,  to  know  if  your  affiance 
Were  deeply  rooted ;  and  shall  make  your  lord, 
That  which  he  is  new  o'er :   And  he  is  one 
The  truest  manner'd ;  such  a  holy  witch, 
That  he  enchants  societies  unto  him  : 
Half  all  men's  hearts  are  his. 

Imo.  You  make  amends. 

lach.  He  sits  'mongst  men,  like  a  descended  god : 
He  hath  a  kind  of  honour  sets  him  off". 
More  than  a  mortal  seeming.     Be  not  angry. 
Most  mighty  princess,  that  I  have  adventur'd 
To  try  your  taking  of  a  false  report ;  which  hath 
Honour'd  with  confirmation  your  great  judgment 
In  the  election  of  a  sir  so  rare. 
Which  you  know,  cannot  err :    The  love  I  bear  him 
Made  me  to  fan  ^  you  thus ;  but  the  gods  made 

you, 
Unlike  all  others,  chaffless.     Pray,  your  pardon. 

Imo.   All's  well,  sir  :   Take  my  power  i'the  court 
for  yours. 

Inch.   My  humble  thanks.      I  had  almost  forgot 
To  entreat  your  grace  but  in  a  small  request, 
And  yet  of  moment  too,  for  it  concerns 
Your  lord  ;  myself,  and  other  noble  friends. 
Are  partners  in  the  business. 

Imo.  Pray,  what  is't  ? 

lach.   Some  dozen  Romans  of  us,  and  your  lord, 
(The  best  feather  of  our  wing)  have  mingled  sums. 
To  buy  a  present  for  the  emperor ; 
Which  I,  the  factor  for  the  rest,  have  done 
In  France  :   'Tis  plate  of  rare  device  ;  and  jewels. 
Of  rich  and  exquisite  form  :   their  values  great ; 
And  I  am  something  curious,  being  strange. 
To  have  them  in  safe  stowage ;  May  it  please  you 
To  take  them  in  protection  ? 

Imo.  Willingly ; 

And  pawn  mine  honour  for  their  safety  :   since 
My  lord  hath  interest  in  them,  I  will  keep  them 
In  my  bed-chamber. 

lach.  They  are  in  a  trunk. 

Attended  by  my  men  :  I  will  make  bold 
To  send  them  to  you  only  for  this  night : 
I  must  aboard  to-morrow. 

Imo.  O,  no,  no. 

lach.   Yes,  I  beseech ;  or  I  shall  short  my  word, 
By  lengthening  my  return.      From  Gallia 
*  To  fan,  is  to  winnow. 


Act  II.  Scene  I. 


CYMBELINE. 


I  cross'd  the  soas  on  purpose,  and  on  promise 
To  see  your  grace. 

iT/no.  I  thank  you  for  your  pains 

But  not  away  to-morrow. 

I<u:h.  O,  I  must,  madam  : 

Therefore,  I  shall  beseech  you,  if  you  please 
To  greet  your  lord  with  writing,  do't  to-night : 


■39 


I  Jiavc  outstood  my  time ;  wliicJj  is  material 
To  the  tender  of  our  present. 

Irno.  I  will  write. 

Send  your  trunk  to  me  !  it  shall  safe  be  kept, 
And  truly  yielded  you  :   You  are  very  welcome. 

\_ExeMnt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.  —  Court  before  Cymbeline's  Palace. 
Enter  Cloten,  and  two  Lords. 
Clo.  Was  there  ever  man  had  such  luck  ?  when 
I  kissed  the  jack  upon  an  up-cast «,  to  be  hit  away  ! 
I  had  a  hundred  pound  on't :  And  then  a  jack- 
anapes must  take  me  up  for  swearing  ;  as  if  I  bor- 
rowed mine  oaths  of  him,  and  might  not  spend  them 
at  my  pleasure. 

1  Lord.  What  got  he  by  that  ?  You  have  broke 
liis  pate  with  your  bowl. 

2  Lord.  If  his  wit  had  been  like  him  that  broke 
it,  it  would  have  ran  all  out.  [Aside. 

Clo.  When  a  gentleman  is  disposed  to  swear,  it 
is  not  for  any  standers-by  to  curtail  his  oaths: 
Ha? 

2  Lord.  No,  my  lord;  nor  [Aside."]  crop  the  ears 
of  them. 

Clo.  I  give  him  satisfaction  ?  —  'Would  he  had 
been  one  of  my  rank  ! 

2  Lord.   To  have  smelt  like  a  fool.  [Aside. 

Clo.  I  am  not  more  vex'd  at  any  thing  in  the 
earth  :  I  had  rather  not  be  so  noble  as  I  am ;  they 
dare  not  fight  with  me,  because  of  the  queen  my 
mother:  every  jack-slave  hath  his  belly  full  of 
figliting,  and  I  must  go  up  and  down  like  a  cock 
tliat  nobody  can  match. 

1  Lord.  It  is  not  fit  your  lordship  should  under- 
take every  companion  that  you  give  offence  to. 

Clo.  No,  I  know  that :  but  it  is  fit,  I  should 
commit  oflfence  to  my  inferiors. 

2  Lord.   Ay,  it  is  fit  for  your  lordship  only. 
Clo.   Why,  so  I  say. 

1  Lord.  Did  you  hear  of  a  stranger  that's  come 
to  court  to-night? 

Clo.   A  stranger  !  and  I  know  not  on't ! 

2  Lord.  He's  a  strange  fellow  himself,  and  knows 
>t  not.  [Aside. 

1  Lord.  There's  an  Italian  come ;  and,  'tis 
tliought,  one  of  Leonatus'  friends. 

Clo.  Leonatus  !  a  banish'd  rascal ;  and  he's  an- 
other, whatsoever  he  be.  Who  told  you  of  tliis 
stranger  ? 

1  Lord.   One  of  your  lordship's  pages. 

Clo.  Is  it  fit,  I  went  to  look  upon  him  ?  Is  there 
no  derogation  in't  ? 

1  Lord.   You  cannot  derogate,  my  lord. 
C7o.    Not  easily,  I  think. 

2  Lord.  You  are  a  fool  granted  ;  therefore  your 
issues  being  foolish,  do  not  derogate.  [Aside. 

Clo.  Come,  I'll  go  see  this  Italian  :  What  I  have 
lost  to-day  at  bowls,  I'll  win  to-night  of  him.  Come, 

go- 

2  Lord.   I'll  attend  your  lordship. 

[Exeunt  Clotkn  and  Jirst  Lord. 

«  He  is  describing  his  fate  at  bowls,  the  jack  is  the  small 
bowl  at  which  the  others  arc  aimed. 


That  such  a  crafty  devil  as  is  his  mother 
Should  yield  the  world  this  ass  !  a  woman,  that 
Bears  all  down  with  her  brain  ;  and  this  her  son 
Cannot  take  two  from  twenty  for  his  heart, 
And  leave  eighteen.      Alas,  poor  princess. 
Thou  divine  Imogen,  what  thou  endur'st ! 
Betwixt  a  father  by  thy  step-dame  govem'd ; 
A  mother  hourly  coining  plots ;  a  wooer 
More  hateful  than  the  foul  expulsion  is 
Of  thy  dear  husband,  than  that  horrid  act 
Of  the  divorce  he'd  make  !   The  heavens  hold  firm 
The  walls  of  thy  dear  honour  ;  keep  unshak'd 
That  temple,  thy  fair  mind ;  that  thou  mayst  sUuid, 
To  enjoy  thy  banish'd  lord,  and  this  great  land  ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Bed-chamber  i  in  one  Pari  of  it 
a  Trunk. 

Imogen  reading  in  her  Bed ;  a  Lady  attending. 

Imo.    Who's  there  ?  my  woman  Helen  ? 

Ladi/.  Please  you,  madam. 

Imo.  What  hour  is  it  ? 

Lady.  Almost  midnight,  madam. 

Imo.   I  have  read  three  hours,  then  :  mine  eyes 
are  weak  :  — 
Fold  down  the  leaf  where  I  have  left :   To  bed ; 
Take  not  away  the  taper,  leave  it  burning ; 
And  if  thou  canst  awake  by  four  o'the  clock, 
I  pr'ythee,  call  me.     Sleep  hath  seiz'd  me  wJioIly. 

[Exit  Lady. 
To  your  protection  I  commend  me,  gods  ! 
From  fairies,  and  the  tempters  of  the  night, 
Guard  me,  beseech  ye ! 

[Sleeps.^    Iachimo, /rom  the  Trunk. 

lach.   The  crickets  sing,  and  man's  o'er-labour'd 
sense 
Renairs  itself  by  rest :   Our  Tarquin  thus 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes  7,  ere  he  waken'd 
The  chastity  he  wounded.  —  Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  becom'st  thy  bed  !  fresli  lily  ! 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets !  that  I  might  touch .' 
But  kiss ;  one  kiss  !  —  Rubies  unparagon'd, 
How  dearly  they  do't!  — 'Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus :    The  flame  o'the  taj>er 
Bows  toward  her  ;  and  would  under-peep  her  lids. 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows :   White  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct.*" —  But  my  design  ? 

To  note  the  chamber :  —  I  will  write  all  down  : 

Such  and  such  pictures  :  —  There  the  window  :  — 

Such 
The  adornment  of  her  bed  ;  —  The  arras  figures, 
Why,  such,  and  such  :  —  And  the  contents  o'tlie 
story,  — 

?  It  was  anciently  the  custom  to  strew  chamltcrs  with  rusheat 
"  t.  e.  The  white  t^kin  laced  with  blue  veins. 
3  B  2 


7td 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  II. 


Ah,  but  some  natural  notes  about  her  body, 
Above  ten  thousand  meaner  moveables 
Would  testify,  to  enrich  mine  inventory : 
O  sleep,  thou  ape  of  death,  lie  dull  upon  her ! 
And  be  her  sense  but  as  a  monument, 
Thus  in  a  chapel  lying !  —  Come  off,  come  off:  — 
[Talcing  of  her  Bracelet. 
As  slippery,  as  the  Gordian  Icnot  w^as  hard  ! 
'Tis  mine  ;  and  this  will  witness  outwardly. 
As  strongly  as  the  conscience  does  within. 
To  the  madding  of  her  lord.      On  her  left  breast 
A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip  :    Here's  a  voucher, 
Stronger  than  ever  law  could  make  :   this  secret 
Will  force  him  think  I  have  prevail'd,  and  ta'en 
The  treasure  of  her  honour.    No  more.  —  To  what 

end  ? 
Why  should  I  write  this  down,  that's  riveted, 
Screw'd  to  my  memory  ?  She  hath  been  reading  late 
The  tale  of  Tereus ;  here  the  leaf's  turn'd  down. 
Where  Philomel  gave  up  ;  —  I  have  enough  : 
To  the  trunk  again,  and  shut  the  spring  of  it. 
Swift,    swift,   you    dragons    of  the   night !  —  that 

dawning 
May  bare  the  raven's  eye  :    I  lodge  in  fear  ; 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here. 

[Clock  strikes. 
One,  two,  three,  —  Tiine,  time  ! 

[Goes  into  the  I'runk.      The  Scene  closes. 

SCENE   III.  —  All  Ante -chamber  adjoining  Imo- 
gen's Apartment. 

Enter  Cloten  and  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Your  lordship  is  the  most  patient  man  in 
loss,  the  most  coldest  that  ever  turn'd  up  ace. 

Clo.   It  would  make  any  man  cold  to  lose. 

1  Lord.  But  not  every  man  patient,  after  the 
noble  temper  of  your  lordship  :  You  are  most  hot, 
and  furious,  when  you  win. 

Clo.  Winning  would  put  any  man  into  courage  : 
If  I  could  get  this  foolish  Imogen,  I  should  have 
gold  enough  :    It's  almost  morning,  is't  not  ? 

1  Lord.   Day,  my  lord. 

Clo.  I  would  this  musick  would  come:  I  am 
advised  to  give  her  musick  o'the  mornings;  they 
say,  it  will  penetrate. 

Enter  Musicians. 

Come  on ;  tune :  If  you  can  penetrate  her  with 
your  fingering,  so ;  we'll  try  vvdth  tongue  too :  if 
none  will  do,  let  her  remain  ;  but  I'll  never  give 
o'er.  First,  a  very  excellent  good  conceited  thing  : 
after  a  v/onderful  sweet  air,  with  admirable  rich 
words  to  it,  —  and  then  let  her  consider. 

SONG. 

Haik  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaverCs  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gifts  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalicd  ^  jlowers  that  lies  : 
And  winking  Mary -buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin  : 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise. 

So,  get  you  gone  :  If  this  penetrate,  I  will  consider 

your  musick  the  better  '  :  if  it  do  not,  it  is  a  vice  in 

9  Cups.  •  Will  pay  you  more  for  it. 


her  ears,  which  horse-hairs,  and  cat-guts,  can  never 
amend.  [Exeunt  Musicians. 

Enter  Cymbeline  and  Queen. 

2  Lord.   Here  comes  the  king. 

Clo.  I  am  glad,  I  was  up  so  late  ;  for  that's  the 
reason  I  was  up  so  early  ;  He  cannot  choose  but 
take  this  service  I  have  done,  fatherly.  —  Good 
morrow  to  your  majesty,  and  to  my  gracious  mother. 

Cym.   Attend  you  here  the  door  of  our  stem 
daughter  ? 
Will  she  not  forth  ? 

Clo.   I  have  assailed   her  with  musick,  but  sh 
vouchsafes  no  notice. 

Cym.   The  exile  of  her  minion  is  too  new  ; 
She  hath  not  yet  forgot  him  :   some  more  time 
Must  wear  the  print  of  his  remembrance  out, 
And  then  she's  yours. 

Queen.  You  are  most  bound  to  the  king  j 

Who  let's  go  by  no  'vantages,  that  may 
Prefer  you  to  his  daughter :    Frame  yourself 
To  orderly  solicits  ;  and  be  friended 
With  aptness  of  the  season  :  make  denials 
Increase  your  services  :   so  seem,  as  if 
You  were  inspir'd  to  do  those  duties  which 
You  tender  to  her  :   that  you  in  all  obey  her. 
Save  when  command  to  your  dismission  tends. 
And  therein  you  are  senseless. 

Clo.  Senseless  ?  not  so. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  So  like  you,  sir,  ambassadors  from  Rome; 
The  one  is  Caius  Lucius. 

Cym.  A  worthy  fellow, 

Albeit  he  comes  on  angiy  purpose  now  ; 
But  that's  no  fault  of  his  :   We  must  receive  him 
According  to  the  honour  of  his  sender  ; 
And  towards  himself  his  goodness  forespent  on  us 
We  must  extend  our  notice.  —  Our  dear  son. 
When  you  have  given  good  morning  to  your  mistress, 
Attend  the  queen,  and  us  ;  we  shall  have  need 
To  employ  you  towards  this  Roman.  —  Come,  oiu* 
queen. 
[Exeunt  Cym.  Queen,  Lords,  and  Mess. 

Clo.   If  she  be  up,  I'll  speak  with  her  ;  if  not. 
Let  her  lie  still,  and  dream.  —  By  your  leave,  ho  !  — 

[JCnocks. 
I  know  her  women  are  about  her  :   What 
If  I  do  line  one  of  their  hands  ?  *Tis  gold 
Which  buys  admittance;  oft  it  doth;  yea,  and  makes 
Diana's  rangers  false  themselves,  yield  up 
Their  deer  to  the  stand  of  the  stealer  ;  and  'tis  gold 
Which  makes  the  true  man  kill'd,  and  saves  the  thief; 
Nay,  sometime,  hangs  both  thief  and  true  man :  What 
Can  it  not  do,  and  undo  ?  I  will  make 
One  of  her  women  lawyer  to  me  ;  for 
I  yet  not  understand  the  case  myself. 
By  your  leave.  [ITnocks- 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Lady.   Who's  there,  that  knocks  ? 

Clo.  A  gentleman. 

Lady.  No  more  ? 

Clo.    Yes,  and  a  gentlewoman's  son. 

Lady.  ^       That's  more 

Than  some,  whose  tailors  are  as  dear  as  yours. 
Can  justly  boast  of;  What's  your  lordship's  pleasure  ? 

Clo.   Your  lady's  person  ;  is  she  ready  ? 

Lady.  Ay, 

To  keep  her  chamben 


Scene  III. 


CYMBELINE. 


741 


Clo.   There's  gold  for  you;  sell  me  your  good 

report. 
"Lady.  How  !  my  good  name  ?  or  to  report  of  you 
What  I  shall  think  is  good  ?  —  The  princess  — 

Enter  Imogen. 

Clo.    Good-morrow,    fairest  sister :    Your   swiet 
hand. 

hno.   Good-morrow,  sir :    You  lay  out  too  much 
pains 
For  purchasing  but  trouble  :   the  thanks  I  give. 
Is  telling  you  tliat  I  am  poor  of  thanks, 
And  scarce  can  spare  them, 

Clo.  Still,  I  swear,  I  love  you. 

I  mo.   If  you  but  said  so,  'twere  as  deep  with  me: 
If  you  swear  still,  your  recompence  is  still 
That  I  regard  it  not. 

Clo.  This  is  no  answer. 

Ifyw.   But  that  you  shall  not  say  I  yield,  being 
silent, 
I  would  not  speak.     I  pray  you,  spare  me, 
I  shall  unfold  equal  discourtesy 
To  your  best  kindness ;  one  of  your  great  knowing 
Should  learn,  being  taught,  forbearance. 

Clo.  To  leave  you  in  your  madness,  'twere  my  sin : 
I  will  not. 

Tmo,   Fools  are  not  mad  folks. 

Clo.  Do  you  call  me  fool  ? 

Imo.    As  I  am  mad,  I  do ; 
If  you'll  be  patient,  I'll  no  more  be  mad  ; 
That  cures  us  both.      I  am  much  sorry,  sir. 
You  put  me  to  forget  a  lady's  manners, 
By  being  so  verbal  ^ :  and  learn  now,  for  all, 
That  I,  which  know  my  heart,  do  here  pronounce, 
By  the  very  truth  of  it,  I  care  not  for  you  j 
And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity, 
(To  accuse  myself,)  I  hate  you  :  which  I  had  rather 
You  felt,  than  make't  my  boast. 

Clo.  You  sin  against 

Obedience,  which  you  owe  your  father.      For 
The  contract  you  pretend  with  that  base  wretch, 
(One,  bred  of  alms,  and  foster'd  with  cold  dishes, 
With  scraps  o'the  court,)  it  is  no  contract,  none  : 
And  though  it  be  allow 'd  in  meaner  parties, 
(  Yet  who,  than  he,  more  mean  ?)  to  knit  their  souls 
(  On  whom  there  is  no  more  dependency 
But  brats  and  beggary)  in  self-figur  d  knots : 
Yet  you  are  curb'd  from  that  enlargement  by 
The  consequence  o'  the  crown  ;  and  must  not  soil 
The  precious  note  of  it  with  a  base  slave, 
A  hilding  *•  for  a  livery,  a  squire's  cloth, 
A  pan  tier,  not  so  eminent. 

Imo.  Profane  fellow  ! 

Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter,  and  no  more, 
But  what  thou  art,  besides,  thou  wert  too  base 
To  \)c  his  groom  :   thou  wert  dignified  enough. 
Even  to  the  point  of  envy,  if  'twere  made 
Comparative  for  your  virtues,  to  be  styl'd 
The  under-hangman  of  his  kingdom ;  and  hated 
For  being  preferr'd  so  well. 

Clo.  The  south-fog  rot  him  ! 

Imo.   He  never  can  meet  more  mischance,  than 
come 
To  be  but  nam'd  of  thee.     His  meanest  garment, 
That  ever  hath  but  clipp'd  his  body,  is  dearer, 
In  my  respect,  tlian  all  the  hairs  above  thee. 
Were  they  all  made  such  men —  How  now,  Pisanio  ? 

'  So  vcrbosp,  so  full  of  talk.        3  Knots  of  their  own  tying. 
*  A  low  fellow  only  fit  to  wear  a  livery. 


Eiiter  Pisanio. 


Clo.    His  garment  ?  Now,  the  devil  — 

Imo.  To  Dorothy  my  woman  hie  thee  presently:  — 

Clo.   His  garment  ? 

Imo.  I  am  sprighted  *  with  a  fool ; 

Frighted,  and  angcr'd  worse  ;  —  Go,  bid  my  woman 
Search  for  a  jewel,  that  too  casually 
Math  left  mine  arm  ;  it  was  thy  master's :  'shrew  mc. 
If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 
Of  any  king's  in  Europe.      I  do  think, 
I  saw't  this  morning :   confident  I  am 
Last  night  'twas  on  mine  arm  ;   I  kiss'd  it : 
I  hope,  it  be  not  gone,  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he. 

Pis.  'Twill  not  be  lost. 

Imo.   I  hope  so ;  go,  and  search.  [Exit  Pis. 

Clo.  You  have  abus'd  me  :  — 

His  meanest  garment  ? 

Imo.  Ay  ;   I  said  so,  sir. 

If  you  will  make't  an  action,  call  witness  to't. 

Clo.    I  will  inform  your  father. 

Imo.  Your  mother  too  : 

She's  my  good  lady  ;  and  will  conceive,  I  hope, 
But  the  worst  of  me.     So  I  leave  you,  sir. 
To  the  worst  of  discontent.  [Exit. 

Clo.  I'll  be  reveng'd  :  — 

His  meanest  garment  ?  —  Well.  [Exit. 


SCENE  IV. 


Rome.     An  Apartment  in   Phi- 
lario's  House. 


Enter  Posthumus  a7id  Philario. 

Post.   Fear  it  not,  sir  :    I  would,  I  were  so  sure 
To  win  the  king,  as  I  am  bold,  her  honour 
Will  remain  hers. 

Phi.  What  means  do  you  make  to  him  ? 

Post.   Not  any  ;  but  abide  the  change  of  time  ; 
Quake  in  the  present  winter's  state,  and  wish 
That  warmer  days  would  come  :   In  these  fear'd 

hopes, 
I  barely  gratify  your  love  ;  they  failing, 
I  must  die  much  your  debtor. 

Phi.   Your  very  goodness,  and  your  company 
O'erpays  all  I  can  do.      By  this,  your  king 
Hath  heard  of  great  Augustus  :    Caius  Lucius 
Will  do  his  commission  thoroughly :    And,  I  think. 
He'll  grant  the  tribute,  send  the  an-earages. 
Or  look  upon  our  Romans,  whose  remembrance 
Is  yet  fresh  in  tlieir  grief. 

Post.  I  do  believe, 

(Statist 6  though  I  am  none,  nor  like  to  be,) 
That  this  will  prove  a  war ;  and  you  shall  hear 
The  legions,  now  in  Gallia,  sooner  landed 
In  our  not-fearing  Britain,  than  liave  tidings 
Of  any  penny  tribute  paid.      Our  countrymen 
Are  men  more  order'd,  than  when  Julius  Ca?sar 
Smil'd  at  their  lack  of  skill,  but  found  their  courage 
Worthy  his  frowning  at :   Their  discipline 
(Now  mingled  with  their  courages)  will  make  known 
To  their  approvers  7,  they  are  people,  such 
That  mend  upon  the  world. 

Enter  Iachimo. 

Phi.  See  !   Iachimo  ? 

Post.  The  swiftest  harts  have  posted  you  l)y  land  : 
And  winds  of  all  the  comers  kiss'd  your  sails, 
To  make  your  vessel  nimble. 

Phi.  Welcome,  sir. 

6  Haunted.       «  Statesmen.        '  To  those  who  try  them. 
3  B  3 


74-2 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  II. 


Post.   I  hope,  the  briefness  of  your  answer  made 
The  speediness  of  your  return. 

lack.  Your  lady 

Is  one  the  fairest  that  I  have  look'd  upon. 

l^ost.  And  therewithal,  the  best ;  or  let  her  beauty 
Look  through  a  casement  to  allure  false  hearts, 
And  be  false  with  them. 

lack.  Here  are  letters  for  you. 

Post.  Their  tenour  good,  I  trust. 

lack.  'Tis  very  like. 

Phi.   Was  Caius  Lucius  in  the  Britain  court, 
When  you  were  there  ? 

lack.  He  was  expected  then. 

But  not  approach'd. 

Post.  AH  is  well  yet.  — 

Sparkles  this  stone  as  it  was  wont  ?  or  is't  not 
Too  dull  for  your  good  wearing  ? 

lack.  If  I  had  lost  it, 

I  should  have  lost  the  worth  of  it  in  gold. 
I'll  make  a  journey  twice  as  far,  to  enjoy 
What  was  in  Britain  mine.      The  ring  is  won. 

Post.   The  stone's  too  hard  to  come  by. 

lack.  Not  a  whit, 

Your  lady  being  so  easy. 

Post.  Make  not,  sir, 

Your  loss  your  sport ;  I  hope,  you  know  that  we 
Must  not  continue  friends. 

lach.  Good  sir,  we  must. 

If  you  keep  covenant :    Had  I  not  brought 
The  knowledge  of  your  mistress  home,  I  grant 
We  were  to  question  further  :  but  I  now 
Profess  myself  the  winner  of  her  honour. 
Together  with  your  ring  ;  and  not  the  wronger 
Of  her,  or  you,  having  proceeded  but 
By  both  your  wills. 

Post.  If  you  can  make't  apparent. 

The  ring  is  yours :    If  not,  the  foul  opinion 
You  had  of  her  pure  honour,  gains,  or  loses. 
Your  sword,  or  mine  ;  or  masterless  leaves  both 
To  who  shall  find  them. 

lach.  Sir,  my  circumstances, 

Being  so  near  the  truth,  as  I  will  make  them, 
Must  first  induce  you  to  believe :   whose  strength 
I  will  confirm  with  oath  ;  which,  1  douTit  not, 
You'll  give  me  leave  to  spare,  when  you  shall  find 
You  need  it  not. 

Post.  Proceed. 

lack.  First,  her  bed-chamber, 

(Where,  I  confess,  I  slept  not ;)  It  was  hang'd 
With  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver  :  the  story 
Proud  Cleopatra,  when  she  met  her  Roman, 
And  Cydnus  swell'd  above  the  banks,  or  for 
The  press  of  boats,  or  pride  :    A  piece  of  work 
So  bravely  done,  so  rich,  that  it  did  strive 
In  workmanship,  and  value ;  which,  I  wonder'd 
Could  be  so  rarely  and  exactly  wrought, 
Since  the  true  life  on't  was  — 

Post.  This  is  true  ; 

And  this  you  might  have  heard  of  here,  by  me, 
Or  by  some  other. 

lach.  More  particulars 

Must  justify  my  knowledge. 

Post.  So  they  must, 

Or  do  your  honour  injury. 

lack.  The  chimney 

Is  south  the  chamber ;  and  the  chimney-piece. 
Chaste  Dian,  bathing  :   never  saw  I  figures 
So  likely  to  report  themselves  :  the  cutter 
Was  as  another  nature,  dumb  ;  outwent  her. 
Motion  and  breath  left  out. 


Post.  Tl)is  is  a  thing, 

Which  you  might  from  relation  likewise  reap  ; 
Being,  as  it  is,  much  spoke  of. 

lack.  The  roof  o'  the  chamber 

With  golden  cherubins  is  fretted  :    Her  andirons  ^ 
(I  had  forgot  them,)  were  two  winking  Cupids 
Of  silver,  each  on  one  foot  standing,  nicely 
Depending  on  their  brands. 

Post.  This  is  her  honour  !  — 

Let  it  be  granted,  you  have  seen  all  this,  (and  praise 
Be  given  to  your  remembrance,)  the  description 
Of  what  is  in  her  chamber,  nothing  saves 
The  wager  you  have  laid. 

lack.  Then  if  you  can, 

[Pulling  out  the  Bracelet. 
Be  pale ;  I  beg  but  leave  to  air  this  jewel :  See  ! — 
And  now  'tis  up  again :   It  must  be  married 
To  that  your  diamond ;  I'll  keep  them. 

Post.  Jove !  — 

Once  more  let  me  behold  it :   Is  it  that 
Which  I  left  with  her  ? 

lack.  Sir,  (I  thank  her,)  that: 

She  stripp'd  it  from  her  arm  ;  I  see  her  yet ; 
Her  pretty  action  did  outsell  her  gift. 
And  yet  enrich'd  it  too  :   She  gave  it  me,  and  said. 
She  priz'd  it  once. 

Post.  May  be,  she  pluck'd  it  off. 

To  send  it  me. 

lack.  She  writes  so  to  you  ?  doth  she  ? 

Post.   O,  no,  no,  no  j  'tis  true.     Here,  take  this 
too;  [Gives  t/te  Eing. 

It  is  a  basilisk  unto  mine  eye. 
Kills  me  to  look  on  *t :  —  Let  there  be  no  honour. 
Where  there  is  beauty ;  truth,  where  semblance ; 

love. 
Where  there's  another  man :   The  vows  of  women 
Of  no  more  bondage  be,  to  where  they  are  made. 
Than  they  are  to  their  virtues  j  which  is  nothing  :  — 
O,  above  measure  false  ! 

Pki.  Have  patience,  sir. 

And  take  your  ring  again  ;  'tis  not  yet  won  ; 
It  may  be  probable,  she  lost  it ;  or, 
Who  knows,  if  one  of  her  women,  being  corrupted. 
Hath  stolen  it  from  her  ? 

Post.  Very  true  ; 

And  so,  I  hope,  he  came  by't :  —  Back  my  ring ;  — 
Render  to  me  some  corporal  sign  about  her. 
More  evident  than  this  :  for  this  was  stolen. 

lack.   By  Jupiter,  I  had  it  from  her  arm. 

Post.  Hark  you,  he  swears ;  by  Jupiter  he  swears. 
'Tis  true;  —  nay,  keep  the  ring  —  'tis  true:   lam 

sure, 
She  would  not  lose  it :  her  attendants  are 
All    sworn   and   honourable :  —  They   induc'd   to 

steal  it ! 
And  by  a  stranger  ?  —  No,  he  hath  enjoy'd  her. 
There,  take  thy  hire  :   and  all  the  fiends  of  hell 
Divide  themselves  between  you  ! 

Phi.  Sir,  be  patient : 

This  is  not  strong  enough  to  be  believ'd 
Of  one  persuaded  well  of 

Post.  Never  talk  on't. 

lack.  If  you  seek 

For  further  satisfying,  under  her  breast 
(Worthy  the  pressing,)  lies  a  mole,  right  proud 
Of  that  most  delicate  lodging  :    You  remember 
This  stain  upon  her? 

Post.  Ay,  and  it  doth  confirm 

8  Ornamented  iron  bars   which   support  wood  burnt  in 
chimneys. 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


CYMBELINE. 


7i3 


Another  stain,  as  big  as  hell  can  hold, 
Were  there  no  more  but  it. 

Inch.  Will  you  hear  more  ? 

Post.    Spare  your  arithmetick. 

lack.   I'll  be  sworn, 

Post.  No  swearing. 

If  you  will  swear  you  have  not  done't,  you  lie ; 
And  I  will  kill  thee,  if  tliou  dost  deny 
Thou  hast  made  me  cuckold. 

lach.  I  will  deny  nothing. 

Post.  O,  that  I  had  her  here,  to  tear  her  limb-meal ! 
I  will  go  there,  and  do't ;  i'  the  court ;  before 
Her  father  :  —  I'll  do  something \^Exit. 

Phi.  Quite  besides 

The  government  of  patience  !  —  You  have  won : 
Let's  follow  liim,  and  pervert  the  present  wrath 
He  hath  against  himself. 

Inch.  With  all  my  heart.  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Posthumus. 
Post.   Is  there  no  way  for  men  to  be,  but  women 
Must  be  half- workers  ?  We  are  bastards  all. 


I  am  a  counterfeit.      Yet  my  mother  sccm'd 
The  Dian  of  that  time  :   so  doth  my  wife 
The  nonpareil  of  this.  —  O  vengeance,  vengeance  ! 
I  thought  her  chaste  as  unsunn'd  snow.      Could  I 

find  out 
The  woman's  part  in  me  !   For  there's  no  motion 
That  tends  to  vice  in  man,  but  I  affirm 
It  is  the  woman's  part :   Be  it  lying,  note  it, 
The  woman's  ;  flattering,  her's  ;  deceiving,  her's  ; 
Ambitions,  covetings,  change  of  prides,  disdain, 
Nice  longing,  slanders,  mutability, 
All    faults    that    may    be    nam'd,    nay   that    hell 

knows, 
Why,  her's,  in  part,  or  all ;  but,  rather,  all : 
For  ev'n  to  vice 

ITiey  are  not  constant,  but  are  changing  still 
One  vice,  but  of  a  minute  old,  for  one 
Not  half  so  old  as  that      I'll  write  against  them. 
Detest    them,     curse    them :  —  Yet    'tis    greater 

skill 
In  a  true  hate,  to  pray  they  have  tlieir  will  : 
The  very  devils  cannot  plague  them  better.     [Exit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  Britain.     J  Room  of  State  in  Cym- 
beline'5  Palace. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Queen,  Cloten,  and  Lords,  at 
one  Door:  and  at  another,  Caius  Lucius,  and 
Attendants. 

Cym^  Now  say,  what  would  Augustus  Caesar  with 
us? 

Lvjc.   When  Julius  Caesar,  (whose  remembrance 
yet 
Lives  in  men's  eyes  ;  and  will  to  ears,  and  tongues, 
Be  theme,  and  hearing  ever,)  was  in  this  Britain, 
And  conquer 'd  it,  Cassibelan,  thine  uncle, 
(  Famous  in  Ciesar's  praises,  no  whit  less 
Than  in  his  feats  deserving  it,)  for  him, 
And  his  succession,  granted  Rome  a  tribute, 
Yearly  three  tliousand  pounds ;  which  by  thee  lately 
Is  left  untender'd. 

^ueen.  And,  to  kill  the  marvel. 

Shall  be  ever  so. 

Clo.  There  be  many  Caesars, 

Ere  such  another  Julius.     Britain  is 
A  world  by  itself ;  and  we  will  nothing  pay. 
For  wearing  our  own  noses. 

Quceru  That  opportunity. 

Which  tlien  they  had  to  take  from  us,  to  resume 
We  have  again.  —  Remember,  sir,  my  liege. 
The  kings  your  ancestors;  together  with 
The  natural  bravery  of  your  isle  ;  which  stands 
As  Neptune's  park,  ribbed  and  paled  in 
With  rocks  unscaleable,  and  roaring  waters ; 
With  sands,  that  will  not  bear  your  enemies'  boats, 
But  suck  them  up  to  the  top-mast.      A  kind  of  con- 
quest 
Caesar  made  here ;  but  made  not  here  his  brag 
Of  came,  and  saiv,  and  overcame  :   with  shame 
(The  first  that  ever  touch'd  him,)  he  was  carried 
From  off  our  coast,  twice  beaten  ;  and  his  shipping 
(I'oor  ignorant  baubles  !)  on  our  terrible  seas, 
Like  egg-sliells  mov'd  upon  their  surges,  crack 'd 
As  easily  'gainst  our  rocks  -.   for  joy  whereof, 


The  fam'd  Cassibelan,  who  was  once  at  point 
(O,  giglot  fortune !)  to  master  Cajsar's  sword. 
Made  Lud's  town  with  rejoicing  fires  bright. 
And  Britons  strut  witli  courage. 

Clo.  Come,  there's  no  more  tribute  to  be  paid  : 
Our  kingdom  is  stronger  than  it  was  at  that  time ; 
and,  as  I  said,  there  is  no  more  such  Caesars ;  other 
of  them  may  have  crooked  noses ;  but  to  owe  8  such 
straight  arms,  none. 

Cym.   Son,  let  your  mother  end. 

Clo.  We  have  yet  many  among  us  can  gripe  as 
hard  as  Cassibelan :  I  do  not  say,  I  am  one  ;  but  I 
have  a  hand.  —  Why  tribute  ?  why  should  we  pay 
tribute  ?  If  Caesar  can  hide  the  sun  from  us  with 
a  blanket,  or  put  the  moon  in  his  pocket,  we  will 
pay  him  tribute  for  light ;  else,  sir,  no  more  tribute, 
pray  you  now. 

Cym.   You  must  know. 
Till  the  injurious  Romans  did  extort 
This  tribute  from  us,  we  were  free :  Caesar's  ambition, 
(Which  swell'd  so  much,  that  it  did  almost  stretch 
The  sides  o'  the  world,)  against  all  colour,  here 
Did  put  the  yoke  upon  us  ;  which  to  shake  off, 
Becomes  a  warlike  people,  whom  we  reckon 
Ourselves  to  be.      We  do  say  then  to  Caesar, 
Our  ancestor  was  that  Mulmutius,  which 
Ordain'd  our  laws ;  (whose  use  the  sword  of  Caesar 
Hath  too  much  mangled  j  whose  repair,  and  fran- 
chise. 
Shall,  by  the  power  we  hold,  be  our  good  deed, 
Though  Rome  be  therefore  angry  ;  i   Mulmutius, 
Who  was  tlie  first  of  Britain,  which  did  put 
His  brows  witliin  a  golden  crown,  and  call'd 
Himself  a  king. 

Luc.  I  am  sorry,  Cymbeline, 

That  I  am  to  pronounce  Augustus  Caesar 
( Caesar,  that  hath  more  kings  his  servants,  than 
'Hiyself  domestick  officers,)  tliine  enemy: 
Receive  it  from  me,  then  :  —  War,  and  confusion. 
In  Caesar's  name  pronounce  I  'gainst  thee  :   look 
8  Own. 
3B  4 


744 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  III. 


For  fury  not  to  be  resisted  :  —  Thus  defied, 
I  thank  thee  for  myself. 

Cym.  Thou  art  welcome,  Caius. 

Thy  Caesar  knighted  me ;  my  youth  I  spent 
Much  under  him  ;  of  him  I  gather'd  honour  ; 
Which  he,  to  seek  of  me  again,  perforce. 
Behoves  me  keep  at  utterance  9 ;  I  am  perfect ', 
That  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmatians,  for 
Their  liberties,  are  now  in  arms  :   a  precedent 
"Which,  not  to  read,  would  show  the  Britons  cold : 
So  Caesar  shall  not  find  them. 

Luc.  Let  proof  speak. 

Clo.  His  majesty  bids  you  welcome.  Make  pas- 
time with  us  a  day,  or  two,  longer  :  If  you  seek  us 
afterwards  in  other  terms,  you  shall  find  us  in  our 
salt-water  girdle  :  if  you  beat  us  out  of  it,  it  is  yours  ; 
if  you  fall  in  the  adventure,  our  crows  shall  fare  the 
better  for  you  ;  and  there's  an  end. 

Xmc.   So,  sir. 

Cym.  I  know  your  master's  pleasure,  and  he  mine : 
All  the  remain  is,  welcome.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Pisanio. 

Pis.  How!  of  adultery?  Wherefore  write  you  not 
What  monster's  her  accuser  ?  —  Leonatus  ! 
O,  master  !  what  a  strange  infection 
Is  fallen  into  thy  ear  ?  What  false  Italian 
(As  poisonous  tongued,  as  handed,)  hath  prevail'd 
On  thy  too  ready  hearing  ?  —  Disloyal  ?  No  : 
She's  punish'd  for  her  truth  ;  and  undergoes. 
More  goddess-like  than  wife-like,  such  assaults 
As  would  take  in  ^  some  virtue.  —  O,  my  master  ! 
Thy  mind  to  her  is  now  as  low,  as  were 
Thy  fortunes.  —  How  !  that  I  should  murder  her? 
Upon  the  love,  and  truth,  and  vows,  which  I 
Have  made   to    thy  command  ? —  I,    her  ?  —  her 

blood  ? 
If  it  be  so  to  do  good  service,  never 
Let  me  be  counted  serviceable.      How  look  I 
That  I  should  seem  to  lack  humanity 
So  much  as  this  fact  comes  to  ?  Do't ;   The  letter 

[Reading. 
That  I  have  sent  her,  by  her  own  command, 
Shall  give  thee  opportunity :  —  O  vile  paper  ! 
Black  as  the  ink  that's  on  thee  !   Senseless  bauble. 
Art  thou  a  feodary  ^  for  this  act,  and  look'st 
So  virgin-like  without  ?  Lo,  here  she  comes. 

Enter  Imogen. 

I  am  ignorant  in  what  I  am  commanded. 

Imo.   How  now,  Pisanio  ? 

Pis.   Madam,  here  is  a  letter  from  my  lord. 

Imo.  Who?  thy  lord?  that  is  my  lord,  Leonatus? 
O,  learn'd  indeed  were  that  astronomer. 
That  knew  the  stars,  as  I  his  characters ; 
He'd  lay  the  future  open.  —  You  good  gods. 
Let  what  is  here  contain'd  relish  of  love, 
Of  my  lord's  health,  of  his  content,  —  yet  not. 
That  we  two  are  asunder,  let  that  grieve  him,  — 
(Some  griefs  are  med'cinable ;)  that  is  one  of  them. 
For  it  doth  physick  love  ;  —  of  his  content. 
All  but  in  that !  —  Good  wax,  thy  leave  :  —  Bless'd 

be, 
You  bees,  that  make  these  locks  of  counsel !  Lovers, 
And  men  in  dangerous  bonds  pray  not  alike ; 
Though  forfeitures  you  cast  in  prison,  yet 

5  At  the  extremity  of  defiance.  *  Well  informed. 

'  To  take  in  a  town,  is  to  conquer  it       ^  Confederate. 


You  clasp  young  Cupid's   tables.  —  Good  news, 
gods !  [Reads. 

Justice,  and  your  father  s  wrath,  should  he  lake  me 
in  his  dominion,  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me,  as  you, 
0  the  dearest  of  creatures,  would  not  even  renew  me 
with  your  eyes.      Take  notice  that  I  am  in  Cambria, 
at  MUJord- Haven.      What  your  own  love  will,  out  of 
this,  advise  you,  follow.     So,  he  wishes  you  all  happi- 
ness, that  retnains  loyal  to  his  vow,  and  your,  increas- 
ing in  love,  Leonatus  Po.sthumus. 
O,  for  a  horse  with  wings  !  —  Hear'st  thou,  Pisanio? 
He  is  at  Milford-Haven  :    Read,  and  tell  me 
How  far  'tis  thither.      If  one  of  mean  afFaii-s 
May  plod  it  in  a  week,  why  may  not  I 
Glide  thither  in  a  day  ?  —  Then,  true  Pisanio, 
(Who   long'st,   like    me,   to  see   thy   lord  j    who 

long'st,  — 
O,  let  me  bate,  —  but  not  like  me  ;  — yet  Iong*st,  — 
But  in  a  fainter  kind  ;  —  O,  not  like  me ; 
For  mine  's  beyond  beyond,)  say,  and  speak  thick  4, 
(Love's  counsellor  should  fill  the  bores  of  hearing, 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense,)  how  far  it  is 
To  this  same  blessed  Milford :   And,  by  the  way 
Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy,  as 
To  inherit  such  a  haven  :   But,  first  of  all. 
How  we  may  steal  from  hence  ;  and,  for  the  gap 
That  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence  going. 
And  our   return  to  excuse: — but  first,  how  get 

hence : 
Why  should  excuse  be  born  or  e'er  begot? 
We'll  talk  of  that  hereafter.      Pr'ythee,  speak. 
How  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 
'Twixt  hour  and  hour? 

Pis.  One  score,  'twixt  sun  and  sun. 

Madam,  's  enough  for  you ;  and  too  much  too. 

Imo.  Why,  one  that  rode  to  his  execution,  man. 
Could  never  go  so  slow :    I  have  heard  of  riding 

wagers. 
Where  horses  have  been  nimbler  than  the  sands 
That  run  i'  the  clock's  behalf:  —  But  this  is  foolery: 
Go,  bid  my  woman  feign  a  sickness ;  say 
She'll  home  to  her  father :    and  provide  me,   pre- 
sently, 
A  riding  suit ;  no  costlier  than  would  fit 
A  franklin's  ^  housewife. 

Pis.  Madam,  you're  best  consider. 

Imo.   I  see  before  me,  man,  nor  here,  nor  here. 
Nor  what  ensues  ;  but  have  a  fog  in  them. 
That  I  cannot  look  through.      Away,  I  pr'ythee ; 
Do  as  I  bid  thee  :    There's  no  more  to  say  ; 
Accessible  is  none  but  Milford  way.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — Wales.     A  mountainous  Country, 
with  a  Cave. 

Enter  Belarius,  Guiderius,  onrf  Arviragus. 

Bd.  A  goodly  day  not  to  keep  house,  with  such 
Whose  roof's  as  low  as  ours  !  Stoop,  boys  ;  This  gate 
Instructs  you  how  to  adore  the  heavens  ;  and  bows 

you 
To  rr  orning's  holy  oflSce  :   The  gates  of  monarchs 
Are  i.rch'd  so  high,  that  giants  may  jet  ^  through. 
And  keep  their  impious  turbans  on,  without 
Good  morrow  to  the  sun.  —  Hail,  thou  fair  heaven  ! 
We  house  i'  the  rock,  yet  use  thee  not  so  hardly 
As  prouder  livers  do. 

Gui.  Hail,  heaven  ! 

Arv.  Hail,  heaven  ! 

4  Crowd  one  word  on  another,  as  fast  as  possible. 
6  A  freeholder.  6  strut,  walk  proudly. 


Scene  III. 


CYMBELINE. 


745 


Bel.  Now,  for  our  mountain  sport:  Up  to  yon  hill, 
Your  legs  are  young ;   I'll  tread  these  flats.      Con- 
sider, 
When  you  above  perceive  me  like  a  crow. 
That  it  is  place  wliich  lessens,  and  sets  off. 
And  you  may  then  revolve  what  tales  I  have  told 

you. 
Of  courts,  of  princes,  of  the  tricks  in  war : 
This  service  is  not  service,  so  being  done, 
But  being  so  allowed :   To  apprehend  thus. 
Draws  us  a  profit  from  all  things  we  see : 
And  often,  to  our  comfort,  shall  we  find 
Tlje  sharded  7  beetle  in  a  safer  hold 
Than  is  the  fuU-wing'd  eagle.      O,  this  life 
Is  nobler,  than  atteniling  for  a  check  ; 
Richer,  than  doing  nothing  for  a  babe  ; 
Prouder,  than  rustling  in  unpaid-for  silk  : 
Such  gain  the  cap  of  him,  that  makes  them  fine, 
Yet  keeps  his  book  uncross'd  :   no  life  to  ours.  8 

Gui.    Out  of  your  proof  you  speak  :  we,  poor  un- 
fledg'd. 
Have  never  winn'd  from  view  o'  the  nest ;  nor  know 

not 
What  air's  from  home.     Haply,  this  life  is  best, 
If  quiet  life  be  best ;  sweeter  to  you, 
That  have  a  sharper  known  ;  well  corresponding 
With  your  stiff  age ;  but,  unto  us,  it  is 
A  cell  of  ignorance  ;  travelling  a-bed ; 
A  prison  for  a  debtor,  that  not  dares 
To  stride  a  limit.  9 

Arv.  What  should  we  speak  of, 

When  we  are  old  as  you  ;  when  we  shall  hear 
The  rain  and  wind  beat  dark  December,  how 
In  this  our  pinching  cave,  shall  we  discourse 
The  freezing  hours  away  ?  We  have  seen  nothing : 
We  are  beastly  ;  subtle  as  the  fox,  for  prey ; 
Like  warlike  as  tlie  wolf,  for  what  we  eat ; 
Our  valour  is,  to  chase  what  flies  ;  our  cage 
We  make  a  quire,  as  doth  the  prison  bird, 
And  sing  our  bondage  freely. 

Bel.  How  you  speak  ! 

Did  you  but  know  the  city's  usuries, 
And  felt  them  knowingljr :  the  art  o'  the  court, 
As  hard  to  leave,  as  keep  ;  whose  top  to  climb 
Is  certain  falling,  or  so  slippery,  that 
The  fear's  as  bad  as  falling  ;  the  toil  of  the  war, 
y         A  pain  that  only  seems  to  seek  out  danger 

I' the  name  of  fame  and  honour;  which  dies  i'  the 

search ; 
And  hath  as  oft  a  slanderous  epitaph. 
As  record  of  fair  act  ;  nay,  many  times, 
^  Doth  ill  deserve  by  doing  well ;  what's  worse. 

Must  court'sey  at  the  censure  :  —  O,  boys,  this  story 
The  world  may  read  in  me  :    My  body's  mark'd 
With  Roman  swords  :   and  my  report  was  once 
First  with  the  best  of  note  :    Cymbeline  lov'd  me  ; 
And  when  a  soldier  was  the  theme,  my  name 
Was  not  far  off:    Then  was  I  as  a  tree, 
Whose  boughs  did  bend  with  fruit:  but  in  one  night, 
A  storm,  or  robbery,  call  it  what  you  will. 
Shook  down  my  mellow  hangings,  nay,  my  leaves, 
And  left  me  bare  to  weather. 

Gui.  Uncertain  favour ! 

Bel.   My  fault  being  nothing,  (as  I  have  told  you 
oft,) 
But  that  two  villains,  whose  false  oaths  prevail'd 
Before  my  perfect  honour,  swore  to  Cymbeline, 
I  was  confederate  with  the  Romans :  so 

7  Scaly.winged.  8  ,-.  ^.  Compared  with  our*. 

»  To  overi>as8  his  bound 


FoUow'd  my  banishment ;  and,  this  twenty  years. 
This  rock,  and  these  demesnes,  have  been  my  world  ; 
Where  I  have  liv'd  at  honest  freedom  ;  paid 
More  pioDs  debts  to  heaven,  than  in  all 
The  fore-end  of  my  time.  —  But,  up  to  the  moun- 
tains ; 
This  is  not  hunters'  language  :  —  He  that  strikes 
The  venison  first,  shall  be  the  lord  o'  the  feast ; 
To  him  the  other  two  shall  minister ; 
And  we  will  fear  no  poison,  wliich  attends 
In  place  of  greater  state.     I'll  meet  you  in  the  val- 
leys. \_Exeunt  Gui.  and  Ah, v. 
How  hard  it  is  to  hide  the  sparks  of  nature  ! 
These  boys  know  little,  they  are  sons  to  the  king  ; 
Nor  Cymbeline  dreams  that  they  are  alive. 
They  think,  they  are  mine :  and,  tliough  train'd  up 

thus  meanly 
I'  the  cave,  wherein  they  bow,  their  thoughts  do  hit 
The  roofs  of  palaces ;  and  nature  prompts  them, 
In  simple  and  low  things  to  prince  it,  much 
Beyond  the  trick  of  others.      This  Polydore,  — 
The  heir  of  Cymbeline  and  Britain,  whom 
The  king  his  father  call'd  Guiderius, —  Jove  ! 
When  on  my  three-foot  stool  I  sit,  and  tell 
The  warlike  feats  I  have  done,  his  spirits  fly  out 
Into  my  story  :   say,  —  Thus  mine  enemy  fell  ; 
And  thus  I  set  my  foot  on  his  neck;  even  then 
The  princely  blood  flows  in  his  cheek,  he  sweats. 
Strains  his  young  nerves,  and  puts  himself  in  posture 
That  acts  my  words.    The  younger  brother,  Cadwal, 
(Once,  Arvirdgus,)  in  as  like  a  figure. 
Strikes  life  into  my  speech,  and  shows  much  more 
His  own  conceiving,    Hark  !  the  game  is  rous'd  !  — 
O  Cymbeline  !  heaven,  and  my  conscience,  knows. 
Thou  didst  unjustly  banish  me  :  whereon. 
At  three,  and  two  years  old,  I  stole  these  babes ; 
Thinking  to  bar  thee  of  succession,  as 
Thou  reft'st  me  of  my  lands.     Euriphile, 
Thou  wast  their  nurse;    tliey  took  thee  for  their 

mother. 
And  every  day  do  honour  to  her  grave : 
Myself,  Belarius,  that  am  Morgan  call'd. 
They  take  for  natural  father.     The  game  is  up. 

[ExU. 
SCENE  lY.—Near  Milford-Haven. 
Enter  Pisanio  and  Imogen. 
Imo-   Thou  told'st  me,  when  we  came  from  horsey 
the  place 
Was  near  at  hand  :  —  Ne'er  long'd  my  mother  so 
To  see  me  first,  as  I  have  now  :  —  Pisanio !   Man  ! 
Where  is  Posthumus  ?  What  is  in  thy  mind. 
That  makes  thee  stare  thus  ?  Wherefore  breaks  tliat 

sigh 
From  the  inward  of  thee  ?   One,  but  painted  thus. 
Would  be  interpreted  a  thing  perplex'd 
Beyond  self-explication  :    Put  thyself 
Into  a  haviour  '  of  less  fear,  ere  wildness 
Vanquish  my  staider  senses.     What's  the  matter  ? 
Why  tender'st  thou  that  paper  to  me,  with 
A  look  untender?   If  it  be  summer  news. 
Smile  to't  before  :   if  winterly,  tliou  need'st 
But  keep  that  countenance  still.  —  My  husband's 

hand,  * 

Detested  Italy  hath  out-craftied  him. 
And  he's  at  some  hard  point.  —  Speak,  man  ;  thy 

tongue 
May  take  off  some  extremity,  which  to  read 
Would  be  even  mortal  to  me. 

>  For  behaviour. 


746 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  III. 


Pw.  Please  you,  read ; 

And  you  shall  find  me,  wretched  many  a  thing 
The  most  disdain'd  of  fortune. 

Imo.  [Reads.]  Thy  mistress,  Pisanio,  hath  play' d 
the  strumpet  in  my  bed :  the  testimonies  whereof  lie 
bleeding  in  me.  I  speak  not  out  of  weak  surmises, 
but  from  proof  as  strotig  as  my  grief,  and  as  certain 
as  I  expect  my  revenge.  That  part,  thou,  Pisanio, 
must  act  for  me,  if  thy  faith  be  not  tainted  with  the 
breach  of  hers.  Let  thine  own  hands  take  away  her 
life :  I  shall  give  thee  opportunities  at  Milford- 
Haven :  she  hath  my  letter  for  the  purpose  :  Where, 
if  thou  fear  to  strike,  and  to  make  we  certain  it  is 
done,  thou  art  the  paruiar  to  her  dishonour,  and 
equally  to  me  disloyal. 

Pis.   What,  shall  I  need  to  draw  my  sword  ?  the 
paper 
Hath  cut  her  throat  already,  —  No,  'tis  slander ; 
Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword;  whose  tongue 
Out-venoms  all  the  worms  of  Nile  ;  whose  breath 
Hides  on  the  posting  winds,  and  doth  belie 
All  corners  of  the  world  :  kings,  queens,  and  states. 
Maids,  matrons,  nay,  the  secrets  of  the  grave 
This  viperous  slander  enters.  —  What  cheer,  ma- 
dam? 

Ino.   False  to  his  bed  !  What  is  it  to  be  false  ? 
To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  on  him  ? 
To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock?  if  sleep  charge 

nature, 
To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him, 
And  cry  myself  awake?  that's  false  to  his  bed  ? 
Is  it? 

Pis.   Alas,  good  lady  ! 

Imo.  I  false  ?  Thy  conscience  witness :  —  lachimo, 
Thou  didst  accuse  him  of  incontinency ; 
Thou  then  look'dst  like  a  villain  ;  now,  methinks, 
Thy  favour's  good  enough.  —  Some  jay  of  Italy, 
Whose  mother  was  her  painting  "^  hath  betrayed  him : 
I'oor  I  am  stale,  a  garment  out  of  fashion  ; 
And,  for  I  am  richer  than  to  hang  by  the  walls, 
I  must  be  rip'd  :  —  To  pieces  with  me  !  —  O, 
Men's  vows  are  women's  traitors  !  All  good  seeming, 
By  thy  revolt,  O  husband,  shall  be  thought 
Put  on  for  villainy*;  not  born,  where't  grows; 
But  worn,  a  bait  for  ladies. 

Pis.  Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Imo.   True  honest  men  being  heard,  like  false 
iEneas, 
Were,  in  his  time,  thought  false  :  and  Sinon's  weep- 
ing 
Did  scandal  many  a  holy  tear  ;  took  pity 
From    most   true  wretchedness:    So,    thou.    Post- 
humus, 
Wilt  lay  the  leaven  on  all  proper  men  ; 
Goodly,  and  gallant,  shall  be  false  and  perjur'd 
From  thy  great  fail.  —  Come,  fellow,  be  thou  honest: 
Do  thou  thy  master's  bidding :  when  thou  see'st  him, 
A  little  witness  my  obedience :    Look  ! 
I  draw  the  sword  myself:   take  it,  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart : 
Fear  not ;  'tis  empty  of  all  things,  but  grief: 
Thy  master  is  not  there  ;  who  was,  indeed. 
The  riches  of  it :    Do  his  bidding  ;  strike. 
Thou  may'st  be  valiant  in  a  better  cause  ; 
But  now  thou  seem'st  a  coward. 

Pvi.  Hence,  vile  instrument ! 

Thou  shalt  not  damn  my  hand. 

Imo.  Why,  I  must  die ; 

And  if  do  not  by  thy  hand,  thou  art 
2  Likeness. 


No  servant  of  thy  master's  :   Against  self-slaughter 

There  is  a  prohibition  so  divine, 

That  cravens  3  my  weak  hand.     Come,  here's  my 

heart ; 
Something's  afore't:  —  Soft,  soft ;  we'll  no  defence  ; 
Obedient  as  the  scabbard.  —  What  is  here  ? 
The  scriptures  '  of  the  loyal  Leonatus, 
All  turn'd  to  heresy  ?   Away,  away. 
Corrupters  of  my  faith  !  you  shall  no  more 
Be  stomachers  to  my  heart !   Thus  may  poor  fools 
Believe  false  teachers  :   Though  those  that  are  be- 

tray'd 
Do  feel  the  treason  sharply,  yet  the  traitor 
Stands  in  worse  case  of  woe. 
And  thou,  Posthiimus,  thou  that  didst  set  up 
My  disobedience  'gainst  the  king  my  father, 
And  make  me  put  into  contempt  the  suits 
Of  princely  fellows,  shalt  thereafter  find 
It  is  no  act  of  common  passage,  but 
A  strain  of  rareness  :  and  I  grieve  myself, 
To  think,  when  thou  shalt  be  disedg'd  by  her 
That  now  thou  tir'st  *  on,  how  thy  memory 
Will  then  be  pang'd  by  me.  —  Pr'ythee,  despatch  : 
The  lamb  entreats  the  butcher :   Where's  thy  knife  ? 
Thou  art  too  slow  to  do  thy  master's  bidding. 
When  I  desire  it  too. 

Pis.  O  gracious  lady, 

Since  I  receiv'd  command  to  do  this  business, 
I  have  not  slept  one  wink. 

Imo.  Do't,  and  to  bed  then. 

Pis.  I'll  wake  mine  eye-balls  blind  first. 

Imo.  Wherefore  then 

Did'st  undertake  it  ?  Why  hast  thou  abus'd 
So  many  miles  with  a  pretence  ?  this  place  ? 
Mine  action,  and  thine  own?  our  horses'  labour? 
The  time  inviting  thee  ?  the  perturb'd  court  ? 
For  my  being  absent :   Whereunto  I  never 
Purpose  return  ?  Why  hast  thou  gone  so  far, 
To  be  unbent,  when  thou  hast  ta'en  thy  stand, 
The  elected  deer  before  thee  ? 

Pis.  But  to  win  time 

To  lose  so  bad  employment :  in  the  which 
I  have  considered  of  a  course ;  Good  lady. 
Hear  me  with  patience. 

Imo.  Talk  thy  tongue  weary ;  speak  : 

I  have  heard,  I  am  a  strumpet ;  and  mine  ear. 
Therein  false  struck,  can  take  no  greater  wound. 
Nor  tent  to  bottom  that.     But  speak. 

Pis.  Then,  madam, 

I  thought  you  would  not  back  again. 

Imo.  Most  like ; 

Bringing  me  here  to  kill  me. 

Pis.  Not  so,  neither : 

But  if  I  were  as  wise  as  honest,  then 
My  purpose  would  prove  well.     It  cannot  be, 
But  that  my  master  is  abus'd  : 
Some  villain,  ay,  and  singular  in  his  art, 
Hath  done  you  both  this  cursed  injury. 

Imo.   Some  Roman  courtezan. 

Pis.  No,  on  my  life. 

I'll  give  but  notice  you  are  dead,  and  send  him 
Some  bloody  sign  of  it ;  for  'tis  commanded 
I  should  do  so  :    You  shall  be  miss'd  at  court. 
And  that  will  well  confirm  it. 

Imo.  Why,  good  fellow, 

What  shall  I  do  the  while  ?  Where  bide  ?  How  live  ? 
Or  in  my  life  what  comfort,  when  I  am 
Dead  to  my  husband? 

Pis.  If  you'll  back  to  the  court.  — 

3  Cowards        i  The  writings.        »  Feedcst  or  prcyest  on. 


Scene  IV. 


CYMBELINE. 


7n 


Imo.   No  court,  no  father ;  nor  no  more  ado 
With  that  harsh,  noble,  simple,  nothing  : 
That  Clotcn,  whose  love-su^t  hath  been  to  me 
As  fearful  as  a  siege. 

Pis.  If  not  at  court. 

Then  not  in  Britain  must  you  bide. 

lino.  Where,  then  ? 

Hath  Britain  all  the  sun  that  shines  ?  Day,  night, 
Are  they  not  but  in  Britain?  I' the  world's  volume 
Our  Britain  seems  as  of  it,  but  not  in  it ; 
In  a  great  pool,  a  swan's  nest ;   Pr'ythee,  think 
There's  livers  out  of  Britain. 

Pis.  I  am  most  glad 

You  think  of  other  place.      The  ambassador, 
Lucius  the  Roman,  comes  to  Milford- Haven 
To-morrow  :   Now,  if  you  could  wear  a  mind 
Dark  as  your  fortune  is ;  and  but  disguise 
That,  which,  to  appear  itself,  must  not  yet  be, 
But  by  self-danger ;  you  should  tread  a  course 
Pretty,  and  full  of  view:  yea,  haply,  near 
The  residence  of  Posthumus  :  so  nigh,  at  least. 
That  though  his  actions  were  not  visible,  yet 
Report  should  render  him  hourly  to  your  ear, 
As  truly  as  he  moves. 

Imo.  O,  for  such  means ! 

Though  peril  to  my  modesty,  not  death  on't, 
I  would  adventure. 

Pis.  Well  then,  here's  the  point : 

You  must  forget  to  be  a  woman  ;  change 
Command  into  obedience  ;  fear,  and  niceness, 
(Tlie  handmaids  of  all  women,  or,  more  truly, 
Woman  its  pretty  self,)  to  a  waggish  courage  ; 
Ready  in  gibes,  quick- answered,  saucy,  and 
As  quarrellous  as  the  weasel :   nay,  you  must 
Forget  that  rarest  treasure  of  your  cheek. 
Exposing  it  (but,  O,  the  harder  heart ! 
Alack  no  remedy  !)  to  the  greedy  touch 
Of  common-kissing  Titan  6;  and  forget 
Your  troublesome  and  dainty  trims,  wherein 
You  make  great  Juno  angry. 

Imo.  Nay,  be  brief: 

I  see  into  thy  end,  and  am  almost 
A  man  already. 

Pis.  First,  make  yourself  but  like  one. 

Fore-thinking  this,  I  have  already  fit, 
('Tis  in  my  cloak-bag,)  doublet,  hat,  hose,  all 
That  answer  to  them :   Would  you,  in  their  serving, 
And  with  what  imitation  you  can  borrow 
From  youth  of  such  a  season,  'fore  noble  Lucius 
Present  yourself,  desire  his  service,  tell  him 
Wherein  you  are  happy,  (which  you'll  make  him 

know. 
If  that  his  head  have  ear  in  musick,)  doubtless. 
With  joy  he  will  embrace  you ;  for  he's  honourable. 
And,  doubling  that,  most  holy.    Your  means  abroad 
You  have  me',  rich ;  and  I  will  never  fail 
Beginning,  nor  supplyment. 

Imo.  Thou  art  all  the  comfort 

The  gods  will  diet  me  with.      Pr'ythee,  away  : 
There's  more  to  be  considered ;  but  we'll  even 
All  that  good  time  will  give  us:  This  attempt 
Pm  soldier  to,  and  will  abide  it  with 
A  prince's  courage.     Away,  I  pr'ythee. 

Pis.  Well,  madam,  we  must  take  a  short  farewell : 
Lest,  being  miss'd,  I  be  suspected  of 
Your  carriage  from  tlie  court.      My  noble  mistress. 
Here  is  a  box ;   I  had  it  from  the  queen  ; 
What's  in't  is  precious ;  if  you  are  sick  at  sea, 

«  The  sun. 

"  A*  for  your  (utwutcnce  abroad,  you  may  rely  on  mc. 


Or  stomach-qualm'd  at  land,  a  dram  of  this 
Will  drive  away  distemper.  —  To  some  shade. 
And  fit  you  to  your  manhood :  —  May  the  gotls 
Direct  you  to  tlie  best ! 

Imo.  Amen :   I  thank  thee. 

\_Excunt. 

SCENE  V A  Room  in  Cymbeline'5  Palace. 

Enlcr  CvMBELiNK,   QuEEK,   Cloten,  Lucius,  aiul 
Lords. 

Cym.   Thus  far ;  and  so  farewell. 

L%ic.  Thanks,  royal  sir. 

My  emperor  hath  wrote  ;   I  must  from  hence ; 
And  am  right  sorry,  that  I  must  report  ye 
My  master's  enemy. 

Cym.  Our  subjects,  sir. 

Will  not  endure  his  yoke  ;  and  for  ourself 
To  show  less  sovereignty  than  they,  must  needs 
Appear  unkingly. 

Luc.  So,  sir,  I  desire  of  you 

A  conduct  over  land,  to  Milford- Haven.  — 
Madam,  all  joy  befall  your  grace,  and  you  ! 

Cym.   My  lords,  you  are  appointed  for  that  office : 
The  due  of  honour  in  no  point  omit :  — 
So,  farewell,  noble  Lucius 

Luc.  Your  hand,  my  lord. 

Clo.    Receive  it  friendly  :  but  from  this  time  forth 
I  wear  it  as  your  enemy. 

Luc  Sir,  the  event 

Is  yet  to  name  the  winner;   Fare  you  well. 

Cym.  Leave  not  tlie  worthy  Lucius,  good  my  lords. 
Till  he  have  cross'd  the  Severn.  —  Happiness! 

\^Exeunt  Lucius  and  Lords. 

Queen.    He  goes  hence  froviming :  but  it  honours 
us, 
Tliat  we  have  ^ven  him  cause. 

Clo.  'Tis  all  the  better; 

Your  valiant  Britons  have  their  wishes  in  it. 

Cynu   Lucius  hath  wrote  already  to  the  emperor 
How  it  goes  here.      It  fits  us,  therefore,  ripely. 
Our  chariots  and  our  horsemen  be  in  readiness: 
Tlie  powers  that  he  already  hath  in  Gallia 
Will  soon  be  drawn  to  head,  from  whence  he  moves 
His  war  for  Britain. 

Queen.  'Tis  not  sleepy  business  ; 

But  must  be  look'd  to  speedily,  and  strongly. 

Cym.    Our  expectation  that  it  would  be  thus. 
Hath  made  us  forward.      But,  my  gentle  queen. 
Where  is  our  daughter  ?   She  hath  not  appear 'd 
Before  the  Roman,  nor  to  us  hath  tender'd 
The  duty  of  the  day  ;    She  looks  us  like 
A  thing  more  made  of  malice,  than  of  duty  : 
We  have  noted  it. — Call  her  before  us ;  for 
We  have  been  too  slight  in  sufferance. 

[Exii  an  Attendant. 

Queen.  Royal  sir. 

Since  the  exile  of  Posthumus,  most  retir'd 
Hath  her  life  been  ;  the  cure  whereof,  my  lord, 
'Tis  time  must  do.      'Beseech  your  majesty. 
Forbear  sharp  speeches  to  her :   she's  a  lady 
So  tender  of  rebukes,  tliat  words  are  strokes, 
And  strokes  death  to  her. 

Re-enter  an  Attendant. 

Cym.  Where  is  she,  sir  ?  How 

Can  her  contempt  be  answer'd  ? 

Atten.  Please  you,  sir. 

Her  chambers  are  all  lock'd  ;  and  there's  no  answer 
That  will  be  given  to  the  loud'st  of  noise  we  make. 


748 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  iJiL, 


Queens  My  lord,  when  last  I  went  to  visit  her, 
She  pray'd  me  to  excuse  her  keeping  close  ; 
Whereto  constrain'd  by  her  infirmity, 
She  should  that  duty  leave  unpaid  to  you, 
Which  daily  she  was  bound  to  proffer:   this 
She  wish'd  me  to  make  known  ;  but  our  great  court 
Made  me  to  blame  in  memory. 

Ci/m.  Her  doors  lock'd  ? 

Not  seen  of  late?  Grant,  heavens,  that,  which  I  fear, 
Prove  false !  [ExU^ 

Queen.         Son,  I  say,  follow  the  king. 

Clo.   That  man  of  hers,  Pisanio,  her  old  servant, 
I  have  not  seen  these  two  days. 

Queen.  look  after.  — 

[Exit  Cloten. 
Pisanio,  thou  that  stand'st  so  for  Posthumus  !  — 
He  hath  a  drug  of  mine :    I  pray,  his  absence 
Proceed  by  swallowing  that ;  for  he  believes 
It  is  a  thing  most  precious.      But  for  her. 
Where  is  she  gone  ?  Haply,  despair  hath  seiz'd  her ; 
Or,  wing'd  with  fervour  of  her  love,  she's  flown 
To  her  desir'd  Posthumus  :    Gone  she  is 
To  death,  or  to  dishonour ;  and  my  end 
Can  make  good  use  of  either :    She  being  down, 
I  have  the  placing  of  the  British  crown. 

Re-enter  Cloten. 
How  now,  my  son  ? 

Clo.  'Tis  certain  she  is  fled  : 

Go  in,  and  cheer  the  king ;  he  rages  ;  none 
Dare  come  about  him. 

Queen.  All  the  better :   May 

This  night  forestall  him  of  the  coming  day  ! 

[Eodt  Queen. 

Clo.  I  love,  and  hate  her :  for  she's  fair  and  royal ; 
And  that  she  hath  all  courtly  parts  more  exquisite 
Than  lady,  ladies,  woman  8  ;  from  every  one 
The  best  she  hath,  and  she,  of  all  compounded, 
Outsells  them  all :   I  love  her  therefore  ;   But, 
Disdaining  me,  and  throwing  favours  on 
The  low  Posthumus,  slanders  so  her  judgment. 
That  what's  else  rare,  is  chok'd ;  and,  in  that  point, 
I  will  conclude  to  hate  her,  nay,  indeed. 
To  be  reveng'd  upon  her       For,  when  fools 

Enter  Pisanio. 
Shall — Who  is  here  ?  What !  are  you  packing,  sirrah? 
Come  hither :    Ay,  you  precious  pandar !   Villain, 
Where  is  thy  lady !   In  a  word ;  or  else 
Thou  art  straightway  with  the  fiends. 

Pis.  O,  good  my  lord  ! 

Clo.     Where  is  thy  lady  ?  or,  by  Jupiter 
I  will  not  ask  again.      Close  villain, 
I'll  have  this  secret  from  thy  heart,  or  rip 
Thy  heart  to  find  it.      Is  she  with  Posthumus  ? 
From  whose  so  many  weights  of  baseness  cannot 
A  dram  of  worth  be  drawn. 

Pis.  Alas,  my  lord. 

How  can  she  be  with  him  ?  When  was  she  missed  ? 
He  is  in  Rome. 

Clo.  Where  is  she,  sir  ?  Come  nearer  ? 

No  further  halting  :   satisfy  me  home. 
What  is  become  of  her  ? 

Pis.   O,  my  all- worthy  lord ! 

Clo.  AH- worthy  villain  ! 

Discover  where  thy  mistress  is,  at  once, 
At  the  next  word,  —  No  more  of  worthy  lord,  — 
Speak,  or  thy  silence  on  the  instant  is 
Thy  condemnation  and  thy  death. 
I     8  Than  any  ladi/,  than  all  ladies,  than  all  womankind. 


Pis.  Then,  sir, 

This  paper  is  the  history  of  my  knowledge 
Touching  her  flight.  [Presenting  a  Letter. 

Clo.  Let's  see't :  —  I  will  pursue  her 

Even  to  Augustus'  throne. 

Pis.  Or  this,  or  perish.  "1 

She's  far  enough  ;  and  what  he  learns  by  this,  I  Aside. 
May  prove  his  travel,  not  her  danger.  J 

Clo.  Humph ' 

Pis.  I'll  write  to  my  lord  she's  dead.  O  Imogen, 
Safe  may'st  thou  wander,  safe  return  again  !    [Aside. 

Clo.    Sirrah,  is  this  letter  true  ? 

Pis.  Sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.  It  is  Posthumus'  hand  ;  I  know't. —  Sirrah, 
if  thou  wouldst  not  be  a  villain,  but  do  me  true 
service ;  undergo  those  employments,  wherein  I 
sliould  have  cause  to  use  thee,  with  a  serious  in- 
dustry,—  that  is,  what  villainy  soe'er  I  bid  thee  do, 
to  perform  it,  directly  and  truly,  —  I  would  think 
thee  an  honest  man :  thou  shouldest  neither  want 
my  means  for  thy  relief,  nor  my  voice  for  thy  pre- 
ferment. 

Pis.   Well,  my  good  lord. 

Clo.  Wilt  thou  serve  me  ?  For  since  patiently  and 
constantly  thou  hast  stuck  to  the  bare  fortune  of 
that  beggar  Posthumus,  thou  canst  not  in  the  course 
of  gratitude  but  be  a  diligent  follower  of  mine. 
Wilt  thou  serve  me  ? 

Pis.   Sir,  I  will. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand,  here's  my  purse.  Hast 
any  of  thy  late  master's  garments  in  thy  possession  ? 

Pis.  I  have,  my  lord,  at  rny  lodgings,  the  same 
suit  he  wore  when  he  took  leave  of  my  lady  and 


Clo.  The  first  service  thou  dost  me,  fetch  that 
suit  hither :   let  it  be  thy  first  service  :   go. 

Pis.   I  shall,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Meet  thee  at  Milford- Haven  :  — I  forgot  to 
ask  him  one  thing :  I'll  remember 't  anon  :  —  Even 
there,  thou  villain,  Posthumus,  will  I  kill  thee.  —  I 
would  these  garments  were  come.  She  said  upon 
a  time,  that  she  held  the  very  garment  of  Posthu- 
mus in  more  respect  than  my  noble  and  natural 
person,  together  with  the  adornment  of  my  qualities. 
With  that  suit  upon  my  back,  will  I  ravish  her: 
First  kill  him,  and  in  her  eyes ;  there  shall  she  see 
my  valour,  which  will  then  be  a  torment  to  her  con- 
tempt. She  hath  despised  me  rejoicingly,  and  I'll 
be  merry  in  my  revenge. 

Re-enter  Pisanio,  with  the  Clothes. 
Be  those  the  garments  ? 

Pis.    Ay,  my  noble  lord. 

Clo.  How  long  is't  since  she  went  to  Milford- 
Haven  ? 

Pis.   She  can  scarce  be  there  yet. 

Clo.  Bring  this  apparel  to  my  chamber ;  that  is 
the  second  thing  that  I  have  commanded  thee  :  the 
third  is,  that  thou  shalt  be  a  voluntary  mute  to  my 
design.  Be  but  duteous,  and  true  preferment  shall 
tender  itself  to  thee My  revenge  is  now  at  Mil- 
ford ;  'Would  I  had  wings  to  follow  it!  —  Come, 
and  be  true.  [Exit. 

Pis.   Thou  bids't  me  to  my  loss:   for  true  to  thee, 
Were  to  prove  false,  which  I  will  never  be. 
To  him  that  is  most  true  —  To  Milford  go. 
And  find  not  her  whom  thou  pursu'st.     Flow,  flow^ 
You  heavenly  blessings,  on  her !   This  fool's  speed 
Be  cross'd  with  slowness ;  labour  be  his  meed  ! 

[Exit. 


Scene  VI. 


CYMBELINE. 


7*9 


SCENE  VI.  —  Before  the  Cave  of  Belarius. 

Erder  Imogen,  in  Boy's  Clothes. 
Imo.   I  see  a  man's  life  is  a  tedious  one ; 
I  have  tired  myself;  and  for  two  nights  together 
Have  made  the  ground  my  bed.     I  should  be  sick, 
But  that  my  resolution  helps  me.  —  Milford, 
When  from  the  mountain-top  Pisanio  show'd  thee, 
Thou  wast  within  a  ken  :    O  Jove !   I  think. 
Foundations  fly  the  wretched  :   such,  I  mean. 
Where  they  should  be  reliev'd.  Two  beggars  told  me, 
I  could  not  miss  my  way  :    Will  poor  folks  lie. 
That  have  afllictions  on  them  ?  knowing  'tis 
A  punishment,  or  trial  ?   Yes  ;  no  wonder, 
When  rich  ones  scarce  tell  true:  To  lapse  in  fulness 
Is  sorer,  than  to  lie  for  need ;  and  falsehood 
Is  worse  in  kings  than  beggars.  —  My  dear  l«)rd  ! 
Thou  art  one  o'  the  false  ones  :  Now  I  think  on  thee. 
My  hunger's  gone  ;  but  even  before,  I  was 
At  point  to  sink  for  food. — But  what  is  this? 
Here  is  a  path  to  it :   'Tis  some  savage  hold : 
I  were  best  not  call :    I  dare  not  call :  yet  famine. 
Ere  clean  it  o'erthrow  nature,  makes  it  valiant. 
l*lenty,  and  peace,  breeds  cowards ;  hardness  ever 
Of  hardiness  is  motlier.  —  Ho  !   who's  here  ? 
If  any  thing  that's  civil,  speak  ;  if  savage. 

Take,  or  lend Ho  !  —  No  answer?  then  I'll  enter. 

Best  draw  my  sword  :   and  if  mine  enemy 

But  fear  the  sword  like  me,  he'll  scarcely  look  on't. 

Such  a  foe,  good  heavens  !    \^She  goes  into  the  Cave. 

Enter  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and  Arviragus. 

Bel.  You,  Polydore,  have  prov'd  best  woodman  9, 
and 
Are  master  of  the  feast :   Cadwal,  and  I, 
Will  play  the  cook  and  servant ;  'tis  our  match  • : 
The  sweat  of  industry  would  dry,  and  die, 
But  for  the  end  it  works  to.     Come  ;  our  stomachs 
Will  make  what's  homely,  savory  :   Weariness 
Can  snore  upon  the  flint,  when  restive  sloth 
Finds  the  down  pillow  hard  —  Now,  peace  be  here. 
Poor  house,  that  keep'st  thyself ! 

Gui.  I  am  thoroughly  weary. 

Arv.   I  am  weak  with  toil,  yet  strong  in  appetite. 

Gui.  There  is  cold  meat  i'  the  cave ;  we'll  browze 
on  that. 
Whilst  what  we  have  kill'd  be  cook'd. 

Bel.  Stay  ;  come  not  in  : 

[Ijooking  in. 
But  that  it  eats  our  victuals,  I  should  think 
Here  were  a  fairy. 

Gui.  What's  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Bel.    By  Jupiter,  an  angel !  or,  if  not, 
An  earthly  paragon  !  —  Behold  divineness 
No  elder  than  a  boy ! 

Enter  Imogen. 

Imo.    Good  masters,  harm  me  not : 
Before  I  enter'd  here,  I  call'd ;  and  thought 
To  have  begg'd,  or  bought,  what  I  have  took  :  Good 

troth, 
I  have  stolen  nought ;  nor  would  not,  though  I  had 

found 
Gold  strew  'd  o'  the  floor.  Here's  money  for  my  meat : 
I  would  have  left  it  on  the  board,  so  soon 
As  I  had  made  my  meal ;  and  parted 
With  prayers  for  Uie  provider. 

Gm-  Money,  youth? 

Arv.   All  gold  and  silver  rather  turn  to  dirt ! 

9  Best  hunter.  »  Agreement 


As  'tis  no  better  reckon 'd,  but  of  those 
Who  worship  dirty  gods. 

Imc  I  see  you  are  angry  : 

Know,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  I  should 
Have  died,  had  1  not  made  it. 

Bel.  Whither  bound? 

Imo.   To  Milford- Haven,  sir. 

Bel.  What  is  your  name  ? 

Imo,    Fidele,  sir :    I  have  a  kinsman,  who 
Is  bound  for  Italy  ;  he  embark'd  at  Milford: 
To  whom  being  going,  almost  spent  with  hunger, 
I  am  fallen  in  "^  tin's  offence. 

Bel.  Pr'ythee,  fair  youlh, 

Think  us  no  churls ;  nor  measure  our  good  minds 
By  this  rude  place  we  live  in.     Well  encounter'd ! 
'Tis  almost  niglit :   you  shall  have  better  cheer 
Ere  you  depart :  and  thanks,  to  stay  and  eat  it.  — 
Boys,  bid  him  welcome. 

Gui.  Were  you  a  woman,  youth, 

I  should  woo  hard,  but  be  your  groom. —  In  honesty, 
I  bid  for  you,  as  I'd  buy. 

Arv.  I'll  make't  my  con. fort. 

He  is  a  man  ;   I'll  love  him  as  my  brother  :  — 
And  such  a  welcome  as  I'd  give  to  him. 
After  long  absence,  such  is  yours :  —  Most  welcome ! 
Be  sprightly,  for  you  fall  'mongst  friends. 

Imo.  'Mongst  friends "" 

If  brothers? — 'Would  it  had  been  so,  that 

they 
Had  been  my  father's  sons  !  then  had  my  }-  Aside. 

prize 
Been  less  ;  and  so  more  equal  ballasting 
To  thee,  Posthumus. 

Bel.  He  wrings  at  some  distress. 

Gui.  'Would  I  could  free't ! 

Arv.  Or  I ;  whate'er  it  be, 

What  pain  it  cost,  what  danger !   Gods  ! 

BeU  Hark,  boys. 

[  fFhisjiermg. 

Imo.    Great  men. 
That  had  a  court  no  bigger  than  this  cave. 
That  did  attend  themselves,  and  had  the  virtue 
Which  their  own  conscience  seal'd  them,  (laying  by 
That  nothing  gift  of  differing  multitudes,) 
Could  not  out-peer  these  twain.    Pardon  me,  gods ! 
I'd  change  my  sex  to  be  companion  with  them. 
Since  Leonatus  false. 

Bel.  It  shall  be  so : 

Boys,  we'll  go  dress  our  hunt. — Fair  youth,  come  in : 
Discourse  is  heavy,  fasting  ;  when  we  have  supp'd. 
We'll  mannerly  demand  thee  of  thy  story. 
So  far  as  thou  wait  speak  it. 

Gui.  Pray*  draw  near. 

Arv.  The  night  to  the  owl,  and  morn  to  the  lark, 
less  welcome. 

Imo.   Thanks,  sir. 

Arv.  I  pray  draw  near.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.  —  Rome. 

Enter  two  Senators  and  Tribunes. 

1  Sen.   This  is  the  tenour  of  the  emperor's  writ : 
That  since  the  common  men  are  now  in  action 
'Gainst  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmatians  : 
And  that  tlie  legions  now  in  Gallia  are 
Full  weak  to  undertake  our  wars  against 
The  fallen-oflf  Britons  ;  that  we  do  incite 
The  gentry  to  this  businsss :    He  creates 
Lucius  pro*consul :  and  to  you  the  tribunes, 
'  In,  for  inta 


750 


CYMRELINE. 


Act  I 


For  this  immediate  levy,  he  commands 

His  absolute  commission.      Long  live  Caesar  ! 

Tri.    Is  Lucius  general  of  the  forces  ? 

2  Sen.  Ay. 

Tri'   Remaining  now  in  Gallia  ? 

1  Sen*  With  those  legions 


Which  I  have  spoke  of,  whcreunto  your  levy 
Must  be  supplyant :  The  words  of  your  commissi 
Will  tie  you  to  the  numbers  and  the  time 
Of  their  despatch. 

Tri.  We  will  discharge  our  duty. 

[Exeunt 


I 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  L  — Wales.  The  Forest,  near  the  Cave. 
Enter  Cloten. 
Clo.  I  am  near  to  the  place  where  they  should 
meet,  if  Pisanio  have  mapped  it  truly.  How  fit  his 
garments  serve  me  !  Why  should  his  mistress  not 
fit  too  ?  Therein  T  must  play  the  workman.  I  dare 
speak  it  to  myself,  (for  it  is  not  vain-glory,  for  a 
man  and  his  glass  to  confer, —  in  his  own  chamber, 
I  mean,)  the  lines  of  my  body  are  as  well  drawn  as 
his ;  no  less  young,  more  strong,  not  beneath  him 
in  fortunes,  beyond  him  in  the  advantage  of  the 
time,  above  him  in  birth,  alike  conversant  in  general 
services,  and  more  remarkable  in  single  opposi- 
tions s :  yet  this  imperseverant  thing  loves  him  in 
my  despite.  What  mortality  is !  Posthumus,  thy 
head,  which  now  is  growing  upon  thy  shoulders, 
shall  within  this  hour  be  off;  thy  mistress  enforced ; 
thy  garments  cut  to  pieces  before  thy  face :  and  all 
this  done,  spurn  her  home  to  her  father :  who  may, 
haply,  be  a  little  angry  for  my  so  rough  usage  ;  but 
my  mother,  having  power  of  his  testiness,  shall  turn 
all  into  my  commendations.  My  horse  is  tied  up 
safe  :  Out  sword,  and  to  a  sore  purpose  !  Fortune  ! 
put  them  into  my  hand  !  This  is  the  very  descrip- 
tion of  their  meeting-place  j  and  the  fellow  dares 
not  deceive  me.  {^Exit. 

SCENE  U.  —  Before  the  Cave. 

Filter,  from  the  Cave,  Belarius,  Guiderius, 
Arviragus,  and  Imogen. 

Bel.   You  are  not  well:   [To  Imogen.]  remain 
here  in  the  cave  ; 
We'll  come  to  you  after  hunting. 

^rv.  Brother,  stay  here  : 

[To  Imogen. 
Are  we  not  brothers  ? 

Into.  So  man  and  man  should  be  ; 

But  clay  and  clay  diflPers  in  dignity, 
Whose  dust  is  both  alike.  —  I  am  very  sick. 

Gui.    Go  you  to  hunting,  I'll  abide  with  him. 

Imo.   So  sick  I  am  not ;  yet  I  am  not  well : 
But  not  so  citizen  a  wanton,  as 
To  seem  to  die,  ere  sick  :    So  please  you  leave  me ; 
Stick  to  your  journal  ^  course :  the  breach  of  custom 
Is  breach  of  all.      I  am  ill ;  but  your  being  by  me 
Cannot  amend  me  :    Society  is  no  comfort 
To  one  not  sociable  :   I'm  not  very  sick, 
Since  I  can  reason  of  it.     Pray  you,  trust  me  here  : 
I'll  rob  none  but  myself;  and  let  me  die, 
Stealing  so  poorly. 

Gui.  I  love  thee  ;  I  have  spoke  it : 

How  much  the  quantity,  the  weight  as  much, 
As  I  do  love  my  fiather. 

Bel.  What?  how?  how? 

uirv.   If  it  be  sin  to  say  so,  sir,  I  yoke  me 
*  In  single  combat.  ^  Keep  your  daily  course. 


In  my  good  brother's  fault :   I  know  not  why 
I  love  this  youth  ;  and  I  have  heard  you  say, 
Love's  reason's  without  reason  ;  the  bier  at  door, 
And  a  demand,  who  is't  shall  die,  I'd  say, 
My  father,  not  this  youth. 

Bel.  O  noble  strain  !     [Jside. 

0  worthiness  of  nature  !  breed  of  greatness  ! 
Cowards  father  cowards,  and  base  things  sire  base  : 
Nature  hatli  meal,  and  bran ;  contempt,  and  grace. 

1  am  not  their  father ;  yet  who  this  should  be, 
Doth  miracle  itself,  lov'd  before  me.  — 

'Tis  the  ninth  hour  o'  the  morn. 

Arv.  Brother,  farewell. 

Imo.   I  wish  ye  sport. 

Arv.  You  health.  —  So  please  you,  sir. 

Imo.   [Aside.}   These  are  kind  creatures.      Gods, 
what  lies  I  have  heard  ! 
Our  courtiers  say,  all's  savage,  but  at  court : 
Experience,  O,  thou  disprov'st  report ! 
The  imperious  7  seas  breed  monsters ;  for  the  dish, 
Poor  tributary  rivers  as  sweet  fish. 
I  am  sick  still ;  heart-sick  :  —  Pisanio, 
I'll  now  taste  of  thy  drug. 

Gui.  1  could  not  stir  him : 

He  said,  he  was  gentle  ^,  but  unfortunate ; 
Dishonestly  afflicted,  but  yet  honest. 

Arv.   Thus  did  he  answer  me :   yet  said,  hereafter 
I  might  know  more. 

Bel.  To  the  field,  to  the  field  :  — 

We'll  leave  you  for  this  time :   go  in,  and  rest. 

Arv.   We'll  not  be  long  away. 

Bel.  Pray,  be  not  sick. 

For  you  must  be  our  housewife. 

Imo.  Well,  or  ill, 

I  am  bound  to  you. 

Bel.  And  so  shalt  be  ever. 

[Exit  Imogen. 
This  youth,  howe'er  distress'd,  appears,  he  hath  had 
Good  ancestors. 

Arv.  How  angel-like  he  sings  ! 

Gui.   But  his  neat  cookery  !    He  cuts  our  roots  in 
characters ; 
And  sauc'd  our  broths,  as  Juno  had  been  sick. 
And  he  her  dieter. 

Arv.  Nobly  he  yokes 

A  smiling  with  a  sigh  :   as  if  the  sigh 
Was  that  it  was,  for  not  being  such  a  smile ; 
The  smile  mocking  the  sigh,  that  it  would  fly 
From  so  divine  a  temple,  to  commix 
With  winds  that  sailors  rail  at. 

Gui.  I  do  note. 

That  grief  and  patience,  rooted  in  him  both. 
Mingle  their  spurs  9  together. 

yirv.  Grow,  patience ! 

And  let  the  fetid  elder,  grief,  untwine 
His  perishing  root,  with  the  increasing  vine  ! 

7  Imperial.  "  Well-born. 

9  Spurs  are  the  roots  of  trees. 


Scene  II. 


CYMBELINE. 


751 


Bel.   It  is  great  morning.   Come;  away. — Who's 
there  ? 

Enter  Cloten. 

Clo.    I  cannot  find  those  runagates  ;  that  villain 
Hath  mock'd  me :  —  I  am- faint. 

Bel.  Those  runagates  ! 

Means  he  not  us  ?  I  partly  know  him  ;  'tis 
Cloten,  the  son  o'  the  queen.     I  fear  some  ambush. 
I  saw  him  not  these  many  years,  and  yet 
I  know  'tis  he :  — We  are  held  as  outlaws :  —  Hence. 

Gui.   He  is  but  one :   you  and  my  brother  search 
What  companies  are  near:   pray  you,  away  ; 
Let  me  alone  with  him. 

\_Exeunt  Bklarius  and  Arviraous. 

Clo.  Soft !    What  are  you 

That  fly  me  thus?  some  villain  mountaineers? 
1  have  heard  of  such.  —  What  slave  art  thou  ? 

Gui.  A  thing 

More  slavish  did  I  ne'er,  than  answering 
A  slave,  without  a  knock. 

Clo.  Thou  art  a  robber, 

A  law-breaker,  a  villain  :    Yield  thee,  thief. 

Gui.  To  who  ?  to  thee  ?  What  art  thou  ?    Have 
not  I 
An  arm  as  big  as  thine  ?  a  heart  as  big  ? 
Thy  words,  I  grant  are  bigger ;  for  1  wear  not 
My  dagger  in  my  mouth.      Say,  what  thou  art? 
Why  I  should  yield  to  thee? 

Clo.  Thou  villain  base, 

Know'st  me  not  by  my  cldthes  ? 

Guu  No,  nor  thy  tailor,  rascal, 

Who  is  thy  grandfather  ;  he  made  those  clothes, 
Which,  as  it  seems,  make  thee. 

Clo.  Thou  precious  varlet. 

My  tailor  made  them  not. 

Gui.  Hence  then,  and  thank 

The  man  that  gave  them  thee.     Thou  art  some  fool  j 
I  am  loath  to  beat  thee. 

Clo.  Tliou  injurious  thief, 

Hear  but  my  name,  and  tiemble. 

Gui.  What's  thy  name  ? 

Clo.   Cloten,  thou  villain. 

Gui.   Cloten,  thou  double  villain,  be  thy  name, 
I  cannot  tremble  at  it ;  were't  toad,  or  adder,  spider, 
'Twould  move  me  sooner. 

Clo.  To  thy  further  fear. 

Nay,  to  thy  mere  confusion,  thou  shalt  know 
I'm  son  to  the  queen. 

Gui.  I'm  sorry  for't ;  not  seeming 

So  worthy  as  thy  birth. 

Clo.  Art  not  afeard  ? 

Gui.  Those  that  I  reverence,  those  I  fear;  the  wise : 
At  fools  I  laugh,  not  fear  tliem. 

Clo.  Die  the  death  : 

When  I  have  slain  thee  with  my  proper  hand, 
I'll  follow  those  that  even  now  fled  hence, 
And  on  the  gates  of  Lud's  town  set  your  heads  : 
Yield,  rustic  mountaineer.  \^Exeuntt  Jig/Uing. 

Enter  Belarius  and  Arviragus. 
Bel.   No  company's  abroad. 
jirv.   None  in  tlie  world  :    You  did  mistake  him, 

sure. 
Bel.   I  cannot  tell :    Long  is  it  since  I  saw  him, 
But  time  hath  notliing  blurr'd  those  lines  of  favour  ' 
Which  then  he  wore  ;  the  snatches  in  his  voice. 
And  burst  of  speaking,  were  as  his  :    I  am  absolute, 
'Twas  very  Cloten. 

'  Countenance 


Arv.  In  this  place  we  left  them  ; 

I  wish  my  brother  made  good  time  with  him. 
You  say  he  is  so  fell. 

Bel.  Being  scarce  made  up, 

I  mean,  to  man,  he  had  not  apprehension 
Of  roaring  terrors  ;  for  the  effect  of  judgment 
Is  oft  the  cause  of  fear  :   But  see,  thy  brother. 

Be-enter  Guiderius  with  Cloten'^  Head. 

Gui.   Tliis  Cloten  was  a  fool ;  an  empty  purse, 
There  was  no  money  in't :   not  Hercules 
Could  have  knock'd  out  his  brains,  for  he  had  none  : 
Yet  I  not  doing  this,  the  fool  had  borne 
My  head,  as  I  do  his. 

Bel.  What  hast  thou  done? 

Gui.  I  am  perfect,  what :  cut  off  one  Cloten's  head, 
Son  to  the  queen,  after  his  own  report ; 
Who  call'd  me  traitor,  mountaineer;  and  swore, 
With  his  own  single  hand  he'd  take  us  in  % 
Displace  our  heads,  where  (thank  tlie  gods !)  they 

grow. 
And  set  them  on  Lud's  town. 

Bel.  We  are  all  undone. 

Gui.   Why,  worthy  father,  what  have  we  to  lose. 
But,  that  he  swore  to  take,  our  lives  ?     The  law 
Protects  not  us :    Then  why  should  we  be  tender. 
To  let  an  arrogant  piece  of  flesh  threat  us  ; 
Play  judge,  and  executioner,  all  himself ; 
For  we  do  fear  the  law  ?    What  company 
Discover  you  abroad  ? 

Bel.  No  single  soul 

Can  we  set  eye  on,  but,  in  all  safe  reason. 
He  must  have  some  attendants.    Though  his  humour 
Was  nothing  but  mutation ;  ay,  and  that 
From  one  bad  thing  to  worse ;  not  frenzy,  not 
Absolute  madness  could  so  far  have  rav'd. 
To  bring  him  here  alone :    Although,  perhaps. 
It  may  be  heard  at  court,  that  such  as  we 
Cave  here,  hunt  here,  are  outlaws,  and  in  time 
May  make  some  stronger  head :  the  which  he  hearing, 
(As  it  is  like  him,)  might  break  out  and  swear 
He'd  fetch  us  in  ;  yet  is't  not  probable 
To  come  alone,  either  he  so  undertaking. 
Or  they  so  suffering  :   then  on  good  ground  we  fcai'. 
If  we  do  fear  this  body  hath  a  tail 
More  perilous  than  the  head. 

Arv.  Let  ordinance 

Come  as  the  gods  foresay  it :  howsoe'er. 
My  brother  hath  done  well. 

Bel.  I  had  no  mind 

To  hunt  this  day :  the  boy  Fidele's  sickness 
Did  make  my  way  long  forth. 

Gui.  With  his  own  sword. 

Which  he  did  wave  against  my  throat,  I  have  ta'en 
His  head  from  him  :    I'll  throw't  into  tlie  creek 
Behind  our  rock  ;  and  let  it  to  the  sea. 
And  tell  the  fishes,  he's  the  queen's  son,  Cloten  : 
That's  all  I  reck.  3  {ExU. 

Bel.  I  feai*  'twill  be  rcvcng'd  : 

'Would,  Polydore,  thou  hadst  not  done't !  tliough 

valour 
Becomes  thee  well  enough. 

Arv.  'Would  I  had  done't. 

So  the  revenge  alone  pursued  me !  —  Polydore, 
I  love  thee  brotherly ;  but  envy  much, 
Thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  this  deed:  I  would,  revenges. 
That  possible  strength  might  meet,  would  seek  us 

through. 
And  put  us  to  our  answer. 

*  Conquer,  subdue.  ^  Care. 


752 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  IV. 


Bel.  Well,  'tis  done  :  — 

We'll  hunt  no  more  to-day,  nor  seek  for  danger 
Where  there's  no  profit.     I  pr'ythee,  to  our  rock ; 
You  and  Fidele  play  the  cooks  :    I'll  stay 
Till  hasty  Polydore  return,  and  bring  him 
To  dinner  presently. 

Aro.  Poor  sick  Fidele  ! 

I'll  willingly  to  him  :    To  gain  his  colour, 
I'd  let  a  parish  of  such  Clotens'  blood, 
And  praise  myself  for  charity.  \^Exit. 

Bel.  O  thou  goddess, 

Thou  divine  Nature,  how  thyself  thou  blazon'st 
In  these  two  princely  boys  !   They  are  as  gentle 
As  ztjphyrs,  blowing  below  the  violet, 
Not  wagging  his  sweet  head  :   and  yet  as  rough. 
Their  royal  blood  enchaf 'd,  as  the  rud'st  wind, 
That  by  the  top  doth  take  the  mountain  pine, 
And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale.     'Tis  wonderful, 
That  an  invisible  instinct  should  frame  them 
To  royalty  unlearn'd ;  honour  untaught ; 
Civility  not  seen  from  other ;  valour, 
That  wildly  grows  in  them,  but  yields  a  crop 
As  if  it  had  been  sow'd  !   Yet  still  it's  strange 
What  Cloten's  being  here  to  us  portends  ; 
Or  what  his  death  will  bring  us. 

Re-enter  Guide rius. 

Gui.  Where's  my  brother  ? 

I  have  sent  Cloten's  clot-poll  down  the  stream. 
In  embassy  to  his  mother ;  his  body's  hostage 
For  his  return.  {Solemn  mudck. 

Bel.  My  ingenious  instrument ! 

Hark,  Polydore,  it  sounds!  But  what  occasion 
Hath  Cadwal  now  to  give  it  motion  !   Hark  ! 

Gui.   Is  he  at  home  ? 

Bel.  He  went  hence  even  now. 

Gui.  What  does  he  mean?  since  deathof  my  dear'st 
mother 
It  did  not  speak  before.     All  solemn  things 
Should  answer  solemn  accidents.      The  matter  ? 
Triumphs  for  nothing,  and  lamenting  toys  ■*, 
Is  jollity  for  apes,  and  grief  for  boys. 
Is  Cadwal  mad  ? 

Re-enter  Arviragus,   bearing  Imogen  as  dead,  in 
his  arms. 

Bel.  Look,  here  he  comes, 

And  brings  the  dire  ocoasion  in  his  arms, 
Of  what  we  blame  him  for ! 

Arv.  The  bird  is  dead. 

That  we  have  made  so  much  on.  I  had  rather 
Have  skipp'd  from  sixteen  years  of  age  to  sixty. 
Than  have  seen  this. 

Gui.  O  sweetest,  fairest  lily ; 

My  brother  wears  not  thee  one-half  so  well. 
As  when  thou  grew'st  thyself. 

Bel.  O,  melancholy ! 

Who  ever  yet  could  sound  thy  bottom  ?  find 
The  ooze,  to  show  what  coast  thy  sluggish  crare  ^ 
Might  easiliest  harbour  in  ? —  Thou  blessed  thing  ! 
Jove  knows  what  man  thou  mightst  have  made; 

but  I, 
Thou  diedst,  a  most  rare  boy,  of  melancholy !  — 
How  found  you  him  ? 

Arv.  Stark  6,  as  you  see  : 

Thus  smiling,  as  some  fly  had  tickled  slumber. 
Not  as  death's  dart,  being  laugh'd  at :  his  right  cheek 
Reposing  on  a  cushion. 
<  Trifles.       *  A  slow-sailing,  unwieldy  vessel.        «  Stiff. 


Gui.  Where  ? 

Arv.  O'  the  floor ; 

His  arms  thus  leagu'd  :  I  thought,  he  slept ;  and  put 
My  cloufed  brogues  7  from  off  my  feet,  whose  rude- 
ness 
Answer'd  my  steps  too  loud. 

Gui.  Why,  he  but  sleeps : 

If  he  be  gone,  he'll  make  his  grave  a  bed ; 
With  female  fairies  will  his  tomb  be  haunted. 
And  worms  will  not  come  to  thee. 

Arv.  With  fairest  flowers, 

Wliilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave  :    Thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower,  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose ;  nor 
The  azur'd  hare-bell,  like  thy  veins  ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 
Out-sweeten'd  not  thy  breath  :  the  rudduck  8  would. 
With  charitable  bill  (O  bill,  sore-shaming 
Those  rich-left  heirs,  that  let  their  fathers  lie 
Without  a  monument !)  bring  thee  all  this  ; 
Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are  none, 
To  winter-ground  9  thy  corse. 

Gui.  Pr'ythee,  have  done 

And  do  not  play  in  wench-like  words  with  that 
Which  is  so  serious.      Let  us  bury  him, 
And  not  protract  with  admiration  what 
Is  now  due  debt.  —  To  the  grave. 

Arv.  Say,  where  shall's  lay  him  ? 

Gui.   By  good  Euriphile,  our  mother, 

Arv.  Be't  so  : 

And  let  us,  Polydore,  though  now  our  voices 
Have  got  the  mannish  crack,  sing  him  to  the  ground, 
As  once  our  mother ;  use  like  note,  and  words, 
Save  that  Euriphile  must  be  Fidele. 

Gui.   Cadwal, 
I  cannot  sing :    I'll  weep,  and  word  it  with  thee. 

Arv.  We'll  speak  it  then. 

Bel.    Great  griefs,  I  see,  medicine  the  less :  for 
Cloten 
Is  quite  forgot.      He  was  a  queen's  son,  boys : 
And,  though  he  came  our  enemy,  remember. 
He  was  paid  for  that :    Though  mean  and  mighty 

rotting 
Together,  have  one  dust ;  yet  reverence, 
(That  angel  of  the  world,)  doth  make  distinction 
Of  place  'tween  high  and  low.  Our  foe  was  princely 
And  though  you  took  his  life,  as  being  our  foe, 
Yet  bury  him  as  a  prince. 

Gui.  'Pray  you,  fetch  him  hidier. 

Thersites'  body  is  as  good  as  Ajax, 
When  neither  are  alive. 

Arv.  If  you'll  go  fetch  him. 

We'll  say  our  song  the  whilst.  —  Brother,  begin. 

[Exit  Bel  A  RIUS. 

Gui.   Nay,  Cadwal,  we  must  lay  his  head  to  the 
east ; 
My  father  hath  a  reason  for't. 

Arv.  'Tis  true, 

Gui.   Come  on  then,  and  remove  him. 

Arv.  So,  —  begin. 

SONG. 

Gui.   Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  taen  thy  wages  : 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

7  Shoes  plated  with  iron.  ^  The  red-breast. 

9  Probably  a  corrupt  reading,  for,  wither  round  thy  corse. 


Scene  II. 


CYMBELINE. 


753 


Airv.   Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 
The  sce])ter,  learning,  physick,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Gui.   Fear  no  more  the  lightning  flash, 
Arv.        Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 
Gui.   Fear  not  slander,  censure  '  rash  j 
Arv.        Thou  hast  finish"  d  joy  and  moan  : 
Both.  All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  ■*  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

Gui.   No  exorciser  harm  thee  ! 
Arv.   Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee  I 
Gui.    Ghost  unlaid  forbear  tliee  ! 
Arv.   Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
Both.  Quiet  consummation  have ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave  ! 

Re-enter  Belarius,  vdth  the  Body  of  Cloten. 

Gui.   We  have  done  our  obsequies :    Come,  lay 

him  clown. 
Bel.   Here's  a  few  flowers,  but  about  midnight, 

more: 
The  herbs,  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the  night, 
Are   strewings    filt'st   for    graves.  —  Upon    their 

faces:  — 
You  were  as  flowers,  now  witlier'd :  even  so 
These  herb'lets  sliall,  which  we  upon  you  strow.  — 
Come  on,  away  :   apart,  upon  our  knees. 
The  ground,  that  gave  them  first,  has  them  again ; 
Their  pleasures  here  are  past,  so  is  their  pain, 

\_Exeunt  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and 
Arviragus. 
I  mo.    [^Awaking.'\    Yes,  sir,  to  Milford- Haven  ; 

wliich  is  the  way  ?  — 
I  thank  you.  —  By  yon   bush  ?  —  Pray,  how  far 

thither  ? 
Is't  possible  it  can  be  six  miles  yet? 
I  have  gone  all  night :  —  I  will  lie  down  and  sleep. 
But,  soft,  no  bedfellow :  —  O,  gods  and  goddesses ! 

[Seeing  the  Body. 
These  flowers  are  like  the  pleasures  of  the  world ; 
This  bloody  man,  the  care  on't.  —  I  hope,  I  dream ; 
For,  so,  I  thought  I  was  a  cave-keeper. 
And  cook  to  honest-creatures  ;   But  'tis  not  so ; 
Twas  but  a  bolt  3  of  nothing,  shot  at  nothing. 
Which  the  brain  makes  of  fumes  :    Our  very  eyes 
Are  sometimes  like  our  judgments,  blind.      Good 

faith, 
I  tremble  still  with  fear  :   But  if  there  be 
Yet  left  in  heaven  as  small  a  drop  of  pity 
As  a  wren's  eye,  fear'd  gods,  a  part  of  it ! 
The  dream's  here  still :   even  when  I  wake,  it  is 
Without  me,  as  within  me  :   not  imagin'd,  felt. 
A  headless  man  !  —  The  garments  of  Posthtimus  ! 
I  know  the  shape  of  his  leg  :   this  is  his  hand  ; 
His  foot  Mercurial ;  his  martial  thigh  : 
The  brawns  of  Hercules  :   but  his  jovial  *  face  — 
Murder  in  heaven  ?  —  How  ?  —  'Tis  gone.  —  Pi- 

sanio, 
All  curses  madded  Hecuba  gave  the  Greeks, 
And  mine  to  boot,  be  darted  on  thee  !   Thou, 
Conspir'd  with  that  irregulous  *  devil,  Cloten, 
Hast  here  cut  off  my  lord.  —  To  write,  and  read. 
Be  henceforth  treacherous.      O  Pisanio, 
Pisanio,  with  his  forged  letters,  hath 

'  Judgment       '  Seal  the  fame  contract.       »  An  arrow. 
*  A  face  like  Jove'a.  *  Lawlea,  licentioua. 


From  this  most  bravest  vessel  of  the  world 
Struck  the  main-top  !  —  O,  Posthumus  !  alas. 
Where  is  thy  head?  where'sthat?   Ah  me  !   where's 

that? 
Pisanio  might  have  kill'd  thee  at  the  heart, 
And  left  this  head  on.  —  How  should  this  be  ?  Pi- 
sanio? 
'Tis  he,  and  Cloten  :   malice  and  lucre  in  them 
Have  laid  this  woe  here.      O,  'tis  pregnant,  preg- 
nant !  6 
The  drug  he  gave  me,  which,  he  said,  was  precious 
And  cordial  to  me,  have  I  not  found  it 
Murd'rous  to  the  senses  ?  That  confirms  it  home  : 
This  is  Pisanio's  deed,  and  Cloten's :    O  !  — 
Give  colour  to  my  pale  cheek  with  thy  blood. 
That  we  the  horrider  may  seem  to  those 
Which  chance  to  find  us  :    O,  my  lord,  my  lord ! 

Enter  Lucius,  a  Captain,  and  other  Officers,  and  a 
Soothsayer. 

Cap.   To  them  the  legions  garrison'd  in  Gallia, 
After  your  will,  have  cross'd  the  sea  :  attending 
You  here  at  Milford- Haven,  with  your  ships : 
They  are  here  in  readiness. 

Luc.  But  what  from  Rome  ? 

Cap.    The  senate  hath  stirr'd  up  the  confiners. 
And  gentlemen  of  Italy  ;  most  willing  spirits 
That  promise  noble  service :  and  they  come 
Under  the  conduct  of  bold  lachimo, 
Sienna's  brother. 

Luc.  When  expect  you  them  ? 

Cap.   With  the  next  benefit  o'  the  wind. 

Luc.  This  forwardness 

Makes   our   hopes   fair.      Command,   our  present 

numbers 
Be  muster'd ;  bid  tlie  captains  look  to't.  —  Now,  sir, 
What  have  you  dream'd,  of  late,  of  this  war's  pur- 
pose? 

Sooth.  Last  night  the  very  gods  show'd  me  a  vision : 

(I  fast,  and  pray'd,  for  their  intelligence,)  Thus: 

I  saw  Jove's  bird,  the  Roman  eagle,  wing'd 
From  the  spongy  south  to  this  part  of  the  west, 
There  vanish'd  in  the  sunbeams  :   which  portends, 
(Unless  my  sins  abuse  my  divination,) 
Success  to  the  Roman  host. 

Luc.  Dream  often  so, 

And  never  false.  —  Soft,  ho  !  what  trunk  is  here. 
Without  his  top  ?  The  ruin  speaks,  that  sometime 
It  was  a  worthy  building.  —  How  !  a  page  ! — 
Or  dead,  or  sleeping  on  him  ?  But  dead,  rather : 
For  nature  doth  abhor  to  make  his  bed 
With  the  defunct,  or  sleep  upon  the  dead.  — 
Let's  see  the  boy's  face. 

Cap.  He  is  alive,  my  lord. 

Luc.   He'll   then   instruct   us  of  this   body.  — 
Young  one. 
Inform  us  of  thy  fortunes  ;  for,  it  seems, 
They  crave  to  be  demanded  :    Who  is  tliis, 
Thou  mak'st  thy  bloody  pillow  ?  Or  who  was  he. 
That,  otherwise  than  noble  nature  did, 
Hath  alter'd  that  good  picture?  What's  thy  interest 
In  this  sad  wreck?  How  came  it?  Who  is  it^ 
What  art  thou  ? 

Imo.  I  am  nothing :  or,  if  not. 

Nothing  to  be  were  better.      Tliis  was  my  master, 
A  very  valiant  Briton,  and  a  good. 
That  here  by  mountaineers  lies  slain  :  —  Alas ! 
There  are  no  more  such  masters  :    I  may  wander 
From  east  to  Occident,  cry  out  for  service, 
«  I.  e.  Til  a  ready,  apposite  eoDclasion. 
3  C 


754. 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  IV. 


Try  many,  all  good,  serve  truly,  never 
Find  such  another  master. 

Luc.  'Lack,  good  youth ! 

Thou  mov'st  no  less  with  thy  complaining,  than 
Thy  master  in  bleeding  :   Say,  thy  name. 

Imo.  Fidele. 

Luc.   Thou  dost  approve  thyself  the  very  same  : 
Thy  name  well  fits  thy  faith  ;  tliy  faith,  thy  name. 
Wilt  take  thy  chance  with  me  ?   I  will  not  say, 
Thou  shalt  be  so  well  master'd ;  but,  be  sure, 
No  less  belov'd.      The  Roman  emperor's  letters, 
Sent  by  a  consul  to  me,  should  not  sooner 
Than  thine  own  worth,  prefer  thee :    Go  with  me. 

Imo.   I'll  follow,  sir.      But  first,  an't  please  the 
gods, 
I'll  hide  my  master  from  the  flies,  as  deep 
As  these  poor  pickaxes  7  can  dig  :   and  when 
With  wild  wood-leaves  and  weeds  I  have  strew'd 

his  grave. 
And  on  it  said  a  century  of  prayers, 
Such  as  I  can,  twice  o'er,  I'll  weep,  and  sigh  ; 
And,  leaving  so  his  service,  follow  you, 
So  please  you  entertain  me. 

Luc.  Ay,  good  youth  ; 

And  rather  father  thee,  than  master  thee.  — 
My  friends, 

The  boy  hath  taught  us  manly  duties  :    Let  us 
Find  out  the  prettiest  daisied  plot  we  can, 
And  make  him  with  our  pikes  and  partizans 
A  grave :    Come,  arm  him.  —  Boy,  he  is  preferr'd 
By  thee  to  us ;  and  he  shall  be  interr'd, 
As  soldiers  can.      Be  cheerful ;  wipe  thine  eyes  : 
Some  falls  are  means  the  happier  to  arise.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  Cymbeline's  Palace. 
Enter  Cymbfxine,  Lords,  and  Pisanio. 

Ci/ni.   Again;  and  bring  me  word  how  'tis  with 
her. 
A  fever  with  the  absence  of  her  son  ; 
A   madness,    of  which   her   life  's  in  danger  :  — 

Heavens, 
How  deeply  you  at  once  do  touch  me !   Imogen, 
The  great  part  of  my  comfort,  gone  :   my  queen 
Upon  a  desperate  bed ;  and  in  a  time 
When  fearful  wars  point  at  me ;  her  son  gone. 
So  needful  for  this  present :    It  strikes  me,  past 
The  hope  of  comfort.  —  But  for  thee,  fellow, 
Who  needs  must  know  of  her  departure,  and 
Dost  seem  so  ignorant,  we'll  enforce  it  from  thee 
By  a  sharp  torture. 

Pis.  Sir,  my  life  is  yours : 

I  humbly  set  it  at  your  will :    But,  for  my  mistress, 
I  nothing  know  where  she  remains,  why  gone. 
Nor   when   she   purposes   return.     'Beseech   your 

highness. 
Hold  me  your  loyal  servant. 

1  Lord.  Good  my  liege. 

The  day  tliat  she  was  missing,  he  was  here : 
I  dare  be  bound  he's  true,  and  shall  perform 
All  parts  of  his  subjection  loyally. 
For  Cloten, — 

There  wants  no  diligence  in  seeking  him. 
And  will,  no  doubt,  be  found. 

Ci/m.  The  time 's  troublesome  : 

We'll  slip  you  for  a  season  :  but  our  jealousy 

[To    PiSANIO. 

Does  yet  depend. 

1  Lord.  So  please  your  majesty, 

7  Her  fingers. 


The  Roman  legions,  all  from  Gallia  drawn. 
Are  landed  on  your  coast ;  with  a  supply 
Of  Roman  gentlemoi,  by  the  senate  sent. 

Ci/m.  Now  for  the  counsel  of  my  son  and  queen!  — 
I  am  amaz'd  with  matter.  ^ 

1  Lord.  Good  my  liege, 

Your  preparation  can  affront  9  no  less 
Than  what  you  hear  of:  come  more,  for  more  you're 

ready : 
The  want  is,  but  to  put  those  powers  in  motion,        \ 
That  long  to  move. 

Ci/m.  I  thank  you :    Let's  withdraw  : 

And  meet  the  time,  as  it  seeks  us.     We  fear  not 
What  can  from  Italy  annoy  us  ;  but 
We  grieve  at  chances  here.  —  Away.  [Exeunt. 

Pis.   I  heard  no  letter  from  my  master,  since 
I  wrote  him,  Imogen  was  slain :   'Tis  strange: 
Nor  hear  I  from  my  mistress,  who  did  promise 
To  yield  me  often  tidings ;  Neither  know  I 
What  is  betid  to  Cloten  ;  but  remain 
Perplex'd  in  all.      The  heavens  still  must  work  : 
Wherein  I  am  false,  I  am  honest;  not  true,  to  be  true. 
These  present  wars  shall  find  I  love  my  country, 
Even  to  the  note  '  o'the  king,  or  I'll  fall  in  them. 
All  other  doubts,  by  time  let  them  be  clear'd  : 
Fortune  brings  in  some  boats,  that  are  not  steer' d. 

[Exit. 
SCENE  IV Before  the  Cave. 

Enter  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and  Arviragus 

Gui.   The  noise  is  round  about  us. 

Bel.  Let  us  from  it. 

Arv.   What  pleasure,  sir,  find  we  in  life,  to  lock  it 
From  action  and  adventure  ? 

Gui.  Nay,  what  hope 

Have  we  in  hiding  us  ?  this  way,  the  Romans 
Must  or  for  Britons  slay  us ;  or  receive  us 
For  barbarous  and  unnatural  revolts  2 
During  their  use,  and  slay  us  after. 

Bel.  Sons, 

We'll  higher  to  the  mountains ;  there  secure  us. 
To  the  king's  party  there's  no  going  :   newness 
Of  Cloten's  death  (we  being  not  known,  not  muster'd 
Among  the  bands)  may  drive  us  to  a  render  3 
Where  we  have  liv'd  ;  and  so  extort  from  us 
That  which  we've  done,  whose  answer  would  be 

death 
Drawn  on  with  torture. 

Gui.  This  is,  sir,  a  doubt. 

In  such  a  time,  nothing  becoming  you, 
Nor  satisfying  us. 

Arv.  It  is  not  likely. 

That  when  they  hear  the  Roman  horses  neigh, 
Behold  their  quarter'd  fires,  have  both  their  eyes 
And  ears  so  cloy'd  importantly  as  now, 
That  they  will  waste  their  time  upon  our  note  '♦, 
To  know  from  whence  we  are. 

Bel.  O,  I  am  known 

Of  many  in  the  army  :  many  years, 
Though  Cloten  then  but  young,  you  see,  not  wore 

him 
From  my  remembrance.      And,  besides,  the  king 
Hath  not  deserv'd  my  service,  nor  your  loves ; 
Who  find  in  my  exile  the  want  of  breeding. 
The  certainty  of  this  hard  life ;  aye  hopeless 
To  have  the  courtesy  your  cradle  promis'd, 
But  to  be  still  hot  summer's  tanlings,  and 
The  shrinking  slaves  of  winter. 


s  Confounded  by  a  variety  of  business. 
1  Notice.      2  Kevolters.      ^  An  account. 


Encounter. 
Noticing  ug. 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


CYMBELINE. 


755 


Qui.  Than  be  so. 

Better  to  cease  to  be.      Pray,  sir,  to  the  army  : 
I  and  my  brother  are  not  known ;  yourself, 
So  out  of  thought,  and  thereto  so  o'ergrown, 
Cannot  be  question'd. 

Arv.  By  this  sun  that  shines, 

I'll  thither  :   What  thing  is  it,  that  I  never 
Did  see  man  die?  scarce  ever  look'd  on  blood, 
But  that  of  covirard  hares,  hot  goats,  and  venison  ? 
Neyer  bestrid  a  horse,  save  one,  that  had 
A  rider  like  myself,  who  ne'er  wore  rowel 
Nor  iron  on  his  heel  ?   I  am  ashara'd 
To  look  upon  the  holy  sun,  to  have 
The  benefit  of  his  bless'd  beams,  remaining 
So  long  a  poor  unknown. 


GuL  By  heavens,  I'll  go  : 

If  you  will  bless  me,  sir,  and  give  me  leave, 
I'll  take  the  better  care  ;  but  if  you  will  not. 
The  hazard  therefore  due  fall  on  me,  by 
The  hands  of  Romans  ! 

ulrv.  So  say  I ;  Amen. 

Bel.   No  reason  I,  since  on  your  lives  you  set 
So  slight  a  valuation,  should  reserve 
My  crack'd  one  to  more  care.    Have  with  you,  boys  : 
If  in  your  country  wars  you  chance  to  die. 
That  is  my  bed  too,  lads,  and  there  I'll  lie : 
Lead,   lead.  —  The  time  seems  long ;  their  blood 
thinks  scorn,  {^Aside. 

Till  it  fly  out,  and  show  them  princes  bom. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  — A  Field  between  the  British  and  Ro- 
man Camps. 

Enter  Posthumus,  ivith  a  bloody  Handkerchief. 

Post.   Yea,  bloody  cloth,  1*11  keep  thee;  for  I 
wish'd 
Thou  shouldst  be  colour'd  thus.     You  married  ones. 
If  each  of  you  would  take  this  course,  how  many 
Must  murder  wives  much  better  than  themselves. 
For  wrying  *  but  a  little  —  O,  Pisanio  ! 
Every  good  servant  does  not  all  commands  : 
No  bond,  but  to  do  just  ones.  —  Gods  !  if  you 
Should  have  ta'en  vengeance  on  my  faults,  I  never 
Had  liv'd  to  put  on  ^  this :   so  had  you  saved 
The  noble  Imogen  to  repent ;  and  struck 
Me,  wretch,  more  worth   your  vengeance.      But, 

alack. 
You  snatch  some  hence  for  little  faults  ;  that's  love. 
To  have  them  fall  no  more :   you  some  pennit 
To  second  ills  with  ills,  each  elder  worse ; 
And  make  them  dread  it  to  the  doer's  thrift. 
But  Imogen  is  your  own  ;    Do  your  best  wills. 
And  make  me  bless'd  to  obey !  —  I  am   brought 

hither 
Among  the  Italian  gentry,  and  to  fight 
Against  my  lady's  kingdom  :    'Tis  enough 
That,  Britain,  I  have  kill'd  thy  mistress ;  peace ! 
I'll  give  no  wound  to  thee.   Therefore,  good  heavens. 
Hear  patiently  my  purpose :    I'll  disrobe  me 
Of  these  Italian  weeds,  and  suit  myself 
As  does  a  Briton  peasant :   so  I'll  fight 
Against  the  part  I  come  with ;  so  I'll  die 
For  diee,  O  Imogen,  even  for  whom  my  life 
Is,  every  breath,  a  death :  and  thus,  unknown. 
Pitied  nor  hated,  to  the  face  of  peril 
Myself  I'll  dedicate.      Let  me  make  men  know 
More  valour  in  me,  than  my  habits  show. 
Gods  put  the  strength  o'  the  Leonati  in  me  ! 
To  sliame  the  guise  o'  the  world,  I  will  begin 
The  fashion,  less  without,  and  more  within  !    [Exit. 

SCENE  IL     The  same. 

Enter,  at  one  side,  Lucius,  Iachimo,  and  the  Roman 
Army;  at  the  other  side,  the  British  Army; 
I  ^  EON  AT  us  Posth:imus  following  it,  like  a  paor 
Soldier.  They  march  over,  and  go  out.  Alarums. 
Then  enter  again  in  skirmish,  Iachimo  atid  Posx- 

*  Deviating  from  the  right  way. 
>  Incite,  instigate. 


HUMUS ;  he  vanquisheth  and  disarmeth  Iachimo, 
and  then  leaves  him. 

lach.   The  heaviness  and  guilt  within  my  bosom 
Takes  off  my  manhood  :    I  have  belied  a  lady. 
The  princess  of  this  country,  and  the  air  on't 
llevengingly  enfeebles  me  ;   Or  could  this  carl  7, 
A  very  drudge  of  nature's,  have  subdu'd  me, 
In  my  profession?  Knighthoods  and  honours,  borne 
As  I  wear  mine,  are  titles  but  of  scorn. 
If  that  thy  gentry,  Britain,  go  before 
This  lout,  as  he  exceeds  our  lords,  the  odds 
Is,  that  we  scarce  are  men,  and  you  are  gods.  [Exit. 

The  Battle  continues,  the  Britons  fly ,-   Cymbeline 

IS    taken :    then   enter    to  his   rescue,   Belarius, 

GuiDERius,  and  Abviragus. 

Bel.   Stand,   stand  !    "We  have  the  advantage  of 
the  ground; 
The  lane  is  guarded  :   nothing  routs  us,  but 
The  villainy  of  our  fears. 

Gui.  Arv.  Stand,  stand,  and  fight ! 

Enter  Posthumus,  and  seconds  the  Britons.  They 
rescue  Cymbeline,  and  exeunt.  Tlien,  enter 
Lucius,  Iachimo,  and  Imogen. 

Luc.  Away,  boy,  from  the  troops,  and  save  thyself: 
For  friends  kill  friends,  and  the  disorder's  such 
As  war  were  hood-wink'd. 

lach.  'Tis  their  fresh  supplies. 

Luc.   It  is  a  day  tum'd  strangely  :   or  betimes 
Let's  reinforce,  or  fly.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IIL  —  Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Enter  Posthumus  and  a  British  Lord- 

Lord.   Cam'st  thou   from  where  they  made  the 
stand  ? 

Post.  I  did : 

Though  you,  it  seems,  come  from  the  fliers. 

Lord.  I  did. 

Post.    No  blame  be  to  you,  sir  ;  for  all  was  lost. 
But  that  the  heavens  fought :   The  king  himself 
Of  his  wings  destitute,  the  army  broken. 
And  but  the  backs  of  Britons  seen,  all  flying 
Through  a  strait  lane  ;  the  enemy  full-hearted. 
Lolling  the  tongue  witli  slaughtering,  having  work 
More  plentiful  than  tools  to  do't,  struck  down 
Some  mortally,  some  slightly  touch'd,  some  falling 
7  aown. 
3  C  2 


756 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  V. 


Merely    through    fear;    tliat  the   strait   path    was 

damm'd  8 
With  dead  men,  hurt  behind,  and  cowards  living 
To  die  with  lengthen'd  shame. 

Lord.  Where  was  this  lane  ? 

Post.   Close  by  the  battle,  ditch'd,   and   wall'd 
with  turf; 
Which  gave  advantage  to  an  ancient  soldier,  — 
An  honest  one,  I  warrant ;  who  deserv'd 
So  long  a  breeding,  as  his  white  beard  came  to, 
In  doing  this  for  his  country  ;  —  athwart  the  lane. 
He,  with  two  striplings,  (lads  more  like  to  run 
The  country  base  9,  than  to  commit  such  slaughter; 
Witli  faces  fit  for  masks,  or  rather  fairer 
Than  those  for  preservation  cas'd,  or  shame,) 
Made  good  the  passage  ;  cry'd  to  those  that  fled, 
Our  Britain's  harts  diejlying,  not  our  men : 
To  darkness Jleet,  souls  that  jiy  backwards  !  Stand  ; 
Or  we  are  Romans,  and  will  give  you  that 
Like  beasts,  which  you  shun  beastly  ;  and  may  save. 
But  to  look  back  in  frown  :  stand,  stand.  —  These 

three. 
Three  thousand  confident,  in  act  as  many, 
(For  three  performers  are  the  file,  when  all 
The  rest  do  nothing,)  with  this  word,  Stand,  stand, 
Accommodated  by  the  place,  more  charming. 
With  their  own  nobleness,  (which  could  have  turn'd 
A  distaff  to  a  lance,)  gilded  pale  looks, 
Part,  shame,  part,  spirit  renew'd  ;  that  some,  turn'd 

coward 
But  by  example  (O,  a  sin  in  war. 
Foulest  in  the  beginners  !)  'gan  to  look 
The  way  that  they  did,  and  to  grin  like  lions 
Upon  the  pikes  o'  the  hunters.      Then  began 
A  stop  i'  the  chaser,  a  retire ;  anon, 
A  rout,  confusion  thick  :    Forthwith  they  fly 
Chickens,  the  way  which  they  stoop'd  eagles ;  slaves. 
The  strides  they  victors  made :  and  now  our  cowards 
(Like  fragments  in  hard  voyages,)  became 
The  life  o'  the  need ;  having  found  the  back-door  open 
Of  the  unguarded  hearts,  heavens,  how  they  wound  ! 
Some,  slain  before;  some,  dying  ;  some,  their  friends 
O'erborne  i'the  former  wave  :   ten,  chas'd  by  one. 
Are  now  each  one,  the  slaughter-man  of  twenty  : 
Those,  that  would  die  or  ere  resist,  are  grown 
The  mortal  bugs  '  o'  the  field. 

Lord.  This  was  strange  chance  : 

A  narrow  lane  !  an  old  man,  and  two  boys  ! 

Post.   Nay,  do  not  wonder  at  it :    You  are  made 
Rather  to  wonder  at  the  things  you  hear, 
Than  to  work  any.      Will  you  rhyme  upon't. 
And  vent  it  for  a  mockery  ?  Here  is  one  : 
Two  boys,  an  old  man  twice  a  boy,  a  lane. 
Preserved  the  Britons,  was  the  Romans'  bane. 

Lord.   Nay,  be  not  angry,  sir. 

Post.  'Lack,  to  what  end  ? 

Who  dares  not  stand  his  foe,  I'll  be  his  friend  : 
For  if  he'll  do,  as  he  is  made  to  do, 
I  know,  he'll  quickly  fly  my  friendship  too. 
You  have  put  me  into  rhyme. 

Lord.  Farewell,  you  are  angry. 

[Exit. 

Post.    Still  going  ?  —  This  is  a  lord !    O  noble 
misery ! 
To  be  i'  the  field,  and  ask,  what  news  of  me  ! 
To-day,  how  many  would  have  given  their  honours 
To  have  sav'd  their  carcasses  ?  took  heel  to  do't, 

**  Block'd  up. 

9  A  country  game  called /WMon-dar*.  vulgarly  prison-base. 

»  Bug-bears,  terrors. 


And  yet  died  too  ?  I,  in  mine  own  woe  charm'd, 
Could  not  find  death,  where  I  did  hear  him  groan ; 
Nor  feel   him,  where  he  struck:    Being  an  ugly 

monster, 
*Tis  strange,  he  hides  him  in  fresh  cups,  soft  beds, 
Sweet  words  ;  or  hath  more  ministers  than  we 
That  draw  his  knives  i'  the  war.  —  Well,  I  will  find 

him : 
For  being  now  a  favourer  to  the  Roman, 
No  more  a  Briton,  I  have  resum'd  again 
The  part  I  came  in  :   Fight  I  will  no  more. 
But  yield  me  to  the  veriest  hind,  that  shall 
Once  touch  my  shoulder.      Great  the  slaughter  is 
Here  made  by  the  Roman  ;  great  the  answer  be 
Britons  must  take  ;   For  me,  my  ransom's  death  ; 
On  either  side  I  come  to  spend  my  breath ; 
Which  neither  here  I'll  keep,  nor  bear  again, 
But  end  it  by  some  means  for  Imogen. 

Enter  two  British  Captains,  and  Soldiers. 

1  Cap.  Great  Jupiter  be  prais'd!  Lucius  is  taken  : 
'Tis  thought  the  old  man  and  his  sons  were  angels. 

2  Cap.   There  was  a  fourth  man,  in  a  silly  habit, 
That  gave  the  affront  2  with  them. 

1  Caji.  So  'tis  reported : 
But  none  of  them  can  be  found.  —  Stand  !  who  is 

there  ? 
Post.    A  Roman ; 
Who  had  not  now  been  drooping  here,  if  seconds 
Had  answered  him. 

2  Cap.  Lay  hands  on  him ;  a  dog  ! 
A  leg  of  Rome  shall  not  return  to  tell 

What  crows  have  peck'd  them  here  :   He  brags  his 

service 
As  if  he  were  of  note  :  bring  him  to  the  king. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  attended;  Belarius,  Guiderius, 
Arviragus,  Pisanio,  and  Roman  Captives.  The 
Captains  present  Posthumus  to  Cymbeline,  who 
delivers  him  over  to  a  Gaoler:  afier  which,  all  go  out. 

SCENE  lY.— A  Prison. 
Enter  Posthumus,  and  two  Gaolers, 

1  Gaol.   You  shall  not  now  be  stolen,  you  have 

locks  upon  you ; 
So,  graze,  as  you  find  pasture. 

2  Gaol.  Ay,  or  a  stomach. 

\^Exeunt  Gaolers. 
Post.  Most  welcome  bondage  !  for  thou  art  a  way, 
I  think,  to  liberty  :    Yet  am  I  better 
Than  one  that's  sick  o'  the  gout ;  since  he  had  rather 
Groan  so  in  perpetuity,  than  be  cur'd 
By  the  sure  physician,  death ;  who  is  the  key 
To  unbar  these  locks.     My  conscience  !  thou  art 

fetter'd 
More  than  my  shanks,  and  wrists :  You  good  gods, 

give  me 
The  penitent  instrument,  to  pick  that  bolt. 
Then  free  for  ever  !   Is't  enough,  I  am  sorry  ? 
So  children  temporal  fathers  do  appease  ; 
Gods  are  more  full  of  mercy.      Must  I  repent? 
I  cannot  do  it  better  than  in  gyves  3, 
Desir'd,  more  than  constrain'd  :   to  satisfy. 
If  of  my  freedom  'tis  the  main  part,  take 
No  stricter  render  of  me  than  my  all. 
I  know,  you  are  more  clement  than  vile  men. 
Who  of  their  broken  debtors  take  a  third, 
A  sixth,  a  tenth,  letting  them  thrive  again 
On  their  abatement  ;  that's  not  my  desire  : 
'  Encounter.  3  Fetters. 


Scene  IV. 


CYMBELINE. 


^57 


For  Imogen's  dear  life,  take  mine  ;  and  though 
'Tis  not  so  dear,  yet  'tis  a  life  ;  you  coin'd  it : 
'Tween  man  and  man,  they  weigh  not  every  stamp  ; 
Though  light,  take  pieces  for  the  figure's  sake  : 
You  rather  mine,  being  yours :  A  nd  so,  great  powers. 
If  you  will  take  this  audit,  take  this  life, 
And  cancel  these  cold  bonds.      O  Imogen  ! 
I'll  speak  to  thee  in  silence.  [He  sleeps. 

Solemn  Mustek.  Enter,  as  an  Apparition,  Sicilius 
Leokatus,  Father  to  Posthumus,  an  old  Man, 
attired  like  a  Warrior;  leading  in  his  Hand  an 
ancient  Matron,  his  Wife,  and  Mother  to  Post- 
humus, with  Musick  before  them.  Then,  after 
other  Musick,  follow  the  two  young  Leonati, 
Brothers  to  Posthumos,  with  wounds,  as  they 
dud  in  the  Wars.  They  circle  Posthumus  round, 
as  he  lies  steeping. 
Sici.   No  more,  thou  thunder  master,  show, 

Thy  spite  on  mortal  flies  : 
With  Mars  fall  out,  with  Juno  chide, 

That  thy  adulteries 

llates  and  revenges. 
Hath  my  poor  boy  done  aught  but  well. 

Whose  face  I  never  saw  ? 
I  died,  whilst  in  the  womb  he  stay'd 

Attending  Nature's  law. 
Whose  father  then  (as  men  report. 

Thou  orphans'  father  art, ) 
Thou  shouldst  have  been,  and  shielded  him 

From  this  earth-vexing  smart. 
Moth.   Lucina  lent  not  me  her  aid. 

But  took  me  in  my  throes  : 
That  from  me  was  Posthumus  ript, 

Came  crying  'mongst  his  foes, 
A  thing  of  pity  ! 
Sici.    Great  nature,  like  his  ancestry, 

Moulded  the  stuff  so  fair. 
That  he  deserv'd  the  praise  o'  the  world, 

As  great  Sicilius'  heir. 

1  Bro.   When  once  he  was  mature  for  man, 

In  Britain  where  was  he 
That  could  stand  up  his  parallel ; 

Or  fruitful  object  be 
In  eye  of  Imogen,  that  best 

Could  deem  his  dignity  ? 
Moth.   With  marriage  wherefore  was  he  mock'd, 

To  be  exil'd  and  thrown 
From  Leonati'  seat,  and  cast 

From  her  his  dearest  one, 
Sweet  Imogen  ? 
Sici.    Why  did  you  suffer  lachimo. 

Slight  thing  of  Italy, 
To  taint  his  nobler  heart  and  brain, 

With  needless  jealousy ; 
And  to  become  the  geek  *  and  scorn 

O'  the  other's  villainy  ? 

2  Bro.   For  this,  from  stiller  seats  we  came. 

Our  parents,  and  us  twain, 
That,  striking  in  our  country's  cause, 

Fell  bravely  and  were  slain  ; 
Our  fealty,  and  Tenantius'  right. 

With  honour  to  maintain. 
1  Bro.   Like  hardiment  Posthumus  hath 

To  Cymbeline  perform'd : 
Then  Jupiter,  thou  king  of  gods, 

Why  hast  thou  thus  adjoum'd 
The  graces  for  his  merits  due ; 

Being  all  to  dolours  tum'd  ? 
*  The  fool 


Sici.   Thy  crystal  window  ope  ;  look  out ; 

No  longer  exercise. 
Upon  a  valiant  race,  thy  harsh 

And  potent  injuries. 
Moth.    Since,  Jupiter,  our  son  is  good. 

Take  off  his  miseries. 
Sici.    Peep  through  thy  marble  mansion  ;  help  ! 

Or  we  poor  ghosts  will  cry 
To  the  shining  synod  of  the  rest, 

Against  thy  deity. 
2  Bro.    Help,  Jupiter ;  or  we  appeal. 

And  from  thy  justice  fly. 

Jui'iTER  descends  in  Thunder  and  Lightning,  sitting 

upon  an  Eagle  :  he  throws  a  Thunder-bolt.      The 

Ghosts  fall  on  their  knees. 
Jup.   No  more,  you  petty  spirits  of  region  low, 

Offend  our  hearing  :    hush  !  —  How  dare  you, 
ghosts. 
Accuse  the  thunderer,  whose  bolt,  you  know. 

Sky-planted,  batters  all  rebelling  coasts  ? 
Poor  shadows  of  Elysium,  hence  ;  and  rest 

Upon  your  never- withering  banks  of  flowers ; 
Be  not  with  mortal  accidents  opprest ; 

No  care  of  yours  it  is,  you  know  'tis  ours. 
Whom  best  I  love,  I  cross  ;  to  make  my  gift. 

The  more  delayed,  delighted.      Be  content ; 
Your  low-laid  son  our  godhead  will  uplift : 

His  comforts  thrive,  his  trials  well  are  spent. 
Our  jovial  star  reign'd  at  his  birth,  and  in 

Our  temple  was  he  married.  —  Rise,  and  fade  !  — 
He  shall  be  lord  of  lady  Imogen, 

And  happier  much  by  his  affliction  made. 
This  tablet  lay  upon  his  breast ;  wherein 

Our  pleasure  his  full  fortune  doth  confine  ; 
And  so,  away  :   no  further  with  your  din 

Express  impatience,  lest  you  stir  up  mine.  — 

Mount,  eagle,  to  my  palace  crystalline.  [Ascends. 

Sici.   He  came  in  thunder :  his  celestial  breath 
Was  sulphurous  to  smell :  the  holy  eagle 
Stoop'd  as  to  foot  us  :  his  ascension  is 
More  sweet  than  our  bless'd  fields :   his  royal  bird 
Prunes  the  immortal  wing,  and  cloys  his  beak. 
As  when  bis  god  is  pleas'd. 

All.  Thteks,  Jupiter ! 

Sici.   The  marble  pavement  closes,  he  is  enter'd 
His  radiant  roof :  —  Away  !  and,  to  be  blest. 
Let  us  with  care  perform  his  great  behest. 

[Ghosts  vanish. 

Post.  [Waking.l   Sleep,  thou  hast  been  a  grand- 
sire,  and  begot 
A  father  to  me  :  and  thou  hast  created 
A  mother  and  two  brothers  :    But  (O  scorn  !) 
Gone  !  they  went  hence  so  soon  as  they  were  bom. 
And  so  I  am  awake.  —  Poor  wretches  that  depend 
On  greatness'  favour,  dream,  as  I  have  done ; 
Wake,  and  find  nothing.  —  But,  alas,  I  swerve  : 
Many  dream  not  to  find,  neither  deserve, 
And  yet  are  steep'd  in  favours :   so  am  I, 
That  have  tliis  golden  chance,  and  know  not  why.  — 
What  fairies  haunt  this  ground  ?  A  book  ?    O,  rare 

one  ! 
Be  not,  as  in  our  fangled  world,  a  garment 
Nobler  than  tliat  it  covers  :   let  thy  eflfects 
So  follow,  to  be  most  unlike  our  courtiers. 
As  good  as  promise. 

[Reads.]    Jflien  as  a  lions  whelp  shall,  to  himself 
unknoum,  without  seeking  find,  and  be  embraced 
by  a  piece  qf  tender  air ;  and  when  from  a  stately 
3  C  3 


758 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  V. 


cedar  shall  be  lopped  branches,  which,  being  dead 
many  years,  shall  after  revive,  be  jointed  to  the 
old  stock,  and  freshly  grow  ;  then  shall  Postliumus 
end  his  miseries,  Britain  be  fortunate,  and  flourish 
in  peace  and  plenty. 

'Tis  still  a  dream ;  or  else  such  stuff  as  madmen 
Tongue,  and  brain  not :   either  both,  or  nothing ; 
Or  senseless  speaking,  or  a  speaking  such 
As  sense  cannot  untie.      Be  what  it  is, 
The  action  of  my  life  is  like  it,  which 
I'll  keep,  if  but  for  sympathy. 

Re-enter  Gaolers. 

Gaol.   Come,  sir,  are  you  ready  for  death  ? 

Post-    Over-roasted  rather  :   ready  long  ago. 

Gaol.  Hanging  is  the  word,  sir ;  if  you  be  ready 
for  that  you  are  well  cooked. 

Post.  So,  if  I  prove  a  good  repast  to  the  spec- 
tators, the  dish  pays  the  shot. 

Gaol.  A  heavy  reckoning  for  you,  sir :  But  the 
comfort  is,  you  shall  be  called  to  no  more  payments, 
fear  no  more  tavern  bills ;  which  are  often  the  sad- 
ness of  parting,  as  the  procuring  of  mirth :  you 
come  in  faint  for  want  of  meat,  depart  reeling  with 
too  much  drink  ;  sorry  that  you  have  paid  too  much, 
and  sorry  that  you  are  paid  too  much ;  purse  and 
brain  both  empty :  the  brain  the  heavier  for  being 
too  light,  the  purse  too  light,  being  drawn  of  heavi- 
ness :  O  !  of  this  contradiction  you  shall  now  be 
quit.  —  O  the  charity  of  a  penny  cord  !  it  sums  up 
thousands  in  a  trice  :  you  have  no  true  debitor  and 
creditor  but  it ;  of  what's  past,  is,  and  to  come,  the 
discharge :  —  Your  neck,  sir,  is  pen,  book,  and 
counters,  so  the  acquittance  follows. 

Post.   I  am  merrier  to  die,  than  thou  art  to  live. 

Gaol.  Indeed,  sir,  he  that  sleeps  feels  not  the 
tooth -ache  :  But  a  man  that  were  to  sleep  your  sleep, 
and  a  hangman  to  help  him  to  bed,  I  think,  he 
would  change  places  with  his  officer:  for,  look  you, 
sir,  you  know  not  which  way  you  shall  go. 

Post.   Yes,  indeed,  do  I,  fellow. 

Gaol.  Your  death  has  eyes  in  's  head  then  ;  I 
have  not  seen  him  so  pictured  :  you  must  either  be 
directed  by  son>e  that  take  upon  them  to  know  j  or 
take  upon  yourself  that,  which  I  am  sure  you  do  not 
know ;  or  jump  *  the  after-inquiry  on  your  own 
peril :  and  how  you  shall  speed  in  your  journey's 
end,  I  think  you'll  never  return  to  tell  one. 

Post.  I  tell  thee,  fellow,  there  are  none  want 
eyes  to  direct  them  the  way  I  am  going,  but  such 
as  wink,  and  will  not  use  them. 

Gaol.  What  an  infinite  mock  is  this,  that  a  man 
should  have  the  best  use  of  eyes,  to  see  the  way  of 
blindness  !  I  am  sure,  hanging's  the  way  of  winking. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.   Knock  off  his  manacles  ;  bring  your  pri- 
soner to  the  king. 

Post.  Thou  bringest  good  news ;  —  I  am  called 
to  be  made  free. 

Gaol.   I'll  be  hanged  then. 

Post.  Thou  shalt  be  then  freer  than  a  gaoler ;  no 
bolts  for  the  dead. 

[Exeunt  Posthumus  and  Messenger. 

Gaol.   Unless  a  man  would  marry  a  gallows,  and 

beget  young  gibbets,   I  never  saw  one  so  prone.  ^ 

Yet,  on  my  conscience,  there    are    verier  knaves 

deBire  to  live,  for  all  he  be  a  Roman :    and  there  be 

*  Hazard.  "  Forward. 


some  of  them  too,  that  die  against  their  wills ;  so 
should  I,  if  I  were  one.  I  would  we  were  all  of 
one  mind,  and  one  mind  good  ;  O,  there  were  de- 
solation of  gaolers,  and  gallowses  !  I  speak  against 
my  present  profit ;  but  my  vnsh  hath  a  preferment 
in't.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Cymbeline'5  Tent. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Belarius,  Guiderius,  Arvira- 
Gus,  PisANio,  Lords,  Officers,  and  Attendants. 

Cym.  Stand  by  my  side,  you  whom  the  gods  have 
made 
Preservers  of  my  throne.      Woe  is  my  heart, 
Tha^  the  poor  soldier,  that  so  richly  fought, 
Whose  rags  sham'd  gilded  arms,  whose  naked  breast 
Stepp'd  before  targe  7  of  proof,  cannot  be  found  : 
He  shall  be  happy  that  can  find  him,  if 
Our  grace  can  make  him  so. 

Bel.  I  never  saw 

Such  noble  fury  in  so  poor  a  thing ; 
Such  precious  deeds  in  one  that  promis'd  nought 
But  beggary  and  poor  looks. 

Cym.  No  tidings  of  him  ? 

Pis.   He  hath  been  search'd  among  the  dead  and 
living. 
But  no  trace  of  him. 

Cym.  To  my  grief,  I  am 

The  heir  of  his  reward ;  which  I  will  add 
To  you,  the  liver,  heart,  and  brain  of  Britain. 

[To  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and  Arviragus. 
By  whom,  I  grant,  she  lives ;  'Tis  now  the  time 
To  ask  of  whence  you  are  ;  —  report  it. 

Bel.  Sir, 

In  Cambria  are  we  bom,  and  gentlemen  : 
Further  to  boast,  were  neither  true  nor  modest. 
Unless  I  add,  we  are  honest. 

Cym.  Bow  your  knees ; 

Arise,  my  knights  o'  the  battle  :   I  create  you 
Companions  to  our  person,  and  will  fit  you 
With  dignities  becoming  your  estates. 

Enter  Cornelius,  and  Ladies. 
There's  business  in  these  faces  :  —  Why  so  sadly 
Greet  you  our  victory  ?  you  look  like  Romans, 
And  not  o'  the  court  of  Britain. 

Cor.  Hail,  great  king  • 

To  sour  your  happiness,  I  must  report 
The  queen  is  dead. 

Cym.  Whom  worse  than  a  physician 

Would  this  report  become  ?   But  I  consider. 
By  medicine  life  may  be  prolong'd,  yet  death 
Will  seize  the  doctor  too.  —  How  ended  she  ? 

Cor.   With  horror,  madly  dying,  like  her  life ; 
Which,  being  cruel  to  the  world,  concluded 
Most  cruel  to  herself.      What  she  confess'd, 
I  will  report,  so  please  you  :   These  her  women 
Can  trip  me,  if  I  err ;  who,  with  wet  cheeks. 
Were  present  when  she  finish'd. 

Cym.  Pr'ythee,  say. 

Cor.  First,  she  confess'd  she  never  lov'd  you  :  only 
Affected  greatness  got  by  you,  not  you  : 
Married  your  royalty,  was  wife  to  your  place ; 
Abhorr'd  your  person. 

Cym.  She  alone  knew  this  : 

And,  but  she  spoke  it  dying,  I  would  not 
Believe  her  lips  in  opening  it.      Proceed. 

Cor.   Your  daughter,  whom  she  bore  in  hand  to 
love 
With  such  integrity,  she  did  confess 
7  Target,  shield. 


Scene  V. 


CYMBELINE. 


759 


Was  as  a  scorpion  to  her  sight ;  whose  life, 
But  that  her  flight  prevented  it,  she  had 
Ta'en  off  by  poison. 

Cym.  O  most  delicate  fiend  ! 

Who  is  't  can  read  a  woman  ?  —  Is  there  more  ? 

Cor.  More,  sir,  and  worse.      She  did  confess,  she 
had 
For  you  a  mortal  mineral ;  which,  being  took, 
Should  by  the  minute  feed  on  life,  and,  ling'ring, 
By  inches  waste  you  :    In  which  time  she  purpos'd. 
By  watching,  weeping,  'tendance,  kissing,  to 
O'ercome  you  with  her  show  :   yes,  and  in  time, 
(When  she  had  fitted  you  with  her  craft,)  to  work 
Her  son  into  the  adoption  of  the  crown. 
But  failing  of  her  end  by  his  strange  absence, 
Grew  shameless  desperate ;  open'd  in  despite 
Of  heaven  and  men,  her  purposes ;  repented 
The  evils  she  hatch'd  were  not  effected ;  so, 
Despairing,  died. 

Cym.  Heard  you  all  this,  her  women  ? 

Lady.   We  did  so,  please  your  highness. 

Cym.  Mine  eyes 

Were  not  in  fault,  for  she  was  beautiful ; 
Mine  ears,  that  heard  her  flattery ;  nor  my  heart, 
Tliat  thought  her  like  her  seeming ;  it  had  been 

vicious. 
To  have  mistrusted  her  :   yet,  O  my  daughter ! 
That  it  was  fdlly  in  me,  thou  may'st  say. 
And  prove  it  in  thy  feeling.      Heaven  mend  all ! 

Enter  Lucius,  Iachimo,  the  Soothsayer,  and  other 
Roman  Prisoners,  guarded ;  Posthumus,  behind, 
and  Imogen. 

Thou  com'st  not,  Caius,  now  for  tribute ;  that 
The  Britons  have  raz'd  out,  though  with  the  loss 
Of  many  a  bold  one ;  whose  kinsmen  have  made  suit 
That  their  good  souls  may  be  appeas'd  with  slaughter 
Of  you  their  captives,  which  ourself  have  granted ; 
So,  think  of  your  estate. 

Luc.   Consider,  sir,  the  chance  of  war :   the  day 
Was  yours  by  accident ;  had  it  gone  with  us. 
We  should  not,  when  the   blood  was    cool,    have 

threaten'd 
Our  prisoners  with  the  sword.      But  since  the  gods 
Will  have  it  thus,  that  nothing  but  our  lives 
May  be  call'd  ransome,  let  it  come :   sufficeth, 
A  Roman  with  a  Roman's  heart  can  suffer : 
Augustus  lives  to  think  on  't :    And  so  much 
For  my  peculiar  care.      This  one  thing  only 
I  will  entreat ;   My  boy,  a  Briton  born, 
Let  him  be  ransom 'd  :   never  master  had 
A  page  so  kind,  so  duteous,  diligent, 
So  tender  over  his  occasions,  true. 
So  feat  8,  so  nurse-like  :   let  his  virtue  join 
With  my  request,  which,  I'll  make  bold,  your  highness 
Cannot  deny ;  he  hath  done  no  Briton  harm. 
Though  he  have  serv'd  a  Roman  :  save  him,  sir, 
And  spare  no  blood  beside. 

Cym.  I  have  surely  seen  him  : 

His  favour 9  is  familiar  to  me.  — 
Boy,  thou  hast  look'd  thyself  into  my  grace. 
And  art  mine  own.  —  I  know  not  why,  nor  where- 
fore. 
To  say,  live,  boy  :  ne'er  thank  thy  master  :   live  : 
And  ask  of  Cymbeline  what  boon  thou  wilt. 
Fitting  my  bounty,  and  thy  state,  I'll  give  it ; 
Yea,  tiiough  thou  do  demand  a  prisoner, 
The  noblest  ta  en. 

Inw.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness. 

•  Ready,  dexterous.  »  Countenance. 


Luc.   I  do  not  bid  thee  beg  my  life,  good  lad ; 
And  yet,  I  know,  thou  wilt. 

Imo.  No,  no  :   alack. 

There's  other  work  in  hand ;   I  see  a  thing 
Bitter  to  me  as  death  :   your  life,  good  master. 
Must  shuffle  for  itself. 

Luc>  The  boy  disdains  me. 

He  leaves  me,  scorns  me  :    Briefly  die  their  joys. 
That  place  them  on  the  truth  of  girls  and  boys.  — 
Why  stands  he  so  perplex'd  ? 

Cym.  What  wouldst  thou,  boy  ? 

I  love  thee  more  and  more ;  think  more  and  more 
What's  best  to  ask.     Know'st  him  thou  look'st  on? 

speak. 
Wilt  have  him  live  ?  Is  he  thy  kin  ?  thy  friend  ? 

Imo.    He  is  a  Roman ;  no  more  kin  to  me. 
Than  I  to  your  highness  ;  who,  being  born  your 

vassal. 
Am  something  nearer. 

Cym.  Wherefore  ey'st  him  so  ? 

Imo.   I'll  tell  you,  sir,  in  private,  if  you  please 
To  give  me  hearing. 

Cym.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart. 

And  lend  my  best  attention.      What's  thy  name 

Imo.   Fidele,  sir. 

Cym.  Thou  art  my  good  youth,  my  page ; 

I'll  be  thy  master:    Walk  with  me  ;  speak  freely. 
[Cymbeline  and  Imogen  converse  apart. 

Bel.   Is  not  this  boy  reviv'd  from  death  ? 

Jrv.  One  sand  another 

Not  more  resembles :    That  sweet  rosy  lad. 
Who  died,  and  was  Fidele  :  —  What  think  you  ? 

Gui.    The  same  dead  thing  alive. 

Bel.   Peace,  peace  !  see  further ;  he  eyes  us  not ; 
forbear : 
Creatures  may  be  alike :   wer't  he,  I  am  sure 
He  would  have  spoke  to  us. 

Gui.  But  we  saw  him  dead. 

Bel.   Be  silent ;  let's  see  further. 

Pis.  It  is  my  mistress : 

[Adde. 
Since  she  is  living,  let  the  time  run  on, 
To  good,  or  bad. 

[Cymbeline  and  Imogen  come  forward. 

Cym.  Come,  stand  thou  by  our  side ; 

Make  thy  demand  aloud.  —  Sir,   [To  Iach.]  step 

you  forth ; 
Give  answer  to  this  boy,  and  do  it  freely  : 
Or,  by  our  greatness,  and  the  grace  of  it. 
Which  is  our  honour,  bitter  torture  shall 
Winnow  the  truth  from  falsehood.  —  On,  speak  to 
him. 

Imo.  My  boon  is,  that  this  gentleman  may  rendei 
Of  whom  he  had  this  ring. 

Post.  What's  that  to  him  ? 

[Aside. 

Cym.  That  diamond  upon  your  finger,  say. 
How  came  it  yours  ? 

Iach.   Thou'lt  torture  me  to  leave  unspoken  that 
Which,  to  be  spoke,  would  torture  thee. 

Cym.  How  !  me  ? 

Iach.   I  am  glad  to  be  constrain'd  to  utter  that 
which 
Torments  me  to  conceal.      By  villainy 
I  got  this  ring  ;  'twas  Leonatus'  jewel : 
Whom  thou  didst  banish  ;  and  (which  more  may 

grieve  thee, 
As  it  doth  me,)  a  nobler  sir  ne'er  liv'd 
Twiit  sky  and  ground.     Wilt  tliou  hear  more,  my 
lord? 

3  C  4 


760 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  V. 


Cym.   All  that  belongs  to  this. 

lack.  That  paragon,  thy  daughter,  — 

For  whom  my  heart  drops  blood,  and  my  false  spirits 
Quail  '  to  remember,  —  Give  me  leave ;   I  faint. 

Cym.   My  daughter !  what  of  her  ?    Renew  thy 
strength : 
I  had  rather  thou  shouldst  live  while  nature  will. 
Than  die  ere  I  hear  more  :   strive  man,  and  speak. 

lach.    Upon  a  time,  (unhappy  was  the  clock 
That  struck  the  hour !)  it  was  in  Rome,  (accurs'd 
The  mansion  where  !)  'twas  at  a  feast,  (O,  'would 
Our  viands  had  been  poison'd  !  or,  at  least, 
Those  which  I  heav'd  to  head ! )  the  good  Posth6mus, 
(What  should  I  say?  he  was  too  good,  to  be 
Where  ill  men  were  ;  and  was  the  best  of  all 
Amongst  the  rar'st  of  good  ones,)  sitting  sadly. 
Hearing  us  praise  our  loves  of  Italy 
For  beauty  that  made  barren  the  swell'd  boast 
Of  him  that  best  could  speak  :  for  feature,  laming 
The  shrine  of  Venus,  or  straight-pight  Minerva ; 
Fairness  which  strikes  the  eye  : 

Cym.  I  stand  on  fire  : 

Come  to  the  matter. 

lach.  All  too  soon  I  shall, 

Unless  thou  wouldst  grieve  quickly.  —  This  Post- 
humus, 
(Most  like  a  noble  lord  in  love,  and  one 
That  had  a  royal  lover,)  took  his  hint ; 
And,  not  dispraising  whom  we  prais'd,  (therein 
He  was  as  calm  as  virtue)  he  began 
His  mistress'  picture ;  which  by  his  tongue  being 

made. 
And  then  a  mind  put  in't,  either  our  brags 
Were  crack'd  of  kitchen  trulls,  or  his  description 
Prov'd  us  unspeaking  sots. 

Cym.  Nay,  nay,  to  the  purpose. 

lach.  Your  daughter's  chastity.     He  spake  of  her 
As  she  alone  were  pure  :   Whereat  I,  wretch ! 
Made  scruple  of  his  praise ;  and  wager'd  with  him 
Pieces  of  gold,  'gainst  this  which  then  he  wore 
Upon  his  honour'd  finger,  to  attain 
In  suit  the  place  of  his  bed,  and  win  this  ring 
By  her's  and  mine  adultery :   he,  true  knight, 
No  lesser  of  her  honour  confident 
Than  I  did  truly  find  her,  stakes  this  ring ; 
And  would  so,  had  it  been  a  carbuncle 
Of  Phoebus'  wheel ;  and  might  so  safely,  had  it 
Been  all  the  worth  of  his  car.      Away  to  Britain 
Post  I  in  this  design :   Well  may  you,  sir, 
Remember  me  at  court,  where  I  was  taught 
Of  your  chaste  daughter  the  wide  difference 
'Twixt  amorous  and  villainous.  Being  thus  quench'd 
Of  hope,  not  longing,  mine  Italian  brain 
'Gan  in  your  duller  Britain  operate 
Most  vilely  ;  for  my  'vantage,  excellent ; 
And,  to  be  brief,  my  practice  so  prevail'd. 
That  I  return'd  with  similar  proof  enough 
To  make  the  noble  Leonatus  mad. 
By  wounding  his  belief  in  her  renown 
With  tokens  thus,  and  thus  ;  averring  notes 
Of  chamber-hanging,  pictures,  this  her  bracelet, 
(O,  cunning,  how  I  got  it !)  nay,  some  marks 
Of  secret  on  her  person,  that  he  could  not 
But  think  her  bond  of  chastity  quite  crack'd, 
I  having  ta'en  the  forfeit.     Whereupon,  — 
Methinks  I  see  him  now,       ■ 

Post.  Ay,  so  thou  dost, 

[  Coming  forward. 
Italian  fiend  !  —  Ah  me,  most  credulous  fool, 
1  Sink  into  dejection. 


Egregious  murderer,  thief,  any  thing 

That 's  due  to  all  the  villains  past,  in  being. 

To  come  !  —  O,  give  me  cord,  or  knife,  or  poison, 

Some  upright  justicer  !   Thou,  king,  send  out 

For  torturers  ingenious  :   it  is  I 

That  all  the  abhorred  things  o'  the  earth  amend, 

By  being  worse  than  they.      I  am  Posthiimus, 

That  kill'd  thy  daughter  :  —  villain-like,  I  lie ; 

That  caus'd  a  lesser  villain  than  myself, 

A  sacrilegious  thief,  to  do  't :  —  the  temple 

Of  virtue  was  she  ;  yea,  and  she  herself.'' 

Spit,  and  throw  stones,  cast  mire  upon  me,  set 

The  dogs  o'  the  street  to  bay  me  :   every  villain 

Be  call'd  Posthumus  Leonatus  ;  and 

Be  villainy  less  than  'twas  !  —  O  Imogen  ! 

My  queen,  my  life,  my  wife  !   O  Imogen, 

Imogen,  Imogen  ! 

I  mo.  Peace,  my  lord ;  hear,  hear — 

Post.  Shall 's  have  a  play  of  this  ?  Thou  scornful 
page, 
There  lie  thy  part.  [^Striking  her :  she  falls. 

Pis.  O,  gentlemen,  help,  help 

Mine  and  your  mistress :  —  O,  my  lord  Posthumus  ! 
You  ne'er  kill'd  Imogen  till  now  :  —  Help,  help  !  — 
Mine  honour'd  lady  ! 

Cy77i.  Does  the  world  go  round  ? 

Post.   How  come  these  staggers  on  me  ? 

Pis.  Wake,  my  mistress  ! 

Cym.  If  this  be  so,  the  gods  do  mean  to  strike  me 
To  death  with  mortal  joy. 

Pis.  How  fares  my  mistress  ? 

Imo.   O,  get  thee  from  my  sight ; 
Thou  gav'st  me  poison  :   dangerous  fellow,  hence  ! 
Breathe  not  where  princes  are. 

Cym.  The  tune  of  Imogen  ! 

Pis.   Lady, 
The  gods  throw  stones  of  sulphur  on  me,  if 
That  box  I  gave  you  was  not  thought  by  me 
A  precious  thing ;   I  had  it  from  the  queen. 

Cym.   New  matter  still  ? 

Imo.  It  poison'd  me. 

Cor.  O  gods !  — 

I  left  out  one  thing  which  the  queen  confess'd, 
Which  must  approve  thee  honest :    If  Pisanio 
Have,  said  she,  given  his  mistress  that  confection 
Which  I  gave  him  for  a  cordial,  she  is  serv'd 
As  I  would  serve  a  rat. 

Cym.  What's  this,  Cornelius? 

Cor.   The  queen,  sir,  very  oft  importun'd  me 
To  temper  3  poisons  for  her  ;  still  pretending 
The  satisfaction  of  her  knowledge,  only 
In  killing  creatures  vile,  as  cats  and  dogs 
Of  no  esteem  :    I,  dreading  that  her  purpose 
Was  of  more  danger,  did  compound  for  her 
A  certain  stuff,  which,  being  ta'en,  would  cease 
The  present  power  of  life  ;  but,  in  short  time. 
All  offices  of  nature  should  again 
Do  their  due  functions.  —  Have  you  ta'en  of  it? 

Imo.   Most  like  I  did,  for  I  was  dead. 

Bel.  My  boys. 

There  was  our  error. 

Gui.  This  is  sure,  Fidele. 

Imo.   Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from 
you? 
Think,  that  you  are  upon  a  rock ;  and  now 
Throw  me  again.  [Embracing  him. 

Post.  Hang  there  like  fruit,  my  soul, 

Till  the  tree  die  ! 

2  Not  only  the  temple  of  virtue,  but  virtue  herself. 

3  Mix,  compound. 


Scene  V. 


CYMBELINE. 


761 


Cym.  How  now  my  flesh,  my  child  ? 

What,  mak'st  thou  me  a  dullard  in  this  act? 
Wilt  thou  not  speak  to  me  ? 

Imo.  Your  blessing,  sir.  [Xheeling. 

Bel.  Though  you  did  love  this  youth,  I  blame  you 
not; 
You  had  a  motive  for  't. 

[To  GuiDERius  and  Arviragus. 

Cym.  My  tears  that  fall, 

Prove  holy  water  on  thee  !  Imogen, 
Thy  mother's  dead. 

Imo.  I  am  sorry  for 't,  my  lord. 

Cym   O,  she  was  naught ;  and  'long  of  her  it  was, 
That  we  meet  here  so  strangely  :   But  her  son' 
Is  gone,  we  know  not  how  nor  where. 

IHs.  My  lord, 

Now  fear  is  from  me,  I'll  speak  troth.    Lord  Cloten, 
Upon  my  lady's  nu'ssing,  came  to  me 
With  his  sword  drawn ;  foam'd  at  the  mouth,  and 

swore. 
If  I  disco ver'd  not  which  way  she  was  gone, 
It  was  my  instant  death  :    By  accident, 
I  had  a  feigned  letter  of  my  master's 
Then  in  my  pocket ;  which  directed  him 
To  seek  her  on  the  mountains  near  to  Milford ; 
Where,  in  a  frenzy,  in  my  master's  garments. 
Which  he  inforc'd  from  me,  away  he  posts 
With  unchaste  purpose,  and  with  oath  to  violate 
My  lady's  honour  :   what  became  of  him, 
I  further  know  not. 

Gut.  Let  me  end  the  story  : 

I  slew  him  there. 

Q/m.  Marry,  the  gods  forfend  !  * 

I  would  not  thy  good  deeds  should  from  my  lips 
Pluck  a  hard  sentence :   pr'ythee,  valiant  youth. 
Deny  't  again. 

Gui.  I  have  spoke  it,  and  I  did  it 

Cym.   He  was  a  prince. 

Gui.  A  most  uncivil  one :   The  wrongs  he  did  me 
Were  nothing  prince-like  ;  for  he  did  provoke  me 
With  language  that  would  make  me  spurn  the  sea. 
If  it  could  so  roar  to  me  :    I  cut  off 's  head ; 
And  am  right  glad,  he  is  not  standing  here 
To  tell  this  tale  of  mine. 

Cym.  I  am  sorry  for  thee  : 

By  thine  own  tongue  thou  art  condemn'd,  and  must 
Endure  our  law  :   Thou  art  dead. 

Imo.  That  headless  man 

I  thought  had  been  my  lord. 

Ct/m.  Bind  the  offender. 

And  take  him  from  our  presence. 

Bel.  Stay,  sir  king  : 

This  man  is  better  than  the  man  he  slew, 
As  well  descended  as  thyself;  and  hath 
More  of  thee  merited,  than  a  band  of  Clotens 
Had  ever  scar  for.  —  Let  his  arms  alone  ; 

[To  the  Guard. 
They  were  not  bom  for  bondage. 

Cym.  Why,  old  soldier. 

Wilt  thou  undo  the  worth  thou  art  unpaid  for, 
By  tasting  of  our  wratli  ?  How  of  descent 
As  good  as  we  ? 

Arv.  In  that  he  spake  too  far. 

Cym.   And  thou  shalt  die  for't 

Bel.  We  will  die  all  three : 

But  I  will  prove,  that  two  of  us  are  as  good 
As  I  have  given  out  him.  —  My  sons,  I  must. 
For  mine  own  part,  unfold  a  dangerous  speech, 
Though,  haply,  well  for  you. 
<  Forbid. 


ArV'  Your  danger  is 

Ours. 

Gui.   And  our  good  his. 

Bel.  Have  at  it,  then.  — 

By  leave ;  — Thou  hadst,  great  king,  a  subject,  who 
Was  call'd  Belarius. 

Cym.  What  of  him  ?  he  is 

A  banish'd  traitor. 

Bel.  He  it  is,  that  hath 

Assum'd  this  age :  indeed,  a  banish'd  man  ; 
I  know  not  how,  a  traitor. 

Cym.  Take  him  hence ; 

The  whole  world  shall  not  save  him. 

Bel.  Not  too  hot : 

First  pay  me  for  the  nursing  of  thy  sons ; 
And  let  it  be  confiscate  all,  so  soon 
As  I  have  receiv'd  it. 

Cym.  Nursing  of  my  sons  ! 

Bel.  I  am  too  blunt  and  saucy :   Here's  my  knee ; 
Ere  I  arise,  I  will  prefer  my  sons ; 
Then,  spare  not  the  old  father.     Mighty  sir, 
These  two  young  gentlemen,  that  call  me  father, 
And  think  they  are  my  sons,  are  none  of  mine  ; 
They  are  the  issue  of  your  loins,  my  liege. 
And  blood  of  your  begetting. 

Cym.  How !  my  issue  ? 

Bel.  So  sure  as  you  your  father's.   I,  old  Morgan, 
Am  that  Belarius  whom  you  sometime  banish'd : 
Your  pleasure  was  my  mere  offence,  my  punishment 
Itself,  and  all  my  treason  ;  that  I  suffer'd. 
Was  all  the  harm  I  did.      These  gentle  princes 
(For  such,  and  so  they  are,)  these  twenty  years 
Have  I  train'd  up  :  those  arts  they  have,  as  I 
Could  put  into  them ;  my  breeding  was,  sir,  as 
Your  highness  knows.      Their  nurse,  Euriphile, 
Whom  for  the  theft  I  wedded,  stole  these  children 
Upon  my  banishment :   I  mov'd  her  to  't : 
Having  receiv'd  the  punishment  before. 
For  that  which  I  did  then  :    Beaten  for  loyalty 
Excited  me  to  treason  ;  Their  dear  loss. 
The  more  of  you  'twas  felt,  the  more  it  shap'd 
Unto  my  end  of  stealing  them.      But,  gracious  sir. 
Here  are  your  sons  again  ;  and  I  must  lose 
Two  of  the  sweet'st  companions  in  the  world  :  — 
The  benediction  of  these  covering  heavens 
Fail  on  their  heads  like  dew  !  for  they  are  worthy 
To  inlay  heaven  with  stars. 

Cym.  Thou  weep'st,  and  speak'st. 

The  service,  that  you  three  have  done,  is  more 
Unlike  than  this  thou  tell'st :    I  lost  my  children ; 
If  these  be  they,  I  know  not  how  to  wish 
A  pair  of  worthier  sons. 

Bel.  Be  pleas'd  a  while.  -^ 

This  gentleman,  whom  I  call  Polydore, 
Most  worthy  prince,  as  yours,  is  true  Guiderius  ; 
This  gentleman,  my  Cadwal,  Arvir^us, 
Your  younger  princely  son  ;  he,  sir,  was  lapp'd 
In  a  most  curious  mantle,  wrought  by  the  hand 
Of  his  queen-mother,  which  for  more  probation, 
I  can  with  ease  produce. 

Cym.  Guiderius  had 

Upon  his  neck  a  mole,  a  sanguine  star ; 
It  was  a  mark  of  wonder. 

Bel.  This  is  he ; 

Who  hath  upon  him  still  that  natural  stamp  ; 
It  was  wise  nature's  end  in  tJie  donation, 
To  Imj  his  evidence  now. 

Cym.  O,  what  am  I 

A  motlier  to  the  birth  of  three  ?  Ne'er  mother 
Kejoic'd  deliverance  more  :  —  Biess'd  may  you  be, 


762 


CYMBELINE. 


Act  V. 


That,  after  this  strange  starting  from  your  orbs, 
You  may  reign  in  them  now  !  —  O  Imogen, 
Thou  hast  lost  by  this  a  kingdom. 

Tmo.  No,  my  lord  ; 

I  have  got  two  worlds  by 't.  —  O  my  gentle  brother. 
Have  we  thus  met  ?   O  never  say  hereafter, 
But  I  am  truest  speaker :   you  call'd  me  brother 
When  I  was  but  your  sister ;   I  you  brothers, 
When  you  were  so  indeed. 

Ct/m.  Did  you  e'er  meet  ? 

Arv.    Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Gui.  And  at  first  meeting  lov'd  ; 

Continued  so,  until  we  thought  he  died. 

Cor.   By  the  queen's  dram  she  swallow'd. 

Cym.  '  O  rare  instinct ! 

When  shall  I  hear  all  through  ?  This  fierce  abridge- 
ment 
Hath  to  it  circumstantial  branches,  which 
Distinction  should  be  rich  in.  ^  —  Where?  how  liv'd 

you? 
And  when  came  you  to  serve  our  Roman  captive? 
How  parted  with  your  brothers?  how  first  met  them? 
Why  fled  you  from  the  court  ?  and  whither  ?  These, 
And  your  three  motives  to  the  battle,  with 
I  know  not  how  much  more,  should  be  demanded; 
And  all  the  other  by-dependencies. 
From  chance  to  chance ;  but  nor  the  time,  nor  place, 
Will  serve  long  interrogatories.      See, 
Posthumus  anchors  upon  Imogen ; 
And  she,  like  harmless  lightning,  throws  her  eye 
On  him,  her  brothers,  me,  her  master ;  hitting 
Each  object  with  a  joy  ;  the  counterchange 
Is  severally  in  all.      Let's  quit  this  ground. 
And  smoke  the  temple  with  our  sacrifices.  — 
Thou  art  my  brother ;    So  we'll  hold  thee  ever. 

[To  Belarius. 

Imo.    You  are  my  father  too ;  and  did  relieve  me. 
To  see  this  gracious  season. 

Ct/m.  All  o'erjoy'd. 

Save  these  in  bonds ;  let  them  be  joyful  too. 
For  they  shall  taste  our  comfort. 

Imo.  My  good  master, 

I  will  yet  do  you  service. 

L71C.  Happy  be  you  ! 

Ci/m.   The  forlorn  soldier,  that  so  nobly  fought. 
He  would  have  well  becom'd  this  place,  and  grac'd 
The  thankings  of  a  king. 

Post.  I  am,  sir. 

The  soldier  that  did  company  these  three 
In  poor  beseeming ;  'twas  a  fitment  for 
The  purpose  I  then  follow'd;  —  That  I  was  he, 
Speak,  lachimo  ;   I  had  you  down,  and  might 
Have  made  you  finish. 

lach.  I  am  down  again : 

[ITneeling. 
But  now  my  heavy  conscience  sinks  my  knee. 
As  then  your  force  did.   Take  that  life,  'beseech  you. 
Which  I  so  often  owe  :   but,  your  ring  first ; 
And  here  the  bracelet  of  the  truest  princess, 
That  ever  swore  her  faith. 

Post.  Kneel  not  to  me ; 

The  power  that  I  have  on  you,  is  to  spare  you ; 
The  malice  towards  you,  to  forgive  you :  Live, 
And  deal  with  others  better. 

C^m.  Nobly  doom'd : 

We'll  learn  our  freeness  of  a  son-in-law ; 
Pardon  's  the  word  to  all. 

■^rv.  You  holp  us,  sir, 

*  ».  e.  Which  ought  to  be  rendered  distinct  by  an  ample 
narrative.  ^ 


As  you  did  mean  indeed  to  be  our  brother ; 
Joy'd  are  we,  that  you  are. 

Post.   Your  servant,  princes.  —  Good  my  lord  of 
Rome, 
Call  forth  your  soothsayer.     As  I  slept,  methought, 
Great  Jupiter,  upon  his  eagle  back, 
Appear'd  to  me,  with  other  sprightly  shows  6 
Of  mine  own  kindred  :   when'  I  wak'd,  I  found 
Tills  label  on  my  bosom ;  whose  containing 
Is  so  from  sense  and  hardness,  that  I  can 
Make  no  collection  of  it ;  let  him  show 
His  skill  in  the  construction. 

Luc.  Philarmonus,  — — — 

Sootk.   Here,  my  good  lord. 

Luc.  Read,  and  declare  the  meaning. 

Sooth.  [Reads.]  When  as  a  lion's  whelp  shall,  to 
himself  unknown,  without  seeking  Jind,  and  be  em- 
braced by  a  piece  of  tender  air ;  and  when  from  a 
stately  cedar  shall  be  lopped  branches,  which,  being 
dead  many  years,  shall  after  revive,  be  jointed  to  the 
old  stock,  and  freshly  grow;  then  shall  Posthumus 
end  his  miseries,  Britain  be  fortunate,  and  flourish  in 
peace  and  plenty. 

Thou,  Leonatus,  art  the  lion's  whelp  ; 
The  fit  and  apt  construction  of  thy  name. 
Being  Leo-natus,  doth  impart  so  much  : 
The  piece  of  tender  air,  thy  virtuous  daughter, 

[To  Cymbeline. 
Which  we  call  mollis  aer ;  and  mollis  aer 
We  term  it  m,ulier :  which  mulier  I  divine. 
Is  this  most  constant  wife,  who,  even  now, 
Answering  the  letter  of  the  oracle, 
Unknown  to  you,  unsought,  were  clipp'd  7  about 
With  this  most  tender  air. 

Cym.  This  hath  some  seeming. 

Sooth.   The  lofty  cedar,  royal  Cymbeline, 
Personates  thee  :   and  thy  lopp'd  branches  point 
Thy  two  sons  forth  :   who,  by  Belarius  stolen. 
For  many  years  thought  dead,  are  now  reviv'd. 
To  the  majestick  cedar  join'd  ;  whose  issue 
Promises  Britain  peace  and  plenty. 

Cym.  Well, 

My  peace  we  will  begin  :  —  And,  Caius  Lucius, 
Although  the  victor,  we  submit  to  Caesar, 
And  to  the  Roman  empire;  promising 
To  pay  our  wonted  tribute,  from  the  which 
We  were  dissuaded  by  our  wicked  queen  ; 
W^hom  heavens,  in  justice,  (both  on  her  and  hers,) 
Have  laid  most  heavy  hand. 

Sooth.   The  fingers  of  the  powers  above  do  tune 
The  harmony  of  this  peace.      The  vision 
Which  I  made  known  to  Lucius,  ere  the  stroke 
Of  this  yet  scarce-cold  battle,  at  this  instant. 
Is  full  accomplish'd  :    For  the  Roman  eagle, 
From  south  to  west  on  wing  soaring  aloft, 
Lessen'd  herself,  and  in  the  beams  o'  the  sun 
So  vanish'd  :   which  foreshow'd  our  princely  eagle, 
The  imperial  Caesar,  should  again  unite 
His  favour  with  the  radiant  Cymbeline, 
Which  shines  here  in  the  west. 

Cym.  Laud  we  the  gods : 

And  let  our  crooked  smokes  climb  to  their  nostrils 
From  our  bless'd  altars  !   Publish  we  this  peace 
To  all  our  subjects.      Set  we  forward  :   Let 
A  Roman  and  a  British  ensign  wave 
Friendly  together :  so  through  Lud's  town  march 
And  in  the  temple  of  great  Jupiter 
Our  peace  we'll  ratify ;  seal  it  with  feasts.  — 
5  Ghostly  appearances.  ?  Embraced. 


Scene  V. 


CYMBELINE. 


763 


Set  on  there  :  —  Never  was  a  war  did  cease, 
Ere  bloody  hands  were  wash'd  with  such  a  peace. 

[Exeunt. 


A  SONG, 

SUNO  BY  GUIDERIUS  AND  ARVIRAGUS  OVER  FIDELE, 
SUPPOSED  TO  BE  DEAD. 

BY  MR.  WILLIAM  COLLlNa 

To  fair  Fidele'«  grassy  tomb. 

Soft  maids  and  village  Jiinds  shall  bring 

Each  opening  sweet,  of  earliest  bloomy 
And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 

But  shejtherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 


No  witherd  witch  shall  here  be  seen. 
No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew  : 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green. 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  devs 

The  red-breast  oft  at  evening  hours 
Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gather' d flowers, 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain, 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell  ; 

Or  midst  the  chase  on  every  plain. 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell. 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  t/iee  restore ; 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed  : 
Belovd,  till  life  could  charm  no  more  ; 

And  mourn  d  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 


I 


>\ 


n' 


TITUS    ANDRONICUS. 


PERSONS  REPRESKNTED. 


Saturninus,  San  to  the  late  Emperor  of  Rome,  and 

afterwards  declared  Emperor  himself. 
Bassianus,   Brother  to    Saturninus;    in  love   with 

Lavinia. 
Titus  Andronicus,  a  noble  Roman,  General  against 

the  Goths. 
Marcus  Andronicus,  Tribune  of  the  People;  and 

Brother  to  Titus. 
Lucius,     "j 

MaTtius,  [^'""^  ^°  'T^'""  Andronicus. 

MuTIUS,     J 

Young  Lucius,  a  Bot/,  Son  to  Lucius. 
PuBLius,  Son  to  Marcus  the  Triune. 

SCENE,  Rome  ;  and 


a  noble  Roman. 
Sons  to  Tamora- 


J' 


^Emilius, 
Alarbus, 
Chiron, 
Demetrius, 

Aaron,  a  Moor,  beloved  by  Tamora. 
A  Captain,    Tribune,  Messenger,  and  Clown;    Ro- 
mans. 
Goths,  and  Romans. 

Tamora,  Queen  of  the  Goths. 

Lavinia,  Daughter  to  Titus  Andronicus. 

A  Nurse,  and  a  black  Child. 

Kinsmen  of  Titus,  Senators,  Tribunes,  Officers,  Sol' 

diers,  and  Attendants, 
the  Country  near  it. 


FAiiEWEI,!.,  MY    SONS  :    SEE.   THAT   YOD    MAKE    HER   SDl 


TITUS    ANDRONICUS. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.  —  Rome.     Before  the  Capitol. 

The  Tomb  of  the  Andronici  appearing:  the  Tribunes 
and  Senators  aloft,  as  in  the  Senate.  Enter,  belojv, 
Satuhninus  and  his  FoUoivers,  on  one  Side ;  and 
Bassianus  and  his  Fotloivers,  on  the  other ;  with 
Drum  and  Colours. 

Sat.   Noble  patricians,  patrons  of  my  right, 
Defend  the  justice  of  my  cause  with  arms  ; 
And,  countrymen,  my  loving  followers, 
Plead  my  successive  title  '  with  your  swords ; 
I  am  his  first-born  son,  that  was  Ihe  last 
That  ware  the  imperial  diadem  of  Rome  ; 
Then  let  my  father's  honours  live  in  me. 
Nor  wrong  mine  age  with  this  indignity. 

Has.    Romans,  —  friends,  followers,  favourers  of 
my  right  — 
1  f  ever  Bassianus,  Caesar's  son, 
Were  gracious  in  the  eyes  of  royal  Rome, 
Keep  then  this  passage  to  the  Capitol ; 
And  suffer  not  dishonour  to  approach 
The  imperial  seat,  to  virtue  consecrate. 
To  justice,  continence,  and  nobility  : 
But  let  desert  in  pure  election  shine  ; 
And,  Romans,  fight  for  freedom  in  your  choice. 

Enter  Makcus  Andronicus  aloft,  with  the  Crown. 

Marc.   Princes  that   strive   by  factions,  and   by 
friends, 

'  i.  e.  My  title  to  the  succession. 


Ambitiously  for  rule  and  empery,  — 

Know,  that  the  people  of  Rome,  for  whom  we  stand 

A  special  party,  have  by  their  common  voice, 

In  election  for  the  Roman  empery, 

Chosen  Andronicus,  surnamed  Pius 

For  many  good  and  great  deserts  to  Rome  ; 

A  nobler  man,  a  braver  warrior. 

Lives  not  this  day  within  the  city  walls : 

He  by  the  senate  is  accited  -  home. 

From  weary  wars  against  the  barbarous  Goths ; 

That,  with  his  sons,  a  terror  to  our  foes, 

Hath  yok'd  a  nation  strong,  train'd  up  in  arms. 

Ten  years  are  spent,  since  first  he  undertook 

This  cause  of  Rome,  and  chastised  with  arms 

Our  enemies'  pride  :    Five  times  he  hath  return'd 

Bleeding  to  Rome,  bearing  his  valiant  sons 

In  coffins  from  the  field  ; 

And  now  at  last,  laden  with  honour's  spoils, 

Returns  the  good  Andronicus  to  Rome, 

Renowned  Titus,  flourishing  in  arms. 

Let  us  entreat,  —  By  honour  of  his  name, 

Whom,  worthily,  you  would  have  now  succeed. 

And  in  the  Capitol  and  senate's  right. 

Whom  you  pretend  to  honour  and  adore,  — 

That  you  withdraw  you,  and  abate  your  strength  : 

Dismiss  your  followers,  and,  as  suitors  should. 

Plead  your  deserts  in  peace  and  humbleness. 

Sat.    How  fair  the  tribune  speaks  to  calm  my 
thoughts ! 


Act  I.  SCENE  II. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


765 


Bos.   Marcus  Andronicus,  so  do  I  affy 
In  thy  uprightness  and  integrity, 
And  so  I  love  and  honour  thee  and  thine, 
My  nobler  brother  Titus  and  his  sons, 
And  her,  to  whom  my  thoughts  are  humbled  all, 
Gracious  Lavinia,  Rome's  rich  ornament. 
That  I  will  here  dismiss  my  loving  friends  ; 
And  to  my  fortunes,  and  the  people's  favour. 
Commit  my  cause  in  balance  to  be  weigh'd. 

[Exeunt  tlie  Followers  o^  Bassianus. 
Sat.   Friends,  that  have  been  thus  forward  in  my 
right, 
I  thank  you  all,  and  here  dismiss  you  all ; 
And  to  the  love  and  favour  of  my  country 
Commit  myself,  my  person,  and  the  cause. 

[Exeunt  the  Followers  of  Saturnimus. 
Rome,  be  as  just  and  gracious  unto  me, 
As  I  am  confident  and  kind  to  tliee.  —> 
Open  the  gates,  and  let  me  in. 

Bus.   Tribunes !  and  me,  a  poor  competitor. 

[Sat.   and   Bas.  go  into  the  Capitot,  and 
exeunt  with  Senators,  Marcus,  ^c. 

SCENE  II.— The  same. 

Enter  a  Captain,  and  others. 
Cap.   Romans,  make  way ;  the  good  Andronicus, 
Patron  of  virtue,  Rome's  best  champion, 
Successful  in  the  battles  that  he  fights. 
With  honour  and  with  fortune  is  return'd, 
From  where  he  circumscribed  with  his  sword, 
And  brought  to  yoke,  the  enemies  of  Rome. 

Flourish  of  Trumpets,  ^c  Enter  Mutius  and  Mar- 
Tius  :  after  them,  two  Men  bearing  a  Coffin  covered 
with  black;  then  Quintus  and  Lucius,  ^fler 
them,  Titus  Andronicus  ;  and  then  Tamora, 
with  Alarbus,  Chiron,  Demetrius,  Aaron, 
and  other  Goths,  prisoners ;  Soldiers  and  People, 
following.  The  Bearers  set  down  the  Coffin,  and 
Titus  speaks. 

Tit.   Hail,   Rome,  victorious   in   thy  mourning 
weeds ! 
Lo,  as  the  bark  that  hath  discharg'd  her  fraught, 
Returns  with  precious  lading  to  the  bay, 
From  whence  at  first  she  weigh'd  her  anchorage, 
Cometh  Andronicus,  bound  with  laurel  boughs. 
To  re-salute  his  country  with  his  tears  ; 
Tears  of  true  joy  for  his  return  to  Rome.  — 
Thou  great  defender  of  this  Capitol, 
Stand  gracious  to  the  rites  that  we  intend  ! 
Romans,  of  five  and  twenty  valiant  sons, 
Half  of  the  number  that  king  Priam  had. 
Behold  the  poor  remains,  alive,  and  dead  ! 
lliese,  that  survive,  let  Rome  reward  with  love  ; 
These,  that  I  bring  unto  their  latest  home, 
With  burial  amongst  their  ancestors  : 
Here  Goths  have  given  me  leave  to  sheath  my  sword. 
Titus,  unkind,  and  careless  of  thine  own. 
Why  sufTer'st  thou  thy  sons,  unburied  yet. 
To  hover  on  the  dreadful  shore  of  Styx  ?  — 
Make  way  to  lay  them  by  their  brethren. 

\The  Tomb  is  ojtened. 
There  greet  in  silence,  as  the  dead  are  wont. 
And  sleep  in  peace,  slain  in  your  country's  wars! 
O  sacred  receptacle  of  my  joys. 
Sweet  cell  of  virtue  and  nobility. 
How  many  sons  of  mine  hast  thou  in  store, 
That  thou  wilt  never  render  to  me  more ! 

Luc.  Give  us  the  proudest  prisoner  of  the  Goths, 
That  we  may  hew  his  limbs,  and,  on  a  pile, 


Ad  manes  fratrum  sacrifice  his  flesh, 
Before  this  earthly  prison  of  their  bones ; 
That  so  the  shadows  be  not  unappeas'd, 
Nor  we  disturb'd  with  prodigies  on  earth.' 

Tit.   I  give  him  you  ;  the  noblest  that  survives. 
The  eldest  son  of  this  distressed  queen. 

Tarn.   Stay,   Roman  brethren ;  —  Gracious  con- 
queror. 
Victorious  Titus,  rue  the  tears  I  shed, 
A  mother's  tears  in  passion  *  for  her  son : 
And,  if  thy  sons  were  ever  dear  to  thee, 
O,  think  my  son  to  be  as  dear  to  me. 
Sufliceth  not,  that  we  are  brought  to  Rome, 
To  beautify  thy  triumphs,  and  return, 
Captive  to  thee,  and  to  thy  Roman  yoke  ; 
But  must  my  sons  be  slaughter'd  in  the  streets. 
For  valiant  doings  in  their  country's  cause  ? 
O  !  if  to  fight  for  king  and  common- weal 
Were  piety  in  tliine,  it  is  in  these. 
Andronicus,  stain  not  thy  tomb  with  blood  : 
Wilt  thou  draw  near  the  nature  of  the  gods  ? 
Draw  near  them  then  in  being  merciful : 
Sweet  mercy  is  nobility's  true  badge ; 
Thrice  noble  Titus,  spare  my  first-bom  son. 

Tit.   Patient  yourself,  madam,  and  pardon  me. 
These  are  their  brethren,  whom  you  Goths  beheld 
Alive,  and  dead ;  and  for  their  brethren  slain, 
Religiously  they  ask  a  sacrifice  : 
To  this  your  son  is  mark'd ;  and  die  he  must. 
To  appease  their  groaning  shadows  that  are  gone. 

Luc.   Away  with  him  !  and  make  a  fire  straight; 
And  with  our  swords,  upon  a  pile  of  wood, 
Let's  hew  his  limbs,  till  they  be  clean  consum'd. 

[Exeunt  Lucius,  Quintus,  Martius, 
and  Mutius,  with  Alarbus. 

Tam.    O  cruel,  irreligious  piety  ! 

Chi.   Was  ever  Scythia  half  so  barbarous  ? 

Dem.   Oppose  not  Scythia  to  ambitious  Rome. 
Alarbus  goes  to  rest ;  and  we  survive 
To  tremble  under  Titus'  threatening  look. 
Then,  madam,  stand  resolv'd  ;  but  hope  withal. 
The  self-same  gods,  that  arm'd  the  queen  of  Troy 
With  opportunity  of  sharp  revenge 
Upon  the  Thracian  tyrant  in  his  tent. 
May  favour  Tamora,  the  queen  of  Goths, 
(When  Goths  were  Goths,  and  Tamora  was  queen,) 
To  quit  the  bloody  wrongs  upon  her  foes. 

Re-enter  Lucius,  Quintus,  Martius,  and  Mu- 
tius, with  their  Swords  bloodt^. 
Luc.   See,  lord  and  father,  how  we  have  perform 'd 
Our  Roman  rites  :    Alarbus'  limbs  are  lopp'd. 
And  entrails  feed  the  sacrificing  fire. 
Whose  smoke,  like  incense,  doth  perfume  the  sky, 
Remaineth  nought,  but  to  inter  our  brethren. 
And  with  loud  'larums  welcome  them  to  Rome. 

Tit.  Let  it  be  so,  and  let  Andronicus 
Make  this  his  latest  farewell  to  their  souls. 

[  Trumpets  sounded,  and  the  Coffin* 
laid  in  t/ie  Tomb. 
In  peace  and  honour  rest  you  here,  my  sons ; 
Rome's  readiest  champions,  repose  you  here. 
Secure  from  worldly  chances  and  mishaps ! 
Here  lurks  no  treason,  here  no  envy  swells. 
Here  grow  no  inward  grudges ;  here  are  no  storms, 
No  noise,  but  silence  and  eternal  sleep  : 

Enter  Lavinia. 

In  peace  and  honour  rest  you  here,  my  sons ! 

'  It  was  supposed  that  the  ghosts  of  unburied  people  ap. 
pcarcd  to  solicit  the  rites  of  funeral.  *  Sufibnng. 


766 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Act  I. 


Lav.   In  peace  and  honour  live  lord  Titus  long ; 
My  noble  lord  and  father,  live  in  fame  ! 
Lo  !  at  this  tomb  my  tributary  tears 
I  render,  for  my  brethren's  obsequies ; 
And  at  thy  feet  I  kneel  with  tears  of  joy 
Shed  on  the  earth,  for  thy  return  to  Rome  : 
O,  bless  me  here  vv^ith  thy  victorious  hand. 
Whose  fortunes  Rome's  best  citizens  applaud. 

7VV.    Kind  Rome,  that  hast  thus  lovingly  reserv'd 
The  cordial  of  mine  age  to  glad  my  heart !  — 
Lavinia,  live ;  outlive  thy  father's  days. 
And  fame's  eternal  date,  for  virtue's  praise  ! 

Enter  Marcus  ANnaoNicus,  Saturninus, 
Bassianus,  and  others. 

Marc.   Long  live  lord  Titus,  my  beloved  brother, 
Gracious  triumpher  in  the  eyes  of  Rome  ! 

TVf.    Thanks,     gentle    tribune,     noble    brother 
Marcus. 

Marc>   And  welcome,  nephews,  from  successful 
wars, 
You  that  survive,  and  you  that  sleep  in  fame. 
Fair  lords,  your  fortunes  are  alike  in  all. 
That  in  your  country's  service  drew  your  swords : 
But  safer  triumph  is  this  funeral  pomp, 
That  hath  aspir'd  to  Solon's  happiness  6, 
And  triumphs  over  chance,  in  honour's  bed.  — 
Titus  Andronicus,  the  people  of  Rome, 
Whose  friend  in  justice  thou  hast  ever  been. 
Send  thee  by  me,  their  tribune,  and  their  trust, 
This  palliament  7  of  white  and  spotless  hue  ; 
And  name  thee  in  election  for  the  empire. 
With  these  our  late-deceased  emperor's  sons : 
Be  canditntus  then,  and  put  it  on. 
And  help  to  set  a  head  on  headless  Rome. 

Tit.   A  better  head  her  glorious  body  fits, 
Than  his  that  shakes  for  age  and  feebleness  : 
What !  should  I  don  8  this  robe,  and  trouble  you  ? 
Be  chosen  with  proclamations  to-day  ; 
To-morrow  yield  up  rule,  resign  my  life, 
And  set  abroad  new  business  for  you  all  ? 
Rome,  I  have  been  thy  soldier  forty  years. 
And  led  my  country's  strength  successfully, 
And  buried  one-and-twenty  valiant  sons. 
Knighted  in  field,  slain  manfully  in  arms. 
In  right  and  service  of  their  noble  country  : 
Give  me  a  staff  of  honour  for  mine  age, 
But  not  a  scepter  to  control  the  world  : 
Upright  he  held  it,  lords,  that  held  it  last. 

Marc.  Titus,  thou  shalt  obtain  and  ask  the  empery. 

Sat.   Proud   and   ambitious  tribune,  canst  thou 
tell?  — 

Tit.   Patience,  prince  Saturnine. 

Sat.  Romans,  do  me  right ;  — 

Patricians,  draw  your  swords,  and  sheath  them  not 
Till  Saturninus  be  Rome's  emperor :  — 
Andronicus,  'would  thou  wert  shipp'd  to  hell, 
Rather  than  rob  me  of  the  people's  hearts. 

Luc.   Proud  Saturnine,  interrupter  of  the  good 
That  noble-minded  Titus  means  to  thee  ! 

Tit.    Content  thee,  prince ;   I  will  restore  to  thee 
The  people's  hearts,  and  wean  them  from  themselves. 

Bas.    Andronicus,  I  do  not  flatter  thee, 
But  honour  thee,  and  will  do  till  I  die  ; 
My  faction  if  thou  strengthen  with  thy  friends, 
I  will  most  thankful  be  :   and  thanks,  to  men 
Of  noble  minds,  is  honourable  meed. 

«  The  maxim  alluded  to  is,  that  no  man  can  be  pronounced 
happy  before  his  death. 

'  A  robe,  ^  ,-,  c.  Do  on,  put  it  on. 


please 


Tit.   People  of  Rome,  and  people's  tribunes  here, 
I  ask  your  voices,  and  your  suffrages ; 
Will  you  bestow  them  friendly  on  Andronicus? 

Trib.   To  gratify  the  good  Andronicus, 
And  gratulate  his  safe  return  to  Rome, 
The  people  will  accept  whom  he  admits. 

Tit.   Tribunes,  I  thank  you :  and  this  suit  I  make, 
That  you  create  your  emperor's  eldest  son, 
Lord  Saturnine ;  whose  virtues  will,  I  hope 
Reflect  on  Rome,  as  Titan's  9  rays  on  earth. 
And  ripen  justice  in  this  common- weal : 
Then  if  you  will  elect  by  my  advice. 
Crown  him  and  say,  —  Long  live  our  emperor  ! 

Marc.   With  voices  and  applause  of  every  sort, 
Patricians,  and  plebeians,  we  create 
Lord  Saturninus,  Rome's  great  emperor  ; 
And  say,  —  Long  live  our  emperor  Saturnine  ! 

[J.  long  Flourish. 

Sat.   Titus  Andronicus,  for  thy  favours  done 
To  us  in  our  election  this  day, 
I  give  thee  thanks  in  part  of  thy  deserts, 
And  will  with  deeds  requite  thy  gentleness : 
And,  for  an  onset,  Titus,  to  advance 
Thy  name,  and  honourable  family, 
Lavinia  will  I  make  my  emperess, 
Rome's  royal  mistress,  mistress  of  my  heart. 
And  in  the  sacred  Pantheon  her  espouse  : 
Tell    me,   Andronicus,    doth   this    motion 
thee? 

Tit.   It  doth,  my  worthy  lord  ;  and,  in  this  match 
I  hold  me  highly  honour'd  of  your  grace : 
And  here,  in  sight  of  Rome,  to  Saturnine,  — 
King  and  commander  of  our  common-weal. 
The  wide  world's  emperor,  —  do  I  consecrate 
My  sword,  my  chariot,  and  my  prisoners ; 
Presents  well  worthy  Rome's  imperial  lord : 
Receive  them  then,  the  tribute  that  I  owe. 
Mine  honour's  ensigns  humbled  at  thy  feet. 

Sat.   Thanks,  noble  Titus,  father  of  my  life  ! 
How  proud  I  am  of  thee,  and  of  thy  gifts, 
Rome  shall  record ;  and,  when  I  do  forget 
The  least  of  these  unspeakable  deserts, 
Romans,  forget  your  fealty  to  me. 

Tit.   Now,  madam,  are  you  prisoner  to  an  em- 
peror; [To  Tamora. 
To  him,  that  for  your  honour  and  your  state. 
Will  use  you  nobly,  and  your  followers. 

Sat.    A  goodly  lady  trust  me  ;  of  the  hue 
That  I  would  choose,  were  I  to  choose  anew.  — 
Clear  up,  fair  queen,  that  cloudy  countenance  ; 
Though  chance  of  war  hath  wrought  this  change  of 

cheer, 
Thou  com'st  not  to  be  made  a  scorn  in  Rome : 
Princely  shall  be  thy  usage  every  way. 
Rest  on  my  word,  and  let  not  discontent 
Daunt  all  your  hopes ;  Madam,  he  comforts  you 
Can  make  you  greater  than  the  queen  of  Goths. 
Lavinia,  you  are  not  displeas'd  with  this  ? 

Lav.  Not  I,  my  lord  :  sith  •  true  nobility 
Warrants  these  words  in  princely  courtesy. 

Sat.  Thanks,  sweet  Lavinia.  —  Romans,  let  us  g 
Ransomeless  here  we  set  our  prisoners  free  : 
Proclaim  our  honours,  lords,  with  trump  and  dru 

Has.   Lord  Titus,  by  your  leave,  this  maid  is  min 
[Seizing  Lavini 

Tit.    How,  sir  ?  Are  you  in  earnest  then,  my  Ion 

JSas.    Ay,  noble  Titus  ;  and  resolv'd  withaU 
To  do  myself  this  reason  and  this  right. 

[The  Emperor  courts  Tamora  in  dumb  shot 
9  The  sun.  '  Since. 


Scene  II. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


■67 


Marc.  Suum  cuique  is  our  Roman  justice  : 
This  prince  in  justice  seizeth  but  his  own. 

Luc.   And  that  he  will,  and  sliall,  if  Lucius  live. 
Tit.   Traitors,   avaunt !   Where  is  tlie  emperor's 
guard  ? 
Treason,  my  lord ;   Lavinia  is  surpriz'd. 
Sat.   Surpriz'd  !  by  whom  ? 

Bas.  By  him  that  justly  may 

Bear  his  betroth'd  from  all  the  world  away. 

{^Exeunt  Marcus  and  Bassianus, 
with  Lavinia. 
Milt.   Brothers,  help  to  convey  her  hence  away, 
And  with  my  sword  I'll  keep  this  door  safe. 

[Exeunt  Lucius,  Quintus,  and  Martius. 
Tit.  Follow,  my  lord,  and  I'll  soon  bring  her  back. 
Mut.   My  lord,  you  pass  not  here. 
Tit.  What,  villain  boy  ! 

Barr'st  me  my  way  in  Rome  ?    [Titus  kilis  Mutius. 
Mut.  Help,  Lucius,  help. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Lnc.  My  lord,  you  are  unjust ;  and,  more  than  so. 
In  wrongful  quarrel  you  have  slain  your  son. 

TU.   Nor  tliou,  nor  he,  are  any  sons  of  mine  : 
My  sons  would  never  so  dishonour  me  : 
Traitor,  restore  Lavinia  to  the  emperor. 

Luc.  Dead,  if  you  will :   but  not  to  be  his  wife, 
That  is  another's  lawful  promis'd  love.  \^Exit. 

Sat.   No,  Titus,  no ;  the  emperor  needs  her  not, 
Not  her,  nor  thee,  nor  any  of  thy  stock  : 
I'll  trust,  by  leisure,  him  that  mocks  me  once; 
Thee  never,  nor  thy  traitorous  haughty  sons. 
Confederates  all  thus  to  dishonour  me. 
Was  there  none  else  in  Rome  to  make  a  stale  2  of, 
But  Saturnine  ?   Full  well,  Andronicus, 
Agree  these  deeds  with  that  proud  brag  of  thine. 
That  said'st,  I  begg'd  the  empire  at  thy  hands. 

Tit.    O  monstrous  !   what  reproachful  words  are 
these  ? 

Sal.  But, go  thy  ways;  go,  give'that  changing  piece 
To  him  that  flourish'd  for  her  with  his  sword : 
A  valiant  son-in-law  thou  shalt  enjoy  ; 
One  fit  to  bandy  with  thy  lawless  sons. 
To  ruffle  ^  in  the  commonwealth  of  Rome. 

Tit.  These  words  are  razors  to  my  wounded  heart. 

Sat.    And   therefore,    lovely    Tamora,   queen   of 
Goths,  — 
Tliat,  like  the  stately  Phoebe  'mongst  her  nymphs. 
Dost  ovcrshine  the  gallant'st  dames  of  Rome,  — 
If  thou  be  pleas'd  with  this  my  sudden  choice, 
Behold  I  choose  thee,  Tamora,  for  my  bride. 
And  will  create  thee  empress  of  Rome. 
Sjjeak,    queen  of   Goths,    dost   thou   applaud    my 

choice  ? 
And  here  I  swear  by  all  the  Roman  gods,  — 
Sith  priest  and  holy  water  are  so  near, 
And  tapers  bum  so  bright,  and  every  thing 
In  readiness  for  Hymeneus  stand,  — 
I  will  not  re-salute  the  streets  of  Rome, 
Or  climb  my  palace,  till  from  forth  this  place 
I  lead  espous'd  my  bride  along  with  nie. 

7am.   And  here,  in  sight  of  heaven,  to  Rome  I 
swear, 
If  Saturnine  advance  the  queen  of  Goths, 
She  will  a  handmaid  be  to  his  desires, 
A  loving  nurse,  a  mother  to  his  youth. 

Sat.     Ascend,    fair    queen.    Pantheon  :  —  I^ords, 
accompany 
Your  noble  emperor,  and  his  lovely  bride, 

'  A  stalking  horse.  ^  A  ruffler  was  a  bully. 


Sent  by  the  heavens  for  prince  Saturnine, 
Whose  wisdom  hath  her  fortune  conquered  ; 
There  shall  we  c6nsummate  our  spousal  rites. 

[^Exeunt  Saturninus,  and  his  Followers;  Ta- 
mora, and  her  Sons ;   Aaron,  and  Goths. 
Tit.   I  am  not  bid  *  to  wait  upon  this  bride  ;  — 
Titus,  when  wert  thou  wont  to  walk  alone, 
Dishonour'd  thus,  and  challenged  of  wrongs  ? 

Re-enter  Marcus,  Lucius,  Quintus,  and  Martius. 

Marc.  O,  Titus,  see,  O,  see,  what  thou  hast  done ! 
In  a  bad  quarrel  slain  a  virtuous  son. 

Tit.  No,  foolish  tribune,  no  :   no  son  of  mine,  — 
Nor  thou,  nor  these  confederates  in  the  deed 
That  hath  dishonour'd  all  our  family ; 
Unworthy  brother,  and  unworthy  sons  ! 

Luc.   But  let  us  give  him  burial,  as  becomes  ; 
Give  Mutius  buiial  with  our  brethren. 

Tit.   Traitors,  away  !  he  rests  not  in  this  tomb. 
This  monument  five  hundred  years  hath  stood, 
Which  I  have  sumptuously  re-edified  : 
Here  none  but  soldiers,  and  Rome's  servitors. 
Repose  in  fame  ;  none  basely  slain  in  brawls  :  — 
Bury  him  where  you  can,  he  comes  not  here. 

Marc.   My  lord,  this  is  impiety  in  you  : 
My  nephew  Mutius'  deeds  do  plead  for  him ; 
He  must  be  buried  with  his  brethren. 

Quin.Mart.  And  shall,  or  him  we  will  accompany. 

Tit.  And  shall  ?    What  villain  was  it  spoke  that 
word? 

Quin.  He  that  would  vouch 't  in  any  place  but  here. 

Tit.   What,  would  you  bury  him  in  my  despite? 

Marc.   No,  noble  Titus;  but  entreat  of  thee 
To  pardon  Mutius,  and  to  bury  him. 

Tit.  Marcus,  even  thou  hast  struck  upon  my  crest, 
And,   with   these   boys,    mine   honour   thou   hast 

wounded : 
My  foes  I  do  repute  you  every  one ; 
So  trouble  me  no  more,  but  get  you  gone. 

Marc.   He  is  not  with  himself;  let  us  withdraw. 

Quin.   Not  I,  till  Mutius'  bones  be  buried. 

[Marcus  an  rf  the  Sons  of  Titus  fen  eel. 

Marc.  Brother,  for  in  that  name  doth  nature  plead. 

Quin.  Father,  and  in  that  name  doth  nature  speak. 

l^it.  Speak  thou  no  more,  if  all  the  rest  will  speed. 

Marc.    Renowned    Titus,   more   tlian    half    my 
soul, — 

Luc.  Dear  father,  soul  and  substance  of  us  all,  — 

Marc.    Suffer  thy  brother  Marcus  to  inter 
His  noble  nephew  here  in  virtue's  nest. 
That  died  in  honour  and  Lavinia's  cause. 
Thou  art  a  Roman,  be  not  barbarous. 
The  Greeks,  upon  advice,  did  burj'  Ajax 
That  slew  himself;  and  wise  Laertes'  son 
Did  graciously  plead  for  his  funerals. 
Let  not  young  Mutius  then,  that  was  thy  joy, 
Be  barr'd  his  entrance  here. 

Tit.  Rise,  Marcus,  rise:  — 

The  dismal'st  day  is  this  that  e'er  I  saw. 
To  be  dishonour'd  by  my  sons  in  Rome !  — 
Well,  bury  him,  and  bury  me  the  next. 

[Mutius  is  put  into  the  Tomb. 

Luc.  There  lie  thy  bones,  sweet  Mutius,  with  thy 
friends. 
Till  we  with  trophies  do  adorn  thy  tomb ! 

All.    No  man  slied  tears  for  noble  Mutius  : 
He  lives  in  fame  that  died  in  virtue's  cause. 

Marc.   My  lord,  —  to  step  out  of  these  dreary 
dumps,  — 

4  Invited. 


•768 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Act  ir. 


How  comes  it,  tliat  the  subtle  queen  of  Goths 
Is  of  a  sudden  thus  advanc'd  in  Rome  ? 

TU.   I  know  not,  Marcus  ;  but,  I  know,  it  is ; 
Whether  by  device  or  no,  the  heavens  can  tell : 
Is  she  not  then  beholden  to  the  man 
That  brought  her  for  this  high  good  turn  so  far  ? 
Yes,  and  will  nobly  him  remunerate. 

Flourish.      Re-enter,  at  one  side,  Saturninus,  at- 
tended ;     Tamora,     Chiron,    Demetrius,    and 

Aaron  :   at  the  other,   Bassianus,  Lavinia,  and 

others. 

Sat.   So,  Bassianus,  you  have  play'd  your  prize ; 
Jove  give  you  joy,  sir,  of  your  gallant  bride. 

JBas.   And  you  of  yours,  my  lord  :  I  say  no  more. 
Nor  wish  no  less ;  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Sat.  Traitor,  if  Rome  have  law,  or  we  have  power. 
Thou  and  thy  faction  shall  repent  this  rape. 

Bas.  Rape,  call  you  it,  my  lord,  to  seize  my  own. 
My  true-betrothed  love,  and  now  my  wife  ? 
But  let  the  laws  of  Rome  determine  all ; 
Mean  while  I  am  possess'd  of  that  is  mine. 

Sat.   'Tis  good,  sir  :    You  are  very  short  with  us ; 
But,  if  we  live,  we'll  be  as  sharp  with  you. 

Bas.   My  lord,  what  I  have  done,  as  best  I  may. 
Answer  I  must,  and  shall  do  with  my  life. 
Only  thus  much  I  give  your  grace  to  know, 
By  all  the  duties  that  I  owe  to  Rome, 
This  noble  gentleman,  lord  Titus  here, 
Ife  in  opinion,  and  in  honour,  wrong'd ; 
That,  in  the  rescue  of  Lavinia, 
With  his  own  hand  did  slay  his  youngest  son, 
In  zeal  to  you,  and  highly  mov'd  to  wrath 
To  be  controll'd  in  that  he  frankly  gave  : 
Receive  him  then  to  favour,  Saturnine  ; 
That  hath  express'd  himself,  in  all  his  deeds, 
A  father,  and  a  friend,  to  thee,  and  Rome. 

Tit.   Prince  Bassianus,  leave  to  plead  my  deeds  ; 
'Tis  thou,  and  those,  that  have  dishonour'd  me  : 
Rome  and  the  righteous  heavens  be  my  judge, 
How  I  have  lov'd  and  honour'd  Saturnine  ! 

Tarn.    My  worthy  lord,  if  ever  Tamora 
Were  gracious  in  those  princely  eyes  of  thine. 
Then  hear  me  speak  indifferently  for  all ; 
And  at  my  suit,  sweet,  pardon  what  is  past. 

Sat.   What !  madam  !  be  dishonour'd  openly, 
And  basely  put  it  up  without  revenge  ? 

Tarn.   Not  so,  my  lord :   The  gods  of  Rome  fore- 
fend  5, 
I  should  be  author  to  dishonour  you  ! 
But,  on  mine  honour,  dare  I  undertake 
For  good  lord  Titus'  innocence  in  all, 
Whose  fury  not  dissembled,  speaks  his  griefs : 
Then,  at  my  suit,  look  graciously  on  him ; 
Lose  not  so  noble  a  friend  on  vain  suppose. 
Nor  with  sour  looks  afflict  his  gentle  heart.  — 


>  Aside 


My  lord,  be  rul'd  by  me,  be  won  at  last,    • 
Dissemble  all  your  griefs  and  discontents: 
You  are  but  newly  planted  in  your  throne  ; 
Lest  then  the  people  and  patricians  too. 
Upon  a  just  survey,  take  Titus'  part. 
And  so  supplant  us  for  ingratitude, 
(Which  Rome  reputes  to  be  a  heinous  sin,) 
Yield  at  entreats,  and  then  let  me  alone : 
I'll  find  a  day  to  massacre  them  all, 
And  raze  their  faction,  and  their  family, 
The  cruel  father,  and  his  traitorous  sons. 
To  whom  I  sued  for  my  dear  son's  life ; 
And  make  them  know,  what  'tis  to  let  a  queen 
Kneel  in  the  streets,  and  beg  for  grace  in 

vain.  — 
Come,  come,  sweet  emperor,  —  come,  Andronicu^ 
Take  up  this  good  old  man,  and  cheer  the  heart 
That  dies  in  tempest  of  thy  angry  frown. 

Sat.  Rise,  Titus,  rise ;  my  empress  hath  prevail'd. 

Tit.   1  thank  your  majesty,  and  her,  my  lord  : 
These  words,  these  looks,  infuse  new  life  in  me. 

Tarn.   Titus,  I  am  incorporate  in  Rome, 
A  Roman  now  adopted  happily. 
And  must  advise  the  emperor  for  his  good. 
This  day  all  quarrels  die,  Andronicus  ;  — 
And  let  it  be  mine  honour,  good  my  lord. 
That  I  have  reconcil'd  your  friends  and  you.  — 
For  you,  prince  Bassianus,  I  have  pass'd 
My  word  and  promise  to  the  emperor. 
That  you  will  be  more  mild  and  tractable.  — 
And  fear  not,  lords,  —  and  you  Lavinia  ;  — 
By  my  advice,  all  humbled  on  your  knees. 
You  shall  ask  pardon  of  his  majesty. 

Luc.  We  do,  and  vow  to  heaven  and  to  his  highness. 
That,  what  we  did,  was  mildly,  as  we  might, 
Tend'ring  our  sister's  honour,  and  our  own. 

Marc.   That  on  mine  honour  here  I  do  protest. 

Sat.   Away,  and  talk  not ;  trouble  us  no  more 

Tarn.   Nay,  nay,  sweet  emperor,  we  must  all  be 
friends  : 
The  tribune  and  his  nephews  kneel  for  grace  ; 
I  will  not  be  denied.      Sweet  heart,  look  back. 

Sat.  Marcus,  for  thy  sake,  and  thy  brother's  here. 
And  at  my  lovely  Tamora's  entreats, 
I  do  remit  these  young  men's  heinous  faults. 
Stand  up. 

Lavinia,  though  you  left  me  like  a  churl, 
I  found  a  friend ;  and  sure  as  death  I  swore, 
I  would  not  part  a  bachelor  from  the  priest. 
Come,  if  the  emperor's  court  can  feast  two  brides. 
You  are  my  guest,  Lavinia,  and  your  friends  j 
This  day  shall  be  a  love-day,  Tamora. 

Tit.   To-morrow,  an  it  please  your  majesty. 
To  hunt  the  panther  and  the  hart  with  me, 
With  horn  and  hound,  we'll  give  your  grace  bonjour. 

Sat.  Be  it  so,  Titus,  and  gramercy  too.    \^Exeunt. 


I 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  1.^ Before  the  Palace. 

Enter  Aaron. 

Aar.   Now  climbeth  Tamora  Olympus'  top. 
Safe  out  of  fortune's  shot :   and  sits  aloft, 
Secure  of  thunder's  crack,  or  lightning's  flash ; 
Advanc'd  above  pale  envy's  threat'ning  reach. 
6  Forbid. 


As  when  the  golden  sun  salutes  the  mom. 
And,  having  gilt  the  ocean  with  his  beams, 
Gallops  the  zodiack  in  his  glistering  coach, 
And  overlooks  the  highest-peering  hills; 
So  Tamora.  ——— 
Upon  her  wit  doth  earthly  honour  wait. 
And  virtue  stoops  and  trembles  at  her  frown. 
Then,  Aaron,  arm  thy  heart,  and  fit  thy  thoughts 


Scene  I. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


769 


To  mount  aloft  with  thy  imperial  mistress, 

And  mount  her  pitch  ;  whom  thou  in  triumph  long 

Hast  prisoner  held,  fetter'd  in  amorous  chain, 

And  faster  bound  to  Aaron's  charming  eyes. 

Than  is  Prometheus  tied  to  Caucasus. 

Away  with  slavish  weeds,  and  idle  thoughts  ! 

I  will  be  bright,  and  shine  in  pearl  and  gold, 

To  wait  upon  this  new-made  emperess. 

To  wait,  said  I  ?  to  wanton  with  this  queen, 

This  goddess,  this  Semiramis  ;  —  this  queen, 

This  syren,  that  will  charm  Rome's  Saturnine, 

And  see  his  shipwreck,  and  his  common-weal's. 

Holla  !  what  storm  is  this  ? 

E7iter  Chiron  and  Demetrius,  braving. 
Devi.  Chiron,thy  years  want  wit,thy  wit  wants  edge, 
And  manners,  to  intrude  where  I  am  grac'd  ; 
And  may,  for  aught  thou  know'st,  affected  be. 
Clii.   Demetrius,  thou  dost  overween  in  all ; 
And  so  in  this  to  bear  me  down  with  braves. 
'Tis  not  the  difference  of  a  year,  or  two. 
Makes  me  less  gracious,  thee  more  fortunate : 
I  am  as  able,  and  as  fit,  as  thou, 
To  serve,  and  to  deserve  my  mistress'  grace  ; 
And  that  my  sword  upon  thee  shall  approve, 
And  plead  my  passions  for  Lavinia's  love. 

Aar.   Clubs,  clubs !  6  these  lovers  will  not  keep 

the  peace. 
Dem.  Why,  boy,  although  our  mother,  unadvis'd, 
Gave  you  a  dancing-rapier  by  your  side. 
Are  you  so  desperate  grown,  to  threat  your  friends  ? 
Go  to ;  have  your  lath  glued  within  your  sheath, 
nil  you  know  better  how  to  handle  it 

Chi.   Mean  while,  sir,  with  the  little  skill  I  have. 
Full  well  shalt  thou  perceive  how  much  I  dare. 
Dem.    Ay,  boy,  grow  ye  so  brave?    [They  draw, 
-^o^'  Why,  how  now,  lords  ? 

So  near  the  emperor's  palace  dare  you  draw. 
And  maintain  such  a  quarrel  openly  ? 
Full  well  I  wot  7  the  ground  of  all  this  grudge; 
I  would  not  for  a  million  of  gold. 
The  cause  were  known  to  them  it  most  concerns  : 
Nor  would  your  noble  motlier,  for  much  more. 
Be  so  dishonour'd  in  the  court  of  Rome. 
For  shame,  put  up. 

^em-  Not  I ;  till  I  have  sheath'd 

My  rapier  in  his  bosom,  and  withal. 
Thrust  these  reproachful  speeches  down  his  throat. 
That  he  hath  breath'd  in  my  dishonour  here. 

Chi.    For  that  I  am  prepar'd  and  full  resolv'd,  — 
Foul-spoken    coward  !    that   thunder'st    with    thy 

tongue, 
And  with  thy  weapon  nothing  dar'st  perform. 

yiar.    Away,  I  say.  — 
Now  by  the  gods,  that  warlike  Goths  adore, 

This  petty  brabble  will  undo  us  all. 

Why,  lords,  —  and  think  you  not  how  dangerous 
It  is  to  jut  upon  a  prince's  right? 
What,  is  Lavinia  then  become  so  loose. 
Or  Bassianus  so  degenerate, 
riiat  for  her  love  such  quarrels  may  be  broach'd, 
"VVithout  controlment,  justice,  or  revenge? 
Young  lords,  beware !  — an  should  the  empress  know 
This  discord's  ground,  the  musick  would  not  please. 
CVji.    I  care  not,  I,  knew  she  and  all  the  world ; 
I  love  Lavinia  more  than  all  the  world. 
Dem.  Youngling,  learn  thou  to  make  some  meaner 
choice  • 
Lavinia  is  thine  elder  brother's  hope. 

"This  was  the  usual  outcry  for  assisUnce,  when  any  not 
in  the  street  happened,  r  Know. 


Aar.  Why,  are  ye  mad  ?  or  know  ye  not,  in  Rome 
How  furious  and  impatient  they  be, 
And  cannot  brook  competitors  in  love  ? 
I  tell  you,  lords,  you  do  but  plot  your  deaths 
By  this  device. 

Chi.  Aaron,  a  thousand  deaths 

Would  I  propose,  to  achieve  her  whom  I  love. 

Aar.   To  achieve  her  !  —  How  ? 

Dem.  Why  mak'st  thou  it  so  strange  ? 

She  is  a  woman,  therefore  may  be  woo'd ; 
She  is  a  woman,  therefore  may  be  won  ; 
She  is  Lavinia,  therefore  must  be  lov'd. 
ITiough  Bassianus  be  the  emperor's  brother. 
Better  than  he  have  yet  worn  Vulcan's  badge. 

jiar.   Ay,  and  as  good  as  Saturninus  may. 

T^         T-u  {Aside. 

Dem.   Then  why  should  he  despair,  that  knows 
to  court  it 
With  words,  fair  looks,  and  liberality  ? 
What,  hast  thou  not  full  often  struck  a  doe, 
And  borne  her  cleanly  by  the  keeper's  nose  ? 

Aar.  Why,  hark  ye,  hark  ye,  —  And  are  you  such 
fools. 
To  square  »  for  this  ?  Would  it  offend  you  then 
That  both  should  speed  ? 

Chi.  I'faith,  not  fcie. 

^  ^«^'  Nor  me. 

So  I  were  one. 

Aar.    For  shame,  be  friends ;  and  join  for  that 
you  jar. 
Tis  policy  and  stratagem  must  do 
That  you  affect ;  and  so  must  you  resolve  ; 
That  what  you  cannot,  as  you  would,  achieve, 
You  must  perforce  accomplish  as  you  may. 
Take  this  of  me,  Lucrece  was  not  more  chaste 
Than  this  Lavinia,  Bassianus'  love. 
A  speedier  course  than  lingering  languishment 
Must  we  pursue,  and  I  have  found  the  path. 
My  lords,  a  solemn  hunting  is  in  hand  ; 
There  will  the  lovely  Roman  ladies  troop : 
The  forest  walks  are  wide  and  spacious  ; 
And  many  unfrequented  plots  there  are, 
Fitted  by  kind  9  for  rape  and  villainy  : 
Single  you  thither  then  this  dainty  doe. 
And  strike  her  home  by  force,  if  not  by  words : 
This  way,  or  not  at  all,  stand  you  in  hope. 
Come,  come,  our  empress,  with  her  sacred  •  wit. 
To  villainy  and  vengeance  consecrate, 
Will  we  acquaint  with  all  that  we  intend ; 
And  she  shall  file  our  engines  with  advice, 
Tl)at  will  not  suffer  you  to  square  yourselves, 
But  to  your  wishes'  height  advance  you  both. 
The  emperor's  court  is  like  tlie  house  of  fame. 
The  palace  full  of  tongues,  of  eyes,  of  ears : 
The  woods  are  ruthless,  dreadful,  deaf,  and  dull ; 
There  speak,  and  strike,  shadow'd  from  heaven's  eye, 
And  revel  with  Lavinia. 

Chi.   Thy  counsel,  lad,  smells  of  no  cowardice. 
Dem.   Sit  fas  aut  nefas,  till  I  find  a  charm 
To  calm  these  fits,  per  Stygoy  per  manes  vehor. 

[Exennt. 
SCENE  II.  —  A  Forest  near  Rome.   A  Lodge  seen 
at  a  distance.      Horns,  and  Cry  of  Hounds  heard. 

Enter  Titus  Avukovicvs yunth  Hunters,  ^c.  Mar- 
cus, Lucius,  QuiNTus,  and  Martius. 
Tit.  The  hunt  is  up,  the  mom  is  bright  and  grey. 
The  fields  are  fragrant,  and  the  woods  are  green : 

•  Sinn-a  here  ii^nxfie*  accursed i  a  Latini»in. 
3  D 


770 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Acr  II. 


Uncouple  here,  and  let  us  make  a  bay, 
And  wake  the  emperor  and  liis  lovely  bride, 
And  rouse  the  prince ;  and  ring  a  hunter's  peal, 
That  all  the  court  may  echo  with  the  noise. 
Sons,  let  it  be  your  charge,  as  it  is  ours, 
'l''o  tend  the  emperor's  person  carefully  : 
I  have  been  troubled  in  my  sleep  this  night, 
But  dawning  day  new  comfort  hath  inspir'd. 

Horns  wind  a  Peal.     Enter  Saturninos,  Tamora, 

Bassianus,  Lavinia,    Chiron,  Demetrius,  and 

Attendants. 

Tit.   Many  good-morrows  to  your  majesty  ;  — 
Madam,  to  you  as  many  and  as  good  !  — 
I  promised  your  grace  a  hunter's  peal. 

Snt.    And  you  have  rung  it  lustily,  my  lords. 
Somewhat  too  early  for  you  ladies. 

Lav.  I  say,  no  ; 

I  have  been  broad  awake  two  hours  and  more. 

Sat.    Come  on  then,  horse  and  chariots  let  us  have, 
And  to  our  sport :  —  Madam,  now  shall  ye  see 
Our  Roman  hunting.  [To  Tamora. 

Marc.  I  have  dogs,  my  lord. 

Will  rouse  the  proudest  panther  in  the  chase. 
And  climb  the  highest  promontory  top. 

Tit.   And  I  have  horse  will  follow  where  the  game 
Makes  way,  and  run  like  swallovj^s  o'er  the  plain. 

Dem.   Chiron,  we  hunt  not,  we,  with  horse  nor 
hound, 
But  hope  to  pluck  a  dainty  doe  to  ground.    {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. —A  desert  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Aaron,  with  a  Bag  of  Gold. 
Aar.  He  that  had  wit,  would  think  that  I  had  none, 
To  bury  so  much  gold  under  a  tree. 
And  never  after  to  inherit  ^  it. 
Let  him,  that  thinks  of  me  so  abjectly. 
Know,  that  this  gold  must  coin  a  stratagem  ; 
Which,  cunningly  effected,  will  beget 
A  very  excellent  piece  of  villainy  ; 
And  so  repose,  sweet  gold,  for  their  unrest  3, 

[Hides  the  Gold. 
That  have  their  alms  out  of  the  emjjress'  chest. 

Enter  Tamora. 

Tarn.  My  lovely  Aaron,  wherefore  look 'st  thou  sad, 
When  every  thing  doth  make  a  gleeful  boast  ? 
The  birds  chaunt  melody  on  every  bush  ; 
The  snake  lies  rolled  in  the  cheerful  sun  ; 
The  green  leaves  quiver  with  the  cooling  wind, 
And  make  a  checquer'd  shadow  on  the  ground  : 
Under  their  sweet  shade,  Aaron,  let  us  sit. 
And  —  whilst  the  babbling  echo  mocks  the  hounds, 
Replying  shrilly  to  the  well-tun'd  horns. 
As  if  a  double  hunt  were  heard  at  once,  — 
Let  us  sit  down,  and  mark  their  yelling  noise  : 
Whiles  hounds  andhorns,  andsweet  melodious  birds, 
Be  unto  us,  as  is  a  nurse's  song 
Of  lullaby,  to  bring  her  babe  asleep. 

Aar.  Madam,  though  Venus  govern  your  desires, 
Saturn  is  dominator  over  mine ; 
What  signifies  my  deadly-standing  eye, 
My  silence,  and  my  cloudy  melancholy  ? 
My  fleece  of  woolly  hair  that  now  uncurls. 
Even  as  an  adder,  when  she  doth  unroll 
To  do  some  fatal  execution  ? 
Vengeance  is  in  my  heart,  death  in  my  hand, 
Blood  and  revenge  are  hammering  in  my  head. 
2  Possess.  3  Disquiet. 


Hark,  Tamora,  —  the  empress  of  my  soul. 

Which  never  hopes  more  heaven  than  rests  in  thee, — 

This  is  the  day  of  doom  for  Bassianus  ; 

His  Philomel  ^  must  lose  her  tongue  to-day  : 

Thy  sons  make  pillage  of  her  chastity. 

And  wash  their  hands  in  Bassianus'  blood. 

Seest  thou  this  letter  ?  take  it  up,  I  pray  thee. 

And  give  the  king  this  fatal-plotted  scroll :  — 

Now  question  me  no  more,  we  are  espied  ; 

Here  comes  a  parcel  *  of  our  hopeful  booty. 

Which  dreads  not  yet  their  lives'  destruction. 

l^am.  Ah,  my  sweet  Moor,  sweeter  to  me  than  life ! 

Aar.   No  more,  great  empress,  Bassianus  comes: 
Be  cross  with  him  :   and  I'll  go  fetch  thy  sons 
To  back  thy  quarrels,  whatsoe'er  they  be.        [Exit. 

Enter  Bassianus  and  Lavinia. 

Bas.  Who  have  we  here  ?  Rome's  royal  emperess, 
Unfurnish'd  of  her  well-beseeming  troop  ? 
Or  is  it  Dian,  habited  like  her  ; 
Who  hath  abandoned  her  holy  groves. 
To  see  the  general  hunting  in  this  forest  ? 

Tarn.   Saucy  controller  of  our  private  steps  ? 
Had  I  the  power,  that,  some  say,  Dian  had, 
Thy  temples  should  be  planted  presently 
With  horns,  as  was  Actaeon's ;  and  the  hounds 
Should  drive  upon  thy  new-transformed  limbs, 
Unmannerly  intruder  as  thou  art ! 

Lav.    Under  your  patience,  gentle  emperess, 
'  Tis  to  be  doubted,  that  your  Moor  and  you 
Are  singled  forth  to  try  experiments  : 
Jove  shield  your  husband  from  his  hounds  to-day  ! 
'Tis  pity  they  should  take  him  for  a  stag. 

Bas.    Believe  me,  queen,  your  swarth  Cimmerian 
Doth  make  your  honour  of  his  body's  hue. 
Why  are  you  sequester'd  from  all  your  train  ? 
Dismounted  from  your  snow-white  goodly  steed. 
And  wander'd  hither  to  an  obscure  plot, 
Accompanied  with  a  barbarous  Moor  ? 

Lav.    My  noble  lord,  I  pray  you  let  us  hence 
And  let  her  'joy  her  raven-coloured  love. 

Bas.  The  king,  my  brother,  shall  have  note  of  this. 

Lav.  Ay,  for  these  slips  have  made  him  noted  long : 
Good  king  !  to  be  so  mightily  abus'd  ! 

T'am.   Why  have  I  patience  to  endure  all  this  ? 

Enter  Chiron  and  Demetrius. 

Dcm.  How  now,  dear  sovereign,  and  our  gracious 
mother, 
Why  doth  your  highness  look  so  pale  and  wan  ? 

Tarn.  Have  I  not  reason,  think  you,  to  look  pale  ? 
These  two  have  'tic'd  me  hither  to  this  place, 
A  barren  and  detested  vale,  you  see  it  is  : 
The  trees,  though  summer,  yet  forlorn  and  lean, 
O'ercome  with  moss,  and  baneful  misletoe. 
Here  never  shines  the  sun  ;  here  nothing  breeds. 
Unless  the  nightly  owl,  oi  fatal  raven. 
And,  when  they  show'd  me  this  abhorred  pit, 
They  told  me,  here,  at  dead  time  of  the  night, 
A  thousand  fiends,  a  thousand  hissing  snakes. 
Ten  thousand  swelling  toads,  as  many  urchins  ^, 
Would  make  such  fearful  and  confused  cries. 
As  any  mortal  body,  hearing  it. 
Should  straight  fall  mad,  or  else  die  suddenly. 
No  sooner  had  they  told  this  hellish  tale, 
But  straight  they  told  me,  they  would  bind  me  here 
Unto  the  body  of  a  dismal  yew  ; 
And  leave  me  to  this  miserable  death. 

*  See  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  book  vi. 

*  Part.  <>  Hedge-hogs. 


II 


Scene  III. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


771 


I 


And  tlicn  tlicy  call'd  mc  foul  adulteress, 
Lascivious  Goth,  and  all  the  bitterest  terms 
Tiiat  ever  ear  did  hear  to  such  efFect. 
And,  had  yoU  not  by  wondrous  fortune  come, 
This  vengeance  on  me  had  been  executed  : 
Revenge  it,  as  you  love  your  motlier's  life. 
Or  be  ye  not  henceforth  call'd  my  children. 

Dem.    This  is  a  witness  that  I  am  thy  son. 

[^Stabs  Bassianus. 

Chi,   And  this  for  me,  struck  home  to  show  my 
strength.  [Stabbing  him  likewise. 

Lav.    Ay,  come,   Semiramis,  —  nay,   barbarous 
Tamora ! 
For  no  name  fits  thy  nature  but  thy  own  ! 

Tarn.  Give  me  thy  poniard ;  you  shall  know,  my 
boys, 
Your  mother's  hand  shall  right  your  mother's  wrong. 

Dem.  Stay,  madam,  here  is  more  belongs  to  her ; 
This  minion  stood  upon  her  chastity, 
Upon  her  nuptial  vow,  her  loyalty. 
And  witli  that  painted  hope  braves  your  mightiness  : 
And  shall  she  carry  this  unto  her  grave  ? 

Chi.  Drag  hence  her  husband  to  some  secret  hole. 

Tarn.   Let  not  this  wasp  outlive,  us  both  to  sting. 

Chi.   I  warrant  you,  madam ;  we  will  make  that 
sure. 

Lav.  O  Tamora !  Thou  bear'st  a  woman's  face 

Tarn.   I  will  not  hear  her  speak  ;  away  with  her. 

Lav.  Sweet  lords,  entreat  her  hear  me  but  a  word. 

Dem.   Listen,  fair  madam :    Let  it  be  your  glory 
To  see  her  tears  :   but  be  your  heart  to  them. 
As  unrelenting  flint  to  drops  of  rain. 

Lav.   When  did  the  tiger's  young  ones  teach  the 
dam? 
O.  do  not  learn  her  wrath ;  she  taught  it  thee  : 
The  milk  thou  suck'dst  from  her,  did  turn  to  marble; 
Even  at  thy  teat  tliou  hadst  thy  tyranny.  — 
Yet  every  mother  breeds  not  sons  alike  ; 
Do  thou  entreat  her  shew  a  woman  pity. 

[To  Chiron. 

Chi.   What !  wouldst  thou  have  me  prove  myself 
a  bastard  ? 

Lav.  'Tis  true  ;  the  raven  doth  not  hatch  a  lark  : 
Yet  I  have  heard,  (O  could  I  find  it  now  !) 
The  lion  mov'd  with  pity,  did  endure 
To  have  his  princely  paws  par'd  all  away. 
Some  say,  that  ravens  foster  forlorn  children, 
The  whilst  their  own  birds  famish  in  their  nests  : 
O,  be  to  me,  though  thy  hard  heart  say  no, 
Nothing  so  kind,  but  something  pitiful ! 

Tam.    I  know  not  what  it  means  ;  away  with  her. 

Lav.    O,  let  me  teach  thee  :   for  my  father's  sake, 
That  gave  thee  life,  when  well  he  might  have  slain 

thee, 
He  not  obdurate,  open  thy  deaf  cars. 

Tam.    Hadst  thou  in  person  ne'er  offended  me, 
Even  for  his  sake  am  I  pitiless :  — 
Remember,  boys,  I  pour'd  forth  tears  in  vain. 
To  save  your  brother  from  the  sacrifice  ; 
Rut  fierce  Andronicus  would  not  relent. 
Therefore,  away  with  her,  and  use  her  as  you  will ; 
Tlie  worse  to  her,  the  better  lov'd  of  me. 

Lav.    O  Tamora,  be  call'd  a  gentle  queen, 
And  with  thine  own  hands  kill  me  in  this  place; 
For,  'tis  not  life,  that  I  have  begg'd  so  long ; 
Roor  I  was  slain,  when  Bassianus  died. 

Tam.    What  begg'st  thou  then  ?  fond  woman,  let 
me  go. 

Lav.   'Tis  death  I  beg ;   O,  keep  mc  from  what's 
worse  ! 


And  tumble  mo  into  some  loathsome  pit; 
Where  never  man's  eye  may  behold  my  body: 
Do  this,  and  be  a  charitable  murderer. 

Tam.    So  should  I  rob  my  sweet  sons  of  their  fee. 
Dem.    Away,  for  thou  hast  st«iidus  here  too  long. 
Lav.   No  grace  ?  No  womanhood  ?  Ah,  beastly 
creature ! 
The  blot  and  enemy  to  our  general  name  ! 

Confusion  fall 

Chi.   Nay,  then  Rll  stop  your  mouth  :  —  Bring 
thou  her  husband; 

[Dragging  off  Lavinia. 
This  is  the  hole  where  Aaron  bid  us  hide  him. 

[Exeunt. 
Tam.   Farewell,  my  sons ;  see  that  you  make  her 
sure: 
Ne'er  let  my  heart  know  merry  cheer  indeed. 
Till  all  the  Andronici  be  made  away.  — 
Now  will  I  hence  to  seek  my  lovely  Moor, 
And  let  my  spleenful  sons  this  trull  deflour.  [Exit. 

SCENE  lY.  —  The  same. 
Enter  Aaron,  with  Quintus  and  Martius. 

Aar.   Come  on,  my  lords  ;  the  better  foot  before : 
Straight  will  I  bring  you  to  the  loathsome  pit. 
Where  1  espy'd  the  panther  fast  asleep. 

Qluin.    My  sight  is  very  dull,  whate'er  it  bodes. 

Mart.   And  mine,  1  promise  you :  wer't  not  for 
shame. 
Well  could  I  leave  our  sport  to  sleep  awhile. 

[MxnTix^sfaUs  into  the  Pit. 

Quin.   What,  art  thou  fallen  ?  Wliat  subtile  hole 
is  this, 
Whose  mouth  is  cover'd  with  rude-growing  briars  ; 
Upon  whose  leaves  are  drops  of  new-shed  blood, 
As  fresh  as  morning's  dew  distill'd  on  flowers? 
A  very  fatal  place  it  seems  to  me  :  — 
Speak,  brother,  hast  thou  hurt  thee  with  the  fall  ? 

Mart.    O,  brother,  with  the  dismallest  objdct 
That  ever  eye,  with  sight,  made  heart  lament. 

Aar.   [Aside.l   Now  will  I  fetch  the  king  to  find 
them  here  ; 
That  he  thereby  may  give  a  likely  guess. 
How  these  were  tliey  that  made  away  his  brother. 

[Exit  Aaron. 

Mart.   Why  dost  not  comfort  me,  and  help  me  out 
From  this  unhallow'd  and  blood-stained  hole  ? 

Quin.   I  am  surprised  with  an  uncouth  fear : 
A  chilling  sweat  o'er-runs  my  trembling  joints ; 
My  heart  suspects  more  than  mine  eye  can  sec. 

Mart-    To  prove  thou  hast  a  true-divining  heart, 
Aaron  and  thou  look  down  into  this  den. 
And  see  a  fearful  sight  of  blood  and  death. 

Quin.    Aaron  is  gone ;   and    my   compassionate 
heart 
Will  not  permit  mine  eyes  once  to  behold 
The  thing  whereat  it  trembles  by  surmise : 
O,  tell  me  how  it  is ;  for  ne'er  till  now 
Was  I  a  child,  to  fear  I  know  not  what. 

Mart.    Lord  Bassianus  lies  embrued  here, 
All  on  a  heap,  like  to  a  slaughter'd  lamb, 
In  this  detested,  dark,  blood-drinking  pit. 

Quin,  If  it  be  dark,  how  dost  thou  know  'tis  he  ? 

Mart.    Upon  his  bloody  finger  he  doth  wear 
A  precious  ring,  that  lightens  all  the  hole. 
Which,  like  a  taper  in  some  monument. 
Doth  shine  upon  the  dead  man's  earthy  cheek«» 
And  shows  the  ragged  entrails  of  this  pit : 
So  pale  did  slxine  the  moon  on  Ryraraus, 
3  D  2 


772 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Act  II. 


Wlien  he  by  night  lay  bath'd  in  maiden  blood. 

0  brother,  help  me  with  thy  fainting  hand, 
If  fear  hath  made  thee  faint,  as  me  it  hath,  — 
Out  of  this  fell  devouring  receptacle, 

As  hateful  as  Cocytus'  misty  mouth. 

Qiiin.  Reach  me  thy  hand,  that  I  may  help  thee  out ; 
Or,  wanting  strength  to  do  thee  so  much  good, 

1  may  be  pluck'd  into  the  swallowing  womb 
Of  this  deep  pit,  poor  Bassianus'  grave. 

I  have  no  strength  to  pluck  thee  to  the  brink. 

Mart.   Nor  I  no  strength  to  climb  without  thy 
help. 

Quin.  Thy  hand  once  more;  I  will  not  loose  again, 
Till  thou  art  here  aloft,  or  I  below  : 
Thou  canst  not  come  to  me,  I  come  to  thee. 

[Falls  in. 
Enter  Saturninus  and  Aaron. 

Sat.   Along  with  me  :  —  I'll  see  what  hole  is  here. 
And  what  he  is,  that  now  is  leap'd  into  it. 
Say,  who  art  thou,  that  lately  didst  descend 
Into  this  gaping  hollow  of  the  earth? 

Mart.   The  unhappy  son  of  old  Andronicus  ; 
Brought  hither  in  a  most  unlucky  hour, 
To  find  thy  brother  Bassianus  dead. 

Sat.  My  brother  dead?  I  know  thou  dost  but  jest; 
He  and  his  lady  both  are  at  the  lodge. 
Upon  the  north  side  of  this  pleasant  chase ; 
'Tis  not  an  hour  since  I  left  him  there. 

Mart.   We  know  not  where  you  left  him  all  alive, 
But,  out  alas  !  here  have  we  found  him  dead. 

Enter  Tamora,  loith  Attendants;  Titus  Andro- 
nicus, and  Lucius. 
Tarn.   Where  is  my  lord  the  king  ? 
Sat.   Here,  Tamora  ;  though  griev'd  with  killing 

grief. 
Tarn.    Where  is  thy  brother  Bassianus  ? 
Sat.   Now  to  the  bottom  dost  thou   search   my 
wound ; 
Poor  Bassianus  here  lies  murdered. 

Tarn.   Then  all  too  late  I  bring  this  fatal  writ, 

[Giving  a  Letter. 
The  complot  of  this  timeless  7  tragedy  ; 
And  wonder  greatly,  that  man's  face  can  fold 
In  pleasing  smiles  such  murderous  tyranny. 

Sat.   [Reads.]  jln  if  we  miss  to  meet  him  hand- 
somely, — 
Sweet  huntsman,  Bassianus  'tis,  we  mean,  — 
Do  thou  so  much  as  dig  the  grave  for  him  ; 
Thou  know'st  our  meaning  :   Look  for  thy  reivard 
Among  the  nettles  at  the  elder  tree. 
Which  overshades  the  mouth  of  that  same  pit. 
Where  ive  decreed  to  bury  Bassianus. 
Do  this,  and  purchase  us  thy  lasting  friends. 
O,  Tamora  !   was  ever  heard  the  like  ? 
This  is  the  pit,  and  this  the  elder  tree  : 
Look,  sirs,  if  you  can  find  the  huntsman  out. 
That  should  have  murder'd  Bassianus  here. 

Aar.   My  gracious  lord,  here  is  the  bag  of  gold. 

[Shoudng  it. 
Sat.    Two  of  thy  whelps,  [To  Tit.]   fell  curs  of 
bloody  kind. 
Have  here  bereft  my  brother  of  his  life  :  — 
Sirs,  drag  them  from  the  pit  unto  the  prison ; 
There  let  them  bide,  until  we  have  devis'd 
Some  never-heard-of  torturing  pain  for  them. 

Tarn.   What,  are  they  in  this  pit?   O  wondrous 
thing  ! 
How  easily  murder  is  discover'd  ! 
7  Untimely. 


Tit.   High  emperor,  upon  my  feeble  knee 
I  beg  this  boon,  with  tears  not  lightly  shed. 
That  this  fell  fault  of  my  accursed  sons, 
Accursed,  if  the  fault  be  prov'd  in  them, 

Sat.   If  it  be  prov'd  !  you  see  it  is  apparent,  — 
Who  found  this  letter  ?  Tamora,  was  it  you  ? 

Tarn.    Andronicus  himself  did  take  it  up. 

Tit.   I  did,  my  lord  :  yet  let  me  be  their  bail : 
For  by  my  father's  reverend  tomb,  I  vow. 
They  shall  be  ready  at  your  highness'  will, 
To  answer  their  suspicion  with  their  lives. 

Sat.   Thou  shalt  not  bail  them :   see,  thou  follow 
me. 
Some  bring  the  murder'd  body,  some  the  murderers ; 
Let  them  not  speak  a  word,  the  guilt  is  plain  : 
For,  by  my  soul,  were  there  worse  end  than  death. 
That  end  upon  them  should  be  executed. 

Tarn.   Andronicus,  I  will  entreat  the  king; 
Fear  not  thy  sons,  they  shall  do  well  enough. 

Tit.   Come,  Lucius,  come ;  stay  not  to  talk  with 
them.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  same. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Chiron,  with  Lavinia  ;  her 
Hands  cut  off,  and  her  Tongue  cut  out. 
Dem.  So  now,  go  tell,  an  if  thy  tongue  can  speak, 
Who  'twas  that  cut  thy  tongue,  and  ravish'd  thee. 
Chi.   Write  down  thy  mind,  bewray  thy  mean- 
ing so ; 
And,  if  thy  stumps  will  let  thee,  play  the  scribe. 
Dem.   See,  how  with  signs  and  tokens  she  can 

scowl. 
Chi.    Go   home,  call  for  sweet  water,  wash   thy 

hands. 
Dem.   She  hath  no  tongue  to  call,  nor  hands  to 
wash; 
And  so  let's  leave  her  to  her  silent  walks. 

Chi.  An  'twere  my  case,  I  should  go  hang  myself. 

Dem.    If  thou  hadst  hands  to  help  thee  knit  the 

cord.      [Exeunt  Demetrius  and  Chiron. 

Enter  Marcus. 
Marc.   Who's  this,  —  my  niece,  that  flies  away  so 

fast? 
Cousin,  a  word  ;  Where  is  your  husband  ?  — 
If  I  do  dream,  'would  all  my  wealth  would  wake  me ! 
If  I  do  wake,  some  planet  strike  me  down, 
That  I  may  slumber  in  eternal  sleep  !  — 
Speak,  gentle  niece,  what  stern  ungentle  hands 
Have  lopp'd,  and  hew'd,  and  made  thy  body  bare 
Of  her  two  branches  ?  those  sweet  ornaments. 
Whose  circling  shadows  kings  have  sought  to  sleep 

in; 
And  might  not  gain  so  great  a  happiness, 
As  half  thy  love  ?  Why  dost  not  speak  to  me  ?  — 
Alas,  a  crimson  river  of  warm  blood. 
Like  to  a  bubbling  fountain  stirr'd  with  wind. 
Doth  rise  and  fall  between  thy  rosed  lips. 
Coming  and  going  with  thy  honey  breath. 
But,  sure,  some  Tereus  hath  deflour'd  thee ; 
And,  lest  thou  shouldst  detect  him,  cut  thy  tongue. 
Ah,  now  thou  turn'st  away  thy  face  for  shame ! 
And,  notwithstanding  all  this  loss  of  blood,  — 
As  from  a  conduit  with  three  issuing  spouts,  — 
Yet  do  thy  cheeks  look  red  as  Titan's  face, 
Blushing  to  be  encounter'd  with  a  cloud. 
Shall  I  speak  for  thee  ?  shall  I  say,  'tis  so  ? 
O,  that  I  knew  thy  heart ;  and  knew  the  beast. 
That  I  might  rail  at  him  to  ease  my  mind  ! 


I 


Act  III.  Scene  I. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


773 


Sorrow  concealed,  like  an  oven  stopp'd, 

Doth  burn  the  heart  to  cinders  where  it  is. 

Fair  Pliilomela,  she  but  lost  her  tongue, 

And  in  a  tedious  sampler  sew'd  her  mind : 

But,  lovely  niece,  that  mean  is  cut  from  thee  ; 

A  craftier  Tereus  hast  thou  met  withal, 

And  he  hath  cut  those  pretty  fingers  off". 

That  could  have  better  sew'd  than  Philomel. 

O,  had  the  monster  seen  those  lily  hands 

Tremble,  like  aspen  leaves,  upon  a  lute. 

And  make  the  silken  strings  delight  to  kiss  them  ; 


He  would  not  then  have  touch'd  them  for  his  life : 

Or,  had  he  heard  the  heavenly  hannony, 

Which  that  sweet  tongue  hath  made, 

He  would  have  dropp'd  his  knife,  and  fell  asleep, 

As  Cerberus  at  the  Thracian  poet's  "  feet. 

Come,  let  us  go,  and  make  thy  father  blind  : 

For  such  a  sight  will  blind  a  father's  eye : 

One  hour's  storm  will  drown  the  fragrant  meads ; 

What  will  whole  months  of  tears  thy  father's  eyes? 

Do  not  draw  back,  for  we  will  mourn  with  thee ; 

O,  could  our  mourning  ease  thy  misery  !    [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  Rome.     A  Street. 

Enter  Senators,  Tribunes,  and  Officers  of  Justice, 
with  Martius  and  Quintus,  bound,  passing  on 
to  the  Place  of  Execution:  Titus  going  be/ore, 
pleading. 

Tit.  Hear  me,  grave  fathers !  noble  tribunes,  stay ! 
For  pity  of  mine  age,  whose  youth  was  spent 
In  dangerous  wars,  whilst  you  securely  slept ; 
For  all  my  blood  in  Rome's  great  quarrel  shed  j 
For  all  the  frosty  nights  that  I  have  watch'd  ; 
And  for  these  bitter  tears,  which  now  you  see 
Filling  the  aged  wrinkles  in  my  cheeks ; 
Be  pitiful  to  my  condemned  sons, 
Whose  souls  are  not  corrupted  as  'tis  thought ! 
For  two  and  twenty  sons  I  never  wept. 
Because  they  died  in  honour's  lofty  bed. 
For  these,  these  tribunes,  in  the  dust  I  write 

[  Throning  himself  on  the  Ground. 
My  heart's  deep  languor,  and  my  soul's  sad  tears. 
Let  my  tears  stanch  the  earth's  dry  appetite ; 
My  sons'  sweet  blood  will  make  it  shame  and  blush. 
\_Eieunt  Senators,  Tribunes,  ^c  with  the 
Prisoners. 
O  earth,  I  will  befriend  thee  more  with  rain, 
That  shall  distil  fiom  these  two  ancient  urns. 
Than  youthful  April  shall  with  all  his  showers : 
In  summer's  drought,  I'll  drop  upon  thee  still ; 
In  winter,  with  warm  tears  I'll  melt  the  snow, 
And  keep  eternal  spring-time  on  thy  face, 
So  thou  refuse  to  drink  my  dear  sons'  blood. 

Enter  Lucius,  iviih  his  Sword  drawn. 

O,  reverend  tribunes  !  gentle  aged  men  ! 
Unbind  my  sons,  reverse  the  doom  of  death ; 
And  let  me  say,  that  never  wept  before, 
My  tears  are  now  prevailing  orators. 

Luc.   O,  noble  fatlier,  you  lament  in  vain ; 
The  tribunes  hear  you  not,  no  man  is  by. 
And  you  recount  your  sorrows  to  a  stone. 

Tit.   Ah,  Lucius,  for  thy  brothers  let  me  plead : 
Grave  tribunes,  once  more  I  entreat  of  you. 

Luc.  My  gracious  lord,    no  tribune  hears  you 
speak. 

TU.   Why,  'tis  no  matter,  man  :  if  they  did  hear. 
They  would  not  mark  me  ;  or,  if  they  did  mark. 
All  bootless  to  them,  they'd  not  pity  me. 
Therefore  I  tell  my  sorrows  to  the  stones ; 
Who,  though  they  cannot  answer  my  distress. 
Yet  in  some  sort  they're  better  tlian  tlie  tribunes. 
For  that  they  will  not  intercept  my  tale  : 
When  I  do  weep,  they  humbly  at  my  feet 
Receive  my  tears,  and  seem  to  weep  with  me ; 


And,  were  they  but  attired  in  grave  weeds, 
Rome  could  afford  no  tribune  like  to  these. 
A  stone  is  soft  as  wax,  tribunes  more  hard  than 

stones : 
A  stone  is  silent,  and  offendeth  not ; 
And  tribunes  with  their  tongues  doom  men  to  death. 
But  wherefore  stand'st  thou  with  thy  weapon  drawn  ? 

Luc.  To  rescue  my  two  brothers  from  their  death : 
For  which  attempt,  the  judges  have  pronounc'd 
My  everlasting  doom  of  banishment. 

Tit.    O  happy  man  !  they  have  befriended  thee. 
Why,  foolish  Lucius,  dost  thou  not  perceive. 
That  Rome  is  but  a  wilderness  of  tigers  ? 
Tigers  must  prey  ;  and  Rome  affords  no  prey. 
But  me  and  mine  :   How  happy  art  thou  then. 
From  these  devourers  to  be  banished ! 
But  who  comes  with  our  brother  Marcus  here  ? 

Enter  Marcus  and  Lavinia. 

Marc.   Titus,  prepare  thy  noble  eyes  to  weep  ; 
Or,  if  not  so,  thy  noble  heart  to  break  ; 
I  bring  consuming  sorrow  to  thine  age. 

Tit.   Will  it  consume  me  ?  let  me  see  it  then. 

Marc.   This  was  thy  daughter. 

2'it.   Why,  Marcus,  so  she  is. 

Luc.    Ah  me  !  this  object  kills  me  ! 

Tit.   Faint-hearted    boy,   arise,   and  look  upon 
her:  — 
Speak,  my  Lavinia,  what  accursed  hand 
Hath  made  thee  handless  in  thy  father's  sight? 
What  fool  hath  added  water  to  the  sea  ? 
Or  brought  a  faggot  to  bright-burning  Troy  ? 
My  grief  was  at  the  height  before  thou  cam'st. 
And  now,  like  Nilus^,  it  disdaineth  bounds.  — 
Give  me  a  sword,  I'll  chop  off  my  hands  too  ; 
For  they  have  fought  for  Rome,  and  all  in  vain ; 
And  they  have  nurs'd  this  woe,  in  feeding  life; 
In  bootless  prayer  have  they  been  held  up, 
And  they  have  serv'd  me  to  effectless  use : 
Now,  all  the  service  I  require  of  them 
Is,  that  the  one  will  help  to  cut  the  other.  — 
'Tis  well,  Lavinia,  that  thou  hast  no  hands ; 
For  hands,  to  do  Rome  service,  are  but  vain. 

Luc.  Speak,  gentle  sister,  who  hath  martyr'd  thee? 

Marc.    O,  that  delightful  engine  of  her  thoughts. 
That  blab'd  them  with  such  pleasing  eloquence, 
Is  torn  from  forth  that  pretty  hollow  cage ; 
Where,  like  a  sweet  melodious  bird,  it  sung 
Sweet  varied  notes,  enchanting  every  ear ! 

Luc.   O,  say  thou  for  her,  who  hath  dune  this 
deed? 

Marc.   O,  thus  I  found  her,  straying  in  the  park, 
8  Orpheus.  •  The  river  Nile, 

3  D  3 


77't 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Act  III. 


Seeking  to  hide  herself,  as  doth  the  deer, 
That  hath  receiv'd  some  unrecuring  wound. 

Tit.    It  was  my  deer,  and  he  that  wounded  her, 
Ilath  Imrt  me  more,  than  had  he  kill'd  me  dead  : 
For  now  I  stand  as  one  upon  a  rock, 
Environ'd  with  a  wilderness  of  sea  ; 
Who  marks  the  waxing  tide  grow  wave  by  wave, 
Expecting  ever  when  some  envious  surge 
Will  in  his  brinish  bowels  swallow  him. 
This  way  to  death  my  wretched  sons  are  gone  ; 
Here  stands  my  other  son,  a  banish'd  man  ; 
And  here  my  brother,  weeping  at  my  woes  ; 
But  that,  which  gives  my  soul  the  greatest  spurn. 
Is  dear  Lavinia,  dearer  than  my  soul.  — 
Had  I  but  seen  thy  picture  in  this  plight, 
It  would  have  madded  me  ;  What  shall  I  do 
Now  I  behold  thy  lovely  body  so  ? 
Thou  hast  no  hands,  to  wipe  away  thy  tears ; 
Nor  tongue,  to  tell  me  who  hath  martyr'd  thee  : 
Thy  husband  he  is  dead  ;  and,  for  his  death. 
Thy  brothers  are  condemn'd,  and  dead  by  this :  — 
Look,  Marcus  !  ah,  son  Lucius,  look  on  her  ! 
When  I  did  name  her  brothers,  then  fresh  tears 
Stood  on  her  cheeks  ;  as  doth  the  honey  dew 
Upon  a  gather'd  lily  almost  wither'd. 

Marc.   Perchance,  she  weeps  because  they  kill'd 
her  husband : 
Perchance,  because  she  knows  them  innocent. 

Tit.  If  they  did  kill  thy  husband,  then  be  joyful. 
Because  the  law  hath  ta'en  revenge  on  them.  — 
No,  no,  they  would  not  do  so  foul  a  deed ; 
Witness  the  sorrow  that  their  sister  makes.  — 
Gentle  Lavinia,  let  me  kiss  thy  lips ; 
Or  make  some  sign  how  I  may  do  thee  ease  : 
Shall  thy  good  uncle,  and  thy  brother  Lucius, 
And  thou,  and  I,  sit  round  about  some  fountain  ; 
Looking  all  downwards,  to  beliold  our  cheeks 
How  they  are  stain'd  ?  like  meadows,  yet  not  dry 
With  miry  slime  left  on  them  by  a  flood  ? 
And  in  the  fountain  shall  we  gaze  so  long, 
Till  the  fresh  taste  be  taken  from  that  clearness. 
And  made  a  brine-pit  with  our  bitter  tears  ? 
Or  shall  we  cut  away  our  hands,  like  thine  ? 
Or  shall  we  bite  our  tongues,  and  in  dumb  shows 
Pass  the  remainder  of  our  hateful  days  ? 
What  shall  we  do  ?  let  us  that  have  our  tongues, 
Plot  some  device  of  further  misery. 
To  make  us  wonder'd  at  in  time  to  come. 

Luc.  Sweet  father,  cease  your  tears ;  for,  at  your 
grief. 
See,  how  my  wretched  sister  sobs  and  weeps. 

Marc.   Patience,  dear  niece :  —  good  Titus,  dry 
thine  eyes. 

Tit.   Ah,  Marcus,  Marcus  !  brother,  well  I  wot ', 
Thy  napkin  '^  cannot  drink  a  tear  of  mine. 
For  thou,  poor  man,  hast  drown'd  it  with  thine  own. 

Luc.   Ah,  my  Lavinia,  I  will  wipe  thy  cheeks. 

Tit.  Mark,  Marcus,  mark!  I  understand  her  signs: 
Had  she  a  tongue  to  speak,  now  would  she  say 
That  to  her  brother  which  I  said  to  thee  ; 
His  napkin,  with  his  true  tears  all  bewet. 
Can  do  no  service  on  her  sorrowful  cheeks  : 
O,  what  a  sympathy  of  woe  is  this  ? 
As  far  from  help  as  limbo  is  from  bliss  ! 

Enter  Aaron. 

Aar.   Titus  Andronicus,  my  lord  the  emperor 
Sends  thee  this  word,  —  That,  if  thou  love  thy  sons, 
Let  Marcus,  Lucius,  or  thyself,  old  Titus, 
1  Know  2  Handkerchief. 


Or  any  one  of  you,  chop  off  your  hand, 
And  send  it  to  the  king :   he  for  the  same, 
Will  send  thee  hither  both  thy  sons  alive ; 
And  that  shall  be  the  ransome  for  their  fault. 

Tit.    O,  gracious  emperor  !    O,  gentle  Aaron  ! 
Did  ever  raven  sing  so  like  a  lark. 
That  gives  sweet  tidings  of  the  sun's  uprise  ? 
With  all  my  heart,  PU  send  the  emperor 
My  hand  : 
Good  Aaron,  wilt  thou  help  to  chop  it  off? 

Luc.    Stay,  father;  for  that  noble  hand  of  thine, 
That  hath  thrown  down  so  many  enemies. 
Shall  not  be  sent :   my  hand  will  serve  the  turn  : 
My  youth  can  better  spare  my  blood  than  you  ; 
And  therefore  mine  shall  save  my  brothers'  lives. 

Marc.   Which  of  your  hands  hath  not  defended 
Rome, 
And  rear'd  aloft  the  bloody  battle-axe. 
Writing  destruction  on  the  enemy's  castle  ? 
O,  none  of  both  but  are  of  high  desert : 
My  hand  hath  been  but  idle ;  let  it  serve 
To  ransome  my  two  nephews  from  their  death ; 
Then  have  I  kept  it  to  a  worthy  end. 

Aar.  Nay,  come  agree,  whose  hand  shall  go  along, 
For  fear  they  die  before  their  pardon  come. 

Marc.   My  hand  shall  go. 

Luc.  By  heaven,  it  shall  not  go. 

Tit.   Sirs,  strive  no  more  j  such  wither'd  herbs  as 
these 
Are  meet  for  plucking  up,  and  therefore  mine. 

Luc.  Sweet  father,  if  I  shall  be  thought  thy  son, 
Let  me  redeem  my  brothers  both  from  death. 

Marc.   And,  for  our  father's  sake,  and  mother's 
care, 
Now  let  me  show  a  brother's  love  to  thee. 

Tit.   Agree  between  you  ;   1  will  spare  my  hand. 

I-,uc.   Then  I'll  go  fetch  an  axe. 

Marc.  But  I  will  use  the  axe. 

{Exeunt  Lucius  and  Marcus. 

Tit.  Come  hither,  Aaron  ;  I'll  deceive  them  both ; 
Lend  me  thy  hand,  and  I  will  give  thee  mine. 

Aar.    If  that  be  call'd  deceit,  I  will  be  honest. 
And  never,  whilst  I  live,  deceive  men  so  :  — 
But  I'll  deceive  you  in  another  sort. 
And  that  you'll  say,  ere  half  an  hour  can  pass. 

[Aside. 
[He  cuts  off  Titus's  Hand. 


Enter  Lucius  and  Marcus. 


des- 


Tit.  Now,  stay  your  strife ;  what  shall  be, 
patch'd.  — 
Good  Aaron,  give  his  majesty  my  hand  : 
Tell  him,  it  was  a  hand  that  warded  him 
From  thousand  dangers  ;  bid  him  bury  it ; 
More  hath  it  merited,  that  let  it  have. 
As  for  my  sons,  say,  I  account  of  them 
As  jewels  purchas'd  at  an  easy  price  ; 
And  yet  dear  too,  because  I  bought  mine  own. 

Aar.   I  go,  Andronicus  :   and  for  thy  hand. 
Look  by  and  by  to  have  thy  sons  with  thee :  — 

Their  heads,  I  mean O,  how  this  villainy 

[Aside. 
Doth  fat  me  with  the  very  thoughts  of  it ! 
Let  fools  do  good,  and  fair  men  call  for  grace, 
Aaron  will  have  his  soul  black  like  his  face.    [Exit. 

Tit.   O,  here  I  lift  this  one  hand  up  to  heaven, 
And  bow  this  feeble  ruin  to  the  earth  : 
If  any  power  pities  wretched  tears, 
To  that  I  call ;  —  What,  wilt  thou  kneel  with  me  ? 

[To  Lavinia. 


Scene  I. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


775 


I 


Do   Uien,  dear  heart  ;    for  heaven  shall  hear  our 

prayers ; 
Or  with  our  sighs  we'll  breathe  the  welkin ''  dim, 
And  stain  the  sun  with  fog,  as  sometime  clouds, 
When  they  do  hug  him  in  their  melting  bosoms. 

Marc.    O  !  brother,  speak  with  possibilities, 
And  do  not  break  into  these  deep  extremes. 

Tit.    Is  not  my  sorrow  deep,  having  no  bottom  ? 
Then  be  my  passions  "♦  bottomless  with  them. 

Marc.    But  yet  let  reason  govern  thy  lament. 

Tit.   If  there  were  reason  for  these  miseries, 
Then  into  limits  could  I  bind  my  woes : 
When  heaven  doth  weep,  doth  not  ihe  earth  o'erflow? 
If  the  winds  rage,  doth  not  the  sea  wax  mad, 
Threat'ning  the  welkin  with  his  big-swoln  face  ? 
And  wilt  thou  have  a  reason  for  this  coil  ?  * 
I  am  the  sea  ;  hark,  how  her  signs  do  blow ! 
She  is  the  weeping  welkin,  I  the  earth : 
Then  must  my  sea  be  moved  with  her  sighs  ; 
Then  must  my  earth  with  her  continual  tears 
Become  a  deluge,  overflow 'd  and  drown'd. 

Enter  a  Messenger,  with  two  Heads  and  a  Hand. 

Mess.   Worthy  Andronicuj,  ill  art  thou  repaid 
For  that  good  hand  thou  sent'st  the  emperor. 
Here  are  the  heads  of  thy  two  noble  sons ; 
And  here's  thy  hand,  in  scorn  to  thee  sent  back  ; 
Thy  griefs  their  sports,  thy  resolution  mock'd  : 
That  woe  is  me  to  think  upon  thy  woes, 
More  than  remembrance  of  my  father's  death. 

\_Exit. 

Marc.   Now  let  hot  JEtna  cool  in  Sicily, 
And  be  my  heart  an  ever-burning  fire  ! 
These  miseries  are  more  than  may  be  borne  ! 
To  weep  with  them  that  weep,  doth  ease  some  deal, 
But  sorrow  flouted  at  is  double  death. 

Luc.  Ah,  that  this  sight  should  make  so  deep  a 
wound. 
And  yet  detested  life  not  shrink  tliereat ! 
That  ever  death  should  let  life  bear  his  name. 
Where  life  hath  no  more  interest  but  to  breathe  ! 

[Lavinia  kisses  him. 

Marc.   Alas,  poor  heart  that  kiss  is  comfortless, 
As  frozen  water  to  a  starved  snake. 

Tit.  When  will  this  fearful  slumber  have  an  end  ? 

Marc.  Now,  farewell,  flattery :  Die,  Andronicus  : 
.JThou  dost  not  slumber  :   see,  thy  two  sons'  heads ; 
Thy  warlike  hand  ;  thy  mangled  daughter  here ; 
Thy  other  banish'd  son,  with  this  dear  sight 
Struck  pale  and  bloodless ;  and  thy  brother,  I, 
Even  like  a  stony  image,  cold  and  numb. 
Ah  !   now  no  more  will  I  control  thy  griefs  : 
Rend  oft'  thy  silver  hair,  thy  other  hand 
Gnawing  with  thy  teeth  ;  and  be  this  dismal  sight 
The  closing  up  of  our  most  wretched  eyes  ! 
Now  is  a  time  to  storm  j  why  art  thou  still  ? 

Tit.   Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Marc.  Why  dost  thou  laugh  ?  it  fits  not  witli  this 
hour. 

Tit.   Wliy,  I  have  not  another  tear  to  shed : 
Besides  this  sorrow  is  an  enemy. 
And  would  usurp  upon  my  wat'ry  eyes. 
And  make  tliem  blind  with  tributary  tears; 
Then  winch  way  shall  I  find  revenge's  cave  ? 
F(>r  these  two  heads  do  seem  to  speak  to  me ; 
And  threat  me,  I  shall  never  come  to  bliss, 
Till  all  these  mischiefs  be  rcturn'd  again. 
Even  in  tlieir  throats  that  have  committed  them. 

Come,  let  me  see  what  task  I  have  to  do. 

»  The  sky.  <  Suffbrings.  »  Stir,  buttle. 


You  heavy  people,  circle  me  about ; 
That  I  may  turn  me  to  each  one  of  you, 
And  swear  unto  my  soul  to  right  your  wrongs 
The  vow  is  made.  —  Come,  brother,  take  a  head ; 
And  in  this  hand  the  other  will  I  bear  : 
Lavinia,  thou  shalt  be  employed  in  these  things ; 
Bear  thou  my  hand,  sweet  wench,  between  thy  teeth. 
As  for  thee,  boy,  go,  get  thee  from  my  sight ; 
Thou  art  an  exile,  and  thou  must  not  stay  : 
Hie  to  the  Goths,  and  raise  an  army  there : 
And,  if  you  love  me,  as  I  think  you  do, 
Let's  kiss  and  part,  for  we  have  much  to  do. 

\  Exeunt  Titus,  Marcus,  and  Lavima. 
Luc.    Farewell,  Andronicus,  my  noble  father; 
The  woeful'st  man  that  ever  liv'd  in  Rome  ! 
Farewell,  proud  Rome  !  till  Lucius  come  again, 
He  leaves  his  pledges  dearer  tlian  his  life. 
Farewell,  Lavinia,  my  noble  sister  ; 
O,  'would  thou  wert  as  thou  'tofore  hast  been  ! 
But  now  nor  Lucius,  nor  Lavinia  lives, 
But  in  oblivion,  and  hateful  griefs, 
If  Lucius  live,  he  will  requite  your  wrongs  ; 
And  make  proud  Saturninus  and  his  empress 
Beg  at  the  gates,  like  Tarquin  and  his  queen. 
Now  will  I  to  the  Goths,  and  raise  a  power. 
To  be  reveng'd  on  Rome  and  Saturnine.        \^Exit. 

SCENE  11.  —  ^  Room  in  Titus's  House. 
A  Banquet  set  out. 

Enter  Titus,  Marcus,  Lavinia,  and  youvg  Lucius, 
a  Boy. 

Tit.   So,  so  ;  now  sit :  and  look  you  eat  no  more 
Than  will  preserve  just  so  much  strength  in  us 
As  will  revenge  these  bitter  woes  of  ours. 
Marcus,  unknit  that  sorrow-wreathen  knot ; 
Thy  niece  and  I,  poor  creatures,  want  our  hands 
And  cannot  passionate  our  tenfold  grief 
With  folded  arms.     This  poor  right  hand  of  mine 
Is  left  to  tyrannize  upon  my  breast ; 
And  when  my  heart,  all  mad  with  misery, 
Beats  in  this  hollow  prison  of  my  flesh, 
Then  thus  I  thump  it  down.  — 
Thou  map  of  woe,  that  thus  dost  talk  in  signs ! 

[To  Lavinia. 
When  thy  poor  heart  beats  with  outrageous  beating, 
Thou  canst  not  strike  it  thus  to  make  it  still. 
Wound  it  with  sighing,  girl,  kill  it  with  groans ; 
Or  get  some  little  knife  between  thy  teeth, 
And  just  against  thy  heart  make  thou  a  hole  ; 
That  all  the  tears  that  thy  poor  eyes  let  fall. 
May  run  into  that  sink,  and  soaking  in. 
Drown  the  lamenting  fool  in  sea-salt  tears. 

Marc.    Fye,  brother,  fye  !  teach  her  not  thus  to  lay 
Such  violent  hands  upon  her  tender  life. 

Tit.   How,   now !    has  sorrow  made   tlice   dote 
already  ? 
Why,  Marcus,  no  man  should  be  mad  but  I, 
What  violent  hands  can  she  lay  on  her  life  ! 
Ah,  wherefore  dost  tliou  urge  the  name  of  hands  ;  — 
To  bid  iEneas  tell  the  tale  twice  o'er. 
How  Troy  was  burnt,  and  he  made  miserable  ? 
O,  handle  not  the  theme,  to  talk  of  hands ; 
I^est  we  remember  still,  that  we  have  none.  — 
Fye,  fye,  how  frantickly  I  square  my  talk  ! 
As  if  we  should  forget  we  had  no  hands. 
If  Marcus  did  not  name  the  word  of  hands! 
Come,  let's  fall  to ;  and,  gentle  girl,  eat  this :  — 
Here  is  no  drink  !   Hark,  Marcus,  what  slie  says ; 
I  can  interpret  all  her  martvr'd  signs ;  — . 
3  D  4 


776 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Act  IV. 


She  says,  she  drinks  no  other  drink  but  tears, 

Brew'd  with  her  sorrows,  mesh'd  upon  her  cheeks  6; 

Speechless  complainer,  1  will  learn  thy  thought ; 

In  thy  dumb  action  will  I  be  as  perfect, 

As  begging  hennits  in  their  holy  prayers : 

Thou  shalt  not  sigh,  nor  hold  thy  stumps  to  heaven. 

Nor  wink,  nor  nod,  nor  kneel,  nor  make  a  sign, 

But  I,  of  these,  will  wrest  an  alphabet, 

And,  by  still  7  practice,  learn  to  know  thy  meaning. 

JBoy.    Good   grandsire,    leave  these   bitter   deep 
laments : 
Make  my  aunt  merry  with  some  pleasing  tale. 

Marc.   Alas,  the  tender  boy,  in  passion  mov'd. 
Doth  weep  to  see  his  grandsire's  heaviness. 

Tit.  Peace,  tender  sapling ;  thou  art  made  of  tears, 
And  tears  will  quickly  melt  thy  life  away.  — 

[Marcus  strikes  the  DLsh  with  a  Knife. 
What  dost  thou  strike  at,  Marcus,  with  thy  knife  ? 

Marc.    At  that  that  I  have  kill'd,  my  lord  ;  a  fly. 

Tit.  Out  on  thee,  murderer  !  thou  kill'st  my  heart; 
Mine  eyes  are  cloy'd  with  view  of  tyranny  : 
A  deed  of  death,  done  on  the  innocent, 
Becomes  not  Titus'  brother  :    Get  thee  gone  ; 
I  see  thou  art  not  for  my  company. 

Marc.   Alas,  my  lord,  I  have  but  kill'd  a  fly. 

Tit.  But  how,  if  that  fly  had  a  father  and  mother  ? 
How  would  he  hang  his  slender  gilded  wings, 


And  buz  lamenting  doings  in  the  air  : 
Poor  harmless  fly ! 

That  with  his  pretty  buzzing  melody, 
Came  here  t<f  make  us  merry ;  and  thou  hast  kill'd 
him. 

Marc.  Pardon  me,  sir  ;'twas  a  black  ill-fa vour'd fly. 
Like  to  the  empress'  Moor ;  therefore  I  kill'd  him. 

Tit.   O,  O,  O, 
Then  pardon  me  for  reprehending  thee, 
For  thou  hast  done  a  charitable  deed. 
Give  me  thy  knife,  I  will  insult  on  him ; 
Flattering  myself,  as  if  it  were  the  Moor, 
Come  hither  purposely  to  poison  me.  — 
There's  for  thyself,  and  that's  for  Tamora.  — 
Ah,  sirrah  !  9  — 

Yet  I  do  think  we  are  not  brought  so  low, 
But  that,  between  us,  we  can  kill  a  fly, 
That  comes  in  likness  of  a  coal-black  Moor. 

Marc.    Alas,  poor  man  !  grief  has  so  wrought  on 
him, 
He  takes  false  shadows  for  true  substances. 

Tit.   Come,  take  away.  —  Lavinia,  go  with  me : 
I'll  to  thy  closet ;  and  go  read  with  thee 
Sad  stories,  chanced  in  the  times  of  old.  — 
Come,  boy,  and  go  with  me ;  thy  sight  is  young, 
And  thou  shalt  read,  when  mine  begins  to  dazzle. 

{^Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  ^Before  Titus'5  House. 

Enter  Titus  and  Marcus.     Then   enter  young 
Lucius,  Lavinia  running  after  him. 

Boy.   Help,  grandsire,  help  !  my  aunt  Lavinia 
Follows  me  every  where,  I  know  not  why  :  — 
Good  uncle  Marcus,  see  how  swift  she  comes ! 
Alas,  sweet  aunt,  I  know  not  what  you  mean. 

Marc.   Stand  by  me,  Lucius ;  do  not  fear  thine 
aunt. 

Tit.   She  loves  thee,  boy,  too  well  to  do  thee  harm. 

Boy.   Ay,  when  my  father  was  in  Rome,  she  did. 

Marc.   What  means  my  niece  Lavinia  by  these 
signs  ? 

Tit.    Fear  her  not,  Lucius  :  —  Somewhat  doth  she 
mean  : 
See,  Lucius,  see,  how  much  she  makes  of  thee  : 
Somewhither  would  she  have  thee  go  with  her. 
Ay,  boy,  Cornelia  never  with  more  care 
Read  to  her  sons,  than  she  hath  read  to  thee, 
Sweet  poetry,  and  Tully's  Orator.  8 
Canst  thou  not  guess  wherefore  she  plies  thee  thus  ? 

Boy.   My  lord,  I  know  not,  I,  nor  can  I  guess, 
Unless  some  fit  or  frenzy  do  possess  her : 
For  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say  full  oft, 
Extremity  of  griefs  would  make  men  mad ; 
And  I  have  read  that  Hecuba  of  Troy 
Ran  mad  through  sorrow  :   That  made  me  to  fear  : 
Although,  my  lord,  I  know,  my  noble  aunt 
Loves  me  as  dear  as  e'er  my  mother  did, 
And  would  not,  but  in  fury,  fright  my  youth  : 
Which  made  me  down  to  throw  my  books,  and  fly  j 
Causeless,  perhaps ;   But  pardon  me,  sweet  aunt : 
And,  madam,  if  my  uncle  Marcus  go, 
I  will  most  willingly  attend  your  ladyship. 

••  An  allusion  to  brewing.    ^  Constant  or  continual  practice. 
*  Tully's  Treatise  on  Eloquence,  entitled  Orator. 


Marc.   Lucius,  I  will. 

[Lavinia  turns  over  the  Books  which 
Lucius  has  let  fall. 

Tit.  How  now,  Lavinia  ?  —  Marcus,  what  means 
this? 
Some  book  there  is  that  she  desires  to  see :  — 
Which  is  it,  girl,  of  these  ?  —  Open  them,  boy.  — 
But  thou  art  deeper  read,  and  better  skill'd ; 
Come,  and  take  choice  of  all  my  library, 
And  so  beguile  thy  sorrow,  till  the  heavens 
Reveal  the  vile  contriver  of  this  deed.  — 
Why  lifts  she  up  her  arms  in  sequence  thus  ? 

Marc.   I  think,  she  means,  that  there  was  more 
than  one 
Confederate  in  the  fact :  —  Ay,  more  there  was :  — 
Or  else  to  heaven  she  heaves  them  for  revenge. 

Tit.   Lucius,  what  book  is  that  she  tosseth  so? 

Boy.   Grandsire,  'tis  Ovid's  Metamorphosis ; 
My  mother  gave 't  me. 

Marc.  For  love  of  her  that's  gone. 

Perhaps  she  cull'd  it  from  among  the  rest. 

Tit.   Soft !  see,  how  busily  she  turns  the  leaves  ! 
Help  her :  — 

What  would  she  find ;  —  Lavinia,  shall  I  read  ? 
This  is  the  tragic  tale  of  Philomel, 
And  treats  of  Tereus'  treason,  and  his  rape ; 
And  rape,  I  fear,  was  root  of  thine  annoy. 

Marc.    See,  brother,  see  ;  note,  how  she  quotes  ' 
the  leaves. 

Tit.  Lavinia,  wert  thou  thus  surpris'd,  sweet  girl, 
Ravish'd  and  wrong'd,  as  Philomela  was, 
Forc'd  in  the  ruthless  "^,  vast,  and  gloomy  woods  ?  — 

See,  see ! 

Ay,  such  a  place  there  is,  where  we  did  hunt, 
(O,  had  we  never,  never,  hunted  there !) 

9  This  was  formerly  not  a  disrespectful  expression, 
'  Observes.  2  ntiless. 


Scene  I. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


777 


Pattern'd  by  that  the  poet  Iiere  describes, 
By  nature  made  for  murders,  and  for  rapes. 

Marc.    O,  why  should  nature  build  so  foul  a  den, 
Unless  the  gods  delight  in  tragedies  ! 

Tit.    Give  signs,  sweet  girl,  —  for  here  are  none 
but  friends,  — 
What  Roman  lord  it  was  durst  do  the  deed  : 
Or  slunk  not  Saturnine,  as  Tarquin  erst, 
That  left  the  camp  to  sin  in  Lucrece'  bed  ? 

Marc.  Sit  down,  sweet  niece  ;  —  brother,  sit  down 
by  me.  — 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  or  Mercury, 
Inspire  me,  that  I  may  this  treason  find  !  — 
My  lord,  look  here  ;  —  Look  here,  L^vinia  : 
This  sandy  plot  is  plain  ;  guide,  if  thou  canst. 
This  after  me,  when  I  have  writ  my  name 
Without  the  help  of  any  hand  at  all. 

[He  writes  his  Nanie  u'ith  his  Staffs  and  guides 
it  with  his  Feet  and  Mouth. 
Curs'd  be  that  heart,  that  forc'd  us  to  this  shift !  — 
Write  thou,  good  niece  ;  and  here  display,  at  last, 
What  Heaven  will  have  discover'd  for  revenge : 
Heaven  guide  thy  pen  to  print  thy  sorrows  plain, 
That  we  may  know  the  traitors,  and  the  truth  ! 

[Site  takes  the  Staff  in  her  Mouthy  and  guides  it 
with  Iter  Stumps,  and  writes. 

Tit.  O,  do  you  read,  my  lord,  wliat  she  hath  writ  ? 
Stuprum  —  Chiron  —  Demetri^is. 

Marc.  What,  what !  —  the  lustful  sons  of  Tamora 
Performers  of  this  heinous,  bloody  deed  ? 

Tit.   Magne  Doniinator  poti, 
Tarn  lentus  audis  scelera  ?  tarn  lentus  tides  ? 

Marc.   O,  calm  thee,  gentle  lord  !    although   I 
know. 
There  is  enough  written  upon  this  earth. 
To  stir  a  mutiny  in  the  mildest  thoughts, 
And  arm  the  minds  of  infants  to  exclaims. 
My  lord,  kneel  down  with  me  ;  Lavinia,  kneel ; 
And  kneel,  sweet  boy,  the  Roman  Hector's  hope  ; 
And  swear  with  me,  —  as  with  the  woeful  feere^, 
And  father,  of  that  chaste  dishonour'd  dame. 
Lord  Junius  Brutus  sware  for  Lucrece'  rape, 
That  we  will  prosecute,  by  good  advice. 
Mortal  revenge  upon  these  traitorous  Goths, 
And  see  their  blood,  or  die  with  this  reproach. 

Tit.   'Tis  sure  enough,  an  you  knew  how. 
But  if  you  hurt  these  bear-whelps,  then  beware  : 
The  dam  will  wake  ;  and,  if  she  wind  you  once. 
She's  with  the  lion  deeply  still  in  league. 
And,  when  he  sleeps,  will  she  do  what  she  list. 
You're  a  young  huntsman,  Marcus  ;  let  it  alone ; 
And,  come,  I  will  go  get  a  leaf  of  brass. 
And  with  a  gad  ••  of  steel  will  write  these  words, 
And  lay  it  by :   the  angry  northern  wind 
Will  blow  these  i^nds,  like  Sibyl's  leaves,  abroad. 
And  Where's  your  lesson  then?— Boy,  what  say  you? 

Boi/.    I  say,  my  lord,  that  if  I  were  a  man. 
Their  mother's  bed-chamber  should  not  be  safe 
For  these  bad  bondmen  to  the  yoke  of  Rome. 

Marc.   Ay,  that's  my  boy  !  thy  father  hatli  full  oft 
For  this  ungrateful  country  done  the  like. 

Hot/.    And  uncle,  so  will  I,  an  if  I  live. 

Tit.   Come,  go  with  me  into  mine  armoury; 
I^ucius,  I'll  fit  thee  ;  and  withal,  my  boy 
Shall  carry  from  me  to  the  empress'  sons 
Presents,  that  I  intend  to  send  them  both  : 
Come,  come;  thou'ltdo  thy  message,  wilt  thou  not? 

Bot/.  Ay,  with  my  dagger  in  their  bosoms,  grand- 
sire. 
3  Husband  <  The  point  of  a  siniar. 


Tit.   No,  boy,  not  so ;    I'll  teach  thee  another 
course. 
Lavinia,  come  :  —  Marcus,  look  to  my  house ; 
Lucius  and  I'll  go  brave  it  at  the  court ; 
Ay,  marry,  will  we,  sir :   and  we'll  be  waited  on. 
[Exeu7U  Titus,  Lavinia,  and  Boy. 

Marc.  O  heavens,  can  you  hear  a  good  man  groan, 
A  nd  not  relent,  or  not  compassion  him  ? 
Marcus,  attend  him  in  his  ecstasy ; 
That  hath  more  scars  of  sorrow  in  his  heart, 
Than  foe-men's  marks  upon  his  batter 'd  siiield  : 
But  yet  so  juh-t,  tliat  he  will  not  revenge: 
Revenge  the  heavens  for  old  Andronicus  !       [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter   Aaron,    Chirov,    and  Demetrius,  at   one 
Door :  at  another  Door,  young  Lucius,  and  an 
Attendant,  unth  a  bundle  of  Weapons,  and  Verses 
writ  upon  them. 

Chi.   Demetrius,  here's  the  son  of  Lucius  ; 
He  hath  some  message  to  deliver  to  us. 

Aar.  Ay,  some  mad  message  from  his  mad  grand- 
father. 
Boy.   My  lords,  with  all  the  humbleness  I  may, 
I  greet  your  honours  from  Andronicus ;  — 
And  pray  the  Roman  gods,  confound  you  both. 

[Aside. 

Dem.  Gramercy  *, lovely  Lucius :  What's  the  news? 

Boy.  That  you  are  both  decipher'd,  that's  the  news. 

For  villains   mark'd  with  rape.    [Aside.]    May  it 

please  you. 
My  grandsire,  well  advis'd,  hath  sent  by  me 
The  goodliest  weapons  of  his  armoury, 
To  gratify  your  honourable  youth, 
The  hope  of  Rome ;  for  so  he  bade  me  say  ; 
And  so  I  do,  and  with  his  gifts  present 
Your  lordships,  that  whenever  you  have  need. 
You  may  be  armed  and  appointed  well : 
And  so  I  leave  you  both,  [Aside.]  likebloody  villains. 
[Exeunt  Boy  and  Attendant. 
Dem.  What's  here  ?  A  scroll ;  and  written  round 
about  ? 
Let's  see. 

Integer  vitce,  scelerisque  fnirus, 
Nbn  eget  Mauri  jaculis,  nee  arcu. 

Chi.   O,  tis  a  verse  in  Horace  ;  I  know  it  well : 
I  read  it  in  the  grammar  long  ago. 

Aar.   Ay,  just !  —  a  verse  in  Horace  :  —  right, 
you  have  it. 
Now,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  an  ass !       ^ 
Here's  no  sound  jest !  the  old  man  hath 

found  their  guilt ; 
And  sends  the  weapons  wrapp'd  about 

with  lines. 
That  wound,  beyond  their  feeling,  to  the 

quick. 
But  were  our  witty  empress  well  a-foot. 
She  would  applaud  Andronicus'  conceit. 
But  let  her  rest  in  her  unrest  awhile.  — 
And  now,  young  lords,  was't  not  a  happy  star 
Led  us  to  Rome,  strangers,  and  more  than  so, 
Captives,  to  be  advanced  to  this  height  ? 
It  did  me  good,  befote  the  palace  gate 
To  brave  the  tribune  in  his  brother's  hearing. 

Dem.   But  me  more  good,  to  see  so  great  a  lord 
Basely  insinuate,  and  send  us  gifts. 

Aar.    Had  he  not  reason,  lord  Demetrius  ? 
Did  you  not  use  liis  daughter  very  friendly  ? 

[Flourish. 
*  i.  c.  Grand  mcrci  ;  great  thanks. 


..  Aside, 


778 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS, 


Act  IV. 


Dem.  Why  dotlieemperor's  trumpets  flourish  thus? 
Chi.   Belike  for  joy  the  emperor  hath  a  son. 
Dem.   Soft ;  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  a  Nurse,  with  a  Black-a-moor  Child  in  her 
Arms. 

Nur.  Good  morrow,  lords  : 

O,  tell  me,  did  you  see  Aaron  the  Moor  ? 

Aar.   Well,  more,  or  less,  or  ne'er  a  whit  at  all, 
Here  Aaron  is :  and  what  with  Aaron  now  ? 

Nur.   O,  gentle  Aaron,  we  are  all  undone  ! 
Now  help,  or  woe  betide  thee  evermore  ! 

Aar.   Why,  what  a  caterwauling  dost  thou  keep  ? 
What  dost  thou  wrap  and  fumble  in  thine  arms  ? 

Nur.   O,  that  which  I  would  hide  from  heaven's 
eye. 
Our  empress'  shame,  and  stately  Rome's  disgrace;  — 
She  is  deliver'd,  lords,  she  is  deliver'd. 

Aar.    To  whom  ? 

Nur.  I  mean,  she's  brought  to  bed. 

Aar.  Well,  Jove 

Give  her  good  rest !  What  hath  she  got  ? 

Nur.  A  devil. 

Aar.   Why  then  she's  the  devil's  dam ;  a  joyful 
issue. 

Nur.  A  joyless,  dismal, black, and  sorrowful  issue: 
Here  is  the  babe,  as  loathsome  as  a  toad 
Amongst  the  fairest  breeders  of  our  clime. 
The  empress  sends  it  thee,  thy  stamp,  thy  seal. 
And  bids  thee  christen  it  with  thy  dagger's  point. 

Aar.   Out,  out,  you  wretch  !  is  black  so  base  a 
hue? 
Sweet  blowse,  you  are  a  beauteous  blossom,  sure. 

Dem.   Villain,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

Aar.  Done  !  that  which  thou 

Canst  not  undo. 

Chi.  Thou  hast  undone  our  mother. 

Dem.   Woe  to  her  chance,  accurs'd  her  loathed 
choice ! 
Woe  to  the  offspring  of  so  foul  a  fiend  ! 

Chi.   It  shall  not  live. 

Aar.  It  shall  not  die. 

Nur.    Aaron,  it  must :  the  mother  wills  it  so. 

Aar.  What,  must  it,  nurse  ?  then  let  no  man  but  I, 
Do  execution  on  my  flesh  and  blood. 

Dem.  I'll  broach^  the  tadpole  on  my  rapier's  point; 
Nurse,  give  it  me  ;  my  sword  shall  soon  despatch  it. 

Aar.  Sooner  this  sword  shall  plough  thy  bowels  up. 
[  Takes  Che  Child  from  the  Nurse,  and  draws. 
Stay,  murderous  villains!  will  you  kill  your  brother? 
Now,  by  the  burning  tapers  of  the  sky. 
He  dies  upon  my  scimitar's  sharp  point, 
That  touches  this  my  first-born  son  and  heir  ! 
I  tell  you,  younglings,  not  Enceladus, 
With  all  his  threat'ning  band  of  Typhon's  brood. 
Nor  great  Alcides,  nor  the  god  of  war. 
Shall  seize  this  prey  out  of  his  father's  hands. 
What,  what ;  ye  sanguine,  shallow-hearted  boys  ! 
Ye  white-lim'd  walls  !  ye  ale-house  painted  signs  ! 
Coal  black  is  better  than  another  hue. 
In  that  it  scorns  to  bear  another  hue  : 
For  all  the  water  in  the  ocean 
Can  never  turn  a  swan's  black  legs  to  white, 
Although  she  lave  them  hourly  in  the  flood. 
U'ell  the  empress  from  me,  I  am  of  age 
To  keep  mine  own  ;  excuse  it  how  she  can. 

Dem.   Wilt  thou  betray  thy  noble  mistress  thus  ? 

Aar.    My  mistress  is  my  mistress;   this,  myself; 
The  vigour  and  the  picture  of  my  youth  : 
6  Spit. 


This,  before  all  the  world,  do  I  prefer ; 
This,  maugre  7  all  the  world,  will  I  keep  safe 
Or  some  of  you  shall  smoke  for  it  in  Rome. 

Dem.   By  this  our  mother  is  for  ever  sham'd. 

Chi.    Rome  will  despise  her  for  this  foul  escape. 

Nur.  The  emperor,  in  his  rage,  will  doom  her  death. 

Chi.   1  blush  to  think  upon  this  ignomy.  '^ 

Aar.  Why,  there's  the  privilege  your  beauty  bears : 
Fye,  treacherous  hue  !  that  will  betray  with  blushing 
The  close  enacts  and  counsels  of  the  heart ! 
Here's  a  young  lad  fram'd  of  another  leer  9  : 
Look  how  the  black  slave  smiles  upon  the  father ; 
As  who  should  say.  Old  lad,  lam  thine  own. 
He  is  your  brother,  lords ;  sensibly  fed 
Of  that  self-blood  that  first  gave  life  to  you  ; 
Although  my  seal  be  stamped  in  his  face. 

Nur.    Aaron,  what  shall  I  say  unto  the  empress  ? 

Dem.    Advise  thee,  Aaron,  what  is  to  be  done, 
And  we  will  all  subscribe  to  thy  advice  ; 
Save  thou  the  child,  so  we  may  all  be  safe. 

Aar.   Then  sit  we  down,  and  let  us  all  consult. 
My  son  and  I  will  have  the  wind  of  you  : 
Keep  there  :   Now  talk  at  pleasure  of  your  safety. 
[Thet/  sit  on  the  Ground. 

Dem.   How  many  women  saw  this  child  of  his? 

Aar.   Why  so,  brave  lords !  when  we  all  join  in 
league, 
I  am  a  lamb  :   but  if  you  brave  the  Moor, 
The  chafed  boar,  the  mountain  lioness. 
The  ocean  swells  not  so  as  Aaron  storms.  — 
But,  say  again,  how  many  saw  the  child  ? 

Nur.   Cornelia  the  midwife,  and  myself. 
And  no  one  else  but  the  deliver'd  empress. 

Aar.   The  emperess,  the  midwife,  and  yourself: 
Two  may  keep  counsel  when  the  third's  away  : 
Go  to  the  empress  ;  tell  her,  this  I  said  :  — 

[Stabbing  her. 
Weke,  Weke  !  — so  cries  a  pig  prepar'd  to  the  spit. 

Dem.   What  mean'st  thou,    Aaron !    Wherefore 
didst  thou  this  ? 

Aar.   O,  lord,  sir,  'tis  a  deed  of  policy  : 
Shall  she  live  to  betray  this  guilt  of  ours  ? 
A  long-tongu'd  babbling  gossip  ?  no,  lords,  no. 
And  now  be  it  known  to  you  my  full  intent. 
Not  far,  one  Muliteus  lives,  my  countryman  ; 
His  wife  but  yesternight  was  brought  to  bed ; 
His  child  is  like  to  her,  fair  as  you  are  : 
Go  pack  '  with  him,  and  give  the  mother  gold. 
And  tell  them  both  the  circumstance  of  all ; 
And  how  by  this  their  child  shall  be  advanc'd 
And  be  received  for  the  emperor's  heir. 
And  substituted  in  the  place  of  mine. 
To  calm  this  tempest  whirling  in  the  court ; 
And  let  the  emperor  dandle  him  for  his  own. 
Hark  ye,  lords,  ye  see,  that  1  have  given  her  phy- 
sick,  [Pointing  to  the  Nurse. 

And  you  must  needs  bestow  her  funeral ; 
The  fields  are  near,  and  you  are  gallant  grooms  i^ 
This  done,  see  that  you  take  no  longer  days. 
But  send  the  midwife  presently  to  me. 
The  midwife,  and  the  nurse  well  made  away. 
Then  let  the  ladies  tattle  what  they  please. 

Chi.    Aaron,  I  see  thou  wilt  not  trust  the  air 
With  secrets. 

Dem.  For  this  care  of  Tamora, 

Herself,  and  hers,  are  highly  bound  to  thee. 

[Exeunt  Demetrius  and  Chiron  bearing 
the  Nurse. 


In  spite  of.  "  Ignominy.  ^  ComploxJon. 

Contrive,  bargain  with. 


^ 


Scene  III. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


779 


Aar.  Now  to  the  Goths,  as  swift  as  swallow  flics  ; 
There  to  dispose  this  treasure  in  mine  arms, 
And  secretly  to  greet  the  empress'  friends.  — 
Come  on,  you  thick-lipp'd  slave,  I'll  bear  you  hence; 
For  it  is  you  tliat  puts  us  to  our  shifts : 
I'll  make  you  feed  on  berries,  and  on  roots. 
And  feed  on  curds  and  whey,  and  suck  the  goat, 
And  cabin  in  a  cave  ;  and  bring  you  up 
To  be  a  warrior,  and  command  a  camp.  \_ExU. 

SCENE  III.  —^  Publick  Place. 

Enter  Titus,  bearing  Arrows,  with  Letters  at  the 
Ends  of  them ;  with  him  Marcus,  young  Lucius, 
and  other  Gentlemen,  with  Bows. 

TU.   Come,  Marcus,  come  ;  —  Kinsman,  this  is 
the  way :  — 
Sir  boy,  now  let  me  see  your  archery  ; 
Look  ye  draw  home  enough,  and  'tis  there  straight : 
Terras  Astr<sa  reliquit  •' 

Be  you  remembered,  Marcus,  she's  gone,  she's  fled. 
Sir,  take  you  to  your  tools.      You,  cousins,  shall 
Go  sound  the  ocean,  and  cast  your  nets ; 
Happily  you  may  find  her  in  the  sea  ; 
Yet  there's  as  little  justice  as  at  land  :  — 
No ;   Publius  and  Sempronius,  you  must  do  it ; 
'Tis  you  must  dig  with  mattock  and  with  spade. 
And  pierce  the  inmost  centre  of  the  earth  : 
Then,  when  you  come  to  Pluto's  region, 
I  pray  you,  deliver  him  this  petition  : 
Tell  him,  it  is  for  justice,  and  for  aid  : 
And  that  it  comes  from  old  Andronicus, 
Shaken  with  sorrows  in  ungrateful  Rome.  — 
Ah,  Rome  !  —  Well,  well ;  I  made  thee  miserable, 
What  time  I  threw  the  people's  suffrages 
On  him  that  thus  doth  tyrannize  o'er  me.  — 
Go,  get  you  gone  ;  and  pray  be  careful  all, 
And  leave  you  not  a  man  of  war  unsearch'd  ; 
This  wicked  emperor  may  have  shipp'd  her  hence, 
And,  kinsmen,  then  we  may  go  pipe  for  justice. 

Marc.   O,  Publius,  is  this  not  a  heavy  case, 
To  see  thy  noble  uncle  thus  distract  ? 

Pub.   Therefore,  my  lord,  it  highly  us  concerns. 
By  day  and  night  to  attend  him  carefully  ; 
And  feed  his  humour  kindly  as  we  may. 
Till  time  beget  some  careful  remedy. 

Marc.   Kinsmen,  his  sorrows  are  past  remedy. 
Join  with  the  Goths ;  and  with  revengeful  war 
Take  wreak  on  Rome  for  this  ingratitude, 
And  vengeance  on  the  traitor  Saturnine. 

Tit.   Publius,  how  now  ?  how  now,  my  masters? 
What, 
Have  you  met  with  her  ? 

Pub.   No,  my  good  lord  ;  but  Plutus  sends  you 
word 
If  you  will  have  Revenge  from  hell,  you  shall  : 
Marry,  for  Justice,  she  is  so  employ'd. 
He  thinks,  with  Jove  in  heaven,  or  somewhere  else. 
So  that  perforce  you  must  needs  stay  a  time. 

Tit.   He  doth  me  wrong,  to  feed  me  with  delays. 
I'll  dive  into  the  burning  lake  below, 
And  pull  her  out  of  Acheron  by  the  heels.  — 
Marcus,  we  are  but  shrubs,  no  cedars  we ; 
No  big-bon'd  men,  frara'd  of  the  Cyclop's  size  ; 
But,  metal,  Marcus,  steel  to  the  very  back  ; 
Yet  wrung*  with  wrongs,  more  than  our  backs  can 

bear: 
And  sitliS  there  is  no  justice  in  earth  nor  hell, 
We  will  solicit  heaven  ;  and  move  the  gods, 
'  Strained.  '  Since. 


To  send  down  justice  for  to  wreak  ■*  our  wrongs  : 
Come,  to  this  gear.   You  are  a  good  archer,  Marcus. 
{^He  gives  them  the  Arrows. 
AdJovem,  that's  for  you  :  —  Here,  ati  Apolliiu^m  :  — 
Ad  Martem,  that's  for  myself :  — 
Here,  boy,  to  Pallas  :  —  Here,  to  Mercury  : 
To  Saturn,  Caius,  not  to  Saturnine,  — 
You  were  as  good  to  shoot  against  tlie  wind.  — 
To  it,  boy.      Marcus,  loose  when  I  bid : 
O'  my  word  I  have  written  to  effect ; 
There's  not  a  god  left  unsolicited. 

Marc.   Kinsmen,  shoot  all  your  shafts  into  the 
court ; 
We  will  afflict  the  emperor  in  his  pride. 

Tit.   Now,  masters,  draw.   [^They  shoot.^   O,  well 
said,  Lucius ! 

Marc.  My  lord,  I  aim  a  mile  beyond  the  moon  ; 
Your  letter  is  with  Jupiter  by  this. 

Tit.  Why,  there  it  goes  :   Jove  give  your  lordship 

joy. 

Enter  a  Clown,  with  a  Basket  and  two  Pigeons. 

News,  news  from    heaven !    Marcus,  the    post   is 

come. 
Sirrah,  what  tidings  ?  have  you  any  letters  ? 
Shall  I  have  justice?  what  says  Jupiter? 

Clo.  Ho !  the  gibbet-maker  ?  he  says,  that  he 
hath  taken  them  down  again,  for  the  man  must  not 
be  hanged  till  the  next  week. 

Tit.    But  what  says  Jupiter,  I  ask  thee  ? 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  I  know  not  Jupiter  j  I  never 
drank  with  him  in  all  my  life. 

Tit.   Why,  villain,  art  not  thou  the  carrier  ? 

Clo.    Ay,  of  my  pigeons,  sir  ;  nothing  else. 

Tit.   Why  didst  thou  not  come  from  heaven  ? 

Clo.  From  heaven  ?  alas,  sir,  I  never  came  there. 
Why,  I  am  going  with  my  pigeons  to  the  tribunal 
plebs,  to  take  up  a  matter  of  brawl  betwixt  my 
uncle  and  one  of  the  emperial's  men. 

Marc.  Why,  sir,  that  is  as  fit  as  can  be,  to  serve 
for  your  oration ;  and  let  him  deliver  the  pigeons 
to  the  emperor  from  you. 

Tit.  Tell  me,  can  you  deliver  an  oration  to  the 
emperor  with  a  grace? 

Clo.  Nay,  truly,  sir,  I  could  never  say  grace  in  all 
my  life. 

Tit.   Sirrah,  come  hither,  make  no  more  ado. 
But  give  your  pigeons  to  the  emperor  : 
By  me  thou  shalt  have  justice  at  his  hands. 
Hold,  hold ;  —  mean  while,  here's  money  for  thy 

charges. 
Give  me  a  pen  and  ink.  — 
Sirrah,  can  you  with  a  grace  deliver  a  supplication  ? 

Clo.    Ay,  sir. 

Tit.  Then  here  is  a  supplication  for  you.  And 
when  you  come  to  him,  at  the  first  approach,  you 
must  kneel;  then  kiss  his  foot;  then  deliver  up  your 
pigeons ;  and  then  look  for  your  reward,  I'll  be  at 
hand,  sir :  see  you  do  it  bravely. 

Clo.   I  warrant  you,  sir  ;  let  me  alone. 

Tit.  Sirrah,  hast  thou  a  knife?    Come,  let   me 
see  it. 
Here,  Marcus,  fold  it  in  the  oration  ; 
For  thou  hast  made  it  like  an  humble  suppliant : 
And  when  thou  hast  given  it  to  the  emperor. 
Knock  at  my  door,  and  tell  me  what  he  says. 

Clo.    Sir ;   I  will. 

Tit.   Come,  Marcus,  let's  go :  —  Publius,  follow 
me.  \_Exeunt. 

*  Revenge. 


780 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Act  IV. 


SCENE  IV.  ~  Before  the  Palace. 

Enter  Saturninus,  Tamora,  Chiron,  Demetrius, 
Lords,  and  others ;  Saturninus  wUh  the  Arrows 
in  Ids  Hand,  that  Titus  shot. 

Sat.   Why,  lords,  what  wrongs  are  these?  Was 
ever  seen 
An  emperor  of  Rome  thus  overborne, 
Troubled,  confronted  thus :   and,  for  the  extent 
Of  egal  5  justice,  us'd  in  such  contempt? 
My  lords,  you  know,  as  do  the  mightful  gods. 
However  these  disturbers  of  our  peace 
Buz  in  the  people's  ears,  there  nought  hath  pass'd. 
But  even  with  law,  against  the  wilful  sons 
Of  old  Andronicus.      And  what  an  if 
His  sorrows  hath  so  o'erwhelm'd  his  wits, 
Shall  we  be  thus  afflicted  in  his  wreaks, 
His  fits,  his  frenzy,  and  his  bitterness  ? 
And  now  he  writes  to  heaven  for  liis  redress  : 
See,  here's  to  Jove,  and  this  to  Mercury ; 
This  to  Apollo ;  this  to  the  god  of  war  : 
Sweet  scrolls  to  fly  about  the  streets  of  Rome  ! 
What's  this,  but  libelling  against  the  senate, 
And  blazoning  our  injustice  every  where  ? 
A  goodly  humour,  is  it  not,  my  lords  ? 
As  who  would  say,  in  Rome  no  justice  were. 
But,  if  I  live,  his  feigned  ecstasies 
Shall  be  no  shelter  to  these  outrages  : 
But  he  and  his  shall  know,  that  justice  lives 
In  Saturninus'  health  ;  whom,  if  she  sleep, 
He'll  so  awake,  as  she  in  fury  shall 
Cut  off  the  proud'st  conspirator  that  lives. 

Tarn.   My  gracious  lord,  my  lovely  Saturnine, 
Lord  of  my  life,  commander  of  my  thoughts. 
Calm  thee,  and  bear  the  faults  of  Titus'  age, 
The  effects  of  sorrow  for  his  valiant  sons. 
Whose  loss  hath  pierc'd  him  deep,  and  scarr'd  his 

heart ; 
And  rather  comfort  his  distressed  plight, 
Than  prosecute  the  meanest,  or  the  best, 
For  these  contempts.      Why,  thus  it  shall  become 
High-witted  Tamora  to  gloze^  with  all :       [Aside. 
But,  Titus,  I  have  touch 'd  thee  to  the  quick. 
Thy  life-blood  out :    If  Aaron  now  be  wise. 
Then  all  is  safe,  the  anchor's  in  the  port.  — 

Enter  Clown. 
How  now,  good  fellow?  wouldst  thou  speak  with  us? 

Clo.  Yes,  forsooth,  an  your  mistership  be  imperial. 

Tarn.  Empress  I  am,  but  yonder  sits  the  emperor. 

Clo.   'Tis  he.      I  have  brought  you  a  letter,  and  a 
couple  of  pigeons  here. 

[Saturninus  reads  the  Letter. 

Sat.  Go,  take  him  away,  and  hang  him  presently. 

Clo.   How  much  money  must  I  have  ? 

Tarn.    Come,  sirrah,  you  must  be  hang'd. 

Clo.   Hang'd  !   then  I  have  brought  up  a  neck  to 
a  fair  end.     ^  ^  [Ejcit,  guarded. 

Sat.   Despiteful  and  intolerable  wrongs  ! 
Shall  I  endure  this  monstrous  villainy  ? 
I  know  from  whence  this  same  device  proceeds ; 
May  this  be  borne  ?  —  as  if  his  traitorous  sons, 
That  died  by  law  for  murder  of  our  brother, 
Have  by  my  means  been  butcher'd  wrongfully.  — 
Go,  drag  the  villain  hither  by  the  hair ; 
*  Equal  «  Flatter, 


Nor  age,  nor  honour,  shall  shape  privilege  :  — 
For  this  proud  mock,  I'll  be  thy  slaughter-man  ; 
Sly  frantick  wretch,  that  holp'st  to  make  me  great, 
In  hope  thyself  should  govern  Rome  and  me. 

Enter  Mmilws. 
What  news  with  thee,  uEmilius  ? 

JEmil.   Arm,  arm,  my  lords  j   Rome  never  had 
more  cause ! 
The  Goths  have  gather'd  head ;  and  with  a  pow( 
Of  high  resolved  men,  bent  to  the  spoil. 
They  hither  march  amain,  under  conduct 
Of  Lucius,  son  to  old  Andronicus  ; 
Who  threats,  in  course  of  this  revenge,  to  do 
As  much  as  ever  Coriolanus  did. 

Sat.   Is  warlike  Lucius  general  of  the  Goths  ? 
These  tidings  nip  me ;  and  I  hang  the  head 
As  flowers  with  frost,  or  grass  beat  down  with  storms. 
Ay,  now  begin  our  sorrows  to  approach  : 
'  Tis  he  the  common  people  love  so  much ; 
Myself  hath  often  over-heard  them  say, 
(When  I  have  walked  like  a  private  man,) 
That  Lucius'  banishment  was  wrongfully, 
And  they  have  wish'd  that  Lucius  were  their  emperor. 
Tarn.   Why  should  you  fear?    is  not  your  city 

strong  ? 
Sat.   Ay,  but  the  citizens  favour  Lucius  ; 
And  will  revolt  from  me,  to  succour  him. 

Tarn.  King,  be  thy  thoughts  imperious  7  like  thy 
name. 
Is  the  sun  dimm'd,  that  gnats  do  fly  in  it  ? 
The  eagle  suffers  little  birds  to  sing. 
And  is  not  careful  what  they  mean  thereby ; 
Knowing  that  with  the  shadow  of  his  wings, 
He  can  at  pleasure  stint  8  their  melody  : 
Even  so  mayst  thou  the  giddy  men  of  Rome. 
Then  cheer  thy  spirit :   for  know,  thou  emperor, 
I  will  enchant  the  old  Andronicus, 
With  words  more  sweet,  and  yet  more  dangerous. 
Than  baits  to  fish,  or  honey  stalks  to  sheep ; 
When  as  the  one  is  wounded  with  the  bait. 
The  other  rotted  with  delicious  feed. 

Sat.   But  he  will  not  entreat  his  son  for  us. 
Tarn.   If  Tamora  entreat  him,  then  he  will : 
For  I  can  smooth,  and  fill  his  aged  ear 
With  golden  promises ;  that  were  his  heart 
Almost  impregnable,  his  old  ears  deaf. 
Yet  should  both  ear  and  heart  obey  my  tongue  — 
Go  thou  before,  be  our  ambassador.   [To  ^milius. 
Say,  that  the  emperor  requests  a  parley 
Of  warlike  Lucius,  and  appoint  the  meeting. 
Even  at  his  father's  house,  the  old  Andronicus. 

Sat.   ^milius,  do  this  message  honourably  : 
And  if  he  stand  on  hostage  for  his  safety. 
Bid  him  demand  what  pledge  will  please  him  best. 
JEmil.   Your  bidding  shall  I  do  eflfectually. 

[Exit  ^Emilius. 
Tarn.   Now  will  I  to  that  old  Andronicus ; 
And  temper  him  with  all  the  art  I  have. 
To  pluck  proud  Lucius  from  the  warlike  Goths. 
And  now,  sweet  emperor,  be  blithe  again. 
And  bury  all  thy  fear  in  my  devices. 

Sat.   Then  go  successfully,  and  plead  to  him. 

[Exeunt, 
7  Imperial  8  stop. 


had^ 

i 


I 


Act  V.  Scene  I. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


781 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.  —Plains  near  Rome. 
Enter  Lucius,  and  Goths,  toilh  Drum  and  Colours. 
Luc.  Approved  warriors,  and  my  faithful  friends, 
I  have  received  letters  from  great  Rome, 
Which  signify  what  hate  they  bear  their  emperor, 
And  how  desirous  of  our  sight  they  are. 
Therefore,  great  lords,  be,  as  your  titles  witness. 
Imperious,  and  impatient  of  your  wrongs; 
And,  wherein  Rome  hath  done  you  any  scath  9, 
Let  him  make  treble  satisfaction. 

1  Golh.   Brave  slip,  sprung  from  the  great  Andro- 

nicus, 
Whose  name  was  once  our  terror,  now  our  comfort; 
Whose  high  exploits,  and  honourable  deeds, 
Ingrateful  Rome  requites  with  foul  contempt. 
Be  bold  in  us  :   we'll  follow  where  thou  lead'st,  — 
Like  stinging  bees  in  hottest  summer's  day, 
Led  by  their  master  to  the  flower'd  fields,  — 
And  be  aveng'd  on  cursed  Tamora. 

Goths.    And,  as  he  saith,  so  say  we  all  with  him, 
Luc.   I  humbly  thank  him,  and  I  thank  you  all. 
But  who  comes  here,  led  by  a  lusty  Goth  ? 

Enter  a  Goth,  leading  Aaron,  wUh  his  Child  in  his 
Arms. 

2  Goth.   Renowned  Lucius,  from  our  troops  I 

stray'd, 
To  gaze  upon  a  ruinous  monastery ; 
And  as  I  earnestly  did  fix  mine  eye 
Upon  the  wasted  building,  suddenly 
I  heard  a  child  cry  underneath  a  wall : 
I  made  unto  the  noise ;  when  soon  I  heard 
The  crying  babe  controll'd  with  this  discourse  : 
Peace,  tawny  slave ;  half  me,  and  half  thy  dam  ! 
Did  not  thy  hue  hewray  whose  brat  thou  art. 
Had  nature  lent  thee  but  thy  mother  s  look. 
Villain  thou  mightst  have  been  an  emperor  : 
Peace,  villain,  peacei  —  even  thus  he  rates  the  babe,— 
For  I  jnust  bear  thee  to  a  trusty  Goth  ; 
Who,  when  he  hiows  thou  art  the  emjrress*  babe, 
Will  hold  thee  dearly  for  thy  mother's  sake. 
With  this,  my  weapon  drawn,  I  rush'd  upon  him, 
Surpriz'd  him  suddenly ;  and  brought  him  hither, 
To  use  as  you  think  needful  of  the  man. 

Luc.    O  worthy  Goth  I  this  is  the  incarnate  devil 
That  robb'd  Andronicus  of  his  good  hand  : 
This  is  the  pearl  that  pleas'd  your  empress'  eye  ' ; 
Say,  wall-ey'd  slave,  whither  wouldst  thou  convey 
This  growing  image  of  thy  fiend-like  face  ? 
Why  dost  not  speak?  What!  deaf?  No;  notaword? 
A  halter,  soldiers ;  hang  liim  on  this  tree, 
And  by  his  side  his  fruit  of  bastardy. 

uiar.   Touch  not  the  boy,  he  is  of  royal  blood. 

Luc.   Too  like  tlie  sire  for  ever  being  good.  — 
First,  hang  the  child,  that  he  may  see  it  sprawl ; 
A  sight  to  vex  the  father's  soul  withal. 
Get  me  a  ladder. 

[A  Ladder  brought,  which  Aaron  is 
obliged  to  ascend 

Aar.  Lucius,  save  the  cliild  ; 

And  bear  it  from  me  to  the  emperess. 
9  Harm. 

>  Alluding  to  the  proverb,  "  A  black  man  is  a  pearl  in  a  fair 
woman's  eve." 


If  thou  do  this,  I'll  show  thee  wond'rous  things, 

That  highly  may  advantage  thee  to  hear : 

If  thou  wilt  not,  befall  what  may  befall, 

I'll  speak  no  more ;   But  vengeance  slay  you  all  ! 

Luc-    Say  on  ;  and,  if  it  please  me  which  thou 
speak'st, 
Thy  child  shall  live,  and  1  will  see  it  nourish'd. 

Aar.   An   if  it  please   thee?  why,  assure  thee, 
Lucius, 
'Twill  vex  thy  soul  to  hear  what  I  shall  speak  ; 
For  I  must  talk  of  murders,  rapes,  and  massacres, 
Acts  of  black  night,  abominable  deeds, 
Complots  of  mischief,  treason  ;  villainies 
Ruthful  to  hear,  yet  piteously  perfonn'd  : 
And  this  shall  all  be  buried  by  my  death, 
Unless  thou  swear  to  me,  my  child  shall  live. 

Liic.  Tell  on  thy  mind  ;  I  say,  thy  child  shall  live. 

Aar.  Swear,  that  he  shall,  and  then  I  will  begin. 

Luc.   Who  should  1  swear  by  ?  thou  believ'st  no 
god; 
That  granted,  how  canst  thou  believe  an  oath  ? 

Aar.   What  if  I  do  not  ?  as,  indeed,  I  do  not : 
Yet,  —  for  I  know  thou  art  religious. 
And  hast  a  thing  within  thee,  called  conscience  ; 
With  twenty  idle  tricks  and  ceremonies. 
Which  I  have  seen  the  careful  to  observe,  — 
Tlierefore  I  urge  thy  oath  ;  —  And  thou  shalt  vow 
By  that  same  god,  what  god  soe'er  it  be. 
That  thou  ador'st  and  hast  in  reverence,  — 
To  save  my  boy,  to  nourish,  and  bring  him  up  ; 
Or  else  I  will  discover  nought  to  thee. 

Luc.   Even  by  my  god,  1  swear  to  thee,  I  will. 

Aar.   First,  know  thou,    I'm  his  father  by  the 
empress. 

Luc.   O  most  insatiate,  luxurious  woman  ! 

Aar.  Tut,  Lucius!  this  was  but  a  deed  of  charity, 
To  that  which  thou  shalt  hear  of  me  anon, 
'Twas  her  two  sons  that  murder'd  Bassianus  : 
They  cut  thy  sister's  tongue,  and  ravish'd  her, 
And  cut  her  hands ;  and  trimm'd  her  as  thou  saw'st. 

Luc.   O,  detestable  villain !  call'st  thou  tliat  trim- 
ming? 

Aar.  Why,  she  was  wash'd,  and  cut,  and  trimm'd ; 
and  'twas 
Trim  sport  for  them  that  had  the  doing  of  it. 

Luc    O,  barbarous,  beastly  villains,  like  thyself! 

Aar.   Indeed,  I  was  their  tutor  to  instruct  them  ; 
That  wanton  spirit  had  they  from  their  mother, 
As  sure  a  card  as  ever  won  the  set : 
That  bloody  mind,  I  think,  they  learn 'd  of  me, 
As  true  a  dog  as  ever  fought  at  head.  — 
Well,  let  my  deeds  be  witness  of  my  worth. 
I  train'd  tliy  brethren  to  that  guileful  hole. 
Where  the  dead  corpse  of  Bassianus  lay  : 
I  wrote  the  letter  that  thy  father  found. 
And  hid  the  gold  within  the  letter  mention'd, 
Confederate  with  the  queen,  and  her  two  sons  : 
And  what  not  done,  that  thou  hast  cause  to  rue. 
Wherein  I  had  no  stroke  of  mischief  in  it  ? 
I  play'd  the  cheater  for  thy  father's  hand ; 
And  when  I  had  it,  drew  myself  apart. 
And  almost  broke  my  heart  with  extreme  laughter. 
I  pry'd  me  through  the  crevice  of  a  wall. 
When,  for  his  hand,  he  had  his  two  sons'  heads  ; 


'8^ 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Act  V. 


Beheld  liis  tears,  and  laiigh'd  so  lieartily, 
That  both  mine  eyes  were  rainy  like  to  his  ; 
And  when  I  told  the  empress  of  this  sport, 
Slie  swounded  almost  at  my  pleasing  tale, 
And,  for  my  tidings,  gave  me  twenty  kisses. 

Goth.   What !  canst  thou  say  all  this,  and  never 
blush  ? 

Aar.    Ay,  like  a  black  dog,  as  the  saying  is. 

Luc.    Art  thou  not  sorry  for  these  heinous  deeds? 

Aar.   Ay,  that  I  had  not  done  a  thousand  more. 
Even  now  I  curse  the  day,  (and  yet,  I  thmk. 
Few  come  within  the  compass  of  my  curse,) 
Wherein  I  did  not  some  notorious  ill : 
As  kill  a  man,  or  else  devise  his  death  ; 
Accuse  some  innocent,  and  forswear  myself: 
Set  deadly  enmity  between  two  friends ; 
Make  poor  men's  cattle  break  their  necks ; 
Set  fire  on  barns  and  hay-stacks  in  the  night. 
And  bid  the  owners  quench  them  with  their  tears. 
Oft  have  I  digg'd  up  dead  men  from  their  graves. 
And  set  them  upright  at  their  dear  friends'  doors, 
Even  when  their  sorrows  almost  were  forgot ; 
And  on  their  skins,  as  on  the  bark  of  trees. 
Have  with  my  knife  carved  in  Roman  letters, 
I^et  not  your  sorrow  die,  though  I  am  dead. 
Tut,  I  have  done  a  thousand  dreadful  things, 
As  willingly  as  one  would  kill  a  fly  : 
And  nothing  grieves  me  heartily  indeed, 
But  that  I  cannot  do  ten  thousand  more. 

Luc.   Bring  down  the  devil ;  for  he  must  not  die 
So  sweet  a  death,  as  hanging  presently. 

Aar.    If  there  be  devils,  'would  I  were  a  devil. 
But  to  torment  you  with  my  bitter  tongue  ! 

Luc.   Sirs,  stop  his  mouth,  and  let  him  speak  no 
more. 

Enter  a  Goth. 

Goth.   My  lord,  there  is  a  messenger  from  Rome, 
Desires  to  be  admitted  to  your  presence, 
Luc.  Let  him  come  near.  — 

Enter  iEMiLius. 
Welcome,  ^milius,  what's  the  news  from  Rome  ? 

jEmil.  Lord  Lucius,  and  you  princes  of  the  Goths, 
The  Roman  emperor  greets  you  all  by  me : 
And,  for  he  understands  you  are  in  arms. 
He  craves  a  parley  at  your  father's  house. 
Willing  you  to  demand  your  hostages, 
And  they  shall  be  immediately  deliver'd 

1  Goth.   What  says  our  general  ? 

Luc.   ^milius,  let  the  emperor  give  his  pledges 
Unto  my  father  and  my  uncle  Marcus, 
And  we  will  come.  —  March  away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Rome.    Before  Titus's  House. 

Enter  Tamora,  Chiron,  and  Demetrius,  disguised. 

Tarn.   Thus,  in  this  strange  and  sad  habiliment, 
I  will  encounter  with  Andronicus  j 
And  say,  I  am  Revenge,  sent  from  below. 
To  join  with  him,  and  right  his  heinous  wrongs. 
Knock  at  his  study,  where,  they  say,  he  keeps, 
To  ruminate  strange  plots  of  dire  revenge  ; 
Tell  him.  Revenge  is  come  to  join  with  him. 
And  work  confusion  on  his  enemies.     [They  knock. 

Enter  Titus  above. 
Tit.   Who  doth  molest  my  contemplation  ? 
Is  it  your  trick,  to  make  me  ope  the  door  ; 


That  so  my  sad  decrees  may  fly  away. 
And  all  my  study  be  to  no  effect? 
You  are  deceiv'd ;  for  what  I  mean  to  do. 
See  here,  in  bloody  lines  I  have  set  down  ; 
And  what  is  written  shall  be  executed. 

Tarn.   Titus,  I  am  come  to  talk  with  thee. 

Tit.   No  ;  not  a  word  :  How  can  I  grace  my  talk. 
Wanting  a  hand  to  give  it  action  ? 
Thou  hast  the  odds  of  me,  therefore  no  more. 

Tarn.   If  thou  didst  know  me,  thou  wouldst  talk 
with  me. 

Tit.    I  am  not  mad  ;   I  know  thee  well  enough  : 
Witness  this  wretched  stump,  these  crimson  lines  ; 
Witness  these  trenches,  made  by  grief  and  care  ; 
Witness  the  tiring  day,  and  heavy  night ; 
Witness  all  sorrow,  that  I  know  thee  well 
For  our  proud  empress,  mighty  Tamora  ; 
Is  not  thy  coming  for  my  other  hand  ? 

2'aw.    Know  thou,  sad  man,  I  am  not  Tamora  ; 
She  is  thy  enemy,  and  I  thy  friend  : 
I  am  Revenge  ;  sent  from  the  infernal  kingdom. 
To  ease  the  gnawing  vulture  of  thy  mind. 
By  working  wreakful  vengeance  on  thy  foes. 
Come  down,  and  welcome  me  to  this  world's  light ; 
Confer  with  me  of  murder  and  of  death  : 
There's  not  a  hollow  cave,  or  lurking-place. 
No  vast  obscurity,  or  misty  vale. 
Where  bloody  murder,  or  detested  rape. 
Can  couch  for  fear,  but  I  will  find  them  out ; 
And  in  their  ears  tell  them  my  dreadful  name. 
Revenge,  which  makes  the  foul  offender  quake. 

Tit.   Art  thou  Revenge  ?  and  art  thou  sent  to  me, 
To  be  a  torment  to  mine  enemies  ? 

Tarn.  I  am ;  therefore  come  down,  and  welcome 
me. 

Tit.   Do  me  some  service,  ere  I  come  to  thee. 
Lo,  by  thy  side  where  Rape  and  Murder  stand ; 
Now  give  some  'surance  that  thou  art  Revenge, 
Stab  them,  or  tear  them  on  thy  chariot  wheels ; 
And  then  I'll  come,  and  be  thy  waggoner. 
And  whirl  along  with  thee  about  the  globes. 
Provide  thee  proper  palfries,  black  as  jet. 
To  hale  thy  vengeful  waggon  swift  away. 
And  find  out  murderers  in  their  guilty  caves  : 
And,  when  thy  car  is  loaden  with  their  heads, 
I  will  dismount,  and  by  the  waggon  wheel 
Trot,  like  a  servile  footman  all  day  long  ; 
Even  from  Hyperion's  rising  in  the  east. 
Until  his  very  downfall  in  the  sea. 
And  day  by  day  I'll  do  this  heavy  task. 
So  thou  destroy  Rapine  and  Murder  there. 

Tarn.  These  are  my  ministers,  and  come  with  me. 

Tit.   Are  they  thy  ministers  ?  what  are  they  call'd  ? 

Tarn.    Rapine,  and  Murder  ;  therefore  called  so, 
'Cause  they  take  vengeance  on  such  kind  of  men. 

Tit.    Good  heaven,  how  like  the   empress'  sons 
they  are ! 
And  you,  the  empress  !   But  we  worldly  men 
Have  miserable,  mad,  mistaking  eyes. 

0  sweet  Revenge,  now  do  I  come  to  thee : 
And,  if  one  arm's  embracement  will  content  thee, 

1  will  embrace  thee  in  it  by  and  by. 

[Exit  Titus,  from  above* 
Tarn.    This  closing  with  him  fits  his  lunacy : 
Whate'er  I  forge,  to  feed  his  brain-sick  fits. 
Do  you  uphold  and  maintain  in  your  speeches. 
For  now  he  firmly  takes  me  for  Revenge  ; 
And,  being  credulous  in  this  mad  thought, 
I'll  make  him  send  for  Lucius,  his  son ; 
And,  whilst  I  at  a  banquet  hold  him  sure. 


Scene  II. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


783 


I'll  find  some  cunning  practice  out  of  hand, 
To  scatter  and  disperse  the  giddy  Goths, 
Or  at  the  least,  make  them  his  enemies. 
See,  here  he  comes,  and  I  must  ply  my  theme. 

Enter  Titus. 

Tit.   Long  have  I  been  forlorn,  and  all  for  thee  : 
Welcome,  dread  fury,  to  my  woful  house;  — 
Rapine,  and  Murder,  you  are  welcome  too : 
How  like  the  empress  and  her  sons  you  are  ! 
Weii  are  you  fitted,  had  you  but  a  Moor  :  — 
Could  not  all  hell  aflbrd  you  such  a  devil  :  — 
For,  well  I  wot,  the  empress  never  wags, 
But  in  her  company  there  is  a  Moor ; 
And  would  you  represent  our  queen  aright. 
It  were  convenient  )ou  had  such  a  devil  :  — 
13ut  welcome,  as  you  are.      What  shall  we  do  ? 

Tarn.  What  wouldst  thou  have  us  do,  Andronicus? 

I)em.   Show  me  a  murderer,  I'll  deal  with  him. 

Chi.   Show  me  a  villain,  that  hath  done  a  rape, 
And  I  am  sent  to  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Tarn.   Show  me  a  thousand,  that  have  done  thee 
wrong, 
And  I  will  be  revenged  on  them  all. 

Tit.  Look   round  about  the  wicked   streets   of 
Rome ; 
And  when  thou  find'st  a  man  that's  like  thyself, 
Good  Murder,  stab  him ;  he's  a  murderer.  — 
Go  thou  with  him ;  and  when  it  is  thy  hap. 
To  find  another  that  is  like  to  thee. 
Good  Rapine,  stab  him ;  he  is  a  ravisher.  — 
Go  thou  with  them  ;  and  in  the  emperor's  court 
There  is  a  queen,  attended  by  a  Moor ; 
Well  mayst  thou  know  her  by  thy  own  proportion, 
For  up  and  down  she  doth  resemble  thee  ; 
1  pray  thee,  do  on  them  some  violent  death, 
They  have  been  violent  to  me  and  mine. 

Tarn.  Well  hast  thou  lesson'd  us ;  this  shall  we  do. 
But  would  it  please  thee,  good  Andronicus, 
To  send  for  Lucius,  thy  thrice  valiant  son. 
Who  leads  towards  Rome  a  band  of  warlike  Goths, 
And  bid  him  come  and  banquet  at  thy  house  : 
When  he  is  here,  even  at  thy  solemn  feast, 
I  will  bring  in  the  empress  and  her  sons, 
The  emperor  himself,  and  all  thy  foes  ; 
And  at  thy  mercy  shall  they  stoop  and  kneel, 
And  on  them  shalt  thou  ease  thy  angry  heart. 
What  says  Andronicus  to  this  device  ? 

Tu.   Marcus,  my  brother !  —  'tis  sad  Titus  calls. 

Enter  Marcus. 

Go,  gentle  Marcus,  to  thy  nephew  Lucius ; 
Thou  shalt  inquire  him  out  among  the  Gotlis  : 
Bid  him  repair  to  me,  and  bring  with  him 
Some  of  the  chiefest  princes  of  the  Gotlis  ; 
Bid  him  encamp  his  soldiers  where  they  are  : 
Tell  him,  the  emperor  and  the  empress  too 
least  at  my  house  :   and  he  shall  feast  with  them. 
This  do  thou  for  my  love  ;  and  so  let  him, 
As  he  regards  his  aged  father's  life. 

Marc.  This  will  I  do,  and  soon  return  again.  [Exit- 

Tarn.    Now  will  I  hence  about  thy  business, 
And  take  my  ministers  along  with  me. 

Tit.   Nay,  nay,  let  Rape  and  Murder  stay  with 
me; 
Or  else  I'll  call  my  brother  back  again. 
And  cleave  to  no  revenge  but  Lucius. 

Tarn.    [To  her  Sons.]    What  say  you,  boys?  will 
you  abide  with  him, 
Whiles  I  go  tell  my  lord  the  emperor, 


How  I  have  govcm'd  our  determin'd  jest? 
Yield  to  his  humour,  smooth  and  speak  him  fair. 
And  tarry  with  him,  till  I  come  again. 

2'it.   I  know  them  all,  though  they  suppose  me 
mad ; 
And  will  o  er-reach  them  in  their  own  devices 

[jlsifle. 
Dem.    Madam,  depart  at  pleasure,  leave  us  here. 
Tam.  Farewell,  Andronicus  :    Revenge  now  goes 
To  lay  a  complot  to  betray  thy  foes. 

[Exit  Tamoua. 
Tit.   I  know,  thou  dost ;    and,  sweet   Revenge, 

farewell. 
Chi.   Tell  us,  old  man,  how  shall  we  be  employ'd  ? 
7'it.   Tut,  I  have  work  enough  for  you  to  do.  — 
Publius,  come  hither,  Caius,  and  Valentine  ! 

Enter  Publius,  and  others. 
Pub.   What's  your  will  ? 
Tit.  Know  you  these  two  ? 

Fub.  Th'  empress'  sons, 

I  take  them,  Chiron  and  Demetrius. 

Tit.   Fye,  Publius,  fye !  thou  art  too  much  de- 
ceiv'd  ; 
The  one  is  Murder,  Rape  is  the  other's  name  : 
And  therefore  bind  them,  gentle  Publius ; 
Caius  and  Valentine,  lay  hands  on  them : 
Oft  have  you  heard  me  wish  for  such  an  hour, 
And  now  I  find  it ;  therefore  bind  them  sure  ; 
And  stop  their  mouths,  if  they  begin  to  cry. 

[Exit  TiTus.  —  Publius,  <^c.  lay  hold  on 
Chiron  and  Demetrius. 
Chi.   Villains,  forbear  :  we  are  the  empress'  sons. 
Pub.   And   therefore  do  we  what  we  are  com- 
manded. — 
Stop  close  tlieir  mouths,  let  them  not  speak  a  word  : 
Is  he  sure  bound  ?  look,  that  you  bind  them  fast. 

Re-enter  Titus  Andronicus,  with   Lavinia  ;    she 

bearing  a  Bason^  and  lie  a  Knife. 
Tit.   Come,  come,  Lavinia ;    look,  thy  foes  are 

bound  ;  — 
Sirs,  stop  their  mouths,  let  them  not  speak  to  me  ; 
But  let  them  hear  what  fearful  words  I  utter.  — 
O  villains,  Chiron  and  Demetrius  ! 
Here  stands  the  spring  whom  you  have  stain'd  with 

mud; 
This  goodly  summer  with  your  winter  mix'd 
You  kill'd  her  husband ;  and,  for  that  vile  fault. 
Two  of  her  brothers  were  condemn'd  to  death  : 
My  hand  cut  off,  and  made  a  merry  jest : 
Both  her  sweet  hands,  her  tongue,  and  that,  more 

dear 
Than  hands  or  tongue,  her  spotless  chastity. 
Inhuman  traitors,  you  constrain'd  and  forc'd, 
What  would  you  say,  if  I  should  let  you  speak  ? 
Villains,  for  shame  you  could  not  beg  for  grace. 
Hark,  wretches,  how  I  mean  to  martyr  you. 
This  one  hand  yet  is  left  to  cut  your  throats  ; 
Whilst  that  Lavinia  'tween  her  stumps  doth  hold 
The  bason,  that  receives  your  guilty  blood. 
You  know,  your  mother  means  to  feast  with  me, 
And  calls  herself,  Revenge,  and  tliinks  me  mad,  — 
Hark,  villains;    I  will  grind  your  bones  to  dust. 
And  with  your  blood  and  it,  I'll  make  a  paste  ; 
And  of  tlie  paste  a  coffin  ^  I  will  rear. 
And  make  two  pasties  of  your  shameful  heads ; 
And  bid  that  stnunpet,  your  unhallow'd  dam, 

3  Crust  of  a  raised  pic. 


784 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


Act  V. 


Like  to  the  cartli,  swallow  her  own  increase. 
This  is  the  feast  tliat  I  have  bid  her  to, 
And  tliis  the  banquet  she  shall  surfeit  on  ; 
'For  worse  than  Philomel  you  us'd  my  daughter, 
And  worse  than  Progne  I  will  be  reveng'd : 
And  now  prepare  your  throats,  —  Lavinia,  come, 

[He  cuts  their  Throats. 
Receive  the  blood  :   and,  when  that  they  are  dead. 
Let  me  go  grind  their  bones  to  powder  small. 
And  with  this  hateful  liquor  temper  it ; 
And  in  that  paste  let  their  vile  heads  be  bak'd. 
Come,  come,  be  every  one  officious 
To  make  this  banquet ;  which  I  wish  may  prove 
More  stern  and  bloody  than  the  Centaurs'  feast. 
So,  now  bring  them  in,  for  I  will  play  the  cook. 
And  see  them  ready  'gainst  their  mother  comes. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  the  dead  Bodies. 

SCENE  III ^  Pavilion,  with  Tables,  ^c 

Enter  Lucius,  Marcus,  and  Goths,  with  Aaron, 
Prisoner. 

Luc.   Uncle  Marcus,  since  'tis  my  father's  mind. 
That  I  repair  to  Rome,  I  am  content. 

1  Goth.   And  ours,  with  thine,  befall  what  fortune 
will. 

Luc.   Good  uncle,  take  you  in  this  barbarous 
Moor, 
This  ravenous  tiger,  this  accursed  devil ; 
Let  him  receive  no  sustenance,  fetter  him. 
Till  he  brought  unto  the  empress'  face, 
J'or  testimony  of  her  foul  proceedings  ; 
And  see  the  ambush  of  our  friends  be  strong  : 
I  fear,  the  emperor  means  no  good  to  us. 

Aar.    Some  devil  whisper  curses  in  mine  ear. 
And  prompt  me,  that  my  tongue  may  utter  forth 
The  venomous  malice  of  my  swelling  heart ! 

Luc,   Away,  inhuman  dog,  unhallow'd  slave  !  — 
Sirs,  help  our  uncle  to  convey  him  in.  — 

[Exeunt  Goths  with  Aaron.     Flourish. 
The  trumpets  show  the  emperor  is  at  hand. 

Enter  Saturninus  and  Tamora,  ivith  Tribunes, 
Senators,  and  others. 

Sat.   What,  hath  the  firmament  more  suns  than 

one? 
Luc.   What  boots  it  3  thee,  to  call  thyself  a  sun  ? 
Marc.    Rome's  emperor,  and  nephew,  break  the 
parle ; 
These  quarrels  must  be  quietly  debated. 
The  feast  is  ready  which  the  careful  Titus, 
Hath  ordain'd  to  an  honourable  end. 
For  peace,  for  love,  for  league,  and  good  to  Rome  : 
Please  you,  therefore,  draw  nigh,  and  take  your 
places. 
Sat.   Marcus,  we  will. 

[Hautboys  sound.      The  Company  sit  doivn 
at  Table. 

Enter  Titus  dressed  like  a   Cook,  Lavinia,  veiled, 

Young   Lucius,    and   others.      Titus  places   the 

Dishes  on  the  Table. 

Tit.  Welcome,  my  gracious  lord :  welcome,  dread 
queen ; 
Welcome,  ye  warlike  Goths  ;  welcome,  Lucius ; 
And  welcome  all :   although  the  cheer  be  poor, 
'Twill  fill  your  stomachs  ;  please  you  eat  of  it. 

Sat.   Why  art  thou  thus  attir'd,  Andronicus  ? 

Tit.    Because  I  would  be  sure  to  have  all  well. 
To  entertain  your  highness,  and  your  empress. 
*  Of  what  advantage  is  it  ? 


Tarn.  We  are  beholden  to  you,  good  Andronicus. 
Tit.    An  if  your  highness  knew  my  heart,  you 
were. 
My  lord  the  emperor,  resolve  me  this ; 
Was  it  well  done  of  rash  Virginius, 
To  slay  his  daughter  with  his  own  right  hand. 
Because  she  was  enforc'd,  stain'd,  and  deflour'd  ? 
Sat.   It  was,  Andronicus. 
T\t.   Your  reason,  mighty  lord  ! 
Sat.   Because  the  girl    should  not    survive  her 
shame, 
And  by  her  presence  still  renew  his  sorrows. 

Tit.    A  reason  mighty,  strong,  and  effectual ; 
A  pattern,  precedent,  and  lively  warrant. 
For  me,  most  wretched,  to  perform  the  like  :  — 
Die,  die,  Lavinia,  and  thy  shame  with  thee ; 

[He  kills  Lavinia. 
And,  with  thy  shame,  thy  father's  sorrow  die  ! 
Sat.  What  hast  thou  done,  unnatural,  and  unkind  ? 
Tit.   Kill'd  her,  for  whom  my  tears  have  made 
me  blind. 
I  am  as  woful  as  Virginius  was  : 
And  have  a  thousand  times  more  cause  than  he 
To  do  this  outrage  ;  —  and  it  is  now  done. 

Sat.   What,  was  she  ravish'd  ?  tell,  who  did  the 

deed. 
Tit.    Will't  please  you  eat?    will't  please  your 

highness  feed  ? 
Tarn.   Why  hast  thou  slain  thine  only  daughter 

thus  ? 
Tit.   Not  I ;  'twas  Chiron  and  Demetrius  : 
They  ravish'd  her,  and  cut  away  her  tongue. 
And  they,  'twas  they,  that  did  her  all  this  wrong. 
Sat.    Go,  fetch  them  hither  to  us  presently. 
Tit.   Why,  there  they  are  both,  baked  in  that  pye  ; 
Whereof  their  mother  daintily  hath  fed. 
Eating  the  flesh  that  she  herself  hath  bred 
'Tis  true,  'tis  true;  witness  my  knife's  siiarp  point. 
[Killing  Tamora. 
Sat.    Die,  frantick  wretch,  for  this  accursed  deed. 

[Killing  TiTUs. 
Luc.    Can  the  son's  eye  behold  his  father  bleed  ? 
There's  meed  for  meed,  death  for  a  deadly  deed. 

[Kills  Saturninus.      A  great  Tumult.      The 
People  in  confusion  disperse.     Marcus, 
Lucius,  and  their  Partisans,  ascend  the 
Steps  before  Titus's  House. 
Marc.    You  sad-fac'd  men,  people  and  sons  of 
Rome, 
By  uproar  sever' d,  like  a  flight  of  fowl 
Scatter'd  by  winds  and  high  tempestuous  gusts, 
O,  let  me  teach  you  how  to  knit  again 
This  scatter'd  corn  into  one  mutual  sheaf. 
These  broken  limbs  again  into  one  body. 

Sen.   Lest  Rome  herself  be  bane  unto  herself; 
And  she,  whom  mighty  kingdoms  court' sy  to. 
Like  a  forlorn  and  desperate  cast-away, 
Do  shameful  execution  on  herself. 
But  if  my  frosty  signs  and  chaps  of  age. 
Grave  witnesses  of  true  experience. 
Cannot  induce  you  to  attend  my  words,  — 
Speak,   Rome's  dear  friend;   [To  Lucius.]  as  erst 

our  ancestor, 
When  with  his  solemn  tongue  he  did  discourse. 
To  love-sick  Dido's  sad  attending  ear. 
The  story  of  that  baleful  burning  night. 
When  subtle  Greeks  surpriz'd  king  Priam's  Troy  ; 
Tell  us  what  Sinon  hath  bewitch'd  our  ears, 
Or  who  hath  brouglit  the  fatal  engine  in. 
That  gives  our  Troy,  our  Rome,  the  civil  wound. 


Scene  III. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


785 


My  heart  is  not  compact  of  flint,  nor  steel  ;^ 

Nor  can  I  utter  all  our  bitter  grief, 

But  floods  of  tears  will  drown  my  oratory. 

And  break  my  very  utterance ;  even  i'  the  time 

When  it  should  move  you  to  attend  me  most. 

Lending  your  kind  commiseration  : 

Here  is  a  captain,  let  him  tell  the  tale ; 

Your  hearts  will  throb  and  weep  to  hear  him  speak. 

Luc>   Then,  noble  auditory,  be  it  known  to  you, 
That  cursed  Chiron  and  Demetrius 
Were  they  that  murdered  our  emperor's  brother ; 
And  they  it  were  that  ravish'd  our  sister : 
For  their  fell  faults  our  brothers  were  beheaded ; 
Our  father's  tears  despis'd ;  and  basely  cozen'd 
Of  that  true  hand,  that  fought  Rome's  quarrel  out. 
And  sent  her  enemies  unto  the  grave. 
Lastly,  myself  unkindly  banished, 
The  gates  shut  on  me,  and  tum'd  weeping  out, 
To  beg  relief  among  Rome's  enemies ; 
Who  drown 'd  their  enmity  in  my  true  tears. 
And  op'd  their  arms  to  embrace  me  as  a  friend ; 
And  I  am  the  turn'd-forth,  be  it  known  to  you. 
That  have  preserv'd  her  welfare  in  my  blood ; 
And  from  her  bosom  took  the  enemy's  point, 
Sheathing  the  steel  in  my  advent'rous  body. 
Alas  !  you  know,  I  am  no  vaunter,  I ; 
My  scars  can  witness,  dumb  although  they  are. 
That  my  report  is  just,  and  full  of  truth. 
But,  soft ;  methinks,  I  do  digress  too  much, 
Citing  my  wortliless  praise  :    O,  pardon  me  ; 
For  when  no  friends  are  by,  men  praise  themselves. 

Marc.  Now  is  my  turn  to  speak  ;  behold  this  child. 
\^Pointing  to  the  Child  in  the  arms  of  an  Attendant. 
Of  this  was  Tamora  deliver'd ; 
The  issue  of  an  irreligious  Moor, 
Chief  architect  and  plotter  of  these  woes  : 
The  villain  is  alive  in  Titus*  house. 
Wretch  that  he  is,  to  witness  this  is  true. 
Now  judge,  what  cause  had  Titus  to  revenge 
These  wrongs,  unspeakable,  past  patience, 
Or  more  than  any  living  man  could  bear. 
Now  you  have  heard  the  truth,  what  say  you,  Ro- 
mans? 
Have  we  done  aught  amiss  ?  Show  us  wherein, 
And,  from  the  place  where  you  behold  us  now, 
The  poor  remainder  of  Andronici 
Will,  hand  in  hand,  all  headlong  cast  us  down. 
And  on  the  ragged  stones  beat  forth  our  brains. 
And  make  a  mutual  closure  of  our  house. 
Speak,  Romans,  speak  ;  and,  if  you  say,  we  shall, 
Lo,  hand  in  hand,  Lucius  and  I  will  fall. 

jEmil.  Come,  come,  thou  reverend  man  of  Rome, 
And  bring  our  emperor  gently  in  thy  hand, 
Lucius  our  emperor  ;  for  well  I  know. 
The  common  voice  do  cry,  it  shall  be  so. 

Rom.   [Several  speak.]  Lucius,  all  hail;   Rome's 
royal  emperor ! 

Lucius,  ^-c  descend. 
Marc.   Go,  go  into  old  Titus'  sorrowful  house ; 
[To  an  Attendant. 
And  hither  hale  that  misbelieving  Moor, 
To  be  adjudg'd  some  direful  slaughtering  death, 
As  punishment  for  his  most  wicked  life. 

Rom.  [Several  speak."]  Lucius,  all  hail ;  Rome's 
gracious  governor ! 


Luc.    Thanks,  gentle  llomans ;  May  I  govern  so. 
To  heal  Rome's  harms,  and  wipe  away  her  woe  ! 
But,  gentle  people,  give  me  aim  awhile,  — 
For  nature  puts  me  to  a  heavy  task  ;  — - 
Stand  all  aloof :  —  but,  uncle,  draw  you  near, 
To  shed  obsequious  tears  upon  this  trunk  : 

0  take  this  warm  kiss  on  thy  pale  cold  lips. 

[Kisses  Titus. 
These  sorrowful  drops  upon  thy  blood-stain'd  face, 
The  last  true  duties  of  thy  noble  son  ! 

Marc.   Tear  for  tear,  and  loving  kiss  for  kiss, 
Thy  brother  Marcus  tenders  on  tliy  lips  : 
O,  were  the  sum  of  these  that  I  should  pay 
Countless  and  infinite,  yet  would  I  pay  them. 

JLmc.   Come  hither,  boy  ;  come,  come,  and  learn 
of  us 
To  melt  in  showers :   Thy  grandsire  lov'd  thee  well : 
Many  a  time  he  danc'd  thee  on  his  knee. 
Sung  thee  asleep,  his  loving  breast  thy  pillow ; 
Many  a  matter  hath  he  told  to  thee, 
Meet,  and  agreeing  with  thine  infancy  ; 
In  that  respect  then,  like  a  loving  child. 
Shed  yet  some  small  drops  from  thy  tender  spring. 
Because  kind  nature  doth  require  it  so  : 
Friends  should  associate  friends  in  grief  and  woe : 
Bid  him  farewell ;  commit  him  to  the  grave  ; 
Do  him  that  kindness,  and  take  leave  of  him. 

Boy.   O  grandsire,  grandsire !  even  with  all  my 
heart 
Would  I  were  dead  so  you  did  live  again  !  — 
Good  heaven,  I  cannot  speak  to  him  for  weeping ; 
My  tears  will  choke  me^  if  I  ope  my  mouth. 

Unter  Attendants,  with  Aaron. 

1  Rom.  You  sad  Andronici,  have  done  with  woes; 
Give  sentence  on  this  execrable  wretch. 
That  hath  been  breeder  of  these  dire  events. 

Luc.  Set  him  breast-deep  in  earth,  and  famish 
him. 
There  let  him  stand,  and  rave  and  cry  for  food ; 
If  any  one  relieves  or  pities  him. 
For  the  offence  he  dies.     This  is  our  doom  : 
Some  stay,  to  see  him  fasten'd  in  the  earth. 

Aar.   O,  why  should  wrath  be  mute,  and  fury 
dumb? 

1  am  no  baby,  I,  that,  with  base  prayers, 
I  should  repent  the  evils  I  have  done  ; 
Ten  thousand,  worse  than  ever  yet  I  did. 
Would  I  perform,  if  I  might  have  my  will ; 
If  one  good  deed  in  all  my  life  I  did, 

I  do  repent  it  from  my  very  soul. 
Luc.   Some  loving  friends  convey  the  emperor 
hence, 
And  give  him  burial  in  his  father's  grave : 
My  father,  and  Lavinia,  shall  forthwith 
Be  closed  in  our  household's  monument. 
As  for  tliat  heinous  tiger,  Tamora, 
No  funeral  rite,  nor  man  in  mournful  weeds, 
No  mournful  bell  shall  ring  her  burial  ; 
But  throw  her  forth  to  beasts,  and  birds  of  prey : 
Her  life  was  beast-like,  and  devoid  of  pity  ; 
And,  being  so,  shall  have  like  want  of  pity. 
See  justice  done  to  Aaron,  that  vile  Moor, 
By  whom  our  heavy  haps  had  their  beginning : 
Then,  afterwards,  to  order  well  the  state ; 
That  like  events  may  ne'er  it  ruinate.          \_Exeunt. 


3  E 


c; 


A 


(/ 


1 


^ 


KING    LEAR. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Lear,  King  o/"  Britain, 

King  of  France. 

Duke  of  Burgundy. 

Duke  of  Cornwall. 

Duke  of  Albany. 

Earl  of  Kent. 

Earl  of  Gloster. 

Edgar,  Son  to  Gloster. 

Edmund,  Bastard  Son  to  Gloster 

Cukan,  a  Courtier. 

Old  Man,  Tenant  to  Gloster. 

Physician. 


Fool. 

Oswald,  Steward  to  Goneril. 

Jin  Officer,  employed  by  Edmund. 

Gentleman,  Attendant  on  Cordelia. 

A  Herald. 

Servants  to  Cornwall. 

GoNERlL, 

Reg  A 
Cordelia 


RIL,      ~j 
ELIA,    J 


Daughters  to  Lear. 


Knights  attending  on  the  King,   Officers,  Messengers. 
Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE,  Britain. 


I 


HOW  DOBS  MT  ROYAL  'LORD?     HOW   FARES  TODR  MAJESTY? 


KING     LEAR. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE   I.  —  A    Room  of   State  in  King  Lear's 
Palace. 

Enter  Kent,  Gloster,  and  Edmund. 

Kent.  I  thought,  the  king  had  more  affected  the 
duke  of  Albany,  than  Cornwall. 

Glo.  It  did  always  seem  so  to  us :  but  now,  in 
the  division  of  the  kingdom,  it  appears  not  which 
of  the  dukes  he  values  most ;  for  equalities  are  so 
weigh'd  that  curiosity  •  in  neither  can  make  choice 
of  either's  moiety.- 

Kent.    Is  this  your  son,  my  lord  ? 

Glo.  His  breeding,  sir,  hath  been  at  my  charge : 
I  have  so  often  blush'd  to  acknowledge  him,  that 
now  I  am  brazed  to  it.      Do  you  smell  a  fault  ? 

Kent.  I  cannot  wish  the  fault  undone,  the  issue 
of  it  being  so  proper. 

Glo.  But  I  have,  sir,  a  son,  by  order  of  law,  some 
year  elder  than  this,  who  yet  is  no  dearer  in  my 
account :  —  Do  you  know  this  noble  gentleman, 
Edmund  ? 

Edm.   No,  my  lord. 

Glo.  My  lord  of  Kent :  remember  him  hereafter 
as  my  honourable  friend. 

Edm.   My  services  to  your  lordship. 

Kent.  I  must  love  you,  and  sue  to  know  you 
better. 

Edm.   Sir,  I  shall  study  deserving. 

Glo.  He  hath  been  out  nine  years,  and  away  he 
shall  again  :  —  The  king  is  coming. 

{Trumpets  sound  tvithin. 
'  Most  scrujmlous  nicety.  2  part  or  division. 


Enter  Lear,  Cornwall,  Albany,  Goneril, 

Regan,  Cordelia,  a7id  Attendants. 
Lear.  Attend  the  lords  of  France  and  Burgundy, 
Gloster. 

Glo.    I  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Edmund. 
Lear.   Meantime   we   shall   express   our   darker 
purpose. 
Give  me  the   map  there.  —  Know,  that  we   have 

divided. 
In  three,  our  kingdom  :   and  'tis  our  fast  intent 
To  shake  all  cares  and  business  from  our  age : 
Conferring  them  on  younger  strengths,  while  we 
Unburden'd   crawl   toward   death.  —  Our  son   of 

Cornwall, 
And  you,  our  no  less  loving  son  of  Albany,  a 

We  have  this  hour  a  constant  will  to  publish  " 

Our  daughters'  several  dowers,  that  future  strife 
May  be  prevented  now.      The  princes,  France  and 

Burgundy, 
Great  rivals  in  our  youngest  daughter's  love. 
Long  in  our  court  have  made  their  amorous  sojourn,] 
And  here  are  to  be  answer'd.  —  Tell  me,  my  daugh- 
ters, 
(Since  now  we  will  divest  us,  both  of  rule, 
Interest  of  territory,  cares  of  state,) 
Which  of  you,  shall  we  say,  doth  love  us  most  ? 
That  we  our  largest  bounty  may  extend 
Where  merit  doth  most  challenge  it.  —  Goneril, 
Our  eldest-born,  speak  first. 

Gon.  Sir,  I 

Do  love  you  more  than  words  can  wield  the  matter, ' 


Act  I.  Scene  I. 


KING  LEAR. 


787 


Dearer  than  eye-sight,  space  and  liberty  ; 

Beyond  what  can  be  valued,  rich  or  rare  ; 

No  less  than  life,  with  grace,  health,  beauty,  honour  : 

As  much  as  child  e'er  lov'd,  or  father  found. 

A  love  that  makes  breath  poor,  and  speech  unable  ; 

Beyond  all  manner  of  so  much  I  love  you. 

Cor.   What  shall  Cordelia  do  ?  love  and  be  silenti 

[Jdde. 
Lear.  Of  all  these  bounds,  even  from  this  line  to  this, 
With  shadowy  forests  and  with  champains  '  rich'd, 
With  plenteous  rivers  and  wide-skirted  meads-. 
We  make  thee  lady :  To  thine  and  Albany's  issue 
Be  this  perpetual.  — What  says  our  second  daughter, 
Our  dearest  Regan,  wife  to  Cornwall  ?   Speak. 

Reg.    I  am  made  of  that  self  metal  as  my  sister. 
And  prize  me  at  her  worth.      In  my  true  hqart 
I  find,  she  names  my  very  deed  of  love  ; 
Only  she  comes  too  short,  —  that  I  profess 
Myself  an  enemy  to  all  other  joys. 
Which  the  most  precious  square  ••  of  sense  possesses ; 
And  find,  I  am  alone  felicitate  * 
In  your  dear  highness*  love. 

Cor.  Then  poor  Cordelia !    [Aside. 

And  yet  not  so ;  since,  I  am  sure,  my  love's 
More  richer  than  my  tongue. 

Lear.   To  thee,  and  thine  hereditary  ever, 
Remain  this  ample  third  of  our  fair  kingdom  : 
No  less  in  space,  validity  6,  and  pleasure. 
Than  that  confirm'd  on  Goneril.  —  Now,  our  joy. 
Although  the  last,  not  least;  to  whose  young  love 
The  vines  of  France,  and  milk  of  Burgundy, 
Strive  to  be  interess'd  :   what  can  you  say,  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters  ?    Speak. 

Cur.   Nothing,  my  lord. 

Lear.   Nothing? 

Cor.   Nothing. 

Lear.  Nothing  can  come  of  nothing  :  speak  again. 

Cor.   Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot  heave 
My  heart  into  my  mouth  :    I  love  your  majesty 
According  to  my  bond  ;  nor  more  nor  less. 

Lear.   How,  how,  Cordelia?  mend  your  speech 
a  little, 
Lest  it  may  mar  your  fortunes. 

Cor.  Good,  my  lord. 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me,  lov'd  me  :   I 
Return  those  duties  back  as  are  right  fit. 
Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honour  you. 
Why  have  my  sisters  husbands,  if  they  say. 
They  love  you,  all  ?  Haply,  when  I  shall  wed. 
That  lord,  whose  hand  must  take  my  plight,  shall 

carry 
Half  my  love  with  him,  half  my  care,  and  duty  : 
Sure,  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters. 
To  love  my  father  all. 

Lear.  But  goes  this  with  thy  heart  ? 

Cor.  Ay,  good  my  lord. 

Lear.    So  young,  and  so  untender  ? 

Cor.    So  young,  my  lord,  and  true. 

Lear.  Let  it  be  so, — Thy  truth  then  be  thy  dower  : 
For,  by  the  sacred  radiance  of  the  sun  ; 
The  mysteries  of  Hecate,  and  the  night ; 
By  all  the  operations  of  the  orbs. 
From  whom  we  do  exist,  and  cease  to  be ; 
Here  I  disclaim  all  my  paternal  care, 
Propinquity  7,  and  property  of  blood. 
And  as  a  stranger  to  my  heart  and  me 
Hold  thee,   from  this  ^  for  ever.     The  barbarous 
Scythian, 

*  Afade  hajipy. 
B  From  this  time. 


s  Open  plains. 
6  Value. 


*  Comprehension. 
7  Kindred. 


Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  9  messes 
To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 
Be  as  well  neighbour'd,  pitied,  and  reliev'd, 
As  thou  my  sometime  daughter. 

ITent.  Good  my  liege,  — 

Lear.   Peace,  Kent ! 
Come  not  between  the  dragon  and  his  wrath : 
I  lov'd  her  most,  and  thought  to  set  my  rest 
On   her   kind    nursery.  —  Hence,    and   avoid   my 
sight!  —  [To  Cordelia. 

So  be  my  grave  my  peace,  as  here  I  give 
Her  father's  heart  from  her !  —  Call  France ;  — Who 

stirs  ? 
Call  Burgundy.  —  Cornwall,  and  Albany, 
With  my  two  daughters*  dowers  digest  this  third : 
Let  pride,  which  she  calls  plainness,  marry  her. 
I  do  invest  you  jointly  with  my  power, 
Pre-eminence,  and  all  the  large  eflTects 
That  troop  with   majesty.  —  Ourself,  by  monthly 

course, 
With  reservation  of  an  hundred  knights. 
By  you  to  be  sustain'd,  shall  our  abode 
Make  with  you  by  due  turns.      Only  we  still  retain 
The  name,  and  all  the  additions  '  to  a  king  ; 
The  sway. 

Revenue,  execution  of  the  rest, 
Beloved  sons,  be  yours  :   which  to  confirm, 
This  coronet  part  between  you.   [Giving  the  Crown. 

Kent.  Royal  Lear, 

Whom  I  have  ever  honour'd  as  my  king, 
Lov'd  as  my  father,  as  my  master  follow'd, 
As  my  great  patron  thought  on  in  my  prayers,  — 

Lear.   The  bow  is  bent  and  drawn,  make  from  the 
shaft. 

Kent.   Let  it  fall  rather,  though  the  fork  invade 
The  region  of  my  heart :   be  Kent  unmannerly, 
When  Lear  is  mad.   What  wouldst  thou  do,  old  man  ? 
Think'st  thou,  that  duty  shall  have  dread  to  speak, 
When  power  to  flattery  bows  ?     To  plainness  ho- 
nour's bound. 
When  majesty  stoops  to  folly.      Reverse  thy  doom ; 
And,  in  thy  best  consideration,  check 
This  hideous  rashness  :    answer  my  life  my  judg- 
ment, 
Thy  youngest  daughter  does  not  love  thee  least ; 
Nor  are  those  empty-hearted,  whose  low  sound 
Reverbs*  no  hoUowness. 

Lear.  Kent,  on  thy  life,  no  more. 

Kent.   My  life  I  never  held  but  as  a  pawn 
To  wage  against  thine  enemies  ;  nor  fear  to  lose  it. 
Thy  safety  being  the  motive. 

Lear.  j    _^^  Out  of  my  sight  • 

ne  eye. 


Lea^^fm,  by  Apollo, -»- 

Keii^^         -  Now,  by  Apollo,  king. 

Thou  sweaj'stthy  gods  in  vain. 

Lear.  O,  vassal,  miscreant ! 

[Laying  his  Hand  on  his  Sword. 

AU).  Com.  Dear  sir,  forbear. 

Kent.    Do; 
Kill  thy  physician,  and  the  fee  bestow 
Upon  the  foul  disease.      Revoke  thy  gift ; 
Or  whilst  I  can  vent  clamour  from  my  throat* 
I'll  tell  thee,  thou  dost  evil. 

Lear.  Hear  me,  recreant ! 

On  thine  allegiance  hear  me !  — 
Since  thou  hast  sought  to  make  us  break  our  vow, 

>  Titles. 

s  The  mark  to  shoot  at 
3  E   2 


»  His  children. 
'  Reverberates. 


788 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  I. 


(Which  we  durst  never  yot,)  and,  with  strain'd  pride, 
To  come  betwixt  our  sentence  and  our  power ; 
(Which  nor  our  nature  nor  our  place  can  bear,) 
Our  potency  make  good,  take  thy  reward. 
Five  days  we  do  allot  thee,  for  provision 
To  shield  thee  from  diseases  of  the  world  : 
And,  on  the  sixth,  to  turn  thy  hated  back 
Upon  our  kingdom  :   if,  on  the  tenth  day  following. 
Thy  banish'd  trunk  be  found  in  our  dominions. 
The  moment  is  thy  death  :    Away  !      By  Jupiter, 
This  shall  not  be  revok'd. 

Kent.   Fare  thee  well,  king  :   since  thus  thou  wilt 
appear. 
Freedom  lives  hence,  and  banishment  is  here.  — 
The  gods  to  their  dear  shelter  take  thee,  maid, 

[To  Cordelia. 
That  justly  think 'st,  and  hast  most  rightly  said  !  — 
And  your  large  speeches  may  your  deeds  approve, 
[To  Regan  and  Goneril. 
That  good  effects  may  spring  from  words  of  love.  — 
Thus  Kent,  O  princes,  bids  you  all  adieu ; 
He'll  shape  his  old  course  in  a  country  new.    {Exit. 

Re-enter  Gloster  ;  with  France,  Burgundy, 
and  Attendants. 

Glo.  Here's  France  and  Burgundy,  my  noble  lord. 

Lear.   My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
We  first  address  towards  you,  who  with  this  king 
Hath  rivall'd  for  our  daughter ;   What,  in  the  least, 
Will  you  require  in  present  dower  with  her, 
Or  cease  your  quest  of  love  ? 

Bur.  Most  royal  majesty, 

I  crave  no  more  than  hath  your  highness  ofFer'd, 
Nor  will  you  tender  less. 

Lear.  Right  noble  Burgundy, 

When  she  was  dear  to  us,  we  did  hold  her  so ; 
But  now  her  price  is  fall'n :    Sir,  there  she  stands ; 
If  aught  within  that  little,  seeming  substance, 
Or  all  of  it,  with  our  displeasure  piec'd. 
And  nothing  more,  may  fitly  like  your  grace, 
She's  there,  and  she  is  yours. 

Bur.  I  know  no  answer. 

I.enr.    Sir, 
Will  you,  with  those  infirmities  she  ewes'*, 
Unfriended,  new-adopted  to  our  hate, 
Dower'd  with  our  curse,  and  stranger'd  with  our  oath. 
Take  her,  or  leave  her  ? 

Bur.  Pardon  me,  royal  sir  ; 

Election  makes  not  up  on  such  conditions. 

Lear.   Then  leave  her,  sir  ;    for,  by  the   power 
that  made  me, 
I  tell  you  all  her  wealth.  —  For  you,  great  king, 

[To  France. 
I  would  not  from  your  love  make  such  a  stray. 
To  match  you  where  I  hate ;  therefore  beseech  you 
To  avert  your  liking  a  more  worthier  way. 
Than  on  a  wretch  whom  nature  is  asham'd 
Almost  to  acknowledge  hers. 

France.  This  is  most  strange  ! 

That  she,  that  even  but  now  was  your  best  object, 
The  argument  of  your  praise,  balm  of  your  age, 
Most  best,  most  dearest,  should  in  this  trice  of  time 
Commit  a  thing  so  monstrous,  to  dismantle 
So  many  folds  of  favour  !   Sure,  her  offence 
Must  be  of  such  unnatural  degree, 
That  monsters  it,  or  your  fore-vouch'd  affection 
Fall  into  taint :   which  to  believe  of  her, 
Must  be  a  faith,  that  reason  without  miracle 
Could  never  plant  in  me. 

4  Owns,  is  possessed  of. 


Cor.  I  yet  beseech  your  majesty, 

(If  for  5  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  art. 
To  speak  and  purpose  not ;  since  what  I  well  in- 
tend, 
I'll  do't  before  I  speak,)  that  you  make  known 
It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murder,  or  foulness. 
No  unchaste  action  or  dishonour'd  step. 
That  hath  depriv'd  me  of  your  grace  and  favour :  ^h 
But  even  for  want  of  that,  for  which  I  am  richer ;  fl| 
A  still-soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue  ^E^ 

That  I  am  glad  I  have  not,  though  not  to  have  it, 
Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 

Lear.  Better  thou 

Hadst  not  been  bom,  than  not  to  have  pleas'd  me 
better. 

France.   Is  it  but  this  ?  a  tardiness  in  nature. 
Which  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke. 
That  it  intends  to  do  ?  —  My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
What  say  you  to  the  lady  ?  Love  is  not  love, 
When  it  is  mingled  with  respects,  that  stand 
Aloof  from  the  entire  point.     Will  you  have  her  ? 
She  is  herself  a  dowry. 

Bur.  Royal  Lear, 

Give  but  that  portion  which  yourself  propos'd, 
And  here  I  take  Cordelia  by  the  hand, 
Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

Lear.   Nothing  :    I  have  sworn  ;  I  am  firm. 

Bur.    I  am  sorry  then,  you  have  so  lost  a  father. 
That  you  must  lose  a  husband. 

Cor.  Peace  be  with  Burgundy  ! 

Since  that  respects  of  fortune  are  his  love, 
I  shall  not  be  his  wife. 

France.    Fairest   Cordelia,   thou  art  most  rich, 
being  poor ; 
Most  choice,  forsaken :  and  most  lov'd,  despis'd ! 
Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon  : 
Be  it  lawful,  I  take  up  what's  cast  away. 
Gods,  gods !    'tis  strange,  that  from  dieir  cold'st 
neglect 

My  love  should  kindle  to  inflam'd  respect 

Thy  dowerless  daughter,  king,  thrown  to  my  chance. 
Is  queen  of  us,  of  ours,  and  our  fair  France  : 
Not  all  the  dukes  of  wat'rish  Burgundy 
Shall  buy  this  unpriz'd  precious  maid  of  me.  — 
Bid  them  farewell,  Cordelia,  though  unkind  : 
Thou  losest  here,  a  better  where  to  find. 

Lear.   Thou  hast  her,  France  :   let  her  be  thine ; 
for  we 
Have  no  such  daughter,  nor  shall  ever  see 
That  face  of  hers  again :  —  Therefore  be  gone, 
Without  our  grace,  our  love,  our  benizon.  ^  — 
Come,  noble  Burgundy. 

{Flourish.     Exeunt  Lear,  Burgundy,  Corn- 
wall, Albany,  Gloster,  and  Attendants. 

France.   Bid  farewell  to  your  sisters. 

Cor.   The  jewels  of  our  father,  with  wash'd  eyes 
Cordelia  leaves  you  ;   I  know  you  what  you  are  ;  JH  I 
And,  like  a  sister,  am  most  loath  to  call  ^^H  I 

Your   faults,   as  they  are  nam'd.     Use  well  our 

father : 
To  your  professed  bosoms  I  commit  him : 
But  yet,  alas !  stood  I  within  his  grace, 
I  would  prefer  him  to  a  better  place. 
So  farewell  to  you  both. 

Gon.   Prescribe  not  us  our  duties. 

Reg.  Let  your  stuc 

Be,  to  content  your  lord ;  who  hath  receiv'd  you 
At  fortune's  alms.      You  have  obedience  scanted, 
And  well  are  worth  the  want  that  you  have  wanted. 
*  Because.  «  Blessing. 


Scene  II. 


KING  LEAR. 


789 


Cor.   Time  shall    unfuld    what   plaited  cunning 
hides  ; 
Who  cover  faults,  at  last  shame  them  derides. 
Well  may  you  prosper  ! 

France.  Come,  my  fair  Cordelia. 

[^Exeunt  France  and  Cordelia. 

Gon.  Sister,  it  is  not  a  little  I  have  to  s:iy,  of 
wliat  most  nearly  appertains  to  us  both.  I  think, 
our  father  will  hence  to-night. 

Reg.  That's  most  certain,  and  with  you;  next 
month  with  us. 

Gon.  You  see  how  full  of  changes  his  age  is :  the 
observation  we  have  made  of  it  hath  not  been  little  : 
he  always  lov'd  our  sister  most;  and  with  what 
poor  judgment  he  hath  now  cast  her  off  appears  too 


lieg.  'Tis  the  infirmity  of  his  age  :  yet  he  hath 
ever  but  slenderly  known  himself. 

Gon.  The  best  and  soundest  of  his  time  hath 
been  but  rash  ;  then  must  we  look  to  receive  from 
his  age,  not  alone  the  imperfections  of  long-en- 
grafted condition  7,  but  therewithal,  the  unruly 
waywardness  that  infirm  and  cholerick  years  bring 
with  them. 

Keg.  Such  unconstant  starts  are  we  like  to  have 
from  him,  as  this  of  Kent's  banishment. 

Gon.  There  is  further  compliment  of  leave-taking 
between  France  and  him.  Pray  you,  let  us  hit 
together :  If  our  father  carry  authority  with  such 
dispositions  as  he  bears,  this  last  surrender  of  his 
will  but  offend  us. 

Reg.   We  shall  further  think  of  it. 

Gon.   We  must  do  something,  and  i'  the  heat. 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE  U.  —  A  Hall  in  the  Earl  of  Gloster'5 
Castle. 

Enter  Edmund,  with  a  Letter. 

Edm.   Thou,  nature,  art  my  goddess ;  to  thy  law 
My  services  are  bound  :   Wherefore  should  I 
Stand  in  the  plague  of  custom  ;  and  permit 
The  curiosity  ^  of  nations  to  deprive  me, 
For  that  I  am  some  twelve  or  fourteen  moon-shines 
l>ag  of  a  brother  ?     Why  bastard  ?  wherefore  base  ? 
When  my  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 
My  mind  as  generous,  and  my  shape  as  true, 
As  honest  madam's  issue  ?     Why  brand  they  us 
With  base?  with  baseness?  bastardy?  Well  then, 
I^egitimate  Edgar,  I  must  have  your  land  : 
Our  father's  love  is  to  the  bastard  Edmund, 
As  to  the  legitimate  :    Fine  word,  —  legitimate  ! 
Well,  my  legitimate,  if  this  letter  speed. 
And  my  invention  thrive,  Edmund  the  base 
Sliall  top  the  legitimate.      I  grow  ;  I  prosper  ;  — 
Now,  gods,  stand  up  for  bastards ! 

Enter  Glostkr. 

Glo.   Kent  banish'd  thus  !  And  France  in  choler 
parted  ! 
And  the  king  gone  to-night !  subscrib'd  9  his  power ! 
Confin'd  to  exhibition  !  >     All  this  done 

Upon  the  gad  !  ^ Edmund  !   How  now  ?  what 

new  s  ? 
Edm.   So  please  your  lordship,  none, 

[PtUting  up  the  Letter. 
Glo.  Why  so  earnestly  seek  you  to  put  up  that 
letter? 

"  Qualities  of  mind.  «■  The  nicety  of  civi»  Institution. 

"  Yielded,  surrendered.         '  Allowance.       *  Suddenly. 


Edm.   I  know  no  news,  my  lord. 

Glo.   What  paper  w  ere  you  reading  ? 

Edin.    Nothing,  my  lord. 

Glo.  No?  What  needed  then  tliat  terrible  des- 
patch of  it  into  your  pocket?  the  quality  of  nothing 
hath  not  such  need  to  hide  itself.  Let's  see  :  Come, 
if  it  be  nothing  I  shall  not  need  spectacles. 

Edm.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  pardon  me  :  it  is  a  letter 
from  my  brother,  that  I  have  not  all  o'er  read ;  for 
so  much  as  I  have  perused,  1  find  it  not  fit  for  your 
over- looking. 

Glo.    Give  me  the  letter,  sir. 

Edm.  I  shall  offend,  either  to  detain  or  give  it. 
The  contents,  as  in  part  I  understand  tliem,  are  to 
blame. 

Glo.  Let's  see,  let's  see. 

Edm.  I  hope,  for  my  brother's  justification,  he 
wrote  this  but  as  an  essay  ^  or  taste  of  my  virtue. 

Glo.  [Reads.]  This  policy,  and  reverence  of  age^ 
makes  the  world  bitter  to  the  best  of  our  times;  keeps 
our  fortunes  from  us,  till  our  oldness  cannot  relish 
them.  I  begin  to  find  an  idle  and  fond'*  bondage  in 
the  oppression  of  aficd  tyranny ;  who  sways,  not  as 
it  hath  power,  but  as  it  is  suffered.  Come  to  me,  that 
of  this  I  may  speak  more.  If  our  father  would  sleep 
till  I  waked  him,  you  should  e?ijoy  half  his  revenue  for 
ever,  and  live  the  beloved  of  your  brother,  Edgar,  — 
Humph  —  Conspiracy  !  —  Sleej)  till  I  waked  him  — 
you  should  enjoy  half  his  revenue.  —  My  son  Edgar  ! 
Had  he  a  hand  to  write  this?  a  heart  and  brain  to 
breed  it  in  ? — When  came  this  to  you  ?  Who  brought 
it? 

Edm.  It  was  not  brought  me  ;  my  lord,  there's 
the  cunning  of  it ;  I  found  it  thrown  in  at  the  case- 
ment of  my  closet. 

Glo.  You  know  the  character  to  be  your  brotlier's  ? 

Edm.  If  the  matter  were  good,  my  lord,  I  durst 
swear  it  were  his ;  but  in  respect  of  that,  I  would 
fain  think  it  were  not. 

Glo.   It  is  his. 

Edm.  It  is  his  hand,  my  lord ;  but,  I  hope,  his 
heart  is  not  in  the  contents. 

Glo.  Hath  he  never  heretofore  sounded  you  in 
this  business  ? 

Edm.  Never,  my  lord  :  But  I  have  often  heard 
him  maintain  it  to  be  fit,  that,  sons  at  perfect  age, 
and  fathers  declining,  the  father  should  be  as  ward 
to  the  son,  and  the  son  manage  his  revenue. 

Glo.  O  villain,  villain  !  —  His  very  opinion  in  the 
letter  !  —  Abhorred  villain  !  Unnatural,  detested, 
brutish  villain  !  worse  than  brutish  !  —  Go,  sirrah, 
seek  him  ;  I'll  apprehend  him:  — Abominable  vil- 
lain !  — Where  is  he  ? 

Edm.  I  do  not  well  know,  my  lord.  If  it  shall 
please  you  to  suspend  your  indignation  against  my 
brother,  till  you  can  derive  from  him  better  testi- 
mony of  his  intent,  you  shall  run  a  certain  course  ; 
where  *,  if  you  violently  proceed  against  him,  mis- 
taking his  pur^jose,  it  would  make  a  great  gap  iu 
your  own  honour,  and  shake  in  pieces  the  heart  of 
his  obedience.  I  dare  pawn  down  my  life  for  him, 
that  he  hath  writ  this  to  feel  my  affection  to  your 
honour,  and  to  no  other  pretence  of  danger. 

Glo.   Think  you  so? 

Edm.  If  your  honour  judge  it  meet,  I  will  place 
you  where  you  shall  hear  us  confer  of  tliis,  and  by 
an  auricular  assurance  have  your  satisfaction  ;  and 
that  without  any  further  delay  than  this  verj  evening. 

Glo.   He  cannot  be  such  a  monster. 
3  Trial.  *  Weak  and  foolish.  »  Whcrea*. 

S  E  3 


790 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  I. 


Edm.   Nor  is  not,  sure. 

Glo.  To  his  father,  that  so  tenderly  and  entirely 
loves  him.  —  Heaven  and  earth  !  —  Edmund,  seek 
him  out ;  wind  me  into  him,  I  pray  you  :  frame  the 
business  after  your  own  wisdom  :  I  would  unstate 
myself,  to  be  in  a  due  resolution. 

Edmt  I  will  seek  him,  sir,  presently ;  convey  6 
the  business  as  I  shall  find  means,  and  acquaint  you 
withal. 

Glo.  These  late  eclipses  in  the  sun  and  moon 
portend  no  good  to  us  :  Though  the  wisdom  of 
nature  can  reason  it  thus  and  thus,  yet  nature  finds 
itself  scourged  by  the  sequent  7  effects  :  love  cools, 
friendship  falls  off,  brothers  divide  :  in  cities,  mu- 
tinies ;  in  countries,  discord ;  in  palaces,  treason  ; 
and  the  bond  cracked  between  son  and  father. 
This  villain  of  mine  comes  under  the  prediction; 
there's  son  against  father  :  the  king  falls  from  bias 
of  nature  ;  there's  father  against  child.  We  have 
seen  the  best  of  our  time :  Machinations,  hollow- 
ness,  treachery,  and  all  ruinous  disorders,  follow  us 
disquietly  to  our  graves  !  —  Find  out  this  villain, 
Edmund,  it  shall  lose  thee  nothing  ;  do  it  carefully : 
—  And  the  noble  and  true-hearted  Kent  banished  ! 
his  offence,  honesty  !   Strange  !   strange  !  \_Exit. 

Edm.  This  is  the  excellent  foppery  of  the  world  ! 
that  when  we  are  sick  in  fortune  (often  the  surfeit 
of  our  own  behaviour),  we  make  guilty  of  our  dis- 
asters, the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars :  as  if  we 
were  villains  by  necessity  ;  fools,  by  heavenly 
compulsion ;  knaves,  thieves,  and  treachers^,  by 
spherical  predominance  ;  drunkards,  liars,  and  adul- 
terers, by  an  enforced  obedience  of  planetary  in- 
fluence ;  and  all  that  we  are  evil  in,  by  a  divine 
thrusting  on :  An  admirable  evasion  of  man,  to  lay 
his  ill  disposition  to  the  charge  of  a  star !   Edgar  — 

Enter  Edgar. 

and  pat  he  comes,  like  the  catastrophe  of  the  old 
comedy :  My  cue  is  villainous  melancholy,  with  a 
sigh  like  Tom  o' Bedlam.  —  O,  these  eclipses  do 
portends  these  divisions  !  fa,  sol,  la,  mi.  9 

Edg.  How  now,  brother  Edmund  ?  What  serious 
contemplation  are  you  in  ? 

Edm.  I  am  thinking,  brother,  of  a  prediction  I 
read  this  other  day,  what  should  follow  these 
eclipses. 

Edg.    Do  you  busy  yourself  with  that  ? 

Edm.  I  promise  you,  the  effects  he  writes  of, 
succeed  unhappily ;  as  of  unnaturalness  between 
the  child  and  the  parent ;  death,  dearth,  dissolu- 
tions of  ancient  amities ;  divisions  in  state,  menaces 
and  maledictions  against  king  and  nobles ;  needless 
diffidences,  banishment  of  friends,  dissipation  of 
cohorts ',  nuptial  bi'eaches,  and  I  know  not  what. 

Edg.  How  long  have  you  been  a  sectary  astrono- 
mical ? 

Edm.  Come,  come:  when  saw  you  my  father 
last? 

Edg.   Why,  the  night  gone  by. 

Edm.    Spake  you  with  him  ? 

Edg.   Ay,  two  hours  together. 

Edm^  Parted  you  in  good  terms  ?  Found  you  no 
displeasure  in  him,  by  word  or  countenance  ? 

Edg.   None  at  all. 

Edm.  Bethink  yourself,  wherein  you  may  have 
offended  him  :   and  at  my  entreaty,  forbear  his  pre- 

"  Manage.  '  Following.  ^  Traitors. 

8  These  sounds  are  unnatural  and  offensive  in  niusick. 
'  For  cohorts  some  editors  read  courts. 


sence,  till  some  little  time  hath  qualified  the  heat  of 
his  displeasure ;  which  at  this  instant  so  rageth  in 
him,  that  with  the  mischief  of  your  person  it  would 
scarcely  allay. 

Edg.   Some  villain  hath  done  me  wrong. 

Edm.  That's  my  fear.  I  pray  you,  have  a  con- 
tinent 2  forbearance,  till  the  speed  of  his  rage  goes 
slower ;  and,  as  I  say,  retire  with  me  to  my  lodging, 
from  whence  I  will  fitly  bring  you  to  hear  my  lord 
speak  :  Pray  you,  go  ;  there's  my  key  :  —  If  you 
do  stir  abroad,  go  armed. 

Edg.   Armed,  brother  ? 

Edm.  Brother,  I  advise  you  to  the  best :  go  armed; 
1  am  no  honest  man,  if  there  be  any  good  meaning 
towards  you  :  I  have  told  you  what  I  have  seen  and 
heard,  but  faintly ;  nothing  like  the  image  and 
horror  of  it :    Pray  you,  away. 

Edg.    Shall  I  hear  from  you  anon  ? 

Edm.   I  do  serve  you  in  this  business.  — 

[Exit  Edgar. 
A  credulous  father,  and  a  brother  noble, 
Whose  nature  is  so  far  from  doing  harms, 
That  he  suspects  none ;  on  whose  foolish  honesty 
My  practices  ride  easy  !  —  I  see  the  business.  — 
Let  me,  if  not  by  birth,  have  lands  by  wit : 
All  with  me's  meet,  that  I  can  fashion  fit.       [ExU. 

SCENE  III.  —A  Room  in  the  Duke  of  Albany'* 

Palace. 

Enter  Goneril  and  Steward. 

Gon.   Did   my  father  strike  my  gentleman  for 

chiding  of  his  fool  ? 
Stew.    Ay,  madam. 

Gon.   By  day  and  night !  he  wrongs  me ;  every 
hour 
He  flashes  into  one  gross  crime  or  other. 
That  sets  us  all  at  odds  :    I'll  not  endure  it : 
His  knights  grow  riotous,  and  himself  upbraids  us 
On  every  trifle :  — When  he  returns  from  hunting, 
I  will  not  speak  with  him ;  say,  I  am  sick :  — 
If  you  come  slack  of  former  services. 
You  shall  do  well ;  the  fault  of  it  I'll  answer. 
Stew.   He's  coming,  madam ;   I  hear  him. 

[Horns  within. 
Gon.    Put  on  what  weary  negligence  you  please. 
You  and  your  fellows  ;  I'd  have  it  come  to  question  ; 
If  he  dislike  it,  let  him  to  my  sister, 
Whose  mind  and  mine,  I  know,  in  that  are  one. 
Not  to  be  over-rul'd.     Idle  old  man. 
That  still  would  manage  those  authorities. 
That  he  hath  given  away  !  —  Now,  by  my  life, 
Old  fools  are  babes  again ;  and  must  be  us'd 
With  checks,  as  flatterers,  —  when   they  are  seen 

abus'd. 
Remember  what  I  have  said. 

Stew.  Very  well,  madam. 

Gon.  And  let  his  knights  have  colder  looks  among 
you; 
What  grows  of  it,  no  matter ;  advise  your  fellows  so : 
I  would  breed  from  hence  occasions,  and  I  shall. 
That  I  may  speak.  —  I'll  write  straight  to  my  sister, 
To  hold  my  very  course  :  —  Prepare  for  dinner. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV.— /;  Hall  in  the  same.  « 

Enter  Kent,  disguised.  M 

Kent.   If  but  as  well  I  other  accents  borrow, 
That  can  my  speech  diffuse  3,  my  good  intent 

'^  Temperate,  '  Disorder,  disguise. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  LEAR. 


791 


May  carry  through  itself  to  that  full  issue 

For  which  I  raz'd  <  my  likeness.  —  Now,  banish*d 

Kent, 
If  thou  canst  serve  where  thou  dost  stand  condemn'd, 
(  So  may  it  come  ! )  thy  master,  whom  thou  lov'st. 
Shall  find  thee  full  of  labours. 

Horns  within.  Enter  Leak,  Knights,  and  Attendants. 

Lear.  Let  me  not  stay  a  jot  for  dinner :  go,  get 
it  ready.  [Exit  an  Attendant.']  How  now,  what  art 
thou? 

JTent.    A  man,  sir. 

Lear.  What  dost  thou  profess?  What  wouldst 
thou  with  us  ? 

J^e7l^  I  do  profess  to  be  no  less  than  I  seem  ;  to 
serve  him  truly,  that  will  put  me  in  trust ;  to  love 
him  that  is  honest ;  to  converse  with  him  that  is 
wise,  and  says  little ;  to  fear  judgment ;  to  fight, 
when  I  cannot  choose ;  and  to  eat  no  fish. 

Lear.  What  art  thou  ? 

ITent.  A  very  honest-hearted  fellow,  and  as  poor 
as  the  king. 

Lear.  If  thou  be  as  poor  for  a  subject,  as  he  is 
for  a  king,  thou  art  poor  enough.  What  would'st 
thou? 

ITent.   Service. 

Lear.  Who  wouldst  thou  serve. 

£ent.  You. 

Lear.  Dost  thou  know  me,  fellow  ? 

JTenf.  No,  sir ;  but  you  have  that  in  your  coun- 
tenance, which  I  would  fain  call  master. 

Lear.  What's  that? 

Xieiit.   Authority. 

iear. What  services  canst  thou  do? 

ITent.  I  can  keep  honest  counsel,  ride,  run,  mar  a 
curious  tale  in  telling  it,  and  deliver  a  plain  message 
bluntly :  that  which  ordinary  men  are  fit  for,  I  am 
qualified  in  ;  and  the  best  of  me  is  diligence. 

Lear.    How  old  art  thou  ? 

JTent.  Not  so  young,  sir,  to  love  a  woman  for 
singing ;  nor  so  old,  to  dote  on  her  for  any  thing : 
I  have  years  on  my  back  forty-eight. 

Lear.  Follow  me  ;  thou  shalt  serve  me :  if  I  like 
thee  no  worse  after  dinner,  I  will  not  part  from  thee 
yet.  —  Dinner,  ho,  dinner  !  — Where's  my  knave  ? 
my  fool  ?  Go  you,  and  call  my  fool  hither  : 

Enter  Steward. 
You,  you,  sirrah,  where's  my  daughter  ? 

Stetv.    So  please  you,  —  [Exit. 

Lear.  What  says  the  fellow  there  ?  Call  the  clot- 
poll  back Where's  my  fool,  ho  ?  —  I   think  the 

world's  asleep.  —  How  now,  where's  that  mongrel  ? 

Kni^lit.  He  says,  my  lord,  your  daughter  is  not 
well. 

Lear.  Why  came  not  the  slave  back  to  me,  when 
I  call'd  him  ? 

Knight.  Sir,  he  answer'd  me  in  the  roundest 
manner,  he  would  not. 

Lear.    He  would  not ! 

Knight.  My  lord,  I  know  not  what  the  matter  is ; 
but,  to  my  judgment,  your  highness  is  not  enter- 
tain'd  with  that  ceremonious  affection  as  you  were 
wont ;  there's  a  great  abatement  of  kindness  ap- 
pears, as  well  in  Uje  general  dependants,  as  in  the 
duke  himself  also,  and  your  daughter. 

Lenr.   Ha  !  say'st  thou  so? 

Knight.    I  beseech  you,  pardon  me,  my  lord,  if 
I  be  mistaken  ;  for  my  duty  cannot  be  silent,  when 
I  think  your  highness  is  wrong'd. 
4  Effaced. 


Lear.  Thou  but  remember'st  me  of  mine  own 
conception ;  I  have  perceived  a  most  faint  neglect 
of  late ;  which  I  have  rather  blamed  as  mine  own 
jealous  curiosity  ^,  than  as  a  very  pretence  ^  and 
purpose  of  unkindness  :  I  will  look  further  into't. 
—  But  where's  my  fool  ?  I  have  not  seen  him  this 
two  days. 

Knight.  Since  my  young  lady's  going  into  France, 
sir,  the  fool  hath  much  pin'd  away. 

Lear.  No  more  of  that ;  I  have  noted  it  well.— 
Go,  you,  and  tell  my  daughter  I  would  speak  with 
her.  —  Go  you,  call  hither  my  fool.  — 

Re-enter  Steward. 
O,  you  sir,  you  sir,  come  you  hither  :  Who  am  I,  sir? 

Stew.   My  lady's  father. 

Lear.  My  lady's  father !  my  lord's  knave  :  you 
slave  !  you  cur  ! 

Stew.  I  am  none  of  this,  my  lord ;  I  beseech  you, 
pardon  me. 

Lear.   Do  you  bandy  looks  with  me,  you  rascal  ? 

[Striking  him. 

Stew.   I'll  not  be  struck,  my  lord. 

Kent.  Nor  tripped  neither ;  you  base  foot-ball 
player.  [  Tripping  up  his  Heels. 

Lear.  I  thank  thee,  fellow ;  thou  servest  me,  and 
1*11  love  thee. 

Kent.  Come,  sir,  arise,  away;  I'll  teach  you 
differences  ;  away,  away :  If  you  will  measure  your 
lubber's  length  again,  tarry :  but  away ;  go  to  : 
Have  you  wisdom  ?  so.       [Pushes  the  Steward  out. 

Lear.  Now,  my  friendly  knave,  I  thank  thee  : 
there's  earnest  of  thy  service.   [ Giving  Kent  Money. 

Enter  Fool. 
Fool.   Let  me  hire  him  too ;  —  Here's  my  cox- 
comb. [Giving  Kent  his  Cap. 
Lear.   How  now,  my  pretty  knave?    how  dost 
thou? 

Fool.   Sirrah,  you  were  best  take  my  coxcomb. 
Kent.   Why,  fool? 

Fool.  Why,  for  taking  one's  part  that  is  out  of 
favour :  Nay,  an  thou  canst  not  smile  as  the  wind 
sits,  thou'lt  catch  cold  shortly :  There,  take  my 
coxcomb :  Why,  this  fellow  has  banish'd  two  of  his 
daughters,  and  did  the  third  a  blessing  against  his 
will ;  if  thou  follow  him,  thou  must  needs  wear  my 
coxcomb.  —  How  now,  nuncle  ?  'Would  I  had  two 
coxcombs,  and  two  daughters ! 
Lear.  Why,  my  boy? 

Fool.  If  I  gave  them  all  my  living,  I'd  keep  my 
coxcombs  myself:  There's  mine;  beg  another  of 
thy  daughters. 

Lear.   Take  heed,  sirrah ;  the  whip. 
Fool.   Truth's  a  dog   that  must  to  kennel ;  he 
must  be  whipp'd  out,  when  Lady,  the  brach  7,  may 
stand  by  the  fire. 

Lear.   A  pestilent  gall  to  me ! 

Fool.   Sirrah,  }'ll  t^tch  thee  a  speech. 

Lear.    Do. 

FooL   Mark  it,  nuncle :  — 

Have  more  than  thou  showestt 
Speak  less  than  thou  fmowest. 
Lend  less  than  thou  owest  •, 
Ride  more  than  thou  goest. 
Learn  more  than  thou  trowcU  5, 
Set  less  than  thou  throwest  ; 
And  thou  sfialt  have  more 
Than  two  tens  to  a  score. 


^  Punctilious  jealoiuy. 
"  Ownett,  posseuest 


«  Design. 
»  Bclievest 
3  £  4 


1  Bitch.hound. 


792 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  I. 


Lear.   This  is  nothing,  fool. 
Fool.   Then  'tis   like  the  breath  of  an   unfee'd 
lawyer ;  you  gave  me  nothing  for't :    Can  you  make 
no  use  of  nothing,  nuncle  ? 

Lear.   Why,  no,  boy  j  nothing  can  be  made  out 
of  nothing. 

Fool.   Pr'ythee,   tell  him,  so  much  the  rent  of 
his  land  comes  to ;  he  will  not  believe  a  fool. 

[To  Kent. 
Lear.   A  bitter  fool ! 

Fool.   Dost  thou  know  the  difference,  my  boy, 
between  a  bitter  fool  and  a  sweet  fool  ? 
Lear.    No,  lad ;  teach  me. 
Fool.  Thai  lord,  that  counselVd  thee. 
To  give  away  thy  land. 
Come  place  him  here  by  me,  —— 

Or  do  thou  for  him  stand  : 
The  sweet  and  bitter  fool 
Will  presently  appear  ; 
The  one  in  motley  here. 
The  other  found  out  there. 
Lear.   Dost  thou  call  me  fool,  boy  ? 
Fool.   All  thy  other  titles  thou  hast  given  away ; 
that  thou  wast  born  with. 

Kent.   This  is  not  altogether  fool,  my  lord. 
Fool.  No,  'faith,  lords  and  great  men  will  not  let 
me ;  if  I  had  a  monopoly  out,  they  would  have  part 
on't :   and  ladies  too,  they  will  not  let  me  have  all 
fool  to  myself  J  they'll  be  snatching.  —  Give  me  an 
egg,  nuncle,  and  I'll  give  thee  two  crowns. 
Lear.   What  two  crowns  shall  they  be  ? 
Fool.   Why,  after  I  have  cut  the  egg  i'  the  middle, 
and  eat  up  the  meat,  the  two  crowns  of  the  egg. 
When   thou   clovest   thy  crown   i'  the  middle  and 
gavest  away  both  parts,  thou  borest  thine  ass  on 
thy  back  over  the  dirt :    Thou  hadst  little  wit  in  thy 
bald  crown,  when  thou  gavest  thy  golden  one  away. 
If  I  speak  like  myself  in  this,  let  him  be  whipp'd 
that  first  finds  it  so. 

Fools  had  ne'er  less  grace '  in  a  year  ;  [Singing. 

For  wise  men  are  grown  foppish  ; 
And  know  not  how  their  wits  to  wear. 
Their  manners  are  so  ajnsh. 
Lear.   When  were   you  wont  to   be  so  full  of 
songs,  sirrah  ? 

Fool.   I   have  used  it,  nuncle,  ever  since  thou 
madest  thy  daughters  thy  mother. 

Then  they  for  sudden  joy  did  weep,     [Singing. 

And  I  for  sorrow  sung. 
That  such  a  king  should  j)lay  bo-peep. 
And  go  the  fools  among. 
Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  keep  a  schoolmaster  that  can  teach 
thy  fool  to  lie  ;   I  would  fain  learn  to  lie. 

Lear.  If  you  lie,  sirrah,  we'll  have  you  whipp'd. 
Fool.  I  marvel,  what  kin  thou  and  thy  daughters 
are :  they'll  have  me  whipp'd  for  speaking  true, 
thou'lt  have  me  whipp'd  for  lying ;  and,  sometimes, 
I  am  whipp'd  for  holding  my  peace.  I  had  rather 
be  any  kind  of  thing,  than  a  fool :  and  yet  I  would 
not  be  thee,  nuncle  ;  thou  hast  pared  thy  wit  o'  both 
sides,  and  left  nothing  in  the  middle :  Here  comes 
one  o*  the  parings. 

Enter  Goneril. 
Lear.    How  now,    daughter !   what   makes   that 
frontlet  2  on  ?  Methinks,  you  are  too  much  of  late 
i'  the  frown. 

'  Favour. 

'  Part  of  a  woman's  head-dress,  to  which  Lear  compares  her 
frowning  brow 


Fool.   Thou   wast   a   pretty  fellow,    when   thou 
hadst  no  need  to  care  for  her  frowning  ;  now  thou 
art  an  O  3  without  a  figure :   I  am  better  than  thou 
art  now  ;   I  am  a  fool,  thou  art  nothing.  —  Yes,  for- 
sooth, I  will  hold  my  tongue  ;  so  your  face  [To  Gon.] 
bids  me,  though  you  say  nothing.      Mum,  mum. 
He  that  keeps  nor  crust  nor  crum 
Weary  of  all,  shall  want  sotne.  — 
That's  a  sheal'd  peascod.  ^  [Pointing  to  Lear. 

Gon.   Not  only,  sir,  this  your  all-licens'd  fool, 
But  other  of  your  insolent  retinue. 
Do  hourly  carp  and  quarrel ;  breaking  forth 
In  rank  and  not-to-be-endured  riots.      Sir, 
I  had  thought,  by  making  this  well  known  unto  you, 
To  have  found  a  safe  redVess ;  but  now  grow  fearful. 
By  what  yourself  too  late  have  spoke  and  done, 
That  you  protect  this  course,  and  put  it  on 
By  your  allowance  ^  ;  which  if  you  should,  the  fault 
Would  not  'scape  censure,  nor  the  redresses  sleep  ; 
Which,  in  the  tender  of  a  wholesome  weal  fi, 
Might  in  their  working  do  you  that  offence, 
Which  else  were  shame,  that  then  necessity 
Will  call  discreet  proceeding. 

Fool.    For  you  trow,  nuncle. 

The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long. 
That  it  had  its  head  bit  off  by  its  young. 
So,  out  went  the  candle,  and  we  were  left  darkling. 

Lear.    Are  you  our  daughter  ? 

Gon.  Come,  sir,  I  would,  you  would  make  use  of 
that  good  wisdom  whereof  I  know  you  are  fraught  7; 
and  put  away  these  dispositions,  which  of  late  trans- 
form you  from  what  you  rightly  are. 

Fool.  May  not  an  ass  know  when  the  cart  draws 
the  horse? 

Lear.  Does  any  here  know  me  ?  —  Why  this 
is  not  Lear :  does  Lear  walk  thus  ?  speak  thus  ? 
Where  are  his  eyes?  Either  his  notion  weakens, 
or  his  discernings  are  lethargied.  —  Sleeping  or 
waking  ? —  Ha  !  sure  'tis  not  so.  —  Who  is  it  that 
can  tell  me  who  I  am  ?  —  Lear's  shadow  ?  I  would 
learn  that ;  for  by  the  marks  of  sovereignty,  know- 
ledge, and  reason,  I  should  be  false  persuaded  I  had 
daughters. 

Fool.   Which  they  will  make  an  obedient  father, 

Lear.   Your  name,  fair  gentlewoman  ? 

Gon.   Come,  sir; 
This  admiration  is  much  o'  the  favour  8 
Of  other  your  new  pranks.     I  do  beseech  you 
To  understand  my  purposes  aright : 
As  you  are  old  and  reverend,  you  should  be  wise ; 
Here  do  you  keep  a  hundred  knights  and  squires : 
Men  so  (Ssorder'd,  so  debauch'd,  and  bold. 
That  this  our  court,  infected  with  their  manners. 
Shows  like  a  riotous  inn.      The  shame  doth  speak 
For  instant  remedy  :    Be  then  desir'd 
By  her,  that  else  will  take  the  thing  she  begs, 
A  little  to  disquantity  your  train ; 
And  the  remainder,  that  shall  still  depend  9, 
To  be  such  men  as  may  besort  your  age. 
And  know  themselves  and  you. 

Lear.  Darkness  and  devils !  — 

Saddle  my  horses ;  call  my  train  together.  — 
Degenerate  bastard !   I'll  not  trouble  thee ; 
Yet  have  I  left  a  daughter. 

Gon.   You  strike  my  people ;  and  your  disorder'd 
rabble 
Make  servants  of  their  betters. 
3  A  cipher.  <  A  mere  husk  which  contains  nothing. 

5  Approbation.  ^  -wrell  governed  state. 

7  Stored.  «  Complexion.  9  Continue  in  service. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  LEAR, 


793 


Enter  Albany. 

Lear.  Woe,  that  too  late  repents,  —  O,  sir,  are 
you  come  ? 

Is  it  your  will?  [To  Alb.]   Speak,  sir Prepare 

my  horses? 
Ingratitude  !  thou  marble-hearted  fiend, 
More  hideous,  when  thou  show'st  thee  in  a  child. 
Than  the  sea-monster ! 

Alb.  Pray,  sir,  be  patient. 

Lear.    Detested  kite  !  thou  liest :    [  To  Goneril. 
My  train  are  men  of  choice  and  rarest  parts, 
That  all  particulars  of  duty  know  ; 
And  in  the  most  exact  regard  support 
The  worships  of  their  name.  —  O  most  small  fault, 
How  ugly  didst  thou  in  Cordelia  show  ! 
Which,  like  an  engine  ',  wrench'd  my  frame  of  na- 
ture 
From  the  fix'd  place ;  drew  from  my  heart  all  love, 
And  added  to  the  gall.      O  Lear,  Lear,  Lear  ! 
Beat  at  this  gate  that  let  thy  folly  in, 

[Striking  his  Head. 
And  thy  dear  judgment  out !  —  Go,  go,  my  people. 

Alb.   My  lord,  I  am  guiltless,  as  I  am  ignorant 
Of  what  hath  mov'd  you. 

Lear.   It  may  be  so,  my  lord.  —  Hear,  nature, 
hear; 
Dear  goddess,  hear !    Suspend  thy  purpose,  if 
Thou  didst  intend  to  make  this  creature  fruitful ! 
Into  her  womb  convey  sterility  ! 
Dry  up  in  her  the  organs  of  increase ; 
And  from  her  derogate  2  body  never  spring 
A  babe  to  honour  her  !   If  she  must  teem, 
Create  her  child  of  spleen  ;  that  it  may  live. 
And  be  a  thwart  disnatur'd  torment  to  her ! 
Let  it  stamp  wrinkles  in  her  brow  of  youth  ; 
With  cadent  3  tears  fret  channels  in  her  cheeks ; 
Turn  all  her  mother's  pains,  and  benefits. 
To  laughter  and  contempt ;  that  she  may  feel 
How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is 
To  have  a  thankless  child  !  —  Away,  away  !    [Exit. 

Alb.  Now,  gods,  that  we  adore,  whereof  comesthis? 

Gon.   Never  afflict  yourself  to  know  the  cause  j 
But  let  his  disposition  have  that  scope 
That  dotage  gives  it. 

Re-enter  Lear. 
Lear.   What,  fifty  of  my  followers,  at  a  clap  ! 
Within  a  fortnight? 

Alb.  What's  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Lear.   I'll  tell  thee  j  —  Life  and  death  !    I  am 
asham'd 
That  thou  hast  power  to  shake  my  manhood  thus : 

[To  GONERIL. 

That  these  hot  tears,  wliich  break  from  me  perforce. 
Should  make  tliee  worth  them.  —  Blasts  and  fogs 

upon  thee ! 
The  untented  *  woundings  of  a  father's  curse 
Pierce  every  sense  about  thee  !  —  Old  fond  eyes, 
Beweep  this  cause  again,  Pll  pluck  you  out; 
And  cast  you,  with  the  waters  that  you  lose. 
To  temper  clay.  —  Ha !  is  it  come  to  this? 
I^et  it  be  so  :  —  Yet  have  I  left  a  daughter, 
Who,  I  am  sure,  is  kind  and  comfortable ; 
When  she  shall  hear  this  of  thee,  with  her  nails 
She'll  flay  thy  wolfish  visage.      Thou  shalt  find, 
'Diat  I'll  resume  the  shape  which  thou  dost  think 
I  have  cast  oflf  for  ever  ;  thou  shalt,  I  warrant  thee. 
[Exeunt  Lear,  Kent,  and  Attendants. 


•  The  rack. 
3  Falling. 


'  Degraded 
*  Undressed. 


Gon.   Do  you  mark  that,  my  lord  ? 

Alb.   I  cannot  be  so  partial,  Goneril, 
To  the  great  love  I  bear  you,  — 

Gon.  Pray  you,  content.  —  What,  Oswald,  ho  J 
You,  sir,  more  knave  than  fool,  after  your  master. 

[To  the  Fool. 

Eool.  Nuncle  Lear,  nuncle  Lear,  tarry,  and  take 
the  fool  with  thee. 

AJbx,  when  one  has  caught  her,  * 

And  such  a  daughter, 

Should  sure  to  the  slaughter, 

If  my  cap  would  buy  a  halter  ; 

So  the  fool  follows  after.  [Exit. 

G<m.   This  man   hath  had  good  counsel :  —  A 
hundred  knights  ! 
'Tis  politick,  and  safe,  to  let  him  keep 
At  point  ^  a  hundred  knights.      Yes,  that  on  every 

dream, 
Each  buz,  each  fancy,  each  complaint,  dislike, 
He  may  enguard  his  dotage  with  their  powers, 
And  hold  our  lives  in  mercy Oswald,  I  say  !  — 

Alb.   Well,  you  may  fear  too  far. 

Gon.  Safer  than  trust : 

Let  me  still  take  away  the  arms  I  fear. 
Not  fear  still  to  be  taken.      I  know  his  heart : 
What  he  hath  utter'd,  I  have  writ  my  sister ; 
If  she  sustain  him  and  his  hundred  knights. 
When  I  have  show'd  the  unfitness,  —  How  now, 
Oswald  ? 

Enter  Steward. 
What,  have  you  writ  that  letter  to  my  sister? 

Stew.   Ay,  madam. 

Gon*    Take  you  some  company,  and  away  to 
horse : 
Inform  her  full  of  my  particular  fear  ; 
And  thereto  add  such  reasons  of  your  ovrn. 
As  may  compact  it  more.      Get  you  gone  ; 
And  hasten  your  return.  [Exit.  Stew.]   No,  no,  my 

lord. 
This  milky  gentleness,  and  course  of  yours. 
Though  I  condemn  it  not,  yet,  under  pardon, 
You  are  much  more  attask'd  ^  for  want  of  wisdom. 
Than  prais'd  for  harmful  mildness. 

Alb.  How  far  your  eyes  may  pierce,  I  cannot  tell ; 
Striving  to  better,  oft  we  mar  what's  welL 

Gon.    Nay,  then  — 

Alb.  Well,  well ;  the  event.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V Court  before  the  same. 

Enter  Lear,  Kent,  and  Fool. 

Lear.  Go  you  before  to  Gloster  with  these  letters : 
acquaint  my  daughter  no  further  with  any  thing 
you  know,  than  comes  from  her  demand  out  of  the 
letter :  If  your  diligence  be  not  speedy,  I  shall  be 
there  before  you. 

Kent.  I  will  not  sleep,  my  lord,  till  I  have  deli- 
vered your  letter.  [Exit. 

Fool.  If  a  man's  brains  were  in  his  heels,  were't 
not  in  danger  of  kibes  ? 

Lear.   Ay,  boy. 

Fool.  Then,  I  pr'ythee,  be  merry ;  thy  wit  shall 
not  go  slip-shod. 

Lear.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Fod.  Shalt  see,  thy  other  daughter  will  use  thee 
kindly :  for  though  she's  as  like  this  as  a  crab  is  like 
an  apple,  yet  I  can  tell  what  I  can  tell. 


*  Armed. 


Liable  to  reprehension. 


794 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  II. 


Lear.   Why,  what  canst  thou  tell,  my  boy  ? 

Fool.  She  will  taste  as  like  this,  as  a  crab  does  to 
a  crab.  Thou  canst  tell,  why  one's  nose  stands  i' 
tlie  middle  of  his  face  ? 

Lear.   No. 

Fool.  Why,  to  keep  his  eyes  on  either  side  his 
nose ;  that  what  a  man  cannot  smell  out,  he  may 
spy  into. 

Lear.   I  did  her  wrong :  — 

Fool.   Canst  tell  how  an  oyster  makes  his  shell  ? 

Lear.   No. 

Fool.  Nor  I  neither ;  but  I  can  tell  why  a  snail 
has  a  house. 

Lear.   Why? 

Fool.  Why,  to  put  his  head  in ;  not  to  give  it 
away  to  his  daughters,  and  leave  his  horns  without 
a  case. 

Lear.  I  will  forget  my  nature,  —  So  kind  a 
father  !  —  Be  my  horses  ready  ? 

Fool.  Thy  asses  are  gone  about  'em.     The  reason 


why  the  seven  stars  are  no  more  than  seven,  is  a 
pretty  reason. 

Lear.   Because  they  are  not  eight? 

Fool.  Yes,  indeed :  Thou  wouldest  make  a  good 
fool. 

Lear.  To  take  it  again  perforce !  —  Monster  in- 
gratitude ! 

Fool.  If  thou  wert  my  fool,  nuncle,  I'd  have  thee 
beaten  for  being  old  before  thy  time. 

Lear.   How  's  that  ? 

Fool.  Thou  shouldst  not  have  been  old,  before 
thou  hadst  been  wise. 

Lear.  O  let  me  not  be  mad,  not  mad,  sweet  hea- 
ven !  Keep  me  in  temper ;  I  would  not  be  mad !  — 

Enter  Gentleman. 

How  now !  Are  the  horses  ready  ? 
Gent.   Ready,  my  lord. 
Lear.  Come,  boy. 


{^Exeunt. 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.  —A  Court  within  the  Castle  of  the  Earl 
of  Gloster. 

Enter  Edmund  and  Curan,  meeting. 

Edm.   Save  thee,  Curan. 

Cur.  And  you,  sir.  I  have  been  with  your  fa- 
ther ;  and  given  him  notice,  that  the  duke  of  Corn- 
wall, and  Regan  his  duchess,  will  be  here  with  him 
to-night. 

Edm.  How  comes  that  ? 

Cur.  Nay,  I  know  not :  You  have  heard  of  the 
news  abroad ;  I  mean,  the  whispered  ones,  for  they 
are  yet  but  ear-kissing  arguments  ? 

Edm.   Not  I ;  'Pray  you,  what  are  they  ? 

Cur.  Have  you  heard  of  no  likely  wars  toward, 
'twixt  the  dukes  of  Cornwall  and  Albany  ? 

Edm.   Not  a  word. 

Cur.   You  may  then,  in  time.    Fare  you  well,  sir. 

[Exit. 

Edm,   The  duke  be  here  to-night?     The  better ! 
Best! 
This  weaves  itself  perforce  into  my  business ! 
My  father  hath  set  guard  to  take  my  brother ; 
And  I  have  one  thing,  of  a  queazy  7  question, 
Which    I    must  act:  —  Briefness,    and    fortune, 

work !  — 
Brother,  a  word ;  descend  :  —  Brother,  I  say ; 

Enter  Edgar. 

My  father  watches  :  —  O  sir,  fly  this  place ; 
Intelligence  is  given  where  you  are  hid  ; 
You  have  now  the  good  advantage  of  the  night :  — 
Have  you  not  spoken  'gainst  the  duke  of  Cornwall  ? 
He's  coming  hither  ;  now,  i'  the  night,  i'  the  haste. 
And  Regan  with  him  ;   Have  you  nothing  said 
Upon  his  party  'gainst  the  duke  of  Albany  ? 
Advise  8  yourself. 

Edg.  I  am  sure  on't,  not  a  word. 

Edm.  I  hear  my  father  coming,  —  Pardon  me  :  — 
In  cunning,  I  must  draw  my  sword  upon  you  :  — 
Draw  :    Seem  to  defend  yourself :   Now  quit  you 
well. 


Delicate. 


8  Consider,  recollect  yourself. 


Yield :  —  come  before  my   father ;  —  Light,   ho 

here !  — 
Fly,  brother ;  —  Torches !  torches !  —  So  farewell.  — 

\^Exit  Edgar, 
Some  blood  drawn  on  me  would  beget  opinion 

[  Wounds  his  Arm. 
Of  my  more  fierce  endeavour:  I  have  seen  drunkards 
Do  more  than  this  in  sport.  —  Father !  father ! 
Stop,  stop !  No  help  ? 

Enter  Gloster,  and  Servants  with  Torches, 

Glo.  Now,  Edmund,  where's  the  villain  ? 

Edm.  Here  stood  he  in  the  dark,  his  sharp  sword 
out. 
Mumbling  of  wicked  charms,  conjuring  the  moon 
To  stand  his  auspicious  mistress  :  — 

Glo.  But  where  is  he  ? 

Edm.   Look,  sir,  I  bleed. 

Glo.  Where  is  the  villain,  Edmund  ? 

Edm.  Fled  this  way,  sir.     When  by  no  means  he 
could  — 

Glo.  Pursue  him,  ho !  —  Go  after.  —  \_Exit  Serv.] 
By  no  means,  —  what  ? 

Edm.  Persuade  me  to  the  murder  of  your  lordship; 
But  that  I  told  him,  the  revenging  gods 
'  Gainst  parricides  did  all  their  thunders  bend  ; 
Spoke,  with  how  manifold  and  strong  a  bond 
The  child  was  bound  to  the  father ;  —  Sir,  in  fine, 
Seeing  how  loathly  opposite  I  stood 
To  his  unnatural  purpose,  in  fell  motion. 
With  his  prepared  sword,  he  charges  home 
My  unprovided  body,  lanc'd  mine  arm  : 
But  when  he  saw  my  best  alarum'd  spirits. 
Bold  in  the  quarrel's  right,  rous'd  to  the  encounter. 
Or  whether  gasted  9  by  the  noise  I  made, 
Full  suddenly  he  fled. 

Glo.  Let  him  fly  far  : 

Not  in  this  land  shall  he  remain  uncaught ; 
And  found  —  Despatch.  —  The   noble   duke  my 

master. 
My  worthy  arch  '  and  patron,  comes  to-night : 
By  his  authority  I  will  proclaim  it. 
That  he,  which  finds  him,  shall  deserve  our  thanks, 
9  Frighted.  »  Chief. 


d 


Scene  I. 


KING  LEAR. 


795 


Bringing  the  murderous  coward  to  the  stake  ; 
He,  that  conceals  him,  death. 

Edm.   When  I  dissuaded  him  from  his  intent. 
And  found  him  pight^  to  do  it,  witli  cursts  speech 
I  threaten'd  to  discover  him  :    He  replied, 
Thou  unpossessing  bastard  !  dost  thou  think, 
If  I  would  stand  against  thee,  would  the  reposal 
Of  any  trust,  virtue,  or  worth,  in  thee 
Make  thy  words  faith'd  ?  No  :  what  I  should  deny, 
{As  this  I  would ;  ay,  though  thou  didst  produce 
My  very  character,)  I'd  turn  it  all 
To  thy  suggestion,  plot,  and  damned  practice  : 
And  thou  must  make  a  dullard  of  the  world, 
If  they  not  thought  the  profits  of  my  death 
Were  very  pregnant  and  poteritial  spurs 
To  make  thee  seek  it. 

Glo.  Strong  and  fasten'd  villain  ! 

Would  he  deny  his  letter  ?  —  I  never  got  him. 

[  Trumj)ets  within. 
Hark,  the  duke's  trumpets !    I  know  not  why  be 

comes :  — 
All  ports  I'll  bar ;  the  villain  shall  not  'scape  ; 
The  duke  must  grant  me  that :  besides,  his  picture 
I  will  send  far  and  near,  that  all  the  kingdom 
May  have  due  note  of  him ;  and  of  my  land, 
Loyal  and  natural  boy,  I'll  work  the  means 
To  make  thee  capable.  * 

Enter  Cornwali-,  Regan,  and  Attendants. 

Com.  How  now,  my  noble  friend  ?  since  I  came 
hither, 
(Which  I  can  call  but  now,)  I  have  heard  strange 
news. 

Reg.  If  it  be  true,  all  vengeance  comes  too  short, 
Which  can  pursue  the  offender.   How  dost,  my  lord  ? 

Glo.  O,  madam,  my  old  heart  is  crack'd,  is  crack 'd ! 

Reg.  What,  did  my  father's  godson  seek  your  life  ? 
He  whom  my  father  nam'd  ?  your  Edgar  ? 

Glo.   O,  lady,  lady,  shame  would  have  it  hid  ! 

Reg.   Was  he  not  companion  with  the  riotous 
knights 
That  tend  upon  my  father  ? 

Glo.  I  know  not,  madam  : 

It  is  too  bad,  too  bad.  — 

Edm.  Yes,  madam,  he  was. 

Reg.  No  marvel  then,  though  he  were  ill  affected ; 
'Tis  they  have  put  him  on  the  old  man's  death. 
To  have  the  waste  and  spoil  of  his  revenues. 
I  have  this  present  evening  from  my  sister 
Been  well  inform'd  of  them ;  and  with  such  cautions. 
That,  if  they  come  to  sojourn  at  my  house, 
I'll  not  be  there. 

Com.  Nor  I,  assure  thee,  Regan.  — 

Edmund,  I  hear  that  you  have  shown  your  father 
A  child-like  office. 

Edm.  "Twas  my  duty,  sir. 

Glo.   He  did  bewray  his  practice  *  ;  and  receiv'd 
This  hurt  you  see,  striving  to  apprehend  him. 

Com.   Is  he  pursued  ? 

Glo.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  he  is. 

Com.   If  he  be  taken,  he  shall  never  more 
Be  fear'd  of  doing  harm  :   make  your  own  purpose. 
How  in  my  strength  you  please.  —  For  you,  Ed- 
mund, 
Whose  virtue  and  oliedience  doth  this  instant 
So  much  commend  itself,  you  shall  be  ours; 
Natures  of  such  deep  trust  we  shall  much  need ; 
You  we  first  seize  on. 

2  Pitchetl,  fixed.  »  Severe,  harsh. 

*  ».  e.  Capable  of  succeeding  to  my  land. 

*  Wicked  purpose. 


Edm.  I  shall  serve  you,  sir, 

Truly,  however  else. 

Glo.   For  him,  I  thank  your  grace. 

Com.  You  know  not  why  we  came  to  visit  you,— 

Reg.   Thus  out  of  season  ;  threading  dark-ey'd 
night. 
Occasions,  noble  Gloster,  of  some  poize  <', 
Wherein  we  must  have  use  of  your  advice  :  — 
Our  father  he  hath  writ,  so  hath  our  sister, 
Of  differences,  which  I  best  thought  it  fit 
To  answer  from  our  home  ;  the  several  messengers 
From  hence  attend  despatch.     Our  good  old  friend, 
Lay  comforts  to  your  bosom  ;  and  bestow 
Your  needful  counsel  to  our  business, 
Which  craves  the  instant  use. 

Glo.  I  serve  you,  madam  : 

Your  graces  are  right  welcome.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — Before  Gloster'a  Cattle, 
Enter  Kent  and  Steward,  severally. 

Stew.   Good  dawning  to  thee,  friend  :    Art  of  the 
house  ? 

ITent.   Ay. 

Stew.  Where  may  we  set  our  horses  ? 

ITent.   V  the  mire. 

Stew.  Pr'ythee,  if  thou  love  me,  tell  me. 

ITent.   I  love  thee  not. 

Stew.  Why,  then  I  care  not  for  thee. 

ITent.  If  I  had  thee  in  Lipsbury  pinfold,  I  would 
make  thee  care  for  me. 

Stew.    Why  dost  thou  use  me  thus?  I  know  thee 
not. 

JTen/.    Fellow,  I  know  thee. 

Stew.   What  dost  thou  know  me  for  ? 

I^ent.  A  knave ;  a  rascal,  an  eater  of  broken 
meats ;  a  base,  proud,  shallow,  beggarly,  three- 
suited,  hundred-pound,  worsted-stocking  knave  ;  a 
lily-liver'd,  action-taking  knave ;  a  glass-gazing, 
superserviceable,  finical  rogue;  one-trunk-inherit- 
ing slave  ;  nothing  but  the  composition  of  a  knave, 
beggar,  and  coward :  one  whom  I  will  beat  into 
clamorous  whining,  if  thou  deny'st  the  least  syllable 
of  thy  addition.  7 

Stew.  Why,  what  a  monstrous  fellow  art  thou, 
thus  to  rail  on  one,  that  is  neither  known  of  thee, 
nor  knows  thee  ? 

ICent.  What  a  brazen-faced  varlet  art  thou,  to 
deny  thou  know'st  me  ?  Is  it  two  days  ago,  since  I 
tripp'd  up  thy  heels,  and  beat  thee,  before  the  king  ? 
Draw,  you  rogue :  for,  though  it  be  night,  the  moon 
shines ;  I'll  make  a  sop  o'  the  moonsliine  of  you  : 
Draw,  you  barber-monger,  draw. 

[Drauing  his  sivord. 

Stew.   Away ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  thee. 

ITent.  Draw,  you  rascal :  you  come  with  letters 
against  the  king ;  and  take  vanity  »  the  puppet's 
part,  against  the  royalty  of  her  father :  Draw,  you 
rogue,  or  I'll  so  carbonado  your  shanks : — draw,  you 
rascal ;  come  your  ways. 

Stew.   Help,  ho  !  murder !  help  ! 

ITent.  Strike,  you  slave ;  stand,  rogue,  stand ; 
you  neat  slave,  strike.  [Beating  hinu 

Stew.   Help,  ho  I  murder  !  murder  ! 

Enter  Edmund,  Cornwall,  Regan,  Glostek,  and 
Servants. 
Edm.   How  now  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  Part. 
Kent.   With  you,  goodman  boy,  if  you  please ; 
come,  I'll  flesh  you  ;  come  on,  young  master. 
«  Weight      '  Title*.      "  A  character  in  the  old  moralities. 


796 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  II 


Glo.  Weapons !  arms !  What's  the  matter  here  ? 

Corn.   Keep  peace,  upon  your  lives  ; 
He  dies,  that  strikes  again  :   What  is  the  matter  ? 

Beg.  The  messengers  from  our  sister  and  the  king. 

Corn.   What  is  your  difference?  speak. 

Stew.   I  am  scarce  in  breath,  my  lord. 

JCent.  No  marvel,  you  have  so  bestirr'd  your 
valour.  You  cowardly  rascal,  nature  disclaims  in 
thee  ;  a  tailor  made  thee. 

Cor7i.  Thou  art  a  strange  fellow :  a  tailor  make 
a  man  ? 

ITent.  Ay,  a  tailor,  sir ;  a  stone-cutter,  or  a  painter, 
could  not  have  made  him  so  ill,  though  they  had 
been  but  two  hours  at  the  trade. 

Corn.    Speak  yet,  how  grew  your  quarrel  ? 

Stew.   This  ancient  ruffian,  sir,  whose  life  I  have 
spar'd, 
At  suit  of  his  grey  beard,  — 

ITent.  Thou  zed !  thou  unnecessary  letter  !  — 
My  lord,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  I  will  tread  this 
unbolted  9  villain  into  mortar,  and  daub  the  wall 
with  him.  —  Spare  my  grey  beard,  you  wagtail ! 

Corn.   Peace,  sirrah ! 
You  beastly  knave,  know  you  no  reverence  ? 

ITent.   Yes,  sir  ;  but  anger  has  a  privilege. 

Corn.   Why  art  thou  angry  ? 

ITent.   That  such  a  slave  as  this  should  wear  a 
sword. 
Who  wears  no  honesty.     Such  smiling  rogues  as 

these, 
Like  rats,  oft  bite  the  holy  cords  atwain 
Which  are  too  intrinse  '  t'  unloose :  smooth  every 

passion 
That  in  the  natures  of  their  lords  rebels ; 
Bring  oil  to  fire,  snow  to  their  colder  moods ; 
Renege  %  affirm,  and  turn  their  halcyons  beaks 
With  every  gale  and  vary  of  their  masters. 
As  knowing  nought,  like  dogs,  but  following.  — 
A  plague  upon  your  epileptic  visage ! 
Smile  you  my  speeches,  as  I  were  a  fool  ? 
Goose,  if  I  had  you  upon  Sarum  plain, 
I'd  drive  ye  cackling  home  to  Camelot.'* 

Corn.   What,  art  thou  mad,  old  fellow  ? 

Glo.  How  fell  you  out  ? 

Say  that. 

Kent.   No  contraries  hold  more  antipathy. 
Than  I  and  such  a  knave. 

Corn.  Why  dost  thou  call  him  knave  ?  What's  his 
offence  ? 

JTent.   His  countenance  likes  me  not. 
:    Corn.   No  more,  perchance,  does  mine,  or  his,  or 
hers. 

JTent.    Sir,  'tis  my  occupation  to  be  plain  j 
I  have  seen  better  faces  in  my  time, 
Than  stands  on  any  shoulder  that  I  see 
Before  me  at  this  instant. 

Corn.  This  is  some  fellow, 

Who,  having  been  praised  for  bluntness,  doth  affect 
A  saucy  roughness ;  and  constrains  the  garb, 
Quite  from  his  nature  :    He  cannot  flatter,  he  !  — 
An  honest  mind  and  plain,  —  he  must  speak  truth  : 
And  they  will  take  it,  so ;  if  not,  he's  plain. 
These  kind  of  knaves  I  know,  which  in  this  plainness 
Harbour  more  craft,  and  more  corrupter  ends. 
Than  twenty  silly  ducking  observants. 
That  stretch  their  duties  nicely. 

9  Unrefined.  i  Perplexed.  2  Disown. 

3  The  bird  called  the  king-fisher,  which,  when  dried  and 
hung  up  by  a  thread,  is  supposed  to  turn  his  bill  to  the  point 
from  whence  the  wind  blows. 

*  In  Somersetshire,  where  are  bred  great  quantities  of  geese. 


ITent.   Sir,  in  good  sooth,  in  sincere  verity. 
Under  the  allowance  of  your  grand  aspect. 
Whose  influence,  like  the  wreath  of  radiant  fire 
On  flickering  Phoebus'  front,  — 

Corn.  What  mcan'st  by  this  ? 

ITent.   To  go  out  of  my  dialect,  which  you  dis- 
commend so  much.    I  know,  sir,  I  am  no  flatterer : 
he  that  beguiled  you,  in  a  plain  accent,  was  a  plain  ^^ 
knave ;  which,  for  my  part,  I  will  not  be,  though  I  |^H 
should  win  your  displeasure  to  entreat  me  to  it.        hB 

Com.   What  was  the  offence  you  gave  him  ? 

Stew.  Never  any : 

It  pleas'd  the  king  his  master,  very  late. 
To  strike  at  me,  upon  his  misconstruction  ; 
When  he,  conjunct,  and  flattering  his  displeasure, 
Tripp'd  me  behind :  being  down,  insulted,  rail'd, 
And  put  upon  him  such  a  deal  of  man, 
That  worthy 'd  him,  got  praises  of  the  king 
For  him  attempting  who  was  self-subdu'd  ; 
And,  in  the  fleshment  of  this  dread  exploit, 
Drew  on  me  here. 

ITent.  None  of  these  rogues,  and  cowards. 

But  Ajax  is  their  fool.* 

Corn.  Fetch  forth  the  stocks,  ho ! 

You  stubborn  ancient  knave,  you  reverend  braggart. 
We'll  teach  you 

ITent.  Sir,  I  am  too  old  to  learn  : 

Call  not  your  stocks  for  me  :   I  serve  the  king ; 
On  whose  employment  I  was  sent  to  you  : 
You  shall  do  small  respect,  show  too  bold  malice 
Against  the  grace  and  person  of  my  master, 
Stocking  his  messenger. 

Com.  Fetch  forth  the  stocks : 

As  I've  life  and  honour,  there  shall  he  sit  till  noon. 

Reg.  Till  noon  !  till  night,^my  lord ;  and  all  night 
too. 

JTent.  Why,  madam,  if  I  were  your  father's  dog. 
You  should  not  use  me  so. 

Reg.  Sir,  being  his  knave,  I  will. 

[Stocks  brought  out. 

Corn.   This  is  a  fellow  of  the  self-same  colour 
Our  sister  speaks  of:  — Come,  bring  away  the  stocks. 

Glo.   Let  me  beseech  your  grace  not  to  do  so  : 
His  fault  is  much,  and  the  good  king  his  master 
Will  check  him  for't :  your  purpos'd  low  correction 
Is  such,  as  basest  and  contemned'st  wretches. 
For  pilferings  and  most  common  trespasses. 
Are  punish'd  with :   the  king  must  take  it  ill. 
That  he's  so  slightly  valued  in  his  messenger. 
Should  have  him  thus  restrain'd. 

Corn.  I'll  answer  that. 

Reg.   My  sister  may  receive  it  much  more  worse. 
To  have  her  gentleman  abus'd,  assaulted, 
For  following  her  affairs.  —  Put  in  his  legs.  — 

[Kent  is  put  in  the  Stocks. 
Come,  my  good  lord  ;  away. 

[Exeunt  Regan  and  Cornwall, 

Glo.   I  am  sorry  for  thee,  friend ;  'tis  the  duke's 
pleasure. 
Whose  disposition,  all  the  world  well  knows. 
Will  not  be  rubb'd,  nor  stopp'd :   I'll  entreat  for 
thee. 

JTent.   Pray,   do  not,  sir ;    I  have  watch'd,   and 
travell'd  hard ; 
Some  time  I  shall  sleep  out,  the  rest  I'll  whistle. 
A  good  man's  fortune  may  grow  out  at  heels : 
Give  you  good  morrow  ! 

Glo.   The  duke's  to  blame  in  this :   'twill  be  ill 
taken.  [Exit. 

5  i.  e.  Ajax  is  a  fool  to  them. 


Scene  IV. 


KING  LEAR. 


■97 


JTent.  Good  king,  that  must  approve  the  common 
saw !  6 
Thou  out  of  heaven's  benediction  com'st 
To  the  warm  sun  I 

Approach,  tliou  beacon  to  this  under  globe, 
That  by  thy  comfortable  beams  I  may 
Peruse  this  letter !  —  Nothing  almost  sees  mi  rack  s. 
But  misery  ;  —  I  know  'tis  from  Cordelia; 
VVlio  hath  most  fortunately  been  inform'd 
Of  my  obscured  course ;  and  shall  find  time 
From  this  enormous  state,  —  seeking  to  give 
IjOsscs  their  remedies :  —  All  weary  and  o'erwatch'd, 
'J^ake  vantage,  heavy  eyes,  not  to  behold 
This  shameful  lodging. 

Fortune^  good  night ;  smile  once  more ;  turn  thy 
wheel !  [Jle  sleeps. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Part  of  the  Heath. 
Enter  Edgar. 
Edg.   I  heard  myself  proclaim'd : 
And,  by  the  happy  hollow  of  a  tree, 
Escap'd  the  hunt.     No  port  is  free  ;  no  place, 
That  guard,  and  most  unusual  vigilance, 
Does  not  attend  my  taking.     While  I  may  'scape, 
I  will  preserve  myself :  and  am  bethought 
To  take  the  basest  and  most  poorest  shape, 
lliat  ever  penury,  in  contempt  of  man, 
Brought  near  to  beast ;  my  face  I'll  grime  with  filth; 
Blanket  my  loins  :   elf  7  all  my  hair  in  knots ; 
And  with  presented  nakedness  outface 
The  winds,  and  persecutions  of  the  sky. 
The  country  gives  me  proof  and  precedent 
Of  Bedlam  beggars,  who,  with  roaring  voices, 
Strike  in  their  numb'd  and  mortifi'd  bare  arms 
Pins,  wooden  pricks  8,  nails,  sprigs  of  rosemary  ; 
And  with  this  horrible  object,  from  low  farms. 
Poor  pelting  villages,  sheep-cotes  and  mills, 
Sometime  with  lunatic  bans^,  sometime  with  prayers, 
Enforce  their  charity.  —  Poor  Turlygood !  poor  Tom ! 
That's  something  yet ;  —  Edgar  I  nothing  am. 

[ExU. 
SCENE  IV.  —  Before  Gloster's  Castle. 

Enter  Lear,  Fool,  and  Gentleman. 
Lear.  'Tis  strange,  that  they  should  so  depart 
from  home. 
And  not  send  back  my  messenger. 

Gciit.  As  I  learn'd, 

The  night  before  there  was  no  purpose  in  them 
Of  this  remove. 
Kent.  Hail  to  thee,  noble  master  ! 

Lear.   How ! 
Mak'st  thou  this  shame  thy  pastime? 

Kent.  No,  my  lord. 

Fool.  Ha,  ha ;  look  !  he  wears  cruel  '  garters ! 
Horses  are  tied  by  the  heads  ;  dogs  and  bears,  by 
the  neck ;  monkies  by  the  loins ;  and  men  by  the 
legs  :  when  a  man  is  over-lusty  at  legs,  then  he 
wears  wooden  nether  stocks.^ 

Lear.   What's  he,  tliat  hatli  so  much  thy  place 
mistook 
To  set  tliee  here? 

Kent.  It  is  both  he  and  she, 

Your  son  and  daughter. 
Lear.   No. 
Kent.    Yes. 
fi  Saying  or  proverb. 

"  Hair  tlius  knotted  was  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  elves 
and  fairies  in  the  night 
8  Skewers.  9  Curses. 

•  A  quibble  on  crrtir/,  worstrd. 
8  The  old  word  for  stockings. 


Lenr.   No,  I  say. 
Kent.    I  say,  yea. 
Lear.    No,  no  ;  they  would  not. 
Kent.    Yes,  they  have. 
Lear.   By  Jupiter,  I  swear,  no. 
Kent.   By  Juno,  I  swear,  ay. 
Lear.   They  durst  not  do't. 
They  could  not,  would  not  do't ;  'tis  worse  than 

murder, 
To  do  upon  respect  such  violent  outrage  : 
Resolve  me,  with  all  modest  haste,  which  way 
Thou  might'st  deserve,  or  they  impose,  this  usage, 
Coming  from  us. 

Kent.  My  lord,  when  at  their  home 

I  did  commend  your  highness'  letters  to  them, 
Ere  I  was  risen  from  tlie  place  that  show'd 
My  duty  kneeling,  came  there  a  reeking  post, 
Stew'd  in  his  haste,  half  breathless,  panting  forth 
From  Goneril  his  mistress,  salutations  ; 
Deliver'd  letters,  spite  of  intermission, 
Which  presently  they  read  :  on  whose  contents. 
They  summon'd  up   their  meiny  3,  straight   took 

horse  ; 
Commanded  me  to  follow,  and  attend 
The  leisure  of  their  answer :  gave  me  cold  looks : 
And  meeting  here  the  other  messenger. 
Whose  welcome,  I  perceiv'd,  had  poison'd  mine, 
(Being  the  very  fellow  that  of  late 
Display'd  so  saucily  against  your  highness,) 
Having  more  man  than  wit  about  me,  drew  : 
He  raised  the  house  with  loud  and  coward  cries  : 
Your  son  and  daughter  found  this  trespass  worth 
The  shame  which  here  it  suffers. 

Fool.    Winter  s  not  gone  yet,  if  the  wild  geese  fly 
that  way. 
Fathers,  that  wear  rags. 

Do  make  their  children  blind  ; 
But  fathers,  that  bear  bags, 
Shall  see  their  children  kind. 
But,  for  all  this,  thou  shalt  have  as  many  dolours^ 
for  thy  daughters,  as  thou  canst  tell  in  a  year. 
Lear.   O,  how  tliis  mother  ^  swells  up  toward  my 
heart! 
Hysterica  passio  /  down,  thou  climbing  sorrow. 
Thy  element's  below  !  — Where  is  this  daughter  ? 
Kent.   With  the  earl,  sir,  here  within. 
Lear.  Follow  me  not ; 

Stay  here.  [Exit. 

Gent.  Made  you  no  more  offence  than  what  you 

speak  of? 
Kent.   None. 
How  chance  the  king  comes  with  so  small  a  train  ? 
Fool.  An  thou  hadst  been  set  i'  the  stocks  for  tliat 
question,  thou  hadst  well  deserved  it. 
Kent.   Why,  fool! 

Fool.  We'll  set  thee  to  school  to  an  ant,  to  teacH 
thee  there's  no  labouring  in  the  winter.  Let  go  thy 
hold,  when  a  great  wheel  runs  down  a  hill,  lest  it 
break  thy  neck  with  following  it ;  but  the  great  one 
that  goes  up  the  hill,  let  him  draw  thee  after.  When 
a  wise  man  gives  thee  better  counsel,  give  me  mine 
again ;  I  would  have  none  but  knaves  follow  it, 
since  a  fool  gives  it. 

That,  sir,  which  serves  and  seeks  for  gain^ 

yind  foUotvs  biUforfomi, 
Will  pack,  when  it  begins  to  rain^ 
And  leai>e  thee  in  the  storm. 

9  People,  train  or  retinue. 

*  A  quibble  between  dolours  and  dollars. 

^  The  disease  railed  the  mother. 


798 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  II. 


£ut  I  will  lan-y,  the  fool  ivUl  stay, 

And  let  the  ivise  manjly. 
The  knave  turns  fool,  that  runs  away  ; 
The  fool  no  knave,  perdy. 
Kent.  Where  learned  you  this,  fool  ? 
Fool.   Not  i'  the  stocks,  fool. 

Re-enter  Lear,  with  Gloster. 

Lear,   Deny  to  speak  with  me  ?  They  are  sick  ? 
they  are  weary  ? 
They  have  travell'd  hard  to-night  ?  Mere  fetches  ; 
The  images  of  revolt  and  flying  off"! 
Fetch  me  a  better  answer. 

Glo.  My  dear  lord, 

You  know  the  fiery  quality  of  the  duke  j 
How  unremoveable  and  fix'd  he  is 
In  his  own  course. 

Lear.   Vengeance  !  plague  !  death  !  confusion  ! 
Fiery  ?  what  quality  ?  Why,  Gloster,  Gloster, 
I'd  speak  with  the  duke  of  Cornwall,  and  his  wife. 

Glo.  Well,  my  good  lord,  I  have  inform'd  them  so. 

Lear.  Inform'd  them  !  Dost  thou  understand  me, 
man? 

Gh.   Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Lear.   The  king  would  speak  with  Cornwall ;  the 
dear  father 
Would  with  his  daughter   speak,  commands   her 
service : 

Are   they  inform'd   of  this? My  breath  and 

blood!  — 
Fiery  ?  the  fiery  duke  ?  —  Tell  the  hot  duke  that  — 
No,  but  not  yet :  —  may  be  he  is  not  well : 
Infirmity  doth  still  neglect  all  oflice, 
Whereto  our  health  is  bound ;  we  are  not  ourselves. 
When  nature,  being  oppress'd,  commands  the  mind 
To  suffer  with  the  body :   I'll  forbear  ; 
And  am  fallen  out  with  my  more  headier  will. 
To  take  the  indispos'd  and  sickly  fit 
For  the  sound  man. — Death  on  my  state  !  wherefore 
[^Lookirig  on  Kent. 
Should  he  sit  here?  This  act  persuades  me. 
That  this  remotion  6  of  the  duke  and  her 
Is  practice  7  only.      Give  me  my  servant  forth  : 
Go,  tell  the  duke  and  his  wife,  I'd  speak  with  them, 
Now,  presently :  bid  them  come  forth  and  hear  me, 
Or  at  their  chamber  door  I'll  beat  the  drum, 
Till  it  cry—  Sleep  to  death. 

Glo.   I'd  have  all  well  betwixt  you.  \^Exii. 

Lear.     O  me,  my  heart,  my  rising  heart !  —  but, 
down. 

Fool.  Cry  to  it,  nuncle,  as  the  cockney  did  to  the 
eels,  when  she  put  them  i'  the  paste  alive  ;  she  rapp'd 
'em  o'  the  coxcombs  with  a  stick,  and  cry'd,  Down, 
wantons,  down:  'Twas  her  brother,  that  in  pure 
kindness  to  his  horse,  buttered  his  hay. 

Fnter  Cornwall,  Regan,  Gloster,  and  Servants. 

/-.ear.   Good  morrow  to  you  both. 
CoT^.  Hail  to  your  grace  ! 

[Kent  is  set  at  liberty. 
Reg.   I  am  glad  to  see  your  highness. 
Lear.   Regan,   I  think   you  are ;  I  know  what 
reason 
I  have  to  think  so  :   if  thou  shouldst  not  be  glad, 
I  would  divorce  me  from  thy  mother's  tomb. 
Sepulchring  an  adultress.  —  O,  are  you  free  ? 

[To  Kent. 
Some  other  time  for  that.  —  Beloved  Regan, 


«  Removing  from  their  own  house. 


7  Artifice. 


Thy  sister's  naught :    O,  Regan,  she  hath  tied 
Sharp-tooth'd  unkindness,  like  a  vulture  here.  — 

[Points  to  his  Heart. 
I  can  scarce  speak  to  thee  ;  thou 'It  not  believe. 
Of  how  deprav'd  a-  quality.  —  O,  Regan  ! 

Reg.   I  pray  you,  sir,  take  patience  ;   I  have  hope, 
You  less  know  how  to  value  her  desert. 
Than  she  to  scant  her  duty. 

Lear.  Say,  how  is  that  ? 

Reg.   I  cannot  think,  my  sister  in  the  least 
Would  fail  her  obligation  :    If,  sir,  perchance, 
She  have  restrained  the  riots  of  your  followers, 
'Tis  on  such  ground,  and  to  such  wholesome  end, 
As  clears  her  from  all  blame. 

Lear.   My  curses  on  her ! 

^eg.  O,  sir,  you  are  old ; 

Nature  in  you  stands  on  the  very  verge 
Of  her  confine  :   you  should  be  rul'd,  and  led 
By  some  discretion,  that  discerns  your  state 
Better  than  you  yourself :    Therefore,  I  pray  you. 
That  to  our  sister  you  do  make  return  ; 
Say,  you  have  wrong'd  her,  sir. 

Lear.  Ask  her  forgiveness  ? 

Do  you  but  mark  how  this  becomes  the  house  »  : 
Bear  daughter,  I  confess  that  I  am  old; 
Age  is  unnecessary:  on  my  knees  I  beg,    [Kneeling. 
That  you  II  vouchsafe  me  raiment,  bed,  and  food. 

Reg.    Good   sir,   no   more ;  these  are   unsightly 
tricks : 
Return  you  to  my  sister. 

Lear.  Never,  Regan : 

She  hath  abated  me  of  half  my  train  ; 
Look'd  black  upon  me ;  struck  me  with  her  tongue, 

Most  serpent-like,  upon  the  very  heart : 

All  the  stor'd  vengeances  of  heaven  fall 

On  her  ingrateful  top  !   Strike  her  young  bones. 

You  taking  airs,  witly  lameness  ! 

Corn.  ^  Fye,  fye,  fye ! 

Lear.  You  nimble  lightnings,  dart  your  blinding 
flames 
Into  her  scornful  eyes !  Infect  her  beauty, 
You  fen-suck'd  fogs,  drawn  by  the  powerful  sun. 
To  fall  and  blast  her  pride  ! 

I^eg.  O  the  blest  gods  ! 

So  will  you  wish  on  me,  when  the  rash  mood's  on. 

Lear.  No,  Regan,  thou  shalt  never  have  my  curse ; 
Thy  tender-hefted  nature  shall  not  give 
Thee  o'er  to  harshness  ;  her  eyes  are  fierce,  but  thine 
Do  comfort,  and  not  burn :    'Tis  not  in  thee 
To  grudge  my  pleasures,  to  cut  off  my  train, 
To  bandy  hasty  words,  to  scant  my  sizes  9, 
And,  in  conclusion,  to  oppose  the  bolt 
Against  my  coming  in  :   thou  better  know'st 
The  oflices  of  nature,  bond  of  childhood, 
Effects  of  courtesy,  dues  of  gratitude  ; 
Thy  half  o'  the  kingdom  hast  thou  not  forgot. 
Wherein  I  thee  endow'd. 

Reg'  Good  sir,  to  the  purpose. 

[Trumpets  within. 

Lear.  Who  put  my  man  i'  the  stocks  ? 

Com.  What  trumpet's  that  ? 

Enter  Steward. 

Reg.   I   know't,  my  sister's:    this  approves  her 
letter. 
That  she  would  soon  be  here.. — Is  your  lady  come  ? 

Lear.   This  is  a  slave,  whose  easy  borrow 'd  pride 
Dwells  in  the  fickle  grace  of  her  he  follows  :  — 
Out,  varlet,  from  my  sight ! 

8  The  order  of  families.  9  Contract  my  allowances 


Scene  IV. 


KING  LEAR. 


799 


Com.  What  means  your  grace  ? 

Lear.   Who  stock'd  my  servant  ?  Regan,  I  have 
good  hope 
Thou  didst  not  know  oft. — Who  comes  here  ?   O 
heavens. 

Enter  Goneril. 
If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 
Allow  •  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old, 
Make  it  your  cause ;  send  down,  and  take  my  part !  — 
Art  not  asham'd  to  look  upon  tliis  beard?  — 

[To  GONKRIL. 

O,  Regan,  wilt  thou  take  her  by  the  hand  ? 

Gon.  Why  not  by  the   hand,  sir?  How  have  I 
offended  ? 
All's  not  offence,  that  indiscretion  finds. 
And  dotage  terms  so. 

Lear.  O,  sides,  you  are  too  tough  ! 

Will  you  yet  hold?— How  came  my  man  i'the  stocks? 
Com.   I  set  him  there,  sir :  but  his  own  disorders 
Deserv'd  much  less  advancement 

Lear.  You!  did  you? 

Reg.   I  pray  you,  father,  being  weak,  seem  so. 
If,  till  the  expiration  of  your  month. 
You  will  return  and  sojourn  with  my  sister. 
Dismissing  half  your  train,  come  then  to  me ; 
I  ani  now  from  home,  and  out  of  that  provision 
Which  shall  be  needful  for  your  entertainment. 

Lear.   Return  to  her,  and  fifty  men  dismiss'd  ? 
No,  rather  I  abjure  all  roofs,  and  choose 
To  wage  against  the  enmity  o'  the  air ; 

To  be  a  comrade  with  the  wolf  and  owl, 

Necessity's  sharp  pinch  !  —  Return  with  her? 
Why,  the  hot-blooded  France,  that  dowerless  took 
Our  youngest  bom,  I  could  as  well  be  brought 
To  knee  his  tlu-one,  and,  squire-like,  pension  beg 
To  keep  base  life  afoot :  —  Return  with  her? 
Persuade  me  rather  to  be  slave  and  sumpter  2 
To  this  detested  groom.       [Looking  on  the  Steward. 
Gon,  At  your  choice,  sir. 

Lear.  I  pr'ythee,  daughter,  do  not  make  me  mad ; 
I  will  not  trouble  thee,  my  child ;  farewell : 

We'll  no  more  meet,  no  more  see  one  another : 

But  yet  thou  art  my  flesh,  my  blood,  my  daughter ; 
Or,  rather,  a  disease  that's  in  my  flesh. 
Which  I  must  needs  call  mine  :  but  I'll  not  cliide ; 
Let  shame  come  when  it  will,  I  do  not  call  it : 
I  do  not  bid  the  thunder-bearer  shoot. 
Nor  tell  tales  of  thee  to  high-judging  Jove : 
Mend  when  thou  canst ;  be  better  at  thy  leisure  : 
I  can  be  patient ;   I  can  stay  with  Regan, 
I,  and  my  hundred  knights. 

^^S'^  Not  altogether  so,  sir  ; 

I  look'd  not  for  you  yet,  nor  am  provided 
For  your  fit  welcome  :    Give  ear,  sir,  to  my  sister ; 
For  those  that  mingle  reason  with  your  passion. 

Must  be  content  to  think  you  old,  and  so 

But  she  knows  what  she  does. 

Lear.  Is  this  well  spoken  now  ? 

Reg.    I  dare  avouch  it,  sir :  What,  fifty  followers  ? 

Is  it  not  well  ?  What  should  you  need  of  more  ? 

Yea,  or  so  many  ?  sith  3  that  both  charge  and  danger 

Speak   'gainst  so  great  a   number?   How,  in  one 

house, 
Should  many  people,  under  two  commands, 
Hold  amity  ?  Tis  hard  ;  almost  imi>ossible. 

Gon.   Why  might  not  you,  my  lord,  receive  at- 
tendance 
From  those  that  she  calls  servants,  or  from  mine  ? 
'  Approve. 
•  A  horse  that  carries  necessaries  on  a  journey.         »  Since. 


Reg.   Why  not,  my  lord?     If  then  they  chanc'd 
to  slack  you, 
We  could  control  them  :    If  you  will  come  to  me, 
(For  now  I  spy  a  danger,)  I  entreat  you 
To  bring  but  five  and  twenty ;  to  no  more 
Will  I  give  place  or  notice. 
Lear.    I  gave  you  all  — 

Reg'  And  in  good  time  you  gave  it. 

Lear.   Made  you  my  guardians,  my  depositaries ; 
But  kept  a  reservation  to  be  follow'd 
With  such  a  number :   What,  must  I  come  to  you 
With  five  and  twenty,  Regan  ?  said  you  so  ? 

Reg.   And  speak  it  again,  my  lord  ;  no  more  with 

me. 
Lear.   Those  wicked  creatures  yet  do  look  well- 
favour'd. 
When  others  are  more  wicked  ;  not  being  the  worst. 
Stands  in  some  rank  of  praise :  —  I'll  go  with  thee ; 

[To  Goneril. 
Ihy  fifty  yet  doth  double  five  and  twenty, 
And  thou  art  twice  her  love. 

^^^'  Hear  me,  my  lord  ; 

What  need  you  five  and  twenty,  ten,  or  five. 
To  follow  in  a  house,  where  twice  so  many 
Have  a  command  to  tend  you  ? 

Reg'  What  need  one  ? 

Lear.   O,  reason  not  the  need  :  our  basest  beggars 
Are  in  the  poorest  thing  superfluous : 
Allow  not  nature  more  than  nature  needs, 
Man's  life  is  cheap  as  beast's :   thou  art  a  lady ; 
If  only  to  go  warm  were  gorgeous. 
Why,  nature  needs  not  what  thou  gorgeous  wear'st. 
Which  scarcely  keeps  thee  warm.  —  But,  for  true 

need, — 
You  heavens,  give  me  that  patience,  patience  I  need ! 
You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man. 
As  full  of  grief  as  age  ;  wretched  in  both  ! 
If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 
Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 
To  bear  it  tamely  ;  touch  me  with  noble  anger  ! 
O,  let  not  women's  weapons,  water-drops. 
Stain  my  man's  cheeks !   No,  you  unnatural  hags, 
I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both. 
That  all  the  world  shall  —  I  will  do  such  things,  — 
What  they  are  yet,  I  know  not ;  but  they  shall  be 
The  terrors  of  the  earth.      You  think,  I'll  weep  ; 
No,  I'll  not  weep :  — 

I  have  full  caue  of  weeping ;  but  this  heart 
Shall  break  into  a  hundred  thousands  flaws, 
Or  ere  I'll  weep :  —  O,  fool,  I  shall  go  mad  ! 

[Exeunt  Lear,  Glo.ster,  Kent,  and  FooL 
Corn.   Let  us  withdraw,  'twill  be  a  storm. 

[Storm  heard  at  a  distance. 
J\eg.  This  house 

Is  little ;  the  old  man  and  his  people  caimot 
Be  well  bestow'd. 

Go7^  'Tis  his  own  blame  ;  he  hath  put 

Himself  from  rest,  and  must  needs  taste  his  folly. 
Reg.    For  his  particular,  I'll  receive  him  gladly, 
But  not  one  follower. 

Gon.  So  am  I  purpos'd. 

Where  is  my  lord  of  Gloster  ? 

Re-enter  Gloster. 

Com.   Follow'd  the  old  man  forth  ;  —  he  is  re- 

tum'd. 
Glo.   The  king  is  in  high  rage. 
Com.  Whither  is  he  going  ? 

Gh.    He  calls  to  horse;    but  will   I    know  not 

whither. 


800 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  hi. 


Com.  'Tis  best  to  give  him  way ;  he  leads  himself. 

Gon.   My  lord,  entreat  liim  by  no  means  to  stay. 

GlO'   Alack,  the  night  comes  on,  and  the  bleak 
winds 
Do  sorely  ruffle ;  for  many  miles  about 
There's  scarce  a  bush. 

Reg.  O,  sir,  to  wilful  men, 

The  injuries  that  they  themselves  procure, 


Must  be  their  schoolmasters  :    Shut  up  your  doors ; 
He  is  attended  with  a  desperate  train  ; 
And  what  they  may  incense  7  him  to,  being  apt 
To  have  his  ear  abus'd,  wisdom  bids  fear. 

Corn.   Shut  up  your  doors,  my  lord ;  'tis  a  wild 
night : 
My  Regan  counsels  well :  come  out  o'  the  storm. 

\^Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  J.  ^  A  Heath. 

A  Storm  is  heard,  with  Thunder  and  Lightning. 
Enter  Kent,  and  a  Gentleman,  meeting. 

Kent.   Who's  here,  beside  foul  weather  ? 

Gent.   One  minded  like  the  weather,  most  un- 
quietly. 

Kent.   I  know  you ;   Where's  the  king  ? 

Gent.   Contending  with  the  fretful  element : 
Bids  the  wind  blow  the  earth  into  the  sea. 
Or  swell  the  curled  waters  'bove  the  main, 
That  things  might  change,  or  cease :  tears  his  white 

hair: 
Which  the  impetuous  blasts,  with  eyeless  rage. 
Catch  in  their  fury,  and  make  nothing  of: 
Strives  in  his  little  world  of  man  to  out-scorn 
The  to-and-fro-conflicting  wind  and  rain. 
This   night,  wherein  tlie  cub-drawn  bear  4  would 

couch. 
The  lion  and  the  belly-pinched  wolf 
Keep  their  fur  dry,  unbonneted  he  runs, 
And  bids  what  will  take  all. 

Kent.  But  who  is  with  him  ? 

Gent.   None  but  the  fool ;  who  labours  to  out-jest 
His  heart-struck  injuries. 

Kent.  Sir,  I  do  know  you ; 

And  dare,  upon  the  warrant  of  my  heart. 
Commend  a  dear  thing  to  you.     There  is  division. 
Although  as  yet  the  face  of  it  be  cover'd 
With  mutual  cunning,  'twixt  Albany  and  Cornwall ; 
Who  have  Tas  who  have  not,  that  their  great  stars 
Thron'd  and  set  high  ?)  servants,  who  seem  no  less  j 
Which  are  to  France  the  spies  and  speculations 
Intelligent  of  our  state ;  what  hath  been  seen. 
Either  in  snuffs  and  packings  ^  of  the  dukes  ; 
Or  the  hard  rein  which  both  of  them  have  borne 
Against  the  old  kind  king  :   or  something  deeper. 
Whereof,  perchance,  these  are  but  furnishings  ^ :  — 
But,  true  it  is,  from  France  there  comes  a  power 
Into  this  scatter'd  kingdom  ;  who  already. 
Wise  in  our  negligence,  have  secret  feet 
In  some  of  our  best  ports,  and  are  at  point 
To  show  their  open  banner.  —  Now  to  you : 
If  on  my  credit  you  dare  build  so  far 
To  make  your  speed  to  Dover,  you  shall  find 
Some  that  will  thank  you,  making  just  report 
Of  how  unnatural  and  bemadding  sorrow 
The  king  hath  cause  to  'plain. 
I  am  a  gentleman  of  blood  and  breeding  ; 
And  from  some  knowledge  and  assurance,  offer 
This  office  to  you. 

Gent.   I  will  talk  further  with  you. 

Kent.  No,  do  not. 

For  confirmation  that  I  am  much  more 
*  Whose  dugs  are  drawn  dry  by  its  young. 
^  Stmffis  are  dislikes,  and  packings  underhand  contrivances. 
6  Samples. 


Than  my  out  wall,  open  this  purse,  and  take 
What  it  contains  :    If  you  shall  see  Cordelia, 
(As  fear  not  but  you  shall,)  show  her  this  ring; 
And  she  will  tell  you  who  your  fellow  is 
That  yet  you  do  not  know.      Fie  on  this  storm  ! 
I  will  go  seek  the  king, 

Gent.    Give  me  your  hand :    Have  you  no  more 

to  say? 
Kent.  Few  words,  but  to  effect,  more  than  all  yet ; 
That,  when  we  have  found  the  king,  (in  which  your 

pain 
That  way  ;  I'll  this  ;)  he  that  first  lights  on  him. 
Holla  the  other.  ^Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Heath. 
Storm  continues. 

Enter  Lear  and  Fool. 

Lear.   Blow,  wind,  and  crack  your  cheeks  !  rage ! 
blow ! 
You  cataracts,  and  hurricanoes,  spout 
Till  you  have  drench'd  our  steeples,  drown'd  the 

cocks ! 
You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  8  fires, 
Vaunt  couriers  9  to  oak-cleaving  thunder-bolts. 
Singe  my  white  head !  And  thou,  all-shakingthunder. 
Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world ! 
Crack  nature's  moulds,  all  germens  spill  at  once, 
That  make  ingrateful  man  ! 

Fool.  O  nuncle,  court  holy-water  '  in  a  dry  house 
is  better  than  this  rain-water  out  o'door.  Good 
nuncle,  in,  and  ask  thy  daughters'  blessing ;  here's 
a  night  pities  neither  wise  men  nor  fools. 

Lear.   Rumble  thy  belly -full !    Spit,  fire  !  spout, 
rain! 
Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters  : 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness, 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children, 
You  owe  me  no  subscription  '^ ;  why  then  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure ;  here  I  stand  your  slave, 
A  poor  infirm,  weak,  and  depis'd  old  man  :  — 
But  yet  I  call  you  servile  ministers. 
That  have  with  two  pernicious  daughters  joiu'd 
Your  high  engender'd  battles  'gainst  a  head 
So  old  and  white  as  this.      O  !   O  !  'tis  foul ! 

Fool.   He  that  has  a  house  to  put  his  head  in,  ha 
a  good  head-piece. 

The  man  that  7nakes  his  toe 

What  he  his  heart  should  make. 
Shall  of  a  corn  cry  woe, 

And  turn  his  sleep  to  ivake. 
—  for  there  was  never  yet  fair  woman,  but  she  mad«^ 
mouths  in  a  glass. 

7  Instigate. 

8  Quick  as  thought.  9  Avant  couriers,  French. 
1  A  proverbial  phrase  {ox  fair  words.  ^  Obedience. 


Scene  III. 


KING  LEAR. 


801 


Enter  Kent. 

Lear.  No,  I  will  be  the  pRttcrn  of  all  patience,  I 
will  say  nothing. 

Kent.   Alas,  sir,  are  you  here  ?  tilings  that  love 
night. 
Love  not  such  nights  as  these :   the  wrathful  skies 
Gallow  3  the  very  wanderers  of  the  dark. 
And  make  them  keep  their  caves.    Since  I  was  man, 
Such  sheets  of  fire,  such  bursts  of  horrid  thunder, 
Such  groans  of  roaring  wind  and  rain,  I  never 
Remember  to  have  heard  :  man's  nature  cannot  carry 
The  affliction,  nor  the  fear. 

Lear.  Let  the  great  gods. 

That  keep  this  dreadful  pother  o'er  our  heads, 
Find  out  their  enemies  now.   Tremble,  thou  wretch, 
That  hast  within  thee  undivulged  crimes, 
Unwhipp'd  of  justice  :  Hide  thee,  thou  bloody  hand ; 
Thou  perjur'd,  and  thou  simular  *  man  of  virtue 
Thou  art  incestuous  :   Caitiff,  to  pieces  shake. 
That  under  covert  and  convenient  seeming 
Hast  practis'd  on  man's  life  :  —  Close  pent-up  guilts. 
Rive  your  concealing  continents,  and  cry 
These  dreadful  summoners  grace.  ^  —  I  am  a  man. 
More  sinn'd  against,  than  sinning. 

Kent.  Alack,  bare-headed ! 

Gracious  my  lord,  hard  by  here  is  a  hovel ; 
Some  friendship  will  it  lend  you  'gainst  the  tempest ; 
Repose  you  tliere  :  while  I  to  this  hard  house, 
(More  hard  than  is  the  stone  whereof  'tis  rais'd  ; 
Which  even  but  now,  demanding  after  you, 
Denied  me  to  come  in,)  return,  and  force 
Their  scanted  courtesy. 

Lear.  My  wits  begin  to  turn,  — 

Come  on,  my  boy.:    How  dost,  my  boy  ?  Art  cold  ? 
I  am  cold  myself.  — Where  is  this  straw,  my  fellow  ? 
The  art  of  our  necessities  is  strange, 
Tliat  can  make  vile  things  precious.      Come,  your 

hovel. 
Poor  fool  and  knave,  I  have  one  part  in  my  heart 
That's  sorry  yet  for  thee. 

Fool.   He  thai  has  a  little  tiny  tuit,  — 

JVith  heigh,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain,  — 
Must  make  content  with  his  fortunes  Jit ; 
For  the  rain  it  rainelh  every  day.  6 

Lear.   True,  my  good  boy Come,  bring  us  to 

this  hovel.  {Exeunt  Lear  and  Kent. 

Fool.   I'll  speak  a  prophecy  ere  I  go: 

When  priests  are  more  in  word  than  matter; 

When  brewers  mar  their  malt  with  water; 

When  every  case  in  law  is  right ; 

No  squire  in  debt,  nor  no  poor  knight  ; 

When  slanders  do  not  live  in  tongues; 

Nor  cutptirses  come  not  to  throngs  ; 

Then  shall  the  realm  of  Albion 

Come  to  great  confusioru 

Then  comes  the  time,  tvho  lives  to  see't, 

That  going  shall  be  us'd  with  feet. 

Tliis  prophecy  Merlin  shall  make  ;  for  I  live  before 
his  time.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IIL  —  ^  Room  in  Gloster'*  Castle. 

Enter  G looter  and  Edmund. 
Glo.    Alack,  alack,  Edmund,  I  like  not  this  un- 
natural dealing  :   When  I  desired  their  leave  that  I 

'  Scare  or  frighten.         •♦  Counterfeit         >  Favour 
8  Part  of  the  clown'i  gong  in  Twelfth  Night. 


might  pity  him,  they  took  from  me  the  use  of  mine 
own  house ;  charged  me  on  pain  of  their  perpetual 
displeasure,  neither  to  speak  of  him,  entreat  for  him, 
nor  any  way  sustain  him. 

Edm.   Most  savage,  and  unnatural ! 

Glo.  Go  to  ;  say  you  nothing  :  There  is  division 
between  the  dukes ;  and  a  worse  matter  than  that : 
I  have  received  a  letter  this  night;  — 'tis  dangerous 
to  be  spoken;  —  I  liave  locked  the  letter  in  my 
closet :  these  injuries  the  king  now  bears  will  be 
revenged  home ;  there  is  part  of  a  power  already 
footed :  we  must  incline  to  the  king.  I  will  seek 
him,  and  privily  relieve  him  :  go  you,  and  maintain 
talk  with  the  duke,  that  my  charity  be  not  of  him 
perceived  :  If  he  ask  for  me,  I  am  ill,  and  gone  to 
bed.  If  I  die  for  it,  as  no  less  is  threatened  me, 
the  king  my  old  master  must  be  relieved.  There  is 
some  strange  thing  toward,  Edmund  ;  pray  you,  be 
careful.  [Exit. 

Edm.   This  courtesy,  forbid  thee,  shall  the  duke 
Instantly  know ;  and  of  that  letter  too  :  — 
This  seems  a  fair  deserving,  and  must  draw  me 
That  which  my  father  loses  ;  no  less  than  all : 
The  younger  rises,  when  the  old  doth  fall.       [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —A  Part  of  the  Heath,  with  a  Hovel. 
Enter  Lear,  Kent,  and  Fool. 

Kent.   Here  is  the  place,  my  lord ;  good  my  lord, 
enter ; 
The  tyranny  of  the  open  night's  too  rough 
For  nature  to  endure.  [Storm  still. 

Lear,  Let  me  alone. 

Kent.   Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 
Lear.  Wilt  break  my  heart  ? 

Kent.   I'd  rather  break  mine  own  :  Good  my  lord, 

enter. 
Lear.   Thou  think'st  'tis  much,  that  this  conten- 
tious storm 
Invades  us  to  the  skin  :  so  'tis  to  thee ; 
But  where  the  greater  malady  is  fix'd. 
The  lesser  is  scarce  felt.     Thou'dst  shun  a  bear : 
But  if  thy  flight  lay  toward  the  raging  sea, 
Thou'dst  meet  the  bear  i'  the  mouth.     When  the 

mind's  free. 
The  body's  delicate  :  the  tempest  in  my  mind 
Doth  from  my  senses  take  all  feeling  else. 
Save  what  beats  there.  —  Filial  ingratitude ! 
Is  it  not  as  this  mouth  should  tear  this  hand. 
For  lifting  food  to  't  ?  —  But  I  will  punish  home :  — 
No,  I  will  weep  no  more.  —  In  such  a  night 
To  shut  me  out !  —  Pour  on  ;   I  will  endure  : 
In  such  a  night  as  this  !   O  Regan,  Goneril !  — 
Your  old  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  gave  all, — 
O,  that  way  madness  lies ;  let  me  shun  that  : 
No  more  of  that.  — 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.   Pr'ythee,  go  in  thyself;  seek  tliine  own 
ease  ; 
This  tempest  will  not  give  me  leave  to  ponder 
On  things  would  hurt  me  more.  —  But  I'll  go  in: 
In,  boy ;  go  first.  ^  [To  the  Fool.]   You  houseless 

poverty,  — 
Nay,  get  thee  in.     I'll  pray,  and  then  I'll  sleep.  — 

[  Fool  goes  in. 
Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are. 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm. 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides. 
Your  loop'd,  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  ?  O,  I  have  ta'en 
3  F 


802 


KING  LEAR 


Act  III. 


Too  little  care  of  this  !  Take  physick,  pomp ; 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel ; 
That  thou  may'st  shake  the  superflux  to  them, 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just. 

Edg.    [IVithin.]    Fathom  and   half,   fathom  and 
half!   Poor  Tom ! 

[  The  Fool  runs  out  from  the  Hovel. 
Fool.    Come  not  in  here,  nuncle,  here's  a  spirit. 
Help  me,  help  me  ! 

J^ent.    Give  me  thy  hand.  —  Who's  there  ? 
Fool,   A  spirit,  a  spirit ;  he  says  his  name's  poor 

Tom. 
JTent.   What  art  thou  that  dost  grumble   there 
i'  the  straw  ? 
Come  forth. 

Enter  Edgar,  disguised  as  a  Madman. 

Edg.    Away  !  the  foul  fiend  follows  me  !  — 
Through  the  sharp  hawthorn  blows  the  cold  wind.  — 
Humph  !  go  to  thy  cold  bed,  and  warm  thee. 

Lear.  Hast  thou  given  all  to  thy  two  daughters  ? 
And  art  thou  come  to  this? 

Edg.  Who  gives  any  thing  to  poor  Tom  ?  whom 
the  foul  fiend  hath  led  through  fire  and  through 
flame,  through  ford  and  whirlpool,  over  bog  and 
quagmire ;  that  hath  laid  knives  under  his  pillow, 
and  halters  in  his  pew ;  set  ratsbane  by  his  por- 
ridge ;  made  him  proud  of  heart,  to  ride  on  a  bay 
trotting-horse  over  four-inched  bridges,  to  course 
his  own  shadow  for  a  traitor  :  —  Bless  thy  five  wits  ! 
Tom's  a-cold,  —  O,  do  de,  do  de,  do  de.  —  Bless 
thee  from  whirlwinds,  star-blasting,  and  taking !  7 
Do  poor  Tom  some  charity,  whom  the  foul  fiend 
vexes :  There  could  I  have  him  now,  —  and  there, 
—  and  there,  —  and  there  again,  and  there. 

\_Storm,  continues. 

Lear.   What,  have  his  daughters  brought  him  to 
this  pass  ?  — 
Coiild'st  thou  save  nothing  ?    Didst  thou  give  them 
all? 

Fool.  Nay,  he  reserved  a  blanket,  else  we  had 
been  all  shamed. 

Lear.   Now,  all  the  plagues  that  in  the  pendulous 
air 
Hang  fated  o'er  men's  faults,  light  on  thy  daughters  ! 

Kent.   He  hath  no  daughters,  sir. 

Lear.   Death,  traitor !  nothing  could  have  sub- 
dued nature 
To  such  a  lowness,  but  his  unkind  daughters.  — 
Is  it  the  fashion,  that  discarded  fathers 
Should  have  thus  little  mercy  on  their  flesh  ? 
Judicious  punishment !   'twas  this  flesh  begot 
Those  pelican  daughters. 

Edg.    Pillicock  sat  on  pillicock's  hill ;  — 
Halloo,  halloo,  loo,  loo  ! 

Fool.  This  cold  night  will  turn  us  all  to  fools  and 
madmen. 

Edg.  Take  heed  o'  the  foul  fiend :  obey  thy  pa- 
rents ;  keep  thy  word  justly ;  swear  not ;  commit 
not  with  man's  sworn  spouse;  set  not  thy  sweet 
heart  on  proud  array  :    Tom's  a-cold. 

Lear.   What  hast  thou  been  ? 

Edg.  A  serving-man,  proud  in  heart  and  mind  ; 
that  curled  my  hair  ;  wore  gloves  in  my  cap  8 ;  swore 
as  many  oaths  as  I  spake  words,  and  broke  them  in 
the  sweet  face  of  heaven  :  Wine  loved  I  deeply ; 
dice  dearly ;   False  of  heart,  light  of  ear,  bloody  of 

7  To  take  is  to  blast,  or  strike  with  malignant  influence. 

8  It  was  the  custom  to  wear  gloves  in  the  hat,  as  the  favour 
of  a  mistress. 


hand :  Hog  in  sloth,  fox  in  stealth,  wolf  in  greedi- 
ness, dog  in  madness,  lion  in  prey.  Let  not  the 
creaking  of  shoes,  nor  the  rustling  of  silks,  betray 
thy  poor  heart  to  women:  Keep  thy  pen  from 
lenders'  books,  and  defy  the  foul  fiend.  —  Still 
through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  cold  wind  :  Says 
suum,  mun,  ha  no  nonny,  dolphin  my  boy,  my  boy, 
sessa ;  let  him  trot  by.  [Storm  still  continues. 

Lear.  Why,  thou  wert  better  in  thy  grave,  than 
to  answer  with  thy  uncovered  body  this  extremity 
of  the  skies.  —  Is  man  no  more  than  this  ?  Con- 
sider him  well :  Thou  owest  the  worm  no  silk,  the 
beast  no  hide,  the  sheep  no  wool,  the  cat  no  per- 
fume:—  Ha!  here  three  of  us  are  sophisticated  I 
—  Thou  art  the  thing  itself:  unaccommodated  man 
is  no  more  but  such  a  poor,  bare,  forked  animal  as 
thou  art.  —  Off,  off,  you  lendings  :  —  Come  ;  un- 
button here.  [Tearing  off  his  Clothes. 

Fool.  Pry'thee,  nuncle,  be  contented ;  this  is  a 
naughty  night  to  swim  in.  —  Look,  here  comes  a 
walking  fire. 

Edg.  This  is  the  foul  fiend  Flibbertigibbet :  he 
begins  at  curfew,  and  walks  till  the  first  cock ;  he 
gives  the  web  and  the  pin  9,  squints  the  eye,  and 
makes  the  hare-lip :  mildews  the  white  wheat,  and 
hunts  the  poor  creature  of  earth. 

Saint  Withold  '  footed  thrice  the  wold  ""; 
He  met  the  night-mare^  and  her  nine-fold  j 

Bid  her  alight, 

And  her  troth  plight, 
And,  aroint  thee  3,  witch,  aroint  thee  > 

Kent.   How  fares  your  grace? 

Enter  Gloster,  with  a  Torch. 

Lear.   What's  he  ? 

Kent.   Who's  there  ?  What  is't  you  seek  ? 

Glo.   What  are  you  there  ?  Your  names  ? 

Edg.  Poor  Tom ;  that  eats  the  swimming  frog, 
the  toad,  the  tadpole,  the  wall-newt,  and  the  water  •*  j 
that  in  the  fury  of  his  heart,  when  the  foul  fiend 
rages,  swallows  the  old  rat,  and  the  ditch-dog; 
drinks  the  green  mantle  of  the  standing-pool ;  who 
is  whipped  from  tything  to  tything  ^,  and  stocked, 
punished,  and  imprisoned;  who  hath  had  three 
suits  to  his  back,  six  shirts  to  his  body,  horse  to  ride, 
and  weapon  to  wear. 

But  mice,  and  rats,  and  such  small  deer. 
Have  been  Tom^s  food  for  seven  long  year. 
Beware  my  follower :  —  Peace,  Smolkin  6 ;  peace, 
thou  fiend  ! 

Glo.   What,  hath  your  grace  no  better  company  ?, 

Edg.   The  prince  of  darkness  is  a  gentleman;! 
Modo  he's  call'd,  and  Mahu.7 

Glo.  Our  flesh  and  blood,  my  lord,  is  grown  so  vile, ; 
That  it  doth  hate  what  gets  it. 

Edg.   Poor  Tom's  a-cold. 

Glo.    Go  in  with  me  ;  my  duty  cannot  suffer 
To  obey  in  all  your  daughter's  hard  commands  : 
Though  their  injunction  be  to  bar  my  doors, 
And  let  this  tyrannous  night  take  hold  upon  you  j 
Yet  have  I  ventur'd  to  come  seek  you  out. 
And  bring  you  where  both  fire  and  food  is  ready. 

9  Diseases  of  the  eye. 

1  A  saint  said  to  protect  his  devotees  from  the  disease  called 
the  night-mare. 

2  Wild  downs,  so  called  in  various  parts  of  England. 

3  Avaunt.  ■*  i.e.  The  water-newt. 
5  A  tything  is  a  division  of  a  county. 


6  Name  of  a  spirit. 


The  chief  devil 


Scene  V. 


KING  LEAR. 


803 


Lear.  First  let  me  talk  with  this  pliilosopher.  — 
What  is  the  cause  of  thunder  ? 

Keyit.    Good  my  lord,  take  his  offer ; 
Go  into  the  house. 

Lear.   I'll  talk  a  word  with  this  same  learned 
Theban.  — 
What  is  your  study  ? 

Edg.   How  to  prevent  the  fiend,  and  to  kill  ver- 
min. 
Lear.   Let  me  ask  you  one  word  in  private. 
KeiU.    Importune  him  once  more  to  go,  my  lord ; 
His  wits  begin  to  unsettle. 

Glo.  Can'st  thou  blame  him  ? 

His  daughters  seek  his  death :  — •  Ah,  that  good 

Kent !  — 
He  said  it  would  be  thus :  —  Poor  banish'd  man !  — 
Thou  say'st,  the  king  grows  mad ;    I'll  tell  thee, 

friend, 
I  am  almost  mad  myself :    I  had  a  son, 
Now  outlaw'd  from  my  blood ;  he  sought  njy  life. 
But  lately,  very  late;   I  lov'd  him,  friend, — 
No  father  his  son  dearer :   true  to  tell  thee, 

\ Storm  continues. 
The  grief  hath  craz'd  my  wits.  What  a  night's  this  ! 
I  do  beseech  your  grace,  — 

Lear.  O,  cry  you  mercy : 

Noble  philosopher,  your  company. 
Eclg,   Tom's  a-cold. 
Glo.    In,  fellow,  there,  to  the  hovel ;  keep  thee 

warm. 
Lear.   Come,  let's  in  all. 

Kent.  ITiis  way,  my  lord. 

Lear.  With  him ; 

I  will  keep  still  with  my  philosopher. 

Kent.   Good  my  lord,  soothe  him ;  let  him  take 

the  fellow. 
Glo.   Take  him  you  on. 
Kent.    Sirrah,  come  on  ;  go  along  with  us. 
Lear.   Come,  good  Athenian. 
Glo.  No  words,  no  words : 

Hush. 

Edg.   ChUd  8  Rordand  to  the  dark  tower  came. 
His  word  was  still,  —  Fie,  f oh,  andfum, 
I  smell  the  blood  of  a  British  man- 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  ^  Room  in  Gloster'5  Caitle. 

Enter  Cornwall  and  Edmund. 

Com.   I  will  have  my  revenge,  ere  I  depart  his 
house. 

Edm.  How,  my  lord,  I  may  be  censured,  that 
nature  thus  gives  way  to  loyalty,  something  fears 
me  to  think  of. 

Corn.  I  now  perceive,  it  was  not  altogether  your 
brother's  evil  disposition  made  him  seek  his  death  ; 
but  a  provoking  merit,  set  a-work  by  a  reproveable 
badness  in  himself. 

Edm.  How  malicious  is  my  fortune,  that  I  must 
repent  to  be  just !  This  is  the  letter  he  spoke  of, 
which  approves  him  an  intelligent  party  to  the  ad- 
vantages of  France.  O  heavens !  that  this  treason 
were  not,  or  not  I  the  detector  ! 

Com.    Go  with  me  to  the  duchess. 

Edm.  If  the  matter  of  this  paper  be  certain,  you 
have  mighty  business  in  hand. 

Com.  True,  or  false,  it  hath  made  thee  earl  of 
Gloster.  Seek  out  where  thy  father  is,  that  he  may 
be  ready  for  our  apprehension. 

8  Child  is  an  old  term  for  knight 


Edm.  [Aside."]  If  I  find  him  comforting  the  king, 
it  will  stuff  his  suspicion  more  fully.  —  I  will  per- 
severe in  my  course  of  loyalty,  though  the  conflict 
be  sore  between  that  and  my  blood. 

Corn.  I  will  lay  trust  upon  thee  ;  and  thou  shalt 
find  a  dearer  father  in  my  love.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI A  Chamber  in  a  Farm- House, 

adjoining  the  Castle. 

Enter  Gloster,  Lear,  Kent,  Fool,  and  Edgar. 

Glo.  Here  is  better  than  the  open  air;  take  it 
thankfully ;  I  will  piece  out  the  comfort  with  what 
addition  I  can  :    I  will  not  be  long  from  you. 

Kent.  All  the  power  of  his  wits  has  given  way  to 
his  impatience  :  —  The  gods  reward  your  kindness  ! 

[Exit  Gloster. 

Edg.  Frateretto  calls  me;  and  tells  me,  Nero  is 
an  angler  in  the  lake  of  darkness.  Pray,  innocent  5*, 
and  beware  the  foul  fiend. 

Fool.  Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  tell  me,  whether  a  mad- 
man be  a  gentleman,  or  a  yeoman? 

Lear.    A  king,  a  king  ! 

Fool.  No ;  he's  a  yeoman,  that  has  a  gentleman 
to  liis  son  :  for  he's  a  mad  yeoman,  that  sees  his 
son  a  gentleman  before  him. 

Lear.  To  have  a  thousand  with  red  burning  spits 
Come  hissing  in  upon  them  :  — 

Edg.   ITie  foul  fiend  bites  my  back. 

Fool.  He's  mad,  that  trusts  in  the  tameness  of  a 
wolf. 

Lear.   It   shall   be   done,   I  will   arraign   them 
straight :  — 
Come,  sit  thou  here,  most  learned  justicer;  — 

[To  Edgar. 
Thou,  sapient  sir,  sit  here.   [To  the  Fool,]  —  Now, 
you  she  foxes  !  — 

Edg.   Look,  where  he  stands  and  glares !  — 
Wantest  thou  eyes  at  trial,  madam  ? 

Come  o'er  the  bourn  ',  Bessy,  to  vie :  — 
Fool.   She  dares  not  come  over  to  thee. 

Edg.  The  foul  fiend  haunts  poor  Tom  in  the 
voice  of  a  nightingale.  Hopdajice  cries  in  Tom's 
belly  for  two  white  herring.  Croak  not,  black 
angel ;   I  have  no  food  for  thee. 

Kent.   How    do  you,   sir?     Stand   you   not   so 
amaz'd : 
Will  you  lie  down  and  rest  upon  the  cushions  ? 

Lear.   I'll  see  their  trial  first :  —  Bring  in  the 
evidence.  — 
Thou  robed  man  of  justice,  take  thy  place  ; 

[To  Edgar. 
And  thou,  his  yoke-fellow  of  equity,    [To  the  Fool. 
Bench  by  his  side  :  —  You  are  of  the  commission, 
Sit  you  too.  [  To  Kent. 

Edg.   Let  us  deal  justly. 

Sleepest,  or  wakest  thov^  jolly  sltepherd9 

Thy  sheep  be  in  the  corn  ; 
And  for  one  blast  of  thy  minikin  mouthf 

Thy  sheep  sJiall  take  no  harm. 

Pur  !  the  cat  is  grey. 

Lear.  Arraign  her  first ;  'tis  Goncril.  I  here 
take  my  oath  before  this  honorable  assembly,  she 
kicked  the  poor  king  her  father. 

FooL  Come  hither,  mistress  ;  Is  your  name  Go- 
neril? 

»  Adrtrcssed  to  the  Fool,  who  were  ancicmJy  railed 
Innoccntx.  '  Brook,  or  rivulet 

3  F   2 


804 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  III. 


Lear.   She  cannot  deny  it. 

Fool.    Cry  your  mercy,  I  took  you  for  a  joint- 
stool. 
Lear.   And  here's  another,  whose  warp'd  looks 
proclaim 
What  store  her  heart  is  made  of.  —  Stop  her  there  ! 
Arms,  arms,  sword,  fire  !  —  Corruption  in  the  place  ! 
False  justicer,  why  hast  thou  let  her  'scape  ? 
Edg.    Bless  thy  five  wits  ! 

Kent.   O  pity  !  —  Sir,  where  is  the  patience  now, 
That  you  so  oft  have  boasted  to  retain  ? 

Edg.   My  tears  begin  to  take  his  part  so  much. 
They'll  mar  my  counterfeiting.  \^Aside. 

Lear.   The  little  dogs  and  all, 
Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweet-heart,  see,  they  bark  at  me. 
Edg.   Tom  will    throw    his    head   at    them  :  — 
A  vaunt,  you  curs  ! 

Be  thy  mouth  or  black  or  white. 
Tooth  that  poisons  if  it  bite  ; 
Mastiff,  greyhound,  mongrel  grim. 
Hound,  or  spaniel,  brach,  or  lym  ^  ; 
Or  bobtail  tike,  or  trundle-tail; 
Tom  will  make  them  weej)  and  wail  : 
For,  uith  throwing  thus  my  head. 
Dogs  leap  the  hatch,  and  all  arejled. 
Do  de,  do  de.     Sessa.     Come,  march  to  wakes  and 
fairs,  and  market  towns :  —  Poor  Tom,  thy  horn  is  dry. 
Lear.   Then  let  them  anatomize  Regan,  see  what 
breeds  about  her  heart :    Is  there  any  cause  in  na- 
ture that  makes  these  hard  hearts  ?  —  You,  sir,  I 
entertain  you  for  one  of  my  hundred ;  only,  I  do 
not  like  the  fashion  of  your  garments :   you  will 
say,    they  are   Persian    attire;    but    let    them    be 
changed.  [ToEdgvr. 

Kent.  Now,  good  my  lord,  lie  here,  and  rest  awhile. 
Lear.   Make  no  noise,  make  no  noise  ;  draw  the 
curtains  :    So,   so,  so :   We'll  go  to   supper  i'  the 
morning :    So,  so,  so. 

Fool.   And  I'll  go  to  bed  at  noon. 

Re-enter  Gloster. 
Glo.  Come  hither,  friend  :  Where  is  the  king  my 

master  ? 
Kent.  Here,  sir;  but  trouble  him  not,  his  wits  are 

gone. 
Glo.  Good   friend,  I  pr'ythee  take  him    in  thy 
arms  ; 
I  have  o'erheard  a  plot  of  death  upon  him  : 
There  is  a  litter  ready  ;  lay  him  in't. 
And  drive  towards  Dover,  friend,  where  thou  shalt 

meet 
Both  welcome  and  protection.   Take  up  thy  master  : 
If  thou  should'st  dally  half  an  hour,  his  life 
With  thine,  and  all  that  offer  to  defend  him, 
Stand  in  assured  loss :    Take  up,  take  up ; 
And  follow  me,  that  will  with  some  provision 
Give"  thee  quick  conduct. 

Kent.  Oppress'd  nature  sleeps  :  — 

This  rest  might  yet  have  balm'd  thy  broken  senses. 
Which,  if  convenience  will  not  allow, 
Stand  in  hard  cure. —  Come,  help  to  bear  thy  master ; 
Thou  must  not  stay  behind.  [To  the  ¥001. 

Glo.  Come,  come,  away. 

[Exeunt  Kent,   Gloster,  and  the  Fool, 
bearing  off  the  King. 
Edg.  When  we  our  betters  see  bearing  our  woes, 
We  scarcely  think  our  miseries  our  foes. 
Who  alone  suffers,  suffers  most  i'  the  mind  ; 
Leaving  free  things,  and  happy  shows,  behind : 
2  A  blood-hound. 


But  tlien  the  mind  much  sufferance  doth  o'erskip, 
When  grief  hath  mates,  and  bearing  fellowship. 
How  light  and  portable  my  pain  seems  now, 
When  that  which  makes  me  bend,  makes  the  king 

bow  ; 
He  childed,  as  I  father'd  !  —  Tom,  away  : 
Mark  the  high  noises  3  ;  and  thyself  bewray. 
When  false  opinion,  whose  wrong  thought  defiles 

thee, 
In  thy  just  proof,  repeals,  and  reconciles  thee. 
What  will  hap  more  to-night,  safe  'scape  the  king ! 
Lurk,  lurk.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII.  —A  Room  in  Gloster'5  Castle. 

Enter  Cornwall,  Regan,  Goneril,  Edmund,  and 
Servants. 

Com.  Post  speedily  to  my  lord,  your  husband  ; 
show  him  this  letter :  —  the  army  of  France  is  landed : 
—  Seek  out  the  villain  Gloster. 

[Exeunt  some  of  the  Servants. 

Reg.   Hang  him  instantly. 

Gon.   Pluck  out  his  eyes. 

Com.  Leave  him  to  my  displeasure.  —  Edmund, 
keep  you  our  sister  company  ;  the  revenges  we  are 
bound  to  take  upon  your  traitorous  father  are  not 
fit  for  your  beholding.  Advise  the  duke,  where  you 
are  going,  to  a  most  festinate  preparation :  we  are 
bound  to  the  like.  Our  posts  shall  be  swift,  and 
intelligent  betwixt  us.  Farewell,  dear  sister;  — 
farewell,  my  lord  of  Gloster.4 

Enter  Steward. 

How  now  ?   Where's  the  king  ? 

Stew.   My  lord  of  Gloster    hath    convey'd    him 
hence  : 
Some  five  or  six  and  thirty  of  his  knights. 
Hot  questrists  ^  after  him,  met  him  at  gate  ; 
Who,  with  some  other  of  the  lord's  dependants, 
Are  gone  with  him  towards  Dover,  where  they  boast 
To  have  well  armed  friends. 

Com.  Get  horses  for  your  mistress. 

Gon.   Farewell,  sweet  lord,  and  sister. 

[Exeunt  Goneril  and  Edmund. 
Com.   Edmund,  farewell.  —  Go,  seek  the  traitor 
Gloster, 
Pinion  him  like  a  thief,  bring  him  before  us : 

[Exeunt  other  Servants. 
Though  well  we  may  not  pass  upon  his  life 
Without  the  form  of  justice  ;  yet  our  power 
Shall  do  a  courtesy  6  to  our  wrath,  which  men 
May  blame,  but  not  control.     Who's  there  ?  The'^ 
traitor. 

Re-enter  Servants,  with  Gloster. 

Reg.   Ingrateful  fox  !  'tis  he. 

Corn.   Bind  fast  his  corky  7  arms.  ^ 

Glo.  What  mean  your  graces? Good    my> 

friends,  consider 
You  are  my  guests ;   do  me  no  foul  play,  friends. 

Corn.   Bind  him,  I  say.  [Servants  bind  him. 

Reg.  Hard,  hard  :  —  O  filthy  traitor ! 

Glo.   Unmerciful  lady  as  you  are,  I  am  none. 

Corn.   To  this  chair  bind  him  :  —  Villain,  thou 
shalt  find  —        [Regan  plucks  his  beard. 

Glo.   By  the  kind  gods  'tis  most  ignobly  done 
To  pluck  me  by  the  beard. 

3  The  great  events  that  are  approaching. 

4  Meaning  Edmund  invested  with  his  father's  title. 
»  Enquirers.  «  Bend.  ?  Dry,  Uke  cork. 


Act  IV.  Scene  I. 


KING  LEAR. 


805 


Reg.   So  white,  and  such  a  traitor ! 

Glo.  Naughty  lady, 

These  hairs,  which  thou  dost  ravish  from  my  chin. 
Will  quicken  «  and  accuse  thee  :    I  am  your  host ; 
With  robbers'  hands,  my  hospitable  favours  & 
You  should  not  ruffle  thus.      What  will  you  do? 

Corn.   Come,  sir,  what  letters  had  you  late  from 
France  ? 

Reg.   Be  simple-answer'd,  for  we  know  the  truth. 

Com.   And  what  confederacy  have  you  with  the 
traitors 
Late  footed  in  the  kingdom  ? 

Reg.   To  whose  hands  have  you  sent  the  lunatick 
king? 
Speak. 

Glo.   I  have  a  letter  guessingly  set  down, 
Which  came  from  one  that's  of  a  neutral  heart, 
And  not  from  one  oppos'd. 

Com.  Cunning. 

Reg.  And  false. 

Com.  Where  hast  thou  sent  the  king  ? 

Glo.  To  Dover. 

Reg.  WTierefore 

To  Dover  ?  Wast  thou  not  charg'd  at  thy  peril  — 

Com.  Wherefore  to  Dover  ?  Let  him  first  answer 
that 

Glo.   I  am  tied  to  the  stake,  and  I  must  stand  the 
course. 

Reg.  Wherefore  to  Dover  ? 

Glo.   Because  I  would  not  see  thy  cruel  nails 
Pluck  out  his  poor  old  eyes  ;  nor  thy  fierce  sister 
In  his  anointed  flesh  stick  boarish  fangs. 
The  sea,  with  such  a  storm  as  his  bare  head 
In  hell-black  night  endur'd,  would  have  buoy'd  up. 
And   quench'd   the   stelled  '  fires:   yet,    poor   old 

heart. 
He  holp  the  heavens  to  rain. 
If  wolves  had  at  thy  gate  howl'd  that  stern  time. 
Thou  should'st  have  said,  Good  porter,  turn  the  key  ; 
AH  cruels  else  subscrib'd^:  —  But  I  shall  see 
The  winged  vengeance  overtake  such  children. 

Corn.   See  it  shalt  thou  never  :  —  Fellows,  hold 
the  chair : 
Upon  these  eyes  of  thine  I'll  set  my  foot. 

[Gloster  is  held  down  in  his  Chair,  while 
Cornwall  plucks  out  one  of  his  Eyes, 
and  sets  his  Foot  on  it. 

Glo.   He,  that  will  think  to  live  till  he  be  old, 
Give  me  some  help :  —  O  cruel !   O  ye  gods  ! 

Reg.  One  side  will  mock  another  ;  the  other  too. 

Com.  If  you  see  vengeance,  — 

Serv.  Hold  your  hand,  my  lord : 

I  have  serv'd  you  ever  since  I  was  a  chilcj : 


But  better  service  have  I  never  done  you. 
Than  now  to  bid  you  hold. 
Reg.    How  now,  you  dog? 
Serv.    If  you  did  wear  a  beard  upon  your  cliin, 
I'd  shake  it  on  this  quarrel :    What  do  you  mean  ? 
Corn.    My  villain  !  [Draws,  and  runs  at  him. 

Serv.   Nay,  then  come  on,  and  take  the  chance  of 
anger. 
[Draws.     They  fight.     Cokthwavl  v;  wounded. 
Reg.    Give  me  thy  sword.  —  [To  another  Serv.] 
A  peasant  stand  up  thus  ! 
[Snatches  a  Sword,  comes  behind,  and  stabs  him. 
Serv.   O,  I  am  slain !  —  My  lord,  you  have  one 
eye  left 
To  see  some  mischief  on  him  :  —  O  !  [Dies. 

Com.  Lest  it  see  more,  prevent  it :  —  Out,  vile 
jelly  ! 
Where  is  thy  lustre  now  ? 

[Tears  out  Gloster's  other  Eye,  and  throws  it 
on  the  Ground. 
Glo.   All  dark  and  comfortless.  —  Where's  my 
son  Edmund  ? 
Edmund,  enkindle  all  the  sparks  of  nature. 
To  quit  4  this  horrid  act. 

Reg.  Out,  treacherous  villain  ! 

Thou  call'st  on  him  that  hates  thee  :  it  was  he 
That  made  the  overture  ^  of  thy  treasons  to  us  ; 
Who  is  too  good  to  pity  thee. 

Glo.  O  my  follies  ! 

Then  Edgar  was  abus'd  — 
Kind  gods,  forgive  me  that,  and  prosper  him  ! 

Reg.  Go,  thrust  him  out  at  gates,  and  let  him  smell 
His  way  to  Dover.  —  How  is't,  my  lord  ?  How  look 
you? 
Com.  I  have  receiv'd  a  hurt :— Follow  me,  lady. — 
Turn  out  that  eyeless  villain ;  throw  this  slave 
Upon  the  dunghill.  —  Regan,  I  bleed  apace  : 
Untimely  comes  this  hurt :    Give  me  your  arm. 

[Exit  Cornwall,  led  by  Regan; — Servants 
unbind  Gloster,  and  lead  him  out. 

1  Serv.   I'll  never  care  what  wickedness  I  do. 
If  this  man  comes  to  good. 

2  Serv.  If  she  live  long, 
And,  in  the  end,  meet  the  old  course  of  death. 
Women  will  all  turn  monsters. 

1  Serv.   Let's    follow  the  old  earl,  and  get  the 

Bedlam  <5 
To  lead  him  where  he  would  ;  his  roguish  madness 
Allows  itself  to  any  thing. 

2  Serv.  Go  thou ;   I'll  fetch  some  flax,  and  whites 

of  eggs. 
To  apply  to  his  bleeding  face.      Now,  heaven  help 
him  !  [Exeunt  severalfy. 


ACT  IV, 


SCENE  L  —  The  Heath. 
Enter  Edgar. 
Edg.  Yet  better  thus,  and  known  to  be  contemn'd, 
Than  still  contemn'd  and  flatter'd.      To  be  worst. 
The  lowest  and  most  dejected  thing  of  fortune, 
SUmds  still  in  esperance  ^  lives  not  in  fear : 
'llic  lamentable  change  is  from  the  best ; 
The  worst  returns  to  laughter.      Welcome  then, 
"  Live.  »  Feature*.  •  SUrrcd 

''  Yielded,  submitted  to  the  neccMity  of  the  occasion. 
•■'  III  hope. 


Thou  unsubstantial  air,  that  I  embrace  ! 

The  wretch,  that  thou  hast  blown  unto  the  worst. 

Owes  nothing  to  tliy  blasts.  —  But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Gloster,  led  by  an  old  Man. 
My  father,  poorly  led  ?  —  World,  world,  O  world  ! 
But  that  thy  strange  mutations  make  us  hate  thee. 
Life  would  not  yield  to  age. 

Old  Man.   O  my  good  lord,  I  have  been  your  te- 
nant, and  your  father's  tenant,  tliese  fourscore  years. 
•  Requite  *  Laid  opea  «  Bedlamite,  madman. 

3  F  3 


806 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  IV 


Gto.  Away,  get  thee  away ;  good  friend,  be  gone : 
Thy  comforts  can  do  me  no  good  at  all, 
Thee  they  may  hurt. 

Old  Man.   Alack,  sir,  you  cannot  see  your  way. 

Glo.  I  have  no  way,  and  therefore  want  no  eyes ; 
I  stumbled  when  I  saw :    Full  oft  'tis  seen, 
Our  mean  secures  us  ;  and  our  mere  defects 
Prove  our  commodities.  —  Ah,  dear  son  Edgar, 
The  food  of  thy  abused  father's  wrath  ! 
Might  I  but  live  to  see  thee  in  my  touch, 
I'd  say,  I  had  eyes  again ! 

Old  Man.  How  now  ?  Who's  there  ? 

Edg.    \_Aside.']   O  gods !  Who  is't  can  say,  /  am 

.   at  the  worst  ? 
I  am  worse  than  e'er  I  was. 

Old  Man.  'Tis  poor  mad  Tom. 

JErfg.    [^«cfe.]   And  worse  I  may  be  yet:    The 
worst  is  not. 
So  long  as  we  can  say.  This  is  the  worst. 

Old  Man.   Fellow,  where  goest  ? 

Glo.  Is  it  a  beggar-man  ? 

Old  Man.   Madman  and  beggar  too. 

Glo.   He  has  some  reason,  else  he  could  not  beg. 
I'  the  last  night's  storm  I  such  a  fellow  saw ; 
Which  made  me  think  a  man  a  worm :   My  son 
Came  then  into  my  mind ;  and  yet  my  mind 
Was  then  scarce  friends  with  him :  I  have  heard 
more  since. 

Edg.  How  should  this  be  ?  — 

Bad  is  the  trade  must  play  the  fool  to  sorrow, 
Ang'ring  itself  and  others.    ^Aside.]  —  Bless  thee, 
master ! 

Glo.   Is  that  the  naked  fellow  ? 

Old  Man.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Glo.  Then,  pr'ythee,  get  thee  gone :  If,  for  my  sake. 
Thou  wilt  o'ertake  us,  hence  a  mile  or  twain, 
I'  the  way  to  Dover,  do  it  for  ancient  love ; 
And  bring  some  covering  for  this  naked  soul, 
Whom  I'll  entreat  to  lead  me. 

Old  Man.  Alack,  sir,  he's  mad. 

Glo.  'Tis  the  time's  plague,  when  madmen  lead 
the  blind. 
Do  as  I  bid  thee,  or  rather  do  thy  pleasure ; 
Above  tlie  rest,  be  gone. 

Old  Man.  I'll  bring  him  the  best  'parel  that  I  have. 
Come  on't  what  will.  [JExit. 

Glo.    Sirrah,  naked  fellow. 

Edg.  Poor  Tom's  a-cold  :   I  cannot  daub  7  it  fur- 
ther. [Aside. 

Glo.   Come  hither,  fellow. 

Edg.    [Aside.]    And   yet   I   must.  —  Bless   thy 
sweet  eyes,  they  bleed. 

Glo.   Know'st  thou  the  way  to  Dover  ? 

Edg.  Both  stile  and  gate,  horse-way  and  foot- 
path. Poor  Tom  hath  been  scared  out  of  his  good 
wits :  Bless  the  good  man  from  the  foul  fiend  ! 
Five  fiends  have  been  in  poor  Tom  at  once.  So, 
bless  thee,  master ! 

Glo.   Here,  take  this  purse,  thou  whom  the  hea- 
ven's plagues 
Have  humbled  to  all  strokes :   that  I  am  wretched, 
Makes  thee  the  happier  :  —  Heavens,  deal  so  still ! 
Let  tlie  superfluous,  and  lust-dieted  man. 
That  slaves  your  ordinance,  that  will  not  see 
Because  he  doth  not  feel,  feel  your  power  quickly ; 
So  distribution  should  undo  excess, 
And  each  man  have  enough.  —  Dost  thou  know 
Dover  ? 

Edg.    Ay,  master. 

7  Disguise. 


Glo.  There  is  a  cliff,  whose  high  and  bending  head 
Looks  fearfully  in  the  confined  deep  : 
Bring  me  but  to  the  very  brim  of  it. 
And  I'll  repair  the  misery  thou  dost  bear. 
With  something  rich  about  me  :   from  that  place 
I  shall  no  leading  need. 

Edg.  Give  me  thy  arm ; 

Poor  Tom  shall  lead  thee.  lExewii. 

SCENE  II — Before  the  Duke  of  A\hax\fs  Palace. 

Enter  Goneril  and  Edmund  ;    Steward   meeting} 

them. 

Gon.   Welcome,  my  lord  :    I  marvel,  our  mildl 

husband 

Not  met  us  on  the  way: — Now,where's  your  master?) 

Stew.  Madam,  within  ;  but  never  man  so  chang'd :  • 
I  told  him  of  the  army  that  was  landed  ; 
He  smil'd  at  it :  I  told  him  you  were  coming ; 
His  answer  was.  The  worse  :  of  Gloster's  treachery,  | 
And  of  the  loyal  service  of  his  son, 
When  I  inform'd  him,  then  he  call'd  me  sot ; 
And  told  me,  I  had  turn'd  the  wrong  side  out : 
What  most  he  should  dislike,  seems  pleasant  to  him  ; 
What  like,  offensive. 

Gon.  Then  shall  you  go  no  further, 

[To  Edmund. 
It  is  the  cowish  terror  of  his  spirit. 
That  dares  not  undertake :   he'll  not  feel  wrongs. 
Which  tie  him  to  an  answer;  Our  wishes,  on  the  way. 
May  prove  effects. 8  Back,  Edmund,  to  my  brother : 
Hasten  his  musters,  and  conduct  his  powers : 
I  must  change  arms  at  home,  and  give  the  distaff 
Into  my  husband's  hands.      This  trusty  servant 
Shall  pass  between  us :  ere  long  you  are  like  to  hear. 
If  you  dare  venture  in  your  own  behalf, 
A  mistress's  command.      Wear  this  ;  spare  speech  ; 
[Giving  a  Favour. 
Decline  your  head:   this  kiss,  if  it  durst  speak. 
Would  stretch  thy  spirits  up  into  the  air ;  — 
Conceive,  and  fare  thee  well. 

Edm.   Yours  in  the  ranks  of  death. 

Gon.  My  most  dear  Gloster ! 

[Exit  Edmund. 
O,  the  difference  of  man,  and  man  !   To  thee 
A  woman's  services  are  due  ;  my  fool 
Usurps  my  bed. 

Stew.  Madam,  here  comes  my  lord. 

[Exit  Steward 

Enter  Albany. 

Gon.   I  have  been  worth  the  whistle.  9 

Alb.  O  Goneril 

You  are  not  worth  the  dust  which  the  rude  wind 
Blows  in  your  face.  —  I  fear  your  disposition  : 
That  nature,  which  contemns  its  origin. 
Cannot  be  border'd  certain  in  itself ; 
She  that  herself  will  sliver  '  and  disbranch 
From  her  material  sap,  perforce  must  wither. 
And  come  to  deadly  use. 

Gon.   No  more  ;  the  text  is  foolish. 

Alb.  Wisdom  and  goodness  to  the  vile  seem  vile  : 
Filths  savour  but  themselves.    Wliat  have  you  done  ; 
Tigers,  not  daughters,  what  have  you  perform'd  ? 
A  father,  and  a  gracious  aged  man. 
Whose  reverence  the  head-lugg'd  bear  would  lick, 
Most  barbarous,  most  degenerate !  have  you  madded, 

s  i.  e.  Our  wishes  on  the  road  may  be  completed. 
9  Worth  calling  fer.  i  Tear  off. 


Scene  II. 


KING  LEAR. 


807 


Could  my  good  brother  suffer  you  to  do  it  ? 

A  man,  a  prince,  by  him  so  benefited  ? 

If  that  the  heavens  do  not  their  visible  spirits 

Send  quickly  down  to  tame  these  vile  offences, 

'Twill  come, 

Humanity  must  perforce  prey  on  itself, 

Like  monsters  of  the  deep. 

Gon.  Milk-liver'd  man ! 

Thou  bear'st  a  cheek  fbr  blows,  a  head  for  wrongs ; 
Who  hast  not  in  thy  brows  an  eye  discerning 
Thine  honour  from  thy  suffering ;  tliat  not  know'st, 
Fools  do  those  villains  pity,  who  are  punish'd 
Ere  they  have  done  their  mischief.    Where's  thy 

drum? 
France  spreads  his  banners  in  our  noiseless  land  ; 
With  plumed  helm  thy  slayer  begins  threats; 
Whilst  thou,  a  moral  fool,  sit'st  still,  and  cry'st, 
Alack  !  why  does  he  so  ? 

Mb.  See  thyself,  devil ! 

Proper  deformity  seems  not  in  the  fiend 
So  horrid,  as  in  woman. 

Gon.  O  vain  fool ! 

Alb.   Thou  changed  and  self-cover'd  thing,  for 
shame, 
Be-monster  not  thy  feature.     Were  it  my  fitness 
To  let  these  hands  obey  my  blood. 
They  are  apt  enough  to  dislocate  and  tear 
Thy  flesh  and  bones :  —  Howe'er  thou  art  a  fiend, 
A  woman's  shape  doth  shield  thee. 

Gon.   Marry,  your  manhood  now  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Alb.   What  news  ? 

Mess.  O,  my  good  lord,  the  duke  of  Cornwall's 
dead? 
Slain  by  his  servant,  going  to  put  out 
The  other  eye  of  Gloster. 

Alb.  Gloster's  eyes ! 

Aless.  A  servant  that  he  bred,  thrill'd  with  remorse, 
Oppos'd  against  the  act,  bending  his  sword 
To  his  great  master ;  who,  thereat  enrag'd. 
Flew  on  him,  and  amongst  them  fell'd  him  dead : 
But  not  without  that  harmful  stroke,  which  since 
Hath  pluck'd  him  after. 

Alb.  This  shows  you  are  above. 

You  justicers,  that  these  our  nether  crimes 
So  speedily  can  venge  !  —  But,  O  poor  Gloster  ! 
Lost  he  his  other  eye  ? 

Mess.  Both,  both,  my  lord.  — 

This  letter,  madam,  craves  a  speedy  answer ; 
'Tis  from  your  sister. 

Gon.   [Aside.]  One  way  I  like  this  well ; 
But  being  widow,  and  my  Gloster  with  her, 
May  all  the  building  in  my  fancy  pluck 
Upon  my  hateful  life  :    Another  way. 
The  news  is  not  so  tart.  —  I'll  read,  and  answer. 

[Exit. 

Alh.  Where  was  his  son,when  they  did  take  his  eyes? 

Mess.   Come  with  my  lady  hither. 

Alh.  He  is  not  here. 

Mess.  No,  my  good  lord ;  I  met  him  back  again. 

Alb.   Knows  he  the  wickedness  ? 

Mess.   Ay,   my   good  lord  ;    'twas  he  inform'd 
against  him ; 
And  quit  the  house  on  purpose,  that  their  punishment 
Might  have  the  freer  course. 

Alb.  Gloster,  I  live 

To  thank  thee  for  the  love  thou  show'dst  the  king, 
And  to  revenge  thine  eyes.  —Come  hither,  friend  : 
Tell  me  what  more  thou  knowest.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  Tlie  French  Camp  near  Dover. 
Enter  Kent,  and  a  Gentleman. 

Kent.    Why  the  king  of  France  is  so  suddenly 
gone  back  know  you  the  reason  ? 

Gent.   Something  he  left  imperfect  in  the  state, 
Which  since  his  coming  forth  is  thought  of;  which 
Imports  to  the  kingdom  so  much  fear  and  danger, 
That  his  personal  return  was  most  requir'd. 
And  necessary. 

Kent.    Who  hath  he  left  behind  him  general  ? 

Gent.  The  Mareschal  of  France,  Monsieur  le  Fer. 

Kent.   Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  to  any 
demonstration  of  grief? 

Gent.   Ay,  sir  ;  she  took  them,  read  them  in  my 
presence ; 
And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trill'd  down 
Her  delicate  cheek :   it  seem'd,  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  passion  ;  who,  most  rebel-like. 
Sought  to  be  king  o'er  her. 

Kent.  O,  then  it  mov'd  her. 

Gent.   Not  to  a  rage :  patience  and  sorrow  strove 
Who  should  express  her  goodliest.      You  have  seen 
Sunshine  and  rain  at  once  :   her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  day :    Those  happy  smiles, 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip,  seem'd  not  to  know 
What  guests  were  in  her  eyes ;  which  parted  thence. 
As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd. — In  brief,  sorrow 
Would  be  a  rarity  most  belov'd,  if  all 
Could  so  become  it. 

Kent.  Made  she  no  verbal  question  ?  ^ 

Gent.   'Faith,  once,  or  twice,  she  heav'd  the  name 
of  Father 
Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  press'd  her  heart ; 
Cried,  Sisters  !  sisters  !  —  Shame  of  ladies  !  sisters  ! 
Kent!  father  I   sisters!     JV/iat?   i  tlie   storm?    i  t/ie 

night  9 
Let  pity  not  be  believed  /  ^  —  There  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes. 
And  clamour  moisten'd  :   then  away  she  started 
To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

Kent.  It  is  the  stars. 

The  stars  above  us,  govern  our  conditions  "» ; 
Else  one  self  mate  and  mate  could  not  beget 
Such  different  issues.   You  spoke  not  with  her  since  "* 

Gent.   No. 

Kent.  Was  this  before  the  king  returned  ? 

Gent.  No,  since. 

Kent.   Well,  sir ;  The  poor  distress'd  Lear  is  i'  the 
town : 
Who  sometime,  in  his  better  tune,  remembers 
What  we  are  come  about,  and  by  no  means 
Will  yield  to  see  his  daughter. 

Gent.  Why,  good  sir  ? 

Kent.  A  sovereign  shame  so  elbows  him :  his  own 
unkindness, 
That  stripp'd  her  from  his  benediction,  turn'd  her 
To  foreign  casualties,  gave  her  dear  rights 
To  his  dog-hearted  daughters, —  tliese  things  sting 
His  mind  so  venomously,  that  Lurning  shame 
Detains  him  from  Cordelia. 

Gent.  Alack,  poor  gentleman  ! 

Kent.   Of  Albany's  and  Cornwall's  powers  you 
heard  not? 

Gent.  'Tis  so  ;  they  are  afoot. 

Kent.  Well,  sir,  I'll  bring  you  to  our  master  Lear, 
And  leave  you  to  attend  him  :   some  dear  cause, 

*  Discourse,  conversation. 

'  i.  e.  I<et  not  pity  be  tui^posed  to  exist 

4  Dispositions. 

3  F  4 


808 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  IV. 


Will  in  concealment  wrap  me  up  awhile ; 
When  I  am  known  aright,  you  shall  not  grieve 
Lending  me  this  acquaintance.     I  pray  you,  go 
Along  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV The  same.     A  Tent. 

Enter  Cordelia,  Physician,  and  Soldiers. 

Cor.   Alack,  'tis  he ;  why,  he  was  met  even  now 
As  mad  as  the  vex'd  sea  :   singing  aloud ; 
Crown'd  with  rank  fumiter  5,  and  furrow  weeds. 
With  harlocks  ^,  hemlock,  nettles,  cuckoo-flowers. 
Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 
In  our  sustaining  corn.  — A  century  send  forth  j 
Search  every  acre  in  the  high-grown  field, 
And  bring  him  to  our  eye.      [Exit  an  Officer.  ]  — 

What  can  man's  wisdom  do. 
In  the  restoring  his  bereaved  sense  ? 
He,  that  helps  him,  take  all  my  outward  worth. 

Phy.   There  is  means,  madam : 
Our  foster-nurse  of  nature  is  repose. 
The  which  he  lacks ;  that  to  provoke  in  him. 
Are  many  simples  operative,  whose  power 
Will  close  the  eye  of  anguish. 

Cor.  All  bless'd  secrets, 

All  you  unpublish'd  virtues  of  the  earth, 
Spring  with  my  tears !  be  aidant,  and  remediate, 
In  the  good  man's  distress !  —  Seek,  seek  for  him ; 
Lest  his  ungovern'd  rage  dissolve  the  life 
That  wants  the  means  to  lead  it. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Madam,  news; 

The  British  powers  are  marching  hitherward. 

Cor.    'Tis  known  before  ;  our  preparation  stands 
In  expectation  of  them. — O  dear  father, 
It  is  thy  business  that  I  go  about ; 
Therefore  great  France 

My  mourning,  and  important  7  tears,  hath  pitied. 
No  blown  8  ambition  doth  our  arms  incite. 
But  love,  dear  love,  and  our  ag'd  father's  right : 
Soon  may  I  hear,  and  see  him.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V — A  Room  in  Gloster's  Castle. 
Enter  Regan  and  Steward. 

Reg.   But  are  my  brother's  powers  set  forth  ? 

Stew.  Ay,  madam. 

Reg.  Himself 

In  person  there  ? 

Stew.  Madam,  with  much  ado : 

Your  sister  is  the  better  soldier. 

Reg.   Lord  Edmund  spake  not  with  your  lord  at 
home? 

Stew.   No,  madam. 

Reg.  What  might  import  my  sister's  letter  to  him  ? 

Stew.    I  know  not,  lady. 

Reg.   'Faith,  he  is  posted  hence  on  serious  matter. 
It  was  great  ignorance,  Gloster's  eyes  being  out. 
To  let  him  live ;  where  he  arrives,  he  moves 
All  hearts  against  us  :  Edmund,  I  think,  is  gone. 
In  pity  of  his  misery,  to  despatch 
His  nighted  life ;  moreover,  to  descry 
The  strength  o'  the  enemy. 

Stew.   I  must  needs  after  him,  madam,  with  my 
letter. 

Reg.  Our  troops  set  forth  to-morrow  j  stay  with  us ; 
The  ways  are  dangerous. 

5  Fumitory.  «  Charlocks. 

1  Importunate.  s  inflated,  swelling. 


Stew.  I  may  not,  madam ; 

My  lady  charg'd  my  duty  in  this  business. 

Reg.   Why  should  she  write  to  Edmund  ?  Might 
not  you 
Transport  her  purposes  by  word?  Belike, 
Something  —  I  know  not  what :  -^  I'll  love   thee 

much, 
Let  me  unseal  the  letter. 

Stew.  Madam,  I  had  rather  — 

Reg.  I  know,  your  lady  does  not  love  her  husband  j 
I  am  sure  of  that :   and,  at  her  late  being  here. 
She  gave  strange  oeiliads  9,  and  most  speaking  looks 
To  noble  Edmund :   I  know,  you  are  of  her  bosom. 

Stew.  I,  madam  ? 

Reg.  I  speak  in  understanding;  you  are,  I  know  it : 
Therefore,  I  do  advise  you,  take  this  note  ' : 
My  lord  is  dead ;  Edmund  and  I  have  talk'd ; 
And  more  convenient  is  he  for  my  hand, 
Than  for  your  lady's :  — You  may  gather  more. 
If  you  do  find  him,  pray  you,  give  him  this  : 
And  when  your  mistress  hears  thus  much  from  you, 
I  pray,  desire  her  call  her  wisdom  to  her. 
So,  fare  you  well. 

If  you  do  chance  to  hear  of  that  blind  traitor. 
Preferment  falls  on  him  that  cuts  him  off. 

Stew.  'Would  I  could  meet  him,  madam  ;  I  would 
show 
What  party  I  do  follow. 

Reg.  Fare  thee  well.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. —  TAe  Country  near  Dover. 
Enter  Gloster,  and  Edgar  dressed  like  a  Peasant. 

Glo.   When  shall  we  come  to  the  top  of  that  same 
hill? 

Edg.   You  do  climb  up  it   now:  look,  how  we 
labour. 

Glo.   Methinks,  the  ground  is  even. 

Edg.  Horrible  steep ; 

Hark,  do  you  hear  the  sea  ? 

Glo.  No,  truly. 

Edg.  Why,  then  your  other  senses  grow  imperfect 
By  your  eyes'  anguish. 

Glo.  So  may  it  be,  indeed  : 

Methinks,  thy  voice  is  alter'd  ;  and  thou  speak'st 
In  better  phrase,  and  matter,  than  thou  didst. 

Edg.   You  are  much  deceiv'd ;  in  nothing  am  I 
chang'd. 
But  in  my  garments. 

Glo.  Methinks,  you  are  better  spoken. 

Edg.    Come  on,  sir ;  here's  the  place :  —  stand 
still.  —  How  fearful 
And  dizzy  'tis,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low ! 
The  crows,  and  choughs,  that  wing  the  midway  air. 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles  :    Half  way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire  ^  ;  dreadful  trade  ! 
Methinks,  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head  : 
The  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach. 
Appear  like  mice ;  and  yon'  tall  anchoring  bark, 
Diminish 'd  to  her  cock  3  ;  her  cock,  her  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight :    The  murmuring  surge. 
That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes. 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high  :  —  I'll  look  no  more  ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  4  down  headlong. 

Glo.  Set  me  where  you  stand. 

9  A  ca=,t,  or  significant  glance  of  the  eye. 
Observe  what  I  am  saying. 


'  A  vegetable  gathered  for  pickling. 

3  Her  cock-boat.  "^  Tumble. 


■ 


Scene  VI. 


KING  LEAR. 


809 


Edg.   Give  me  your  hand':   You  are  now  within 
a  foot 
Of  the  extreme  verge :   for  all  beneath  the  moon 
Would  I  not  leap  upright. 

Glo.  Let  go  my  hand. 

Here,  friend,  is  another  purse  ;  in  it  a  jewel 
Well  worth  a  poor  man's  taking  :  Fairies,  and  gods, 
Prosper  it  with  thee  !    Go  thou  further  off; 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  let  me  hear  thee  going. 

JEdg.   Now  fare  you  well,  good  sir. 

[Seems  to  go. 

Glo.  With  all  my  heart. 

Edg.   Why  I  do  trifle  thus  with  his  despair, 
Is  done  to  cure  it. 

Glo.  O  you  mighty  gods ! 

This  world  I  do  renounce :  and,  in  your  sights, 
Shake  patiently  my  great  affliction  off: 
If  I  could  bear  it  longer,  and  not  fall 
To  quarrel  with  your  great  opposeless  wills. 
My  snuff,  and  loathed  part  of  nature,  should 
Burn  itself  out.      If  Edgar  live,  O,  bless  him  !  — 
Now  fellow,  fare  thee  well. 

[He  leapsy  andfaUs  along. 

Edg.  Gone,  sir  ?  farewell.  — 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  conceit  may  rob 
The  treasury  of  life,  when  life  itself 
Yields  to  the  theft :  Had  he  been  where  he  thought. 
By  this,  had  thought  been  past.  —  Alive,  or  dead  ? 
Ho,  you  sir !  friend  !  -^  Hear  you,  sir  ?  —  speak  ! 
Thus  might  he  pass  indeed  *  :  .^Yet  he  revives : 
What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Glo.  Away,  and  let  me  die. 

Edg.    Hadst    thou    been   aught  but   gossamer, 
feathers,  air, 
So  many  fathom  down  precipitating, 
Thou  hadst  shiver'd  like  an  egg:  but   thou   dost 

breathe ; 
Hast  heavy  substance  ;  bleed'st  not ;  speak'st :  art 

sound. 
Ten  masts  at  each  make  not  the  altitude, 
Which  thou  hast  perpendicularly  fell ; 
Tliy  life's  a  miracle ;   Speak  yet  again. 

Glo.   But  have  I  fallen,  or  no  ? 

Edg.  From  the  dread  summit  of  this  chalk  y  bourn; 
Look  up  a-height ;  —  the  shrill-gorg'd  ^  lark  so  far 
Cannot  be  seen  or  heard :   do  but  look  up. 

Glo.   Alack,  I  have  no  eyes.  — 
Is  wretchedness  depriv'd  that  benefit, 
To  end  itself  by  death?  'Twas  yet  some  comfort, 
When  misery  could  beguile  the  tyrant's  rage. 
And  frustrate  his  proud  will. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  arm  : 

Up :  —  So  ;  —  How  is't?  Feel  you  your  legs  ?  You 
stand. 

Glo.   Too  well,  too  well. 

Edg.  This  is  above  all  strangeness. 

Upon  the  crown  o'  the  cliff",  what  thing  was  that 
Which  parted  from  you? 

Glo.  A  poor  unfortunate  beggar. 

Edg.  As  I  stood  here  below,  methought,  his  eyes 
Were  two  full  moons  ;  he  had  a  thousand  noses. 
Horns  whclk'd?,  and  wav'd  like  the  enridged  sea; 
It  was  some  fiend  :    Therefore,  thou  happy  father, 
Think   that  the   clearest  8  gods,  who   make   them 

honours 
Of  men's  imi)ossibilities,  have  preserv'd  thee. 

Glo.    1  do  remember  now  :   henceforth  I'll  bear 
Affliction,  till  it  do  cry  out  itself. 


»  Thus  might  he  die  in  reality. 
'>  Twifltt'd.  convolved. 


«  Shrill-throatcd. 
f"  I'he  purest 


Enough,  enovgh,  and  die.     That  thing  you  speak  of, 
I  took  it  for  a  man ;  often  'twould  say, 
Thejiend,  thejiend :  he  led  me  to  that  place. 

Edg.    Bear  free  and  patient  thoughts.  —But  who 
comes  here? 

Enter  IjKajl,  fantasticalli/  dressed  vp  with  flowers. 
The  safer  sense  will  ne'er  accommodate 
His  master  thus. 

Lear.   No,  they  cannot  touch  me  for  coining ; 
I  am  the  king  himself. 

Edg.   O  thou  side-piercing  sight ! 

Lear.  Nature's  above  art  in  that  respect. — There's 
your  press-money.  That  fellow  handles  his  bow  like 
a  crow-keeper  :  draw  me  a  clothier's  yard.  9 — Look, 
look,  a  mouse !  Peace,  peace ;  —  this  piece  of  toasted 

cheese  will  do't There's  my  gauntlet;   I'll  prove 

it  on  a  giant.  —  Bring  up  the  brown  bills. ' — O,  well 
flown  bird  !  —  i'  the  clout,  i'the  clout  '^ :  hewgh  !  — 
Give  the  word.  3 

Edg.   Sweet  marjoram. 

Lear.   Pass. 

Glo.   I  know  that  voice. 

Lear.  Ha !  Goneril ! — with  a  white  beard ! — They 
flatter'd  me  like  a  dog ;  and  told  me,  I  had  white 
hairs  in  my  beard,  ere  the  black  ones  were  there. 
To  say  ay,  and  no,  to  every  thing  I  said  !  —  Ay  and 
no  too  was  no  good  divinity.  When  the  rain  came 
to  wet  me  once,  and  the  wind  to  make  me  chatter ; 
when  the  thunder  would  not  peace  at  my  bidding ; 
there  I  found  them,  there  I  smelt  them  out.  Go  to, 
they  are  not  men  o'  their  words :  they  told  me  I  was 
every  thing  ;  'tis  a  lie ;  I  am  not  ague-proof. 

Glo.  The  trick  <  of  that  voice  I  do  well  remember : 
Is't  not  the  king  ? 

Lear.  Ay,  every  inch  a  king : 

When  I  do  stare,  see,  how  the  subject  quakes. 
I  pardon  that  man's  life  :   what  was  tliy  cause  ?  — 
Adultery.  — 

Thou  shalt  not  die  :   for  Gloster's  bastard  son 
Was  kinder  to  his  father,  than  my  daughters 
Born  in  the  lawful  bed. 

Glo.   O,  let  me  kiss  that  hand ! 

Lear.   Let  me  wipe  it  first ;  it  smells  of  mortality. 

Glo.  O  ruin'd  piece  of  nature  !  This  great  world 
Shall  so  wear  out  to  nought.  —  Dost  thou  know  me? 

Lear.  I  remember  thine  eyes  well  enough.  Dost 
thou  squiny  »  at  me  ?  No,  do  thy  worst,  blind  Cupid ; 
I'll  not  love.  —  Read  thou  this  challenge;  mark  but 
the  penning  of  it. 

Glo.  Were  all  the  letters  suns,  I  could  not  see  one. 

Edg.  I  would  not  take  this  from  report ;  —  it  is, 
And  my  heart  breaks  at  it. 

Lear.   Read. 

Glo.   What,  with  the  case  of  eyes  ? 

Lear.  O,  ho,  are  you  there  with  me  ?  No  eyes  in 
your  head,  nor  no  money  in  your  purse  ?  Your  eyes 
are  in  a  heavy  case,  your  purse  in  a  light :  Yet  you 
see  how  this  world  goes. 

Glo.    I  see  it  feelingly. 

Lear.  What,  art  mad  ?  A  man  may  see  how  this 
world  goes,  with  no  eyes.  Look  with  thine  ears ; 
see  how  yon'  justice  rails  upon  yon'  simple  thief. 
Hark,  in  thine  ear:  Change  places;  and,  handy- 
dandy,  which  is  the  justice,  which  is  the  thief?  — 
Thou  hast  seen  a  farmer's  dog  bark  at  a  beggar  ? 

9  An  arrow  of  a  cloth  yard  long.  '  Battle-axet. 

2  The  white  mark  for  archers  to  aim  at 

3  The  watch-word. 

*  Likeness,  manner.  *  Look  asquint 


810 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  IV. 


Glo.   Ay,  sir. 

Lear.  And  the  creature  run  from  the  cur?  There 
thou  might'st  behold  the  great  image  of  authority  : 
a  dog's  obeyed  in  office. 

Through  tatter 'd  clothes  small  vices  do  appear  ; 
Robes,  and  furr'd  gowns,  hide  all.      Plate  sin  with 

gold, 
And  the  strong  lance  of  justice  hurtless  breaks : 
Arm  it  in  rags,  a  pigmy's  straw  doth  pierce  it. 
None  does  offend,  none,  I  say,  none ;  I'll  able  'em : 
Take  that  of  me,  my  friend,  who  have  the  power 
To  seal  the  accuser's  lips.      Get  thee  glass  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  scurvy  politician,  seemi 
To  see  the  things  thou  dost  not.  —  Now,  now,  now, 

now : 
Pull  off  my  boots:  — harder,  harder;  so. 

Edg.   O,  matter  and  impertinency  mix'd ! 
Reason  in  madness ! 

Lear.   If  thou  wilt  weep  my  fortunes,  take  my  eyes. 
I  know  thee  well  enough;  thy  name  is  Gloster: 
Thou  must  be  patient ;  we  came  crying  hither. 
Thou  know'st,  the  first  time  that  we  smell  the  air, 
Wewawl,  and  cry :  —  I  will  preach  to  thee;  mark  me. 

Glo.   Alack,  alack  the  day  ! 

Lear.  When  we  are  born,  we  cry,  that  we  are  come 
To  this   great   stage   of  fools ;  ——  This  a  good 

block  ?  6 
It  were  a  delicate  stratagem,  to  shoe 
A  troop  of  horse  with  felt :   I'll  put  it  in  proof ; 
And  when  I  have  stolen  upon  these  sons-in-law, 
Then  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill. 


Enter  a  Gentleman,  mth  Attendants. 


Sir, 


Gent.   O,  here  he  is,  lay  hand  upon  him. 
Your  most  dear  daughter         ■ 

Lear.   No  rescue  ?  What,  a  prisoner  ?  I  am  even 
The  natural  fool  of  fortune.  —  Use  me  well ; 
You  shall  have  ransome.      Let  me  have  a  surgeon, 
I  am  cut  to  the  brains. 

Gent.  You  shall  have  any  thing. 

Lear.   No  seconds  ?  All  myself  ? 
Why,  this  would  make  a  man,  a  man  of  salt  7, 
To  use  his  eyes  for  garden  water-pots. 
Ay,  and  for  laying  autumn's  dust. 

Gent.  Good  sir,  — 

Lear.   I   will   die   bravely,   like  a  bridegroom : 
What? 
I  will  be  jovial ;  come,  come ;  I  am  a  king, 
My  masters,  know  you  that ! 

Gent.   You  are  a  royal  one,  and  we  obey  you. 

Lear.   Then  there's  life  in  it.      Nay,  an  you  get 
it,  you  shall  get  it  by  running.      Sa,  sa,  sa,  sa. 

[^Lxit  running;  Attendants  follow. 

Gent.   A  sight  most  pitiful  in  the  meanest  wretch ; 
Past   speaking  of   in  a  king  !  —  Thou   hast  one 

daughter. 
Who  redeems  nature  from  the  general  curse 
Which  twain  have  brought  her  to. 

Ldg.   Hail,  gentle  sir. 

Gent.  Sir,  speed  you  :   What's  your  will  ? 

Ldg.   Do  you  hear  aught,  sir,  of  a  battle  toward  ? 

Ge7it.   Most  sure,  and  vulgar ;  every  one  hears  that. 
Which  can  distinguish  sound. 

Edg.  But,  by  your  favour, 

How  near's  the  other  army  ? 

Gent.   Near,  and  on  speedy  foot ;  the  main  descry 
Stands  on  the  hourly  thought.  8 

^  Block  anciently  signified  the  head  pari  of  a  hat. 

^  i.  e.  A  man  of  tears. 

**  The  main  body  is  expected  to  be  descried  every  hour. 


Edg.  I  thank  you,  sir :   that's  all. 

Gent.   Though  that  the  queen  on  special  cause  is 
here, 
Her  army  is  mov'd  on. 

Edg.  I  thank  you,  sir.      [Erit  Gent. 

Glo.   You  ever-gentle  gods,  take  my  breath  from 
me; 
Let  not  my  worser  spirit  9  tempt  me  again 
To  die  before  you  please  ! 

Edg.  Well  pray  you,  father 

Glo.   Now,  good  sir,  what  are  you  ? 

Edg.   A  most  poor  man,  made  tame  by  fortune's 
blows ; 
Who,  by  the  art  of  known  and  feeling  sorrows. 
Am  pregnant  to  good  pity.     Give  me  your  hand, 
I'll  lead  you  to  some  biding. 

Glo.  Hearty  thanks : 

The  bounty  and  the  benizon  '  of  heaven 
To  boot,  and  boot !  2 

Enter  Steward. 

Stew.  A  proclaim'd  prize  !    Most  happy  ! 

That  eyeless  head  of  thine  was  first  fram'd  flesh 
To  raise  my  fortunes.  —  Thou  old  unhappy  traitor, 
Briefly  thyself  remember :  —  The  sword  is  out 
That  must  destroy  thee. 

Glo.  Now  let  thy  friendly  hand 

Put  strength  enough  to  it.  [Edgar  opposes. 

Stew.  Wherefore,  bold  peasant, 

Dar'st  thou  support  a  publish'd  traitor  ?  Hence  ; 
Lest  that  the  infection  of  his  fortune  take 
Like  hold  on  thee.     Let  go  his  arm. 

Edg.   Ch'ill  not  let  go,  zir,  without  vurther  'casion. 

Stew.   Let  go,  slave,  or  thou  diest. 

Edg.  Good  gentleman,  go  your  gait  3,  and  let 
poor  volk  pass.  And  ch'ud  ha'  been  zwagger'd  out 
of  my  life,  'twould  not  ha'  been  zo  long  as  'tis  by 
a  vortnight.  Nay,  come  not  near  the  old  man; 
keep  out,  che  vor'  ye,  or  ise  try  whether  your  cos- 
tard *  or  my  bat  ^  be  the  harder :  Ch'ill  be  plain 
with  you. 

Stew.   Out,  dunghill ! 

Edg.  Ch'ill  pick  your  teeth,  zir:  Come;  no 
matter  vor  your  foins.  6 

[Thei/Jight ;  and  Edgar  knocks  him  down. 

Steiv.   Slave,  thou  hast  slain  me  :  —  Villain,  take 
my  purse  ; 
If  ever  thou  wilt  thrive,  bury  my  body  ; 
And  give  the  letters,  which  thou  find'st  about  me. 
To  Edmund  earl  of  Gloster ;  seek  him  out 

Upon  the  British  party : O,  untimely  death  ! 

[nies 

Edg.   I  know  thee  well :    A  serviceable  villain 
A  s  duteous  to  the  vices  of  thy  mistress. 
As  badness  would  desire. 

Glo.  What,  is  he  dead  ? 

Edg.    Sit  you  down,  father  ;  rest  you.  — 
Let's  see  his  pockets  :  these  letters,  that  he  speaks  of 
May  be  my  friends.  —  He's  dead :    I  am  only  sor 
He  had  no  other  death's  man.  —  Let  us  see  : 
Leave,  gentle  wax ;  and,  manners,  blame  us  not ; 
To  know  our  enemies'  minds,  we'd  rip  their  hearts j 
Their  papers,  is  more  lawful. 

[Reads.]  Let  our  reciprocal  vows  be  remembered. 
You  have  many  opportunities  to  cut  him  off:  if  your 
will  want  not,  time  and  place  will  be  fruitfully  offered. 
There  is  nothing  done,  if  he  return  the  conqueror  : 

9  Evil  genius.        '  Blessing.         '  Reward,  recompence. 
3  Go  your  way.  ■»  Head.  *  Club.  ^  Thrusts. 


J 


Scene  VII. 


KING  LEAR. 


811 


Then  am  I  the  prisoner,  and  his  bed  mi/  gaol ;  frotn 
which  deliver  me,  arid  sxipply  the  place  for  your  la- 
bour. Your  wife,  (so  /  would  say,)  and  your 
affectionate  servarit, 

GoNKlilL. 

0  undistinguish'd  space  of  woman's  will !  — 
A  plot  upon  her  virtuous  husband's  life  ; 

And  the  exchange,  my  brother!  —  Here, in  the  sands. 
Thee  I'll  rake  up  "i,  ;ind,  in  the  mature  time, 
Witli  this  ungracious  paper  strike  the  sight 
Of  the  death-practis'd  duke  :    For  him  'tis  well, 
That  of  thy  death  and  business  I  can  tell. 

[^Exit  Edgar,  draggirig  out  the  Body- 
Glo.   The  king  is  mad :  How  stiff  is  my  vile  sense. 
That  I  stand  up,  and  have  ingenious  feeling 
Of  my  huge  sorrows  !   Better  I  were  distract : 
So  should  my  thoughts  be  sever'd  from  my  griefs ; 
And  woes,  by  wrong  imaginations,  lose 
The  knowledge  of  themselves. 

Re-enter  Bdgar. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  hand : 

Far  off,  methinks,  I  hear  the  beaten  drum. 
Come,  father,  I'll  bestow  you  with  a  friend. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.  —^  Tent  in  tlie  French  Camp. 

Lear  on  a  Bed,  asleep:  Physician,  Gentleman,  and 

others,  attending.     Enter  Cordelia  and  Kent. 

Cor.  O  thou  good  Kent,  how  shall  I  live,  and  work, 
To  match  thy  goodness  ?  My  life  will  be  too  sliort, 
And  every  measure  fail  me. 

Kent.   To  be  acknowledg'd,  madam,  is  o'erpaid. 
All  my  reports  go  with  the  modest  truth  ; 
Nor  more,  nor  clipp'd,  but  so. 

Cor.  Be  better  suited  8 : 

These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser  hours ; 

1  pr'ythee,  put  them  off. 

Kent.  Pardon  me,  dear  madam  ; 

Yet  to  be  known,  shortens  my  made  intent : 
My  boon  I  make  it,  that  you  know  me  not. 
Till  time  and  I  think  meet. 

Cor.   Then  be  it  so,  my  good  lord.  —  How  does 
the  king?  [To  tlie  Physician. 

Phys.   Madam,  sleeps  still. 

Cor.   O  you  kind  gods. 
Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  nature  ! 
Th'  untun'd  and  jarring  senses,  O,  wind  up. 
Of  this  child-changed  father ! 

Fhys.  So  please  your  majesty. 

That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?  he  hath  slept  long. 

Cor.  Be  govern'd  by  your  knowledge,  and  proceed 
1'  the  sway  of  your  own  will.      Is  he  array'd  ? 

Gent.  Ay,  madam  ;  in  the  heaviness  of  his  sleep. 
We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 

Phys.  Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we  do  awake  him ; 
I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 

Cor.  Very  well. 

Phys.   Please  you,  draw  near.  —  Louder  the  mu- 
sick  there. 

Cor.   O  my  dear  father  !   Restoration,  hang 
lliy  medicine  on  my  lips  ;  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made  ! 

Kent.  Kind  and  dear  princess  ! 

Cor.   Had  you  not  been  their  fatlier,  tliesc  white 
flakes 

'  I'll  cover  thee  (tlie  dead  steward)  In  the  sands. 
Dressed. 


Had  challeng'd  pity  of  them.      Was  this  a  face 

To  be  expos'd  against  the  warring  winds  ? 

To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder? 

In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 

Of  quick,  cross  lightning  ?  to  watch  (poor  perdu !  9  ) 

With  this  thin  helm  ?  '   Mine  enemy's  dog, 

Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 

Against  my  fire  ;   And  wast  thou  fain,  poor  father, 

To  liovel  thee  with  swine,  and  rogues  forlorn, 

In  short  and  musty  straw?   Alack,  alack  ! 

'Tis  wonder,  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 

Had  not  concluded  all.  —  He  wakes ;  speak  to  him. 

Phys.    Madam,  do  you  ;  'tis  fittest. 

Cor.   How  does  my  royal  lord  ?  How  fares  your 
majesty  ? 

Lear.   You  do  me  wrong,  to  take  me  out  o'  the 
grave :  — 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss ;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cor.  Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 

Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know ;  When  did  you 
die? 

Cor.   Still,  still,  far  wide  ! 

Phys.   He's  scarce  awake ;  let  him  alone  awhile. 

Lear.  Where  have  I  been  ?  —  Where  am  I  ?  — 
Fair  day-light  ? — 
I  am  mightily  abus'd.  —  I  should  even  die  with  pity, 
To  see  another  thus.  —  I  know  not  what  to  say.  — 
I  will  not  swear,  these  are  my  hands  :  —  let's  see  ; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick.  'Would  I  were  assur'd 
Of  my  condition. 

Cor.  O,  look  upon  me,  sir. 

And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me  :  — 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray  do  not  mock  me  : 

I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upward ;  and,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear,  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks,  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man  : 
Yet  I  am  doubtful :  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is ;  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night ;    Do  not  laugh  at  me ; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

Lear.    Be  your  tears  wet  ?  Yes,  'faitli.     I  pray, 
weep  not : 
If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it. 
I  know,  you  do  not  love  me  ;  for  yoiu"  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong : 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

Cor.  No  cause,  no  cause. 

Lear.   Am  I  in  France  ? 

Kent.  In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 

Lear.   Do  not  abuse  me. 

Phys.  Be  comforted,  good  madam :  the  great  rage. 
You  see,  is  cur'd  in  him :   and  yet  it  is  danger 
To  make  him  even  «  o'er  the  time  be  has  lost. 
Desire  him  to  go  in  ;  trouble  him  no  more. 
Till  furtlier  settling. 

Cor.   Will't  please  your  highness  walk  ? 
Lear.  You  must  bear  with  me : 

Pray  now,  forget  and  forgive:  I  am  old,  and  foolish. 
[^Exeunt  Lear,  Cordelia,  Physician,  and 
Attendants. 

>  The  allusion  is  to  the  forlorn  hope  in  an  army,  called  in 
French,  enfant  jH'rdut.  '  Thin  covering  of  hair 

'  To  reconcile  it  to  his  aitprchcnsion. 


812 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  V 


Gent.   Holds  it  true,  sir. 
That  the  duke  of  Cornwall  was  so  slain  ? 

Alint.  Most  certain,  sir. 

Gent.  Who  is  conductor  of  his  people  ? 

J^ent.  As  'tis  said, 

The  bastard  son  of  Gloster. 

Gent.  They  say,  Edgar, 

His  banish'd  son,  is  with  the  earl  of  Kent 
In  Germany. 


JCent.  Report  is  changeable. 

'Tis  time  to  look  about ;  the  powers  o'  the  kingdom 
Approach  apace. 

Gent.   The  arbitrement  6  is  like  to  be  a  bloody. 
Fare  you  well,  sir.  [ExU. 

Kent.  My  point  and  period  will  be  thoroughly 
wrought, 
Or  well,  or  ill,  as  this  day's  battle's  fought.    \_ExU. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I The  Camp  of  the  British  Forces,  near 

Dover. 

Enter,  with  Drums  and  Colours,  Edmund,  Regan, 
Officers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Edm.  Know  of  the  duke,  if  his  last  purpose  hold; 
Or,  whether  since  he  is  advis'd  by  aught 
To  change  the  course  :    He's  full  of  alteration. 
And  self-reproving :  —  Bring  his  constant  pleasure.'' 
[To  an  Officer,  who  goes  out. 

Reg.   Our  sister's  man  is  certainly  miscarried. 

Edm.  'Tis  to  be  doubted,  madam. 

Reg.  Now,  sweet  lord. 

You  know  the  goodness  I  intend  upon  you  : 
Tell  me,  —  but  truly,  —  but  then  speak  the  truth. 
Do  you  not  love  my  sister? 

Edm.  In  honour'd  love. 

Reg.   I  never  shall  endure  her :   Dear  my  lord. 
Be  not  familiar  with  her. 

Edm.                                  Fear  me  not :  — 
She,  and  the  duke  her  husband, 

Enter  Albany,  Goneril,  and  Soldiers. 

Gon.   I  had  rather  lose  the  battle,  than  that  sister 
Should  loosen  him  and  me.  [Aside. 

Alb.    Our  very  loving  sister,  well  be  met.  — 
Sir,  this  I  hear,  —  The  king  is  come  to  his  daughter. 
With  others,  whom  the  rigour  of  our  state, 
Forc'd  to  cry  out.     Where  I  could  not  be  honest, 
I  never  yet  was  valiant :   for  this  business. 
It  toucheth  us  as  France  invades  our  land, 
Not  holds  4  the  king  ;  with  others,  whom,  I  fear. 
Most  just  and  heavy  causes  make  oppose.^ 

Edm.   Sir,  you  speak  nobly. 

jRe^i^.  Why  is  this  reason'd  ? 

Gon.   Combine  together  'gainst  the  enemy  : 
For  these  domestick  and  particular  broils 
Are  not  to  question  here. 

Alb.  Let  us  then  determine 

With  the  ancient  of  war  on  our  proceedings. 

Edm.   I  shall  attend  you  presently  at  your  tent. 

Reg.    Sister,  you'll  go  with  us  ? 

Gon.   No. 

Reg.  'Tis  most  convenient;  pray  you,  go  with  us. 

Gon.  O,  ho,  I  know  the  riddle:  [Aside J]  I  will  go. 

As  they  are  going  out,  enter  Edgar,  disguised. 
Edg.   If  e'er  your  grace  had  speech  with  man  so 
poor. 
Hear  me  one  word. 

Alb.  I'll  overtake  you.  —  Speak. 

[Exeunt  Edmund,  Regan,  Goneril,  Offi- 
cers, Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 

3  His  settled  resolution.  "»  i  e.  Emboldens  him. 

s  Opposition. 


Edg.  Before  you  fight  the  battle,  ope  this  letter. 
If  you  have  victory,  let  the  trumpet  sound 
For  him  that  brought  it :  wretched  though  I  seem, 
I  can  produce  a  champion,  that  will  prove 
What  is  avouched  there  :  If  you  miscarry. 
Your  business  of  the  wgfld  hath  so  an  end, 
And  machination  ceases.      Fortune  love  you  ! 

Alb.   Stay  till  I  have  read  the  letter. 

Edg.  I  was  forbid  it. 

When  time  shall  serve,  let  but  the  herald  cry. 
And  I'll  appear  again.  •  [Exit. 

Alb.   Why,  fare  thee  well ;  I  will  o'erlook  thy 
paper. 

Re-enter  Edmund. 

Edm.  The  enemy's  in  view,  draw  up  your  powers. 
Here  is  the  guess  of  their  true  strength  and  forces 
By  diligent  discovery  ;  —  but  your  haste 
Is  now  urg'd  on  you. 

Alb.  We  will  greet  the  time.  7  [Exit. 

Edm.  To  both  these  sisters  have  I  sworn  my  love  ; 
Each  jealous  of  the  other,  as  the  stung 
Are  of  the  adder.      Which  of  them  shall  I  take  ? 
Both  !  one  ?  or  neither  ?  Neither  can  be  enjoy'd, 
If  both  remain  alive  :    To  take  the  widow. 
Exasperates,  makes  mad  her  sister  Goneril  j 
And  hardly  shall  I  carry  out  my  side  8, 
Her  husband  being  alive.      Now  then  we'll  use 
His  countenance  for  the  battle  :   which  being  done, 
Let  her,  who  would  be  rid  of  him,  devise 
His  speedy  taking  off.      As  for  the  mercy 
Which  he  intends  to  Lear,  and  to  Cordelia,  — 
The  battle  done,  and  they  within  our  power. 
Shall  never  see  his  pardon :   for  my  state 
Stands  on  me  to  defend,  not  to  debate.  [Exit, 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Field  between  the  two  Camps. 

Alarum  within.     Enter,  with  Drum  and  ColourSt\ 
Lear,  Cordelia,  and  their  Forces ;  and  exeunt. 

Enter  Edgar  and  Glosteb. 

Edg.   Here,  father,  take  the  shadow  of  this  tree 
For  your  good  host ;  pray  that  the  right  may  thrive. 
If  ever  I  return  to  you  again, 
I'll  bring  you  comfort. 

Glo.  Grace  go  with  you,  sir  ! 

[Exit  Edgar. 

Alarums  :  afterwards  a  Retreat.     Re-enter  Edgar. 

Edg.   Away,  old  man,  give  me  thy  hand,  away ; 
King  Lear  hath  lost,  he  and  his  daughter  ta'en : 
Give  me  thy  hand,  come  on. 

Glo.   No  further,  sir ;  a  man  may  rot  even  here. 

6  Decision.  ?  Be  ready  to  meet  tlie  occasioa 

'*  J.  e.  Make  my  part  good. 


Scene  III. 


itiNG  LEAR. 


813 


Edg.   What,  in  ill  thoughts  again  ?     Men  must 
endure 
Their  going  hence,  even  as  their  coming  hither : 
Ripeness  is  all :    Come  on. 

Glo.  And  that's  true  too. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  British  Camp  near  Dover. 

Enter,  in  Conquest,  with  Drum  and  Colours,  Ed- 
mund ;     Lear    and    Cordelia,     as    Prisoners; 

Officers,  Soldiers,  c^c. 

Edm.  Some  officers  take  them  away :  good  guard ; 
Until  their  greater  pleasures  first  be  known 
That  are  to  censure  ^  them. 

Cor.  We  are  not  the  first. 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurr'd  the  worst. 
For  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I  cast  down ; 
Myself  could  else  out-frown  false  fortune's  frown.  — 
Shall  we  not  see  these  daughters,  and  these  sisters? 

Lear.  No,  no,  no,  no  !  Come,  let's  away  to  prison  : 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage : 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down, 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness  :    So  we'll  live. 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news :  and  we'll  talk  with  them  too — 
Who  loses,  and  who  wins;  who's  in,  who's  out; — 
And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  things, 
As  if  we  were  Heaven's  spies :    And  we'll  wear  out. 
In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones, 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 

Edm.  Take  them  away. 

Lear.   Upon  such  sacrifices,  my  Cordelia, 
The  gods  themselves  throw  incense.    Have  I  caught 

thee? 
He,  that  parts  us,  shall  bring  a  brand  from  heaven, 
And  fire  us  hence,  like  foxes.     Wipe  thine  eyes ; 
ITiey  shall  not  make  us  weep  :  we'll  see  them  starve 

first. 
Come.  [Exeunt  Lear  and  Cordelia,  guarded. 

Edm.   Come  liither,  captain ;  hark. 
Take  thou  this  note  ;   [Giving  a  Paper.']  go,  follow 

them  to  prison : 
One  step  I  have  advanc'd  thee ;  if  thou  dost 
As  this  instructs  tl)ee,  thou  dost  make  thy  way 
To  noble  fortunes :   Know  thou  this,  —  that  men 
Are  as  the  time  is :   to  be  tender-minded 
Does  not  become  a  sword  :  —  Thy  great  employment 
Will  not  bear  question ;  either  say,  thou'lt  do't, 
Or  thrive  by  other  means. 

Off.  I'll  do't,  my  lord. 

Edm.   About  it;    and  write  happy,  when  thou 
hast  done. 
Mark,  —  I  say,  instantly ;  and  carry  it  so, 
As  I  have  set  it  down. 

Off.   If  it  be  man's  work,  1  will  do  it. 

[Exit  Officer. 

Flourish.     Enter  Albany,  Goneril,  Regan, 

Officers,  and  Attendants. 
Alb.    Sir,  you  have  shown  to-day  your  valiant 
strain, 
And  fortune  led  you  well :    You  have  the  captives, 
Who  were  the  opposites  of  this  day's  strife  : 
We  do  require  them  of  you  ;  so  to  use  them, 
As  we  shall  find  their  merits  and  our  safety 
May  equally  determine. 

Edm.  Sir,  I  thought  it  fit 

»  Paw  judgment  on  them. 


To  send  the  old  and  miserable  king 

To  some  retention,  and  appointed  guard  ; 

Whose  age  has  charms  in  it,  whose  title  more, 

To  pluck  tlie  common  bosom  on  his  side. 

And  turn  our  impress'd  lances  in  our  eyes 

Which  do  command  them.      With  him  I  sent  the 

queen  ; 
My  reason  all  the  same ;  and  they  are  ready 
To-morrow,  or  at  further  space,  to  appear 
Where  you  shall  hold  your  session.      At  this  time, 
We  sweat,  and  bleed;  the  friend  hath  lost  his  friend; 
And  the  best  quarrels,  in  the  heat,  are  curs'd 
By  those  that  feel  their  sharpness  :  — 
The  question  of  Cordelia,  and  her  father, 
Requires  a  fitter  place. 

Alb.  Sir,  by  your  patience, 

I  hold  you  but  a  subject  of  this  war. 
Not  as  a  brother. 

Beg.  Tliat's  as  we  list  to  grace  him. 

Methinks,  our  pleasure  might  have  been  demanded. 
Ere  you  had  spoke  so  far.      He  led  our  powers ; 
Bore  the  commission  of  my  place  and  person  ; 
The  which  immediacy  •  may  well  stand  up, 
And  call  itself  your  brother. 

Gon.  Not  so  hot : 

In  his  own  grace  he  doth  exalt  himself, 
More  than  in  your  advancement. 

Reg.  In  my  rights. 

By  me  invested,  he  compeers  the  best. 

Gon.   That  were  the  most,  if  he  should  husband 
you. 

Reg.  Jesters  do  oft  prove  prophets. 

Gon.  Holloa,  holloa ! 

That  eye,  that  told  you  so,  look'd  but  a-squint.  2 

Reg.   Lady,  I  am  not  well ;  else  I  should  answer 
From  a  full-flowing  stomach.  —  General, 
Take  thou  my  soldiers,  prisoners,  patrimony ; 
Dispose  of  them,  of  me ;  the  walls  are  thine : 
Witness  the  world,  that  I  create  thee  here 
My  lord  and  master. 

Gon.  Mean  you  to  wed  him  ? 

Alb.   The  let-alone  lies  not  in  your  good  will. 

Edm.   Nor  in  thine,  lord. 

Alb.  Half-blooded  fellow,  yes. 

Reg.   Let  the  drum  strike,  and  prove  my  title 
thine.  [To  Edmund. 

Alb.   Stay  yet ;  hear  reason :  —  Edmund,  I  arrest 
thee 
On  capital  treason ;  and,  in  thy  arrest. 
This  gilded  serpent :    [Pointing  to  Gon.  ]  —  for  youi 

claim,  fair  sister, 
I  bar  it  in  the  interest  of  my  wife ; 
'Tis  she  is  sub-contracted  to  this  lord. 
And  I,  her  husband,  contradict  your  banns. 
If  you  will  marry,  make  your  love  to  me. 
My  lady  is  bespoke. 

Gon.  An  interlude ! 

Alb.   Thou  art  arm'd,  Gloster :  —  Let  the  trumpet 
sound : 
If  none  appear  to  prove  upon  thy  person. 
Thy  heinous,  manifest,  and  many  treasons. 
There  is  my  pledge:    [Throwing ^ovm  a  Glove.] 

I'll  prove  it  on  thy  heart. 
Ere  I  taste  bread,  thou  art  in  nothing  less 
Than  I  have  here  proclaim'd  thee. 

Reg.  Sick,  O,  sick ! 

Gon.   If  not,  I'll  ne'er  trust  poison.  [Aside. 

>  Authority  to  act  on  his  own  judgrment 
«  Alluding  to  the  proverb :  "  Love  »)eing  jealoiu  makes  a 
good  eye  look  a-^qutnt." 


814 


KING  LEAR. 


Act  V. 


JSdm.   There's  my  exchange  :    [  Throwing  down  a 
Glove.]  what  in  the  world  he  is 
That  names  me  traitor,  villain-like  he  lies : 
Call  by  thy  trumpet :   he  that  dares  approach, 
On  him,  on  you,  (who  not  ?)   I  will  maintain 
My  truth  and  honour  firmly. 

^Ib.   A  herald,  ho ! 

Edtn.  A  herald,  ho,  a  herald  ! 

jilb.   Trust  to  thy  single  virtue  3 ;  for  thy  soldiers, 
All  levied  in  my  name,  have  in  my  name 
Took  their  discharge. 

Reg.  This  sickness  grows  upon  me. 

Enter  a  Herald. 
^Ib.   She  is  not  well ;  convey  her  to  my  tent. 

[Exit  Regan,  led. 
Come  hither,  herald,  —  Let  the  trumpet  sound,  — 
And  read  out  this. 

0^.   Sound  trumpet.  [A  Trumpet  sounds. 

Herald  reads. 

If  any  man  of  quality,  or  degree,  within  the  lists 
of  the  army,  will  maintain  upon  Edmund,  supposed 
Earl  of  Gloster,  that  he  is  a  manifold  traitor,  let  him 
appear  at  the  third  sound  of  the  trumpet :  He  is 
bold  in  his  defence. 

Edm.   Sound.  [1  Trumpet. 

Her.   Again.  2  Trumpet. 

Her,   Again.  [3  Trumpet. 

[Trumpet  answers  within. 

Enter  Edgar,  armed,  preceded  by  a  Trumpet. 

Alb.   Ask  him  his  purposes,  why  he  appears 
Upon  this  call  o'  the  trumpet. 

Her.  What  are  you  ? 

Your  name,  your  quality  ?  and  why  you  answer 
This  present  summons  ? 

Edg.  Know,  my  name  is  lost ; 

By  treason's  tooth  bare-gnawn,  and  canker-bit : 
Yet  am  I  noble,  as  the  adversary 
I  come  to  cope  withal. 

Alb.  Which  is  that  adversary  ? 

Edg.   What's  he,  that  speaks  for  Edmund  earl  of 
Gloster? 

Edm.   Himself ;  —  What  say'st  thou  to  him  ? 

Edg.  Draw  thy  sword  ! 

That,  if  my  speech  offend  a  noble  heart, 
Thy  arm  may  do  thee  justice  :   here  is  mine. 
Behold,  it  is  the  privilege  of  mine  honours. 
My  oath,  and  my  profession  :    I  protest,  — 
Maugre  *  thy  strength,  youth,  place,  and  eminence. 
Despite  thy  victor  sword,  and  fire- new  fortune, 
Thy  valour,  and  thy  heart,  —  thou  art  a  traitor : 
False  to  thy  gods,  thy  brother,  and  thy  father ; 
Conspirant  'gainst  this  high  illustrious  prince  ; 
And,  from  the  extremest  upward  of  thy  head. 
To  the  descent  and  dust  beneath  thy  feet, 
A  most  toad-spotted  traitor.      Say  thou,  N'o, 
This  sword,  this  arm,  and  my  best  spirits,  are  bent 
To  prove  upon  thy  heart,  whereto  I  speak, 
Thou  liest. 

Edm.  In  wisdom,  I  should  ask  thy  name : 

But,  since  thy  outside  looks  so  fair  and  warlike, 
And   that    thy    tongue    some    'say  ^    of    breeding 

breathes. 
What  safe  and  nicely  I  might  well  delay 
By  rule  of  knighthood,  I  disdain  and  spurn : 
Back  do  I  toss  these  treasons  to  thy  head ; 
With  the  hell-hated  lie  o'erwhelm  thy  heart ; 
^     3  ,-.  e.  Valour.  ■»  Notwithstanding.  *  Sample. 


Which,  (for  they  yet  glance  by,  and  scarcely  bruise,) 
'ITiis  sword  of  mine  shall  give  them  instant  way, 
Where  they  shall  rest  for  ever.  —  Trumpets,  speak. 
[Alarums.      Theyjlght.      EDiiuvn  falls. 

Alb.    O  save  liim,  save  him  ! 

Gon.  This  is  mere  practice  6,  Gloster  : 

By  the  law  of  arms,  thou  wast  not  bound  to  answer 
An  unknown  opposite  ;  thou  art  not  vanquish'd, 
But  cozen'd  and  beguil'd. 

Alb.  Shut  your  mouth,  dame. 

Or  with  this  paper  shall  I  stop  it :  —  Hold,  sir : 
Thou  worse  than  any  name,  read  thine  own  evil :  — 
No  tearing,  lady :   I  perceive  you  know  it. 

[Gives  the  Letter  to  Edmun'd. 

Gon.    Say,  if  I  do  ;  the  laws  are  mine,  not  thine  : 
Who  shall  arraign  me  for't  ? 

Alb.  Most  monstrous  ! 

Know'st  thou  this  paper? 

Gon.  Ask  me  not  what  I  know. 

[Exit   GONERIL. 

Alb.    Go  after  her  :   she's  desperate ;  govern  her. 
[  To  an  Officer,  who  goes  out. 

Edm.   What  you  have  charg'd  me  with,  that  have 
I  done ; 
And  more,  much  more ;  the  time  will  bring  it  out ; 
'Tis  past,  and  so  am  I :    But  what  art  thou. 
That  hast  this  fortune  on  me  ?   If  thou  art  noble, 
I  do  forgive  thee. 

Edg.  Let's  exchange  charity. 

I  am  no  less  in  blood  than  thou  art,  Edmund ; 
If  more,  the  more  thou  hast  wrong'd  me. 
My  name  is  Edgar,  and  thy  father's  son. 
The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  scourge  us  : 
The  dark  and  vicious  place  where  thee  he  got, 
Cost  him  his  eyes. 

Edm,  Thou  hast  spoken  right,  'tis  true  ; 

The  wheel  has  come  full  circle  ;   I  am  here. 

Alb.   Methought,  thy  very  gait  did  prophesy 
A  royal  nobleness :  —  I  must  embrace  thee  ; 
Let  sorrow  split  my  heart,  if  ever  I 
Did  hate  thee,  or  thy  father  ! 

Edg.  Worthy  prince, 

I  know  it  well. 

Alb.  Where  have  you  hid  yourself? 

How  have  you  known  the  miseries  of  your  father  ? 

Edg.    By  nursing  them,  my  lord.  —  List  7  a  brief 
tale;  — 
And,  when  'tis  told,  O,  that  my  heart  would  burst !  — 
The  bloody  proclamation  to  escape. 
That  foUow'd  me  so  near,  ( O,  our  lives'  sweetness ! 
That  with  the  pain  of  death  we'd  hourly  die. 
Rather  than  die  at  once  !)  taught  me  to  shift 
Into  a  mad-man's  rags ;  to  assume  a  semblance      j 
That  very  dogs  disdain'd  :   and  in  this  habit  -m 

Met  I  my  father  with  his  bleeding  rings,  i 

Their  precious  stones  new  lost ;  became  his  guide, 
Led  him,  begg'd  for  him,  sav'd  him  from  despair ; 
Never  (O  fault!)  reveal'd  myself  unto  him. 
Until  some  half  hour  past,  when  I  was  arm'd 
Not  sure,  though  hoping,  of  this  good  success, 
I  ask'd  his  blessing,  and  from  first  to  last 
Told  him  my  pilgrimage :   but  his  flaw'd  heart, 
(Alack,  too  weak  the  conflict  to  support !) 
'Twixt  two  extremes  of  passion,  joy  and  grief, 
Burst  smilingly. 

Edm.  This  speech  of  yours  hath  mov'd  me, 

And  shall,  perchance,  do  good :   but  speak  you  on  ; 
You  look  as  you  had  something  more  to  say. 
6  Stratagem.  '  Hear. 


Scene  III. 


KING  LEAR. 


815 


Alb.   If  there  be  more,  more  woful,  hold  it  in  ; 
For  I  am  almost  ready  to  dissolve, 
Hearing  of  this. 

Edg.  This  would  have  seem'd  a  period 

To  such  as  love  not  sorrow ;  but  another, 
To  amplify  too  much,  would  make  much  more. 
And  top  extremity. 

Whilst  I  was  big  in  clamour,  came  there  a  man, 
Who  having  seen  me  in  my  worst  estate, 
SImnn'd  my  abhorr'd  society;  but  then,  finding 
Who  't  was  that  so  endur'd,  with  his  strong  arms 
He  fasten'd  on  my  neck,  and  bellow'd  out 
As  he'd  burst  heaven ;  threw  him  on  my  father; 
Told  the  most  piteous  tale  of  Lear  and  him. 
That  ever  ear  receiv'd  ;   which  in  recounting, 
His  grief  grew  puissant,  and  the  strings  of  life 
Began  to  crack  :    Twice  then  the  trumpet  sounded. 
And  there  I  left  him  tranc'd. 

Alb.  But  who  was  this  ? 

Edg.   Kent,  sir,  the  banish'd  Kent ;  who  in  dis- 
guise 
Follow'd  his  enemy  king,  and  did  him  service 
Improper  for  a  slave. 

Enter  a  Gentleman  hastily,  with  a  bloody  Knife. 

Gent.  Help  !  help  !  O  help  ! 

Edg.  What  kind  of  help  ? 

■^Ib.  Speak,  man. 

Edg.  What  means  that  bloody  knife  ? 

Gent.  'Tis  hot,  it  smokes  ; 

It  came  even  from  the  heart  of — 

■Alb.  Who,  man  ?  speak. 

Gent.   Your  lady,  sir,  your  lady  :  and  her  sister 
By  her  is  poison'd ;  she  confesses  it 

Edm.   I  was  contracted  to  them  both ;  all  three 
Now  marry  in  an  instant. 

Alh.    Produce   their  bodies,   be    they   alive   or 
dead!  — 
This  judgment  of  the  heavens,  that  makes  us  tremble. 
Touches  us  not  with  pity.  [^Exit  Gentleman. 

Enter  Kknt. 

Edg.  Here  comes  Kent,  sir. 

Alb.    O!  it  is  he. 
Tlie  time  will  not  allow  the  compliment. 
Which  very  manners  urges. 

Kent.  I  am  come 

To  bid  my  king  and  master  aye  «  good  night ; 
Is  he  not  here  ? 

Alb.  Great  thing  of  us  forgot !  — 

Speak,   Edmund,   where's  the  king?  and  where's 

Cordelia  ?  — 
See'st  thou  this  object,  Kent  ? 

[_The  Bodies  ^Gonkril  arvd  Regan  are 
brought  in. 

Kent.   Alack,  why  thus? 

Edm.  Yet  Edmund  was  belov'd  : 

The  one  the  other  poison'd  for  my  sake. 
And  after  slew  herself. 

Alh.   Even  so Cover  their  fac^. 

Edm.  I  pant  for  life  :  —  Some  good  I  mean  to  do, 
Despite  of  mine  own  nature.      Quickly  send,  — 
Be  brief  in  it,  —  to  the  castle  ;  for  my  writ 
Is  on  the  life  of  Lear,  and  on  Cordelia  :  — > 
Nay,  send  in  time. 

AU).  Run,  run,  O,  run  — 

Edg.   To  whom,  my  lord  ?  —  Who  has  the  office  ? 
send 
Thy  token  of  reprieve. 

"  For  ever. 


Edm.   Well  thought  on  ;  take  my  sword. 
Give  it  the  captain. 

Alb.   Haste  thee,  for  thy  life.  \^Exit  Edgar. 

Edm.   He  hath  commission  from  thy  wife  and  me 
To  hang  Cordelia  in  the  prison,  and 
To  lay  the  blame  upon  her  own  despair. 
That  she  fordid  9  herself. 

Alb.   The   gods  defend  her!    Bear  him   hence 
awhile.  [Edmund  is  borne  off". 

Enter  Lear,  with  Cordelia  dead  in  his  Arms; 
Edgar,  Officer,  and  others. 

Lear.   Howl,    howl,    howl,    howl !  —  O,  ye  are 
men  of  stones : 
Had  I  your  tongu